SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND DROLLERY  
By T. W.  
Printed in the Year, 1654.   

To my most obliging Friend E. M. Esquire.  
SIR,  
IT was not by my endeavour, but permittance only, that these trifles were preferred to the Press; nor had the persuasions used procured so much from me, but that upon strict Examination, I conceived them to be good for nothing, but to be printed. For since the late Deluge of Ignorance overflowed this Land, it fares with Books, as with Men; the light and frothy float and flourish, whilst the Grave and Solid sink and perish. Having thus abandoned them to the ignominy of an Impression, 'twould be absurd to beg from you a candid opinion of them, which hath been already denied them by myself. And therefore I ask no pardon for the Errors of the Contents, but for the boldness I take to present you therewith, and to subscribe myself  
(Sir) Your most Faithfully Devoted Servant, T. W.   

SONGS AND POEMS OF LOVE AND DROLLERY.  

Song.  

COme all you discontented souls,  
And here lay down your Loads;  
Drinksack which want & woe controls  
And care itself corrodes.  
The world is never bad,  
Whilst good Wine may be had,  
Nor can it much oppress ye,  
Though the Anger of all  
Other gods on ye fall,  
So Bacchus only bless ye.   

(Chor.)  
Then to Bacchus, then to Bacchus  
Let's be betake us,  
Whose streams will dry  
The weeping eye,  
And make our griefs forsake us.   

2.  
Are you deprived of those you loved,  
yet let your heart not sink;  
Such crosses to the wise have proved  
provocatives to drink:  
He had a gallant Soul,  
Who called for a full Boul,  
When one of his Sons was slain;  
And being told anon,  
That another was gone,  
He cried, Filled up again.   

(Chor.)  
Then to Bacchus, then to Bacchus, etc.   

3.  
Did the successful foe o'erthrow  
In battle all your powers?  
Drink sack, and you'll ne'er feel the blow,  
But count the next day yours;  
When the Giants by Scalado  
Stormed heaven in a bravado,  
The trembling Gods were shrinking,  
Till Bacchus in 'em works,  
And makes 'em fight like Turks:  
Heaven was preserved by drinking.   

(Chor.)  
Then to Bacchus, then, etc.   

4.  
Is your just Cause battered of success,  
By the bribed Judges Art?  
Drink Sack and it shall only press  
His conscience, not your heart.  
Doth the undeserved frown  
Of your King keep you down  
From power and dignity?  
Then your cups freely take,  
And yourself they will make  
A Prince as great as he.   

(Chor.)  
Then to Bacchus, then, etc.   

5.  
Mourn not, if she whom you adore  
will not to grace admit ye;  
Your tears will make her pride the more,  
And laughter move, not pity.  
To pine and look pale,  
Is no way to prevail,  
But take this course that's better,  
Drink Sack till your face  
Hath a plump ruddy grace;  
You'll get, or else forget her.   

(Chor.)  
Then to Bacchus, then, etc.   

6.  
Have plundering Rebels made you poor,  
Then let them in no part  
Enjoy your grief, as well as store,  
But envy your light heart.  
Drink about, and about,  
Drink in season, and out;  
Drink deep, and then confide you,  
That the world well will go,  
Or if it do, or no,  
You'll care no more than I do.   

(Chor.)  
Then to Bacchus, then to Bacchus,  
Let's betake us,  
Whose streams doth dry  
The weeping eye,  
And make our griefs forsake us.    

SONG.  
QUickly drawer bring us up,  
More Wine yet, and a larger cup,  
That of the same draught I may first,  
Quench, and again renew my thirst;  
With other sweets we soon are cloyed;  
Wine's more desired the more enjoyed:  
Were Pallas here, who could endure  
To hear her talk 'bove half an hour?  
Apollo too with's golden Lyre,  
Would with each strain waste your desire;  
Venerean sports till morning please:  
But then grow loathed as the disease.  
'Tis Bacchus only can delight,  
And still preserve the Appetite;  
Oft may he then my throat supply,  
With constant floods to keep it dry.   

SONG.  
FAir Cloris in a gentle slumber lay,  
Sleep taking rest,  
In her calm breast.  
Whilst her veiled eyes seem to eclipse the day.  
The wanton Sun  
Would court her fain,  
Peeped here and there,  
But all in vain.  
The leafy bows a guard had made,  
Planting between their envious shade;  
Whereat he chid his idle beams, that he  
Should want an eye whereby himself might see.   

A Song in Prison.  

I Am no captive, I, I find,  
My soul still free and unconfined;  
And though my body have the doom,  
To be caged up in a close room;  
Yet since my mind is guiltless, this  
No bondage, nor no thraldom is.   

Let such for captives truly go,  
Whose guilty souls do make them so;  
When numerous crimes linked and combined:  
Like ponderous chains fetter the mind:  
When thoughts are black and gloomy, this  
True bondage, and true thraldom is.   

But when a spotless Innocence  
Shall witness that no foul offence,  
But Loyalty unto my King  
Caused my restraint; who will not bring  
A testimony strait, that this  
No bondage nor no thraldonme is.    

SONG.  

YOu silly mortals that address,  
With more devotion than success,  
Your wishes to some powerless gods,  
To gain their love, or shun their rods,  
Be ruled by me, and I'll be bold,  
To lay the Devil to a groat,  
That you shall prosper in your vote,  
Worship no god but gold.   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold,  
Thou delight and the cheer  
Of the sight and the ear;  
we'll thy power adore,  
And thy favour implore;  
Angels from thee have Wings to touch  
The lofty stars, O grant us such,  
That to Heaven we may sore;  
Hell's only for the poor.   

2.  
The power of Jove that's held so big,  
Compared to Gold's, not worth a fig;  
His thundering godhead strength did lack  
To lay weak Danae on her back;  
She against all assaults did hold,  
Her Virgin for't, until there came  
A shower of gold to storm the same.  
The God of Power is Gold:   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold, etc.   

3.  
Cupid, the Active god of Love,  
Who oft hath triumphed over Jove,  
Can never yet subdue a hart,  
But when he used a golden dart;  
And Ladies now that seem most cold  
When amorous youth for favour begs,  
Open a rich purse, will open their legs.  
The god of Love is Gold;   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold, etc.   

4.  
In vain for help the Soldier goes,  
To blustering Mars against his foes;  
All he can does not worth a doit,  
If Gold be not in the exploit.  
'Twas by the Oracle once told,  
He that his foe will overthrow,  
With Gold not Steel, must strike the blow:  
The god of War is Gold.   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold, etc.   

5.  
Kings that awe Nations with their frowns,  
Are made so by their golden Crowns;  
And subjects oft we see give o'er  
Their duty, when their Prince grows poor;  
The gods themselves we should behold,  
If Gold inflame not Piety,  
Would without Priests and Altars be,  
A God of gods is Gold.   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold, etc.   

6.  
Would you be noble? Gold's the thing,  
Can make you cousin to a King.  
Or grave and wife? 'tis in its power  
To make you privy Counsellor,  
All doubtful strifes be can unfold;  
And whither it the juster cause  
Determined oftener than the Laws:  
The God of judgement's Gold,   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold, etc.   

7.  
'Tis want of Gold doth cause all ill,  
And makes men steal, defraud and kill,  
And th'costly sins they cannot Act  
They envy, and more guilt contract:  
But such as store of treasure hold,  
Do eat and drink and play fine pranks,  
They kiss their Wench, and give God thanks,  
The God of virtue's Gold.   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold, etc.   

8.  
Then you that seek a pleasant life,  
For Gold, make sale of Friend or wife;  
Shift all Lands and Religions too,  
Till Gold vouchsafe to dwell with you.  
But if he still himself withhold,  
And there remain no farther hope,  
Betake yourselves unto a rope,  
Hang they can get no Gold.   

(Chor.)  
Gold, Gold, O behold,  
Thou delight, and the cheer,  
Of the sight and the ear,  
We'll thy power adore,  
And thy favour implore,  
Angels from thee have wings to touch  
The lofty stars, O grant us such,  
That to Heaven we may sore:  
Hell's only for the poor.    

SONG.  

NOw fie upon the Peevish Sect  
Of virtuous handsome Women,  
Who when they're wooed to sport, object  
Honour and Heaven unto men.  
The Attributes of Chaste and Cold  
Become the ugly and the old;  
But she whose face is fair, her mind  
May best adorn, by being kind.   

The cruel Beauty doth prevent,  
And frustrate Nature's end;  
Or is a loathed Instrument,  
To plague men that offend.  
All fruits, their sweetness have to feast  
The taste; And when they do't, are blest:  
But that's accursed, that doth invite  
And Tantalise the Appetite.   

Did the Celestial Lamps alone  
Without an influence,  
Appear but to be gazed upon,  
They'd gain small honour thence;  
They're nor adored for their bright show,  
But 'cause they warm and mix below,  
So heavenly Beauties both inspire  
With wonder, and content desire.   

And may (my Sylvia) thine prove such,  
Thus being admitted by me;  
Let me enjoy it now as much,  
And I will worship thee.  
Now quickly say, if I must be  
Thy Martyr, or thy Votary:  
For thou to me canst prove no less,  
Then either Saint or Murderess.    

The Compounders Song.  

1.  
COme Drawers, some Wine,  
Or we'll pull down your sign;  
For we're all joval Compounders.  
We'll make the house ring  
With healths to the King,  
And confusion unto his confounders.   

2.  
Since Goldsmith's Committee  
Affords us no pity,  
Our sorrows in Wine we will steep them;  
They forced us to take  
Two Oaths, and we make  
A third, that we ne'er mean to keep' m.   

3.  
And first, who  see's,  
we'll drink on our knees,  
To th'King; may they choke that repine:  
A fig for the Traitors  
That look to his waters,  
 nothing to do with our Wine.   

4.  
And next here's a Cup  
To the Queen; fill it up,  
Were't poison we would make an end on't,  
May Charles and she meet,  
And tread under feet  
Both Anabaptist and Independent.   

5.  
To the Prince and all others  
His Sisters and Brothers,  
As low in condition as highborn;  
We drink this and pray,  
That shortly they may  
See all those that wrong them at Tyborn.   

6.  
And now here's three bowls,  
To all gallant souls,  
That for the King did, and will venture;  
May they flourish when those  
Who are his and their foes  
Are damned and rammed down to the Centre.   

7.  
And last let a glass  
To our Undoers pass,  
Attended with two or three curses;  
May plagues sent from hell  
Stuff their bodies as well  
As Cavaliers Coin doth their purses.   

8.  
May the Cannibals of Pym  
Eat them up lymb by lymb,  
Or a fever scorch 'em to Embers;  
Pox keep 'em in bed  
Until they are dead,  
Or compound for the loss of their members.   

9  
And may they be found  
In nought to abound,  
But heavens and their Country's anger;  
May they never want factions,  
Doubts, fears and distractions,  
Till the Gallow tree takes them from danger    

Rotundos.  

ONce I a curious eye did fix  
to observe the tricks  
Of the Schismatics of the times,  
To find out which of them  
Was the merriest theme,  
And best would befit my rhymes.  
Arminians I found solid,  
Socinians were not stolid;  
Much learning for Papists did stickle:  
But ah ha' ha' ha' ha' ha' ha', Rotundos Rot.  
ah, ha' ha' ha' ha' ha' ha', Rotundos Rot.  
'Tis you that my Spleen doth tickle.   

And first, to tell must not be forgot  
How I once did troth  
With a great Zealot to a Lecture,  
Where I a Tub did view,  
Hung with apron blue,  
'Twas the preachers as I conjecture:  
His use and doctrine too,  
Were of no other hue,  
Though he spoke with a tone most much  
But ah ha' ha', etc.   

He taught amongst other pretty things,  
That the Book of Kings  
Small benefit brings to the godly,  
Beside he had some grudges  
At the book of Judges,  
And talked of Leviticus oddly;  
Wisodm most of all,  
He declares Apocryphal,  
Beat Bell and the Dragon, like Michael.  
But ab, ha' ha', etc.   

'Gainst humane Learning next he enveys,  
And most boldy says,  
'Tis that which destroys Inspiration;  
Let superstitious sense,  
And wit be banished hence.  
With Popish premeditation;  
Cut Bishops down in haste,  
And cathedrals as fast  
As corn that's fit for the sickle.  
But ah, ha', etc.   

I heard one say, if her knee he did touch,  
He could tell thus much,  
If a sister did crouch at Communion,  
Then thrusting up his hand,  
He ne'er made a stand,  
Till he came where her fork had union;  
But she without all terror,  
Believing 'twas an error,  
Did laugh while her tears down trickled.  
But ah, ha', etc.   

Oh than her Spleen he tickled.   

Indeed quoth she with much modesty,  
Good brother you be  
Of a certainty much too high,  
O, no, no, no, quoth he,  
Is not thy knee  
At the upper end of thy thigh?  
And now I find by handing,  
That thou wilt take it standing,  
Of me thine own sweet much.  
But ah, ha'  
O then her spleen he'd tickle.   

Their teachers like to wild Asses wince,  
At their Sovereign Prince;  
And I heard (not long since) one demanding,  
If there must needs be one,  
Might not I fit a throne,  
As well as the tub that I stand in;  
And how well would a Crown  
Sat on my head so rown,  
But we'll have no man so much.  
But ah, ha' ha', etc.   

If once they get a seditious hint,  
It must out in Print,  
Though there's matter in't to overturn all;  
And if they writ in meeter,  
They think there's nothing sweeter,  
Unless it be old Tom Sternhold;  
Their Papers will serve those  
That have need to pick a rose,  
Or else too good for the pickle.  
But ah ha', etc.   

Thus they will never leave off to palter,  
Till at last a halter  
Doth the case quite alter with such men;  
They'll wish they'd ne'er foregone  
The old Religion,  
And learned a new of the Dutchmen:  
They'll surely constant be,  
When to the triple-tree  
They're tied, be they now ne'er so fickle.  
But ah, ha', etc.  
Oh than my Spleen you'll tickle.   

God bless the King, and Queen also,  
And Yorks Duke too,  
And the other three more, with the Captain,  
May all their treacherous friends,  
And their foes miss their ends,  
And their own devices be trapped in:  
And may our noble Charles find  
Rebels ne'er more perilous  
Than Herrings that lie in the pickle.  
But ah ha' etc.  
O then my, etc.    

ZEAL OVERHEATED, Or A Relation of a lamentable fire which happened in Oxford, in a Religious Brother's Shop, who though he laboured in all men's vocations, yet were his trades fewer than his tricks to fetch over the wicked, that he might afford the godly a better pennyworth.  
To the Tune of Chivey-Chase.  


1.  
ATtend ye Brethren every one,  
And listen with a pair  
Of swaggering ears that have out-grown  
By many an inch the hair.   

2.  
Of Popish flames I will relate  
To you a dismal story,  
Which turned a Zealots' Shop of late  
Into a Purgatory.   

3.  
There dwells in Oxford near the place  
Where holy Cornish teaches,  
One that in all trades had such grace,  
The wicked he over-reaches.   

4.  
This Brother first a stoic was,  
Peripatetical;  
For about the world as he did pass,  
His wealth he carried all.   

5.  
But when his sin had made his pack  
Too heavy for his Shoulder,  
I'th'foresaid place he eased his back,  
And turned a stayed householder.   

6.  
In all vocations by and by  
He grew so great a meddler,  
That though th'Exchange his Shop stood nigh '  
You'd take him for no Pedlar.   

7.  
By slight of tongue he could fetch o'er  
All sparks that came unto him,  
Except those which two nights before  
Christide were like to undo him.   

8.  
When he to sleep himself had set,  
And dreamed of no worse fires  
Then those his zeal, and's little peat  
Kindled in his desires.   

9  
He heard some cry fire, fire, amain,  
And say that he was slack;  
Great John of all trades would again  
Be brought to his first Pack.   

10.  
Then hasting down to see what burned,  
The smoke his breath did stop,  
Alas, his new Exchange was turned  
To a Tobacco shop.   

11.  
His wife came too at the report,  
Her  hung in such pickle,  
As she had new come from the sport,  
After a Conventickle.    

The second part.  

12.  
And first in these sad flames she spied  
A spruce Geneva Bible,  
With gilded leaves and strings beside,  
That were not contemptible.   

13.  
But with less grief he could have seen't  
(As he then said to some one)  
Had but the Apocryphas been in't,  
And Prayers that we call common.   

14.  
The Practice there of Piety,  
And good St. Kathrine Stubs  
Were Martyrs, which oft quoted he  
Had heard in several tubbs.   

15.  
Then being of his Dods bereft,  
And Cleavers all and some,  
You may presume that there was left,  
Of Comforts never a crumb.   

16.  
A Chest of Cambric and Holland  
Was turned to a box of tinder,  
His Virgin Tapers out were brand,  
The Extinguishers could not hinder.   

17.  
They that his Taffetas did see  
And various Ribbons, straight  
Concluded that in  silk he  
Was largely worth his weight.   

18.  
Of smoking Canes there lay great store,  
His eyes had soon espied them,  
They ne'er were truly fired befoe,  
As he had oft belied them.   

19  
His hobby horses erst so tame  
Small babes of grace might run  
A race upon them, now became  
Hot as the steeds i'th' Sun.   

20.  
Mirrors and perspectives than might  
Be burning Glasses called;  
The Fever was so hot that night,  
That Perriwiggs grew bald.   

21.  
Then mousetrap, fly flappes, and whole shelves  
Of whips, with others some  
Such fatal instruments, themselves  
Suffered a Martyrdom.   

22.  
And to conclude, the flame being done,  
Some that were there did swear,  
Though Christmas was not yet begun,  
That 'twas Ash-wednesday there.   

23.  
Dear Brethren than be not so hot:  
For if unto your harm,  
Your zeal like this take fire, I wots,  
You'll wish you were lukewarm.   

24.  
God bless this Land, and keep it Ay  
Against all that oppose:  
And let the Supreme head bear sway  
in stead o'th' Supreme nose.     

Another. The price of Annarchie.  
To the tune of Mad Tom.  

ALL you that would no longer  
To a Monarch be subjected,  
Come away to Guildhall,  
And be there liberal,  
Your wish shall be effected.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, bring your gold, bring your Jewels▪  
Your silver shaped or melted;  
If the King you'd have down,  
And advance to the Crown  
Five Members and Kimbolton.   

2.  
Regard no Proclamations,  
They're subjects fit to jest on:  
Harry Esling's far  
Better then C. R.  
'tis resolved upon the question.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, bring, etc.   

3.  
Ye Aldermen first send in  
Your Chains upon these Summons,  
To buy ropes ends  
For all the King's friends,  
They are Traitors against the Commons.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, bring, etc.   

4.  
Your Basins large, and Ewres  
Unto this use allot 'em;  
If e'er you mean  
Your hands to wash clean  
From the sins by which you got ' m.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, etc.   

5.  
Send in your Cann's and Goblets,  
Ye Citizens confiding;  
And think not scorn  
To drink in a horn  
Of your own wives providing.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, etc.   

6.  
Ye Brethren strong and lusty,  
The Sister's exercise ye;  
Get babes of grace,  
And spoons apace,  
Both Houses do advise ye.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, etc.   

7.  
Your Gold and Silver Bodkin,  
The Parliament would ha'both;  
Which oft doth make  
A louse for to take  
A journey upon the Sabbath.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come, etc.   

8.  
You that have store of money  
Bring'thither, and be thrifty;  
If the Parliament thrive,  
'Twill so contrive,  
You'll have back four of fifty.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, etc.   

9  
Let the Religious Seamstress  
Her silver Thymble bring here;  
'Twill be a fine thing  
In deposing a King,  
To say you had a finger.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, etc.   

10.  
Your Childs decayed whistle  
May here obtain admittance;  
Nor shall that cost  
Be utterly lost,  
You'll have for't an Acquittance.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, etc.   

11.  
If when the business endeth  
Your Plate you would recover,  
Be sure you may  
The chief heads that day  
On the Bridge or Tower discover.   

(Chor.)  
Come, come away, bring your gold, bring your jewels,  
Your silver shaped or melted;  
If the King you'd ha'down,  
And advance to the Crown  
Five Members and Kimbolton.    

Another, In Defence of Women.  

1.  
FUll many a Ballad hath been made,  
and railing Poem writ  
Against poor Women, as if they had  
of goodness never a whit.  
But I'll prove it in spite of any man's nose,  
That e'er writ against them in verse or in prose,  
That some women are good: A hard task I have chose,  
And will ask a great deal of wit.   

2.  
〈◊〉 young man once had got a fine lass  
he loved above all other,  
Who for his sake did swear by the Mass,  
she'd leave both father & mother.  
But when she'd got Rings and Gloves many a pair,  
She quarrelld and kicked him down the stair;  
〈◊〉 not this Girl good? To draw in an Heir  
And make a younger Brother.   

3.  
There is a poor friend of mine that is wed  
to one who every stitch  
Cries out she never had come to his bed,  
had it not been for some witch:  
She claw's his face like any wild cat,  
And his eyes till he see no more than a bat;  
This Woman is excellent good (that's flat)  
To cure a man of the Itch.   

4.  
Some Women there are who will not, all night,  
permit you to take any sleep,  
To cure their itching appetite  
will make you not able to Creep.  
They'll rise about noon, put on their gay cloth  
And away to a feast how e'er the world goe●  
Such women are wondrous good (God know●  
To hang, but not to keep.   

5.  
A Woman I know that cannot endure  
to eat unless by stealth;  
Herself in her closet she will immure,  
and say, 'Tis for her health.  
The Plover and Partridge is all her diet,  
Her husband eats beef when he can come by  
I'll maintain she's good (who ever deny it  
To none but to herself.   

6.  
Some are in Religion very profound,  
and for the Gospel stickle;  
They'll suddenly bring the Pope to the ground  
though now he be ne'er so much.  
He'll as soon he laid on his back, they ne'er fe●●  
As themselves when the brothers are moved by the spirit;  
They are heavenly good at the sport (I dare swear it)  
After a Conventickle.   

7.  
There is a sort whose freedom's such,  
you'll think  got a treasure,  
Their naked arms and breasts you may touch,  
and kiss them without measure.  
But when to be at the main stake you put in,  
They'll not do't to shame themselvs & their Kin;  
They're good— to draw on you the guilt of the sin,  
And bar you of the pleasure.   

8.  
Some so affect so be in fame,  
pure and immaculate,  
That if they hear but Cupid's name  
they are displeased thereat.  
If you touch but their hand,  a pish & a fie,  
But offer to kiss, and for help they will cry;  
These Women are purely good,— say I,  
The Lord he knows for what.   

9  
The last I'll commend are high coming Lasses  
that all subjection scorn;  
If their husband's displease'em they are in sad cases  
they'ad better lead on a forlorn;  
But take a good cudgel to cure all this,  
And applied to their sides till you make them pi●●  
You'll find that such Women are not much 〈◊〉  
To breathe a man well in a morn.   

10.  
Now if any Poet can give more praise  
than I have done to smocks,  
With all my heart he shall wear the Bays,  
and I will sit in the stocks:  
Or if there be any will yet be so stout,  
As to say they are all nought, we will not f●… o●…  
For to tell you the troth, I went about,  
To maintain a Paradox.    

A LITANY. Upon Occasion of a Journey to Bath.  

1.  
FRom going to Bath with little money in my purse;  
From staying there after all's spent, which is worse,  
And from a drawers visit when I am ready to horse.  
Good Mercury defend me.   

2.  
From an old Germane Quack yclept Doctor Bavie,  
Whose skill is not half so much as his knavery,  
And ten to one will rather kill'ee then save'ee,  
Good Mercury defend me.   

3.  
From his Purges and Vomits, his Powders and Jelly,  
With more fot's own good than yours he does sell'ee,  
And from meddling with the Tapster's wife with a great belly.  
Good Mercury, etc.   

4.  
From Ladies that take Physic before they be sick;  
That they may with better metal answer the (.),  
Who copulate thrice a night, yet call it a lewd trick,  
Good Mercury, etc.   

5.  
From such as in Bath use to sing a Hymn,  
From a Barber that on Sunday mornings refuses to trim,  
From living a Traitor, and dying like Pym  
Good Mercury, etc.   

6.  
From a Preacher that's as fat as the Bull Basan,  
And bellows out such Doctrines as would amaze one,  
From his Font of pewter, and his face that's brazen  
Good Mercury, etc.   

7.  
From his thanks to God for saving in Childbed pain,  
A woman that's from a Church a mile off or twain,  
And perhaps preparing for the same Business again,  
Good Mercury, etc.   

8.  
From a Colonel that vapours as if he were Mars,  
Yet will take a blow on the face, and a kick on the arse,  
And so suffers more in Peace than he did in the Wars  
Good Mercury, etc.   

9  
From a Captain that keeps a horrible stir,  
And when he's called Rascal, cries, Your servant Sir,  
That will challenge a Mastiff, and not fight with a Cur,  
Good Mercury, etc.   

10  
From an Hostis that reckons the same thing again,  
And brings in the same Items to several men;  
And from such as call to pay before it be ten  
Good Mercury, etc.   

11  
From a rainy day when I have never a Cloak,  
From foul ways when I ride in boots that do soak,  
And from a Town without drink when I am ready to choke  
Good Mercury, etc.   

12  
From a stone horse that's right and sound limb and wind  
Yet tires and leaves a fair Lady behind;  
And from an Inn where I'm forced to take such as I find,  
Good Mercury defend me.   

13.  
From uncivil Creditors that threaten to sue me;  
From gaping after Wealth which will never come to me;  
And from being a Poet, for that will undo me,  
Good Mercury defend me.    

Cupidinis Cestrensis Calentura.  
YOur pardon Cupid, I'll not love a jot,  
This Climate is too hot;  
Under Love's Equinoctial here we are  
Just perpendicular,  
Where flames in downright doing must be drenched  
Or they will ne'er be quenched:  
Talk of a Love that only mixes souls,  
And the itch of flesh controls,  
That into hot embraces loathes to melt.  
The Ladies swear y'are gelt:  
And vow had Plato taught here, th'Eunuch then  
Should have been stoned again.  
It is not a rich fancy, nor quick wit,  
Nor Courtly phrase can fit;  
From Lute and voice let skilful accents flow,  
They'll call for Bobbing-Jo.  
But bring smooth faces and good promising backs,  
The only modish knacks;  
I'll warrant them your own without more stir,  
Or if they do demur;  
How you are yarded both in flesh and Land  
Is all on which they stand.  
Hence 'tis, that Hymen's here so oft invoked  
That we are almost choked  
With constellations of Links. Sure this  
Town is no Gods but his;  
Men that before had vowed a Covenant  
To Mars, do here recant,  
And sell the honour they might gain by fights  
For soft and vain delights.  
Our Cyprian Ladies here do triumph still,  
Conquer abroad who will.  
The dearth of men dame Shipton prophesied,  
They safely may deride.  
For sure I think they could (were all men gone)  
Keep up the sport alone;  
Just as among themselves when men they miss  
They use to dance and kiss.  
Let none misconstrue me, I tax not all,  
A parcel's good, though small;  
There are some witty fair ones in the place,  
Adorned with every Grace;  
Such as conform to modest Venus' Laws,  
Worthy of all applause,  
When I acknowledge this, who'll blame my muse,  
And say she doth abuse?  
For to herself who ever shall applied,  
Trust me, I'll not deny't.  
But such as 'gainst my Verse complaints do make,  
And cry my Ink's too black,  
That coat of shame on their own persons draw,  
Which I but stuffed with straw.   

To certain Prisoners, who had appointed a Drinking-Match.  
BRavely resolved: you mean the world shall see  
You have not yet lost all your liberty;  
Y'are but restrained from Virtue, you have still  
An unconfined freedom to do ill.  
Can't you be mad by chance, but it must be  
Consulted and resolved to a decree?  
'Tis crime enough to be o'reta'ne with Wine,  
But to be drunk with purpose and design  
Admits no pardon: yet with such delight  
And pomp you act it, as you'd merit by't.  
Reclaim for Heaven's sake, drink no longer then,  
You may forget y'are prisoners, not men;  
Know y'are amongst your foes, who'll joy to see  
Your crimes as much as your captivity,  
And thence become more confident and bold  
Then from their Pulpits, Almanacs and Gold;  
For 'tis too good a Logic which infers,  
Slaves unto so much vice, must needs be theirs.  
But (Sirs) I not admire your strange delight  
To drink so much, as how you can come by't;  
I know your pockets have a long time been  
Empty, & free for th'Fiend to frisk therein,  
And 'mongst your friends, though you are dry at th' heart  
Your Credits would not pass for one poor quart:  
Have foes more faith, or have you lighted on  
A more confiding generation?  
Make use on't; yet remember well this thing,  
Though now you drink without a reckoning,  
The time may come, when after there shall be  
Exchanges to procure your liberty,  
That you again may prisoners become  
TO imprimis, item, and the total sum;  
Take heed lest then with pensive hearts you pack  
To the Brick-building; trust me there's no Sack.  
But friends, I wish that what I've said unto ye  
May a prevention prove, not Prophecy.  
I'll visit you e'er many Suns do shine,  
And if i'th' numerous Deluges of Wine  
All Grace be not already wracked and sunk,  
I'll work you sober, or myself well drunk.   

To Sir E. L. at LONDON.  

GOod Sir, to you for your kind Letter  
I think myself much more a Debtor  
Than you or I are to Tom Dennis,  
To whom we own both Pounds and pennies,  
For you therein much love express  
Both in your Sack and soberness   

When rich Canary warms your blood,  
And you begin to chew the cud  
Of Loyalty, and boldly swear  
You'll live and die a Cavalier▪  
When all sad thoughts as fast do quit'ee,  
As poor Malignants do the City,  
When some loud thundering Ordinance rings  
From the first and second house of Kings.  
When Charles and Mary have gone round,  
And some great men who still prove sound;  
And when to the three Country Lasses  
 sacrificed as many glasses,  
Than you, I find, with Wine that sparkles  
Much like a fire made of Charcoles,  
Cry Sirs, a health, if such your leave is,  
To honest Dick; Let come, quoth Bevis;  
Quoth Uncle Will, I'll not forgo it  
For truly Dick's a pretty Poet;  
And yet me thinks, what er's the matter,  
For's poverty he might be better.  
True, (quoth my friend) but you know he  
Has a worse fault then's Poetry,  
Which makes his fortunes go awry all,  
That is, he's honest still, and Loyal.   

To this your Love (Sirs) I yield store  
Of thanks, but admiration more,  
That Wine, which makes men's thoughts aspire  
As high as Phaeton's, or higher,  
Should give you such humility  
As to descend to think of me.   

But then (Sir) when y'are out of drink,  
And call for paper, pen, and Ink,  
And write to your own Lady Nannie,  
And the other two, who next of any  
You best affect, and to Sir Trevor,  
That you should think of poor Dick Lravor,  
And send him too a large Epistle,  
Believe me, Sir, it makes me bristle,  
And fancy straight (or I'm a Varlet)  
My old freiz Jump is Plush or Scarlet,  
And that I am as spick and span  
All o'er as a Committee-man:  
But I do fear I am too long,  
And injure much the pressing throng  
Of businesses, which will not leave you  
To come and kiss, and play with Nephew.  
Farewell then, only let me say o'er  
A word or two in form of Prayer:  
God send you soon free from the thrall  
And tyranny of Goldsmith's Hall;  
That Gulf of all the Kingdom's store,  
That grave of Treasure, which is more  
Insatiate than a Whore that's bold,  
Or Tophet that's ordained of old.  
Where men must give more than the widow  
(Praised in the Text for bounty) did do;  
For she bestowed there no more pelf.  
Then what belonged unto herself;  
But here men are constrained t' undo  
Themselves, their wives and children too;  
Nay more, this place wants not a plot  
To swallow Infants e'er theyare got.  
Now were some upright Judge found out  
I'd wish him to decide this doubt  
Of Lunsford, and of Goldsmith's Hall,  
Which was the greatest Cannibal;  
For Lunsford never, I'll be sworn,  
Devoured a Child that was unborn.  
Heaven, Sir, at length will set you free,  
Mean time let this your comfort be,  
That all men now must there be waiters,  
But Loyal Beggars and false Traitors.  
All that are here, wives, maids and men,  
And Jack that snores from ten to ten,  
Wish you as well as e'er they can do,  
And so does Trig, and Boy, and Quando;  
But none like him who will be ever  
Sir, your true servant, Richard Leavor.   

Pray Sir, be so much my engager,  
As to commend me to the Major,  
My friend the Esquire, and all you see,  
That love the King, and you, and me.   

Sir George, and Jack who will not cog,  
Your Uncle Powel, and I quoth Dog,  
Do oftimes drink your health in U'sk  
Till heads grow light, and evenings dusk.    

Upon the Shrewsbury Committie, canvased by Mitton, in Election of Knight of the Shire, An. 1646.  

SHame to your Tribe, have you State Jesuits  
Of the Salopian Conclave lost your wits?  
How comes it (Sirs) that one man, and he too  
No fine Text-marring man o'th' Law, like you,  
Out-quirks your Honours thus? whom we looked on  
As Machiavels of Reformation,  
Whose close and intricate designs we doubt,  
Heaven, minded to prevent, could scarce tract out;  
And at whose counsels Satan standeth by,  
Not to instruct in craft, but edify.   

You bragged to come with such a blustering train,  
Should make your (Flood) out-noise the troubled main  
And strike the emulous party deaf, as such  
Who dwell where Nilus Cat'racts roar so much:  
Yet Mitton, who was then indeed, as far  
Short of your suffrages as yourselves are  
Of his small merits, struck you all as mute  
As Charletons' dearly loved fish, the Trout:  
And wrapping you like fools in Canvas thus,  
Exposes you to Cavaliers, and us  
A copious scene of mirth, such as this age  
Near saw o'th'Fortune, or the Red-Bull Stage▪  
Some sour faced Lecturer of more Zeal than sense,  
Would raise this comfortable Doctrine hence.  
" That Mitton needs not fear the wiles and powers  
" Of Pope nor Devil, since h'as conquered yours.   

But why your Armed men? came they to see  
That Votes in the Election might go free?  
Faith, if they had, the work had been more short,  
The Sheriff needed not to adjourn the Court;  
For of the multitudes you brought, for one  
Loved you, ten feared your Inquisition:  
No, 'twas to keep that awe there, which your cursed  
Wild Bulls of Sequestration gained you first,  
You brought'm not to fight, yet on my word,  
Clive, till he broke it, was man o'th'sword,  
And may, for an adventure done of late,  
Be called the Giganto-machist o'th'State;  
Once he encountered with a Cavalier,  
Big as a Mountain, or as his own fear,  
Which all his faith could not remove, though th'man  
Be known to be a Solifidian:  
Yet having prayed, he nimbly charged his foe,  
Nor gave him leisure to return one blow,  
But hacks on, till the Giant by some spell  
Became a gate-post; was't not wondrous well?  
Yet here he leaves him not, but hews a main,  
Till his good sword at length broke short in twain.  
But had it held, he'd beat the post that day  
Into a man again, and ran away.  
Were you not all thus brave, when gallantly  
You sang a hymn, and stormed Oswaldstrey?  
But why was not that desperate courage shown,  
When the bold enemy was in the Town?  
'Twas then, Go on brave Mitton, fight for Christ  
And's Gospel, our Devotion shall assist;  
So by the assistance of the Heavenly Powers  
He took't for God's cause, now must leave't for yours.  
So toils the Badger till the hole be fit,  
Then comes the Fox and stinks him out of it.  
For these your high deserts let each man's wish  
Be as he fancies: mine shall be but this,  
That for your sakes both Houses would think fit  
An Order pass to sequester the wit  
Of that bold Satirist, who so did knot  
His Verse, to lash our honest brother Scot,  
That now the smart of't puts him to a pause  
Whether or no he shall forsake the Cause.  
When you have been so jerked, I know you'll thence  
Grow honest, and so poor by consequence.    

A DIALOGUE Betwixt a CAVALIER and a LADY, Upon Occasion of a sudden Alarm in the night.  Lady. 
DEar, prithee stay, why dost thou haste  
As if this Trumpet were the last,  
And called thee from the grave: I doubt,  
Ah me, it rather calls thee to't.  Cavalier 
Fear not, sweet Nymph, it bids me go  
And give that fate unto the foe,  
And teach his insolence what 'tis  
Thus to disturb a Lover's bliss.  Lady. 
But see 'tis dark, and Mars r'th'night,  
Unless with Venus, will not fight;  
Believe it. Dear, no enemy  
So fit to combat now, as I,  
Here strive till morn, and it shall be  
Good omen, first to conquer me.  Cavalier. 
No, I'll reserve that sweet Defeat  
To crown, and make the rest complete:  
When I have spent much blood before,  
Here 'twil refresh to spend yet more.  Lady. 
Yet  you go, dispatch my pain,  
Leave not a Maidenhead half slain.  
Dear make an other pass.  Cav. 
No more:  
The God which Soldiers most adore,  
Great Honour, bids me use my might,  
For Reputation first, and then delight.  (Chor.) 
Tyranny Honour makes the brave  
And noblest mind the greatest slave,  
Where ever he commands, we go,  
And leave our dearest friend to meet a foe.   

To a Lady, who promised him a Winding-Sheet.  
MAdam, I thank your bounty, which thinks fit  
To send me in clean linen to the pit.  
Well, when my brace of shirts are worn out, which  
Can last but three months, though I scape the Itch,  
And shift but once a fortnight: I'll no more  
For Dowlass and course Holland run o'th' score,  
They are no lasting Ware, for I do still  
Give'em to th' Tinderbox or Paper-mill,  
Or to my Landress, 'gainst her Cradle goes,  
Long time  I have paid for them (God knows:)  
And what is worse, I do not know, I swear,  
Whether my shirts or credit are more sear;  
Oaths steeped in Ale and Wine cannot invite  
The stonyhearted Mercer now to write,  
Though 'twere from louse to save me, and diseases,  
Item, for six els more—, even what he pleases:  
No, my dear Madam, my recourse shall be  
For linen henceforth to your Charity,  
Which I may easily gain, I need but die,  
And you will shirt me to eternity.   

To Jean of Chippen-Norton.  

TEll me no more that Chastity  
'mongst Vestals did reside,  
Or that in Cells or Cloisters she  
doth chief now abide:  
Where Vows make chaste, it may be said  
An Oath is rather kept, than Maidenhead.   

They that with bolted doors and spies,  
from tempt are secured,  
Or in their own deformities  
more safely are immured:  
Such Virgins rather may be said  
Not to have lost, then kept their Maidenhead.   

Give me a Girl whom Gold doth woo,  
fit time and place allure,  
That from her own warm temper too  
Temptations doth endure;  
If she stand firm, it may be said,  
That she hath truly kept her Maidenhead.   

The praise (sweet Jean) to be thus chaste  
hath long been due to thee,  
But what was Virtue yet at last  
may prove necessity:  
Resign it then e'er it be said  
That thou hast too long kept thy Maidenhead.    

On the ARCHBISHOP of YORK'S Revolt.  

SAy my young Sophister, what thinkest of this  
Chimeras real. Ergo Fallaris.  
The Lamb and Tiger, Fox and Goose agree,  
And here concorporate in one prodigy.   

Call an Aruspex quickly, let him get  
Sulphur and Torches, and a Laurel wet  
To purify the place, but sure the harms  
This Monster will produce, transcend his charms:  
'Tis Nature's Masterpiece of Error this,  
And reskues whatsoever she did amiss  
Before; from wonder and reproach, this last  
Legitimateth all her by-blows past.   

See a Geneva Metrapolitan,  
An arch Prelatic Presbyterian,  
A fierce blue aproned Priest, a lawn sleeved brother,  
One leg the Pulpit holds, a Tub the other;  
Let's give him a fit name now if we can,  
And make the apostate once more Christian:  
Proteus we cannot call him, he put on  
His change of shapes by a succession:  
Nor the Welsh Weathercock, for that we find  
At once doth only wait upon one wind.  
These speak him not, but if you'll name him right,  
Call him Religion's Hermophradite:  
His head i'th'Sanctified mould is cast,  
Yet sticks th' abominable Mitre fast:  
He still retains the Lordship and the Grace,  
And yet h'as got a Reverend Elders place;  
Such Arts must needs be his, who did devise  
By crying Altars down, to sacrifice  
To's private malice; where you might have seen  
His conscience holocausted to his spleen.   

Unhappy Church, the viper that did share  
Thy chiefest Honours, helps to make thee bare,  
And void of all thy dignity and store.  
Alas, thine own Son proves the Forrest-Boar:  
And like the dam-destroying Cuckoo, He  
When the thick shell of's poor Welsh Pedigree,  
By thy warm fostering bounty did divide,  
And open, strait springs forth a Parricide.  
As if it were just, vengeance should be dispatched  
On thee by th'Monster which thyself hadst hatched.   

Despair not though, in Wales there may be got  
As well as Lincolnshire an Antidote  
'Gainst the worst venom he can spit, though's head  
Were changed from subtle grey, to poisonous red.  
Heaven with propitious eyes will look upon  
Our party, now the accursed Thing is gone,  
And scourge the Rebels, who naught else did miss  
To fill the measure of their sins, but His,  
Whose foul unparallelled Apostasy  
Like to his Sacred Character, shall be  
Indelible; and's Infamy, with late  
And happier ages, when impartial fate  
A period to his days and sins shall give,  
By some such Epitapth as this shall live.   

Lo, here Yorks Metropolitan is laid,  
Who Gods Anointed and the Church betrayed.    

To the Isle of MAN. Upon Occasion of the Lord BYRON'S landing there.  

HAil happy Isle, to whom the wind  
And sea, are by their fury kind,  
Whilst waves that threaten to turn o'er  
Invade not, but protect the shore:  
Thou that of late didst only stand  
As the Centre of our King's command,  
But by hard fate art at this day  
The whole circumference of his sway.  
See a dear pledge of Loyalty,  
The terror once of those whom he  
Now shuns, brave Byron doth repair  
To pant in thy untaunted air.   

Much has he toiled to hurt the foes,  
Much to help friends as bad as those,  
But of his Labours not one more  
Hath wearied him then giving o'er;   

Yet to thy shore no griefs he brings,  
No sad complaints o'th'state of things.  
On what is lost, he will not lose  
One word or thought, but rather choose  
To search the means how to prevent  
Our future hopes from like event:  
His courage (though success withstood)  
Like's cause, is still the same, still good.   

Receive him then, and let him be  
Welcome to thy good Lord and thee.   

So may thy fertile Land and Seas  
Abound in all things that may please  
Great Derby and his highborn Spouse,  
And make their loss less grievious,  
Which only doth perplex their mind,  
Because their bounties thence confined.   

May they soon cross the Seas to take  
Their own, and vengeance; may they make  
Their enemies as highly sad  
And miserable as th' are bad.   

And may they come to thee (small spot)  
For Recreation henceforth, not  
For refuge. May thy rule persever  
In this Land long, in this line ever.    

The Isle of MAN.  

FRom England, Scotland, Wales and Ireland,  
By equal Leagues divided there doth stand  
An Isle in circuit not so great as fame,  
To elder times known by Eubonia's name.   

The Soil is not luxuriant nor ingrate,  
Being neither Nature's fondness nor her hate:  
The Sugar canes, the Vine and Figtree there  
No Natives are, nor strangers; but what e'er  
To sport man's nicer appetite is scant,  
Comes there the price of what he cannot want;  
Few ages since he that chief Rule did hold,  
Was thence a King: the same power, but less bold,  
In Title, whilst twelve Monarches reigned,  
Hath in the Noble Stanley's blood remained.  
But under none hath it enjoyed a bliss  
More eminent than it does under this,  
Whose prudent care preserves it from the stain  
Of foul Rebellion 'gainst its Sovereign.   

And as in Swoon, life, when it is gone  
From all parts else, stays in the heart alone:  
So in this place, which, if to our King's sway  
You'll Members give, for its fit site, best may  
Express the heart; still breathing you may see  
All that's alive of his great Monarchy.   

And though this Isle appear but as a Star  
Of the least magnitude 'mongst those that are  
In Charles his constellation, yet doth she  
Keep motion still in due conformity  
To th' Primum Mobile, nor is at all  
Seduced or forced by the Eccentrical  
Circumvolutions of the rest, but now  
Doth thence more regular and constant grow.   

Just so a vigorous heat that closely is  
Besieged by an Antiparistasis  
Of hostile cold, conforms not to the same,  
But still grows more itself, and turns to flame;  
Nor hath the King alone his old and due  
Observance here, but even the King's King too.  
Religious duties; which in other Lands  
Are cast by th' wanton strife of tongues and hands  
In new prodigious moulds, do in this place  
Retain their primitive comeliness and Grace;  
Temples are Houses here (and they alone)  
Of public Worship and Devotion,  
And such at the Altar wait as are endued  
With Science, and are called to't, not intrude.  
So that sound Doctrine, clad in a rich sense  
Flows from their Pulpits, which with Reverence  
The people heard, and to this giving due  
Respect, a thousand blessings more ensue.   

The Husbandman buries his seed ' th'out fear  
O'th'Sequestrators sickle, nor does   
Doubt who shall share the Flock, or milk the Kine  
He fosters, or shall eat the fruit of's Vine:  
(For though that Plant springs not in this cold clay,  
Yet where so fat a Peace dwells, we may say,  
(With Reverence to the Sacred Page) that now  
Grapes upon thorns, and figs on thistles grow.)  
Wife's moan not their fled Husbands, who t'eschew  
Their enemies, forsake their best friends too:  
Their pregnant wombs by Times due Midwifery,  
Not by affrights or griefs, disburdened be,  
And their maturer Issues there escape  
The barbarous Soldier's sword and Lustful rape.   

But that which doth most happiness afford,  
Is the loved presence of their noble Lord  
And Lady, not more eminent in blood  
Then Virtue, and their Pledges fair and good.  
That spot, alas, is now their whole estate,  
Which was but an Appendix to't of late;  
Swelling great Derby's Title, more than's Rent.  
But 'twas by Providence that he was sent  
From's Richer Territories, there to be  
The refuge of distressed Loyalty,  
Where now the good he doth with what remains,  
Comforts th'unequal losses he sustains:  
His sufferings he surveys, as they express  
His Loyalty, not his unhappiness.   

And may not they nor th'time be long till's eyes  
See his good deeds, his wrongs, and enemies  
Fully requited; and in the interim  
May this small part of his King's sway, by him  
Be still preserved, as it is now, in fit  
Obedience, till the rest conform to it.    

AN EPITAPH ON Major OWEN And Captain EDWARD WYNNE.  

REader, prepare thy eyes, I stand  
Not to beg tears, but to command;  
Which having read, if thou deny,  
Thou art a verier stone then I.   

Brothers by birth, and Twins since death,  
At noon benighted, lodge beneath:  
A Nobler pair no womb of clay  
Shall bring forth at the last great day:  
Their Lineage of good note, before  
Commended them, and they it more.  
Nature was of her gifts profuse,  
For which they thanked her i'th'right use.   

Souls sweetly tempered; bodies meant  
To show men's shape most excellent;  
Valour and Innoncence conjoined,  
Height and humility of mind.  
Faith to the Cause they chose, and friends  
Served by them ' hout self-serving ends,  
Endeared them to their Country's chief  
Affection first, then to its geief.  
Snatched hence in their most vigorous age,  
By hostile sword and Fever's rage,  
And then—. But Reader I'll give o'er;  
Thy tears will let thee read no more,    

To Capt. Segkar at B. sick of a Fever.  
DEar Segkar, thy Disease which I before  
So much lamented, now I envy more,  
And praise the blessed distemper of thy blood,  
Which makes thee happier than thy healthier could.  
For say, who would not gladly entertain  
A several Fever into every vain,  
And take all Aetna in his breast, might he  
Be fair Francisca's Patient, like thee?  
Who'd not be rather laid in thy sick bed,  
Which is by her so often visited,  
Then the most soft and wanton Down invade,  
Where some fair melting Bride doth lie displayed?  
When she comes near the Bed, say, Dost not find  
More inward Joy and pleasure in thy mind  
Then torment in thy sense? when she, to try  
The dancing of thy pulses doth apply  
Her curious hand to thine, dost not forget  
(Inspired with happier flames) thy Fever's heat?  
Complain not that thine eyes have lost the grace  
Of motion, thou mayst fix them on her face;  
Nor that thy looks are pale and meager; she,  
'Cause they are so, so oft doth look on thee.  
The Romans once a Fever did adore,  
Lest it should hurt them; oughtest not thou much more  
To consecrate thy sickness, which to thee  
Is Author of so much felicity?  
I dare not wish thee health, for that I guess  
Would be to deprecate thy happiness:  
Nor do I think't a blessing now, for know  
I'm sick myself, because I am not so.   

On MAURICIA'S Wound which she received from a Round-head.  

IT was when Traitors in the Text, did pass  
For worthy Patriots in the Paraphrase,  
And when 'twas voted Loyalty to fight  
Against the King because he ruled by right,  
That lo a cursed Rebellious crew, whose shame  
Was lost with their allegiance; rudely came  
And robbed the fair Mauricia and her mate,  
Who doth upon the Sacred Altar wait.   

Slaves, did you not Divinity espy  
In his high function, and in her bright eye?  
And could not this work on your stupid sense,  
Nor that upon your feared conscience?  
Me thinks the Holy and the fair might be  
Secure from your State Licenced Thievery.  
Reformed Justice might pass such a pair  
And their Malignant Innocency spare,   

But'las, who can expect Mercy from such,  
Whose own sins have transcended it so much?  
Rapine is scarce a Crime to hands that dare  
'Gainst Majesty advance the sword of War:  
And now the villains here are bend upon  
A fact, may vie guilt with Rebellion;  
They make the naked Priest and woman feel  
The sharp edge of the armed Soldiers steel:  
Though Sex and Office render them unfit  
To use the sword, they now must suffer it:  
And had not some, who thirsted more for gain  
Then blood, advised he should be Prisoner ta'en,  
And not be made their Murder but their prize,  
The Priest himself had been a Sacrifice.   

Mean time, some barbarous wretch, who surely had  
First in his parents bowels sheathed his blade,  
And ripped up pregnant wombs, thence to contract  
A hellish courage to perform this fact,  
Made on Mauricia's head, through flesh and bone  
With Warlike Weapon such incision,  
That shapes without the ' ernal Organs aid  
Might to her inward senses be conveyed:  
A crimson torrent followed the stroke,  
As water when the Prophet smote the Rock:  
And that well tempered blood which oft times had  
Her cheeks in sweet becoming blushes clad,  
Now staineth them, her Vestments, and the ground,  
But most of all, his soul that gave the wound:  
Then part of her fair blush was massacred,  
Each hair of which was worth a Roundheads head  
And twice six bones, with more than Childbed pain  
Were fet from the Ivory Cab'net of her brain.  
Yet Heaven so pleased, nothing did thence proceed  
Mortal: But all men's hatred of the deed  
For which Roundheads themselves curse and condemn  
Th'Author, as much as honest men do them.   

How had the Firmament been decked with these  
I'th' ancient time of Metamorphoses?  
This lock had then aspired the keys, and wore  
As many Stars as it did hearts before.  
Blood then as well as milk had there been spread  
To mark a path out for the Gods to tread,  
And teach the morn to blush; then had these bones  
Cashiered some monstruous constellations:  
And for the Caitiff there had fancied been  
A plague in hell peculiar, as his sin.   

But this high exemplary Loyalty  
Shall in our Annals, not Romances be  
Left for posterity to look upon,  
Not for delight, but imitation;  
And so secure Subjects allegiance more  
Than the Evangelist sworn o'er and o'er.   

And thus Mauricia by indulgent fate,  
Even in her sufferings is made fortunate,  
Succeeding Kings shall be her debtors hence,  
And to her memory pay Reverence;  
And present Majesty in its distress  
May raise this comfort from her good success,  
That though its wound be wide, and deep like hers,  
And th'cure past good men's hopes and Rebels fears,  
It may, like her too, at the length o'ercome  
The danger, and survive its Martyrdom.    

MAURICIA to a Lock of that Hair, sent to a Lady who requested it.  

KNow little Lock, first from my head,  
Now from my Cab'net banished.  
That thou enjoyest a glorious fate,  
And that a greater fame doth wait  
On thee, than all my hair beside:  
Thou art their envy and their pride.   

Thou fellest not the approbrious sign  
Of some disease or sin of mine,  
Neither didst thou, not felt at all,  
By the friendly hand of Scissors, fall,  
Clipped for some amorous device,  
An incruental Sacrifice:  
No, thou mayst boast that thy great doom  
Did from the sword and Soldier come,  
Which to my brain such passage made,  
That if a second Pallas had  
Been there, she might have issued thence  
Without more torment to my sense,  
Whilst from my head a stream did flow  
Red as his sin who gave the blow.  
Thus didst thou fall (great little-Lock)  
And thus thy Mistress stood the shock  
Of savage Roundheads; which loathed name,  
Shall from this fact contract more shame.  
This brands the Rebel Author more  
Than all his Treasons done before:  
By those the Subject only is  
Cast oft, the very man by this,   

Go then, and pray her, whose Divine  
Hands must receive thee now from mine,  
That she vouchsafe, when thou art come,  
To consecrate thy Martyrdom  
With kind respect, and place thee near,  
Though but a foil, to her own hair.  
Then mayst thou deem thy fate more high,  
Then had Jove called thee to the Sky,  
And decked thee with more Stars, than all  
The drops of blood lost at thy fall.    

AN ACCOUNT OF AN IRISH QUARTER.  

FRom Carrick, where the noble Ormond met  
Kilkennyes' Supreme Councillors, to treat  
For Ireland's peace; After I had let fly  
At the Lean half-boyl'd-fresh-bief Ordinary,  
All my own shillings (and the truth to tell'ee)  
One more I borrowed of my friend, Jack Belly:  
'Twas time I thought to make a quick departure  
With my Comrade Ned Griffith, to freequarter  
So calling Ned, said I, He that long tarries  
In this Town, will not find it like Beau-Maryes,  
Where, when we wanted 12d, we could dine  
Like Dukes, And only cry, Peg, this makes nine;  
Here no kind Tapwife, nor confiding Cook,  
Will let you eat and drink, and smoke by th' book;  
A just man (should we grant you of that sort)  
Can't live by Faith here, though there's Scripture for't.  
But when your pockets empty, faith Sir, you  
Must look your belly should be even so too.  
To th' Country then, where we'll our Genius pamper  
With Mustard and fat Beef, Mutton and Sampyer,  
And yet no Trencher shall after a feast  
Make us repent the fouling of the rest:  
And reasons there are many to persuade one  
That by our Landlord we shall be much made on,  
For my Lord Precedent has wrote a Letter  
That he should treat us like ourselves, or better.  
And then for certain he's a man of Bounty,  
For hark Ned, he's High-Sheriff of the County:  
Besides, he's of the Poors, and so must be  
By consequence of our own family;  
They say that he keeps dogs too, and will coarse  
The Hare most fiercely, but the Fox far worse:  
And faith Ned, thou'rt a lad, whom any right  
Good fellow will bid welcome at first sight:  
Thy countenance so rosy, strait inveagles,  
And (to say truth) we both are pretty Beagles.   

This pleased Ned well, & strait we got two able  
Horses, out of my Lord Lieutenant's stable,  
And to Colefine, 'twixt dinner time and supper  
We marched with our Port-mantles at our crupper.   

When we came there, we certain structures saw  
All Perriwigged with rushes or with straw;  
So even and like, Ned swore by his Creator  
Some Leveller had been the Fabricator.  
So that to us was not distinguishable  
Which was the Mansion, which the Barn or stable.  
Ned, he alights and leads (God bless us all)  
His horse into his Worship's very Hall,  
And looking round about, cries in great anger,  
Zowns, here's a Stable has no Rack nor Manger:  
Peace Ned (quoth I) prithee be not so hasty,  
This room's no stable, though it be as nasty;  
I see a Harp and chimney too, and dare  
Say, there was fire in't before the war,  
So this is no place for your horse, you see,  
'Tis then for very Beasts I'm sure (quoth he;)  
I wished him be advised what he spoke there,  
For should such words come to the Sheriff's ear,  
'Twas Gold to Silver that he would be at us  
 we were ware, with's Posse Comitatus:  
Out Ned went laughing; I (as 'tis my fashion)  
Fell strait into this serious contemplation,  
If the High-Sheriff such mean dwelling have,  
O hone, O hone, what hath his Under knave?   

But searching further, one whose unsoald shoes  
Like fetter, hung about his fears came to's,  
And for our horses said he'd show a room.  
I asked him if he were the Sheriff's Groom?  
No Sir, quoth he, I'm his firstborn, but can  
For need, supply the office of his man.  
I cried him mercy, wished him not be crossed;  
So off my hat went, off went his almost.  
He bade us go to th' house; and so we took  
Our way to th' place Ned and his horse mistook:  
And after we a little there had wandered,  
In came the man, who proud to be our Landlord,  
Who for his face and garb might pret'ly well  
Pass English muster for Head Constable.  
I with fit ceremony towards him went.  
And gave him th' Letter from th' Lord Precedent:  
He took't and read it, and for aught I know,  
We welcome were; but he ne'er told us so.  
Opening his mouth at length, he asked us how  
Corn sold beyond sea; and if men did blow:  
When, and for what occasion we came o'er?  
And if we ever had been there before?  
I answ'red so as pleased him well, I think,  
For strait he bade the Butler fill some drink.  
But seeing him in's half pint dish of wood  
Sip like a maid; thought I, this man's not good  
Companion, or else his drink's but small:  
Both which did prove too true. And this was all  
My comfort now, I hoped to find good fare,  
And then for table-tipple, 'twas most rare.   

And now for supper the round board being spread,  
The Van a dish of coddled Onions led,  
I'th' Body led a salted tail of Salmon,  
And in the Rear some rank Potatoes came in.   

To comfort Ned, said I, a short repast  
Must serve this wednesday night, 'cause 'tis a Fast;  
But Master Sheriff the next meal will mend it  
To our content. Quoth Ned, I pray God send it.  
We sat, and soon had made of it, I trow,  
A clean board, if our napkins had been so:  
But opening one of them, (I tell ye truth)  
My stomach was got full before my mouth.  
Some housewives would give groats apiece for these,  
To have the washing of them for the grease.  
At length, it came into my fancy, that  
They might be Relics, oiled with holy fat,  
And that th' Apostles, when the Paschal Lamb  
Was eaten, wiped their fingers on the same.  
My Landlord fed well; and seeing us to eat  
Nothing, he bade us welcome to his meat:  
And having done, he crossed himself all o'er;  
His Supper had done so for us before.   

When bed time came, he bade one with a light  
Conduct us where we were to lodge that night.  
He had himself gone with us (I dare say)  
But that his Chamber did not lie that way:  
So to a room we came, of which 'tis all  
I'll say, 'twas correspondent to the Hall.   

Quoth Ned, I'll not unsheathe, though I am drowsy,  
These sheets were used before, and may be lousy.  
What then, said I? dost thou not know, thou noddy,  
Fresh linen is unwholesome for the body?  
And lice are here no more an infamy  
Then red hair: theyare the Nation's lechery.  
So down we lay, to sleep full well inclined;  
But through the gaping wall came such a wind,  
That from my head my nightcap (this is true)  
To th' farther side of all the room it blew:  
And had there been in my fantastic pate  
As many Windmills as I saw of late  
Near Wexford, 'twould have whirled 'em all about:  
And from my nose ere since, like a Still-snout,  
Such distillations fall, you'd guess by this,  
My head were what the Prophet wished his.  
Now 'cause we could not sleep, we fell to pray,  
More than we used, but 'twas for nought but day.  
By th' Lord, quoth Ned, the Sun, if he should sup  
And lodge like us, at midnight would get up:  
And I should tumble less, and sleep more, had I  
In stead of thee (dear Tom) some handsome Lady.   

But there's no night so long, but hath its morn,  
And so had this; which if we had been born  
Stark blind, we had not been so glad to see:  
No alarmed Soldier could more quick than we  
Leap from his bed, and sooner dress himself:  
So down we went, and played till hour the eight;  
Then was the table covered, but the same  
Linen I saw for fish and flesh meals came.  
Dishes as formerly were brought in odd,  
Pork, Pork, and Pork; two boiled and one sod.  
I'll hang for't, but he thought us Scots or Jews,  
And brought's meat not to eat, but to refuse.  
But we fell on with all our main and might,  
Urged by two reasons to't, hunger and spite.  
His napkins fatness, leanness of his meat,  
Nor want of salt could hinder us to eat,  
Nor henceforth shall; his Eves and Embers too  
Shall save him nought, at one meal we'll eat two,  
Devouring swine's flesh, so that he shall dress  
Some better meats, in hopes we will eat less;  
And so live and endure, till we shall be  
Released next Gen'ral Gaol-delivery.   

Mean time, if any man think I have told  
More than the truth, let him come and behold  
And finding things not thus, I shall desire  
He'll call me (what I would I were) a Liar.   

And let that man that shall dislike my Rhimes,  
Know that I have made better twenty times.  
Nor was my Muse in fault now, but the Liquor;  
Had this been stronger, that had been much quicker.  
Who drinks the like, I'll hold my ink and pen on't,  
He'll write as bad.   
God bless my Lord Lieutenant.   

A PASTORAL DIALOGUE.  Thirsis 
DEar Silvia, let thy Thirsis know  
What 'tis that makes those tears to flow  
Is the kid that used to play  
And skip so nimbly, gone astray?  
Hath Cloris flowers more fresh and green?  
Or is some other Nymph made Queen?  Silvia. 
Thirsis, dost thou think that I  
Can grieve for these, when thou art by?  Thi. 
What is it then?  Silu. 
My father bids  
That I no longer feed my kids  
With thine, but Corydons; and wear  
None but his Garlands on my hair.  Thir. 
Why so (my Silvia) will he keep  
Thy Lambs more safe whilst thou dost sleep?  
Will the Nymphs envy more thy praise  
When chanted in his Roundelays?  Silu. 
No Thirsis, I my Kids must join  
With his, 'Cause they are more than thine.  (Chor.) 
Parents, cruel as the Rocks,  
Join not their children, but their flocks.  
And Hymen 's called to light his Torches there  
Where Fortune's, not Affection's equal are.   

To his RIVAL, Kissing a Glove which he had got from SYLVIA.  

FOnd man! why dost thou now adore  
What thou didst so much execrate before?  
Whilst from thy wanton touch it did secure  
Fair Sylvia's hand; nor would  
Permit the tender Lilies should  
From any hot-breathed kiss a blast procure.   

Whilst to the Relic thou dost thus  
Pay thy Devotion, thou art impious  
Against the Saint. For that which thou didst hate  
When it upon her hand  
A consecrated Veil did stand,  
Thou now adorest, when it is reprobate.   

Yet hug that toy, had kiss it more  
And nearer, than it did her hand before,  
For 'tis the perfect emblem of thy fate.  
Though thou like it do waste  
Thyself in serving her, at last  
Thou shalt like it too be a Reprobate.    

To SYLVIA, On a Bracelet of her Hair.  

KNow, Sylvia, that your curious twist  
Which charms my heart, and decks my wrist,  
On which I gaze so oft, and pay  
Thousands of kisses every day.  
Is not so much my love and care,  
'Cause 'tis composed of your hair,  
And yet it truly may be said  
Sunbeams are woven of courser thread.  
Nor do I therefore liked so much,  
Because I find the art is such,  
That if Arachne, when she strove  
With Pallas, the like Web had wove,  
She had her skill and wrath o'ercome,  
And gained a Triumph, not a doom.   

No, Sylvia, I the truth will tell,  
I do not therefore liked so well  
Because it is thy hair and Art,  
But that it is thy gift (dear Heart.)    

SYLVIA Singing.  

TEll me no more to what rare sound  
The Stars do dance their Round.  
For did they hear the Music of this voice.  
They'd not forbear  
To leap down from their Sphere,  
And for this Harmony forsake that noise.   

And tell not me with what sweet strain,  
The dying Swan, in vain  
Flatter's approaching death; for could she give  
Such notes as these  
Fates rigour to appease,  
They'd prove not a Prediction, but Reprieve.   

To him that heats this Countes-charm  
No Siren can do harm.  
Ulysses was not half so safe, when fear  
Unto the Mast  
With cords had bound him fast,  
As had these accents held him by the ear.    

A DIALOGUE.  Thir. 
COme Sylvia, freely let's enjoy  
Loves chiefest sweets; for being coy,  
We make those flames, which he hath sent  
For our delight, our punishment.  Sylu. 
What would my Thirsis more than this,  
Thus chastely to embrace and kiss?  Thir. 
Alas, my Sylvia, these are toys  
Which but prepare for after joys.  
Like to those meats we eat before  
A feast, to make our hunger more.  
We mix moist lips to raise in two  
Bloods, a desire to mingle too.  Sylu. 
To join them so, is to commit  
A kiss, and poison love with it;  
Sacrificing chaste desires  
In wanton and polluted fires.  Thir. 
What can unchaste or wanton be  
That's done in such obscurity?  
Where there's no conscious eye nor ear,  
Action's not more than wishes are.  Sylu. 
I, but the Gods, who see our night,  
And hear our silence, will espied,  
And punish too.  Thir. 
No, Sylvia, this  
Thou knowst their own example is:  
'Tis safe to err with them.  Sylu. 
The bold  
Poets alone such fictions told.  Thir. 
They rather feigned, who made that sin,  
The Gods so much delighted in.  Sylu. 
Thirsis, I yield, but fear I shall repent,  Thi. 
Thou wilt, that thou no sooner didst consent  (Chor.) 
What e'er the rigid Sages of old time  
Did love and practise most, they made a crime  
To th' rude vulgar, and did thus devise,  
That no man should be happy but the wise,   

To SYLVIA, Going to an Enemy's Quarters.  

STay, Sylvia, stay, and let thine eyes  
From gloomy nights protect our Skies.  
Let not their glorious beams convey,  
To our Antipodes the day.   

But if they are decreed to go  
From our Horizon to the foe,  
Cloud them with frowns, that through the world  
A general darkness may be hurled,  
So we the better shall sustain  
A loss, which is to them no gain.   

Or if thou wilt at full display  
Every Beam and every Ray.  
So shall those Suns, whilst men admire,  
Consume, not warm them with their fire:  
And by that glorious light of theirs  
Make, and destroy Idolaters.  
But stay not long (sweet Nymph) for so  
May thy return procure our woe,  
Whilst we, like men, who for long space,  
Have been confined to some dark place,  
Shall, being restored to that light  
By which we see now, lose our sight.    

To SYLVIA Frowning.  

NO, Sylvia, 'tis not your disdain,  
Nor scorn, nor cruelty, nor hate  
Shall make my sadder verse complain,  
Or my well kindled flame abate.  
Such goblins fright Love from a coward-heart:  
But one resolved like mine, can make them start.   

Contract thy brow, and let thine eye  
Dart Thunderbolts of anger still,  
Storm me with all th' Artillery  
With which Love's Rebels use to kill:  
I'll not retreat till I or Conqueror be,  
Or Martyr of thy cruelty and thee.   

Shoot, Sylvia then, and spare not till  
Thy Magazine of anger's spent,  
If I survive and love thee still,  
I know thou then must needs relent.  
Patience in sufferings ofttimes hath o'ercome  
A Tyrant's rage, and made him change his doom.   

But if I fall into thy hate  
And stubborn scorn a Sacrifice,  
I shall be happy in that fate  
Whilst with me all my torment dies  
Thus shall my constancy for thy disdain  
Either begin my bliss, or end my pain.    

AN ELEGY On the Death of SYLVIA'S Beagle.  

YE Ladies all, that feel remorse  
When with a cold your Patrat's hoarse,  
And think you sin, if you are jolly,  
When your poor Monkey's melancholy:  
Come and assist the tenderhearted  
Sylvia's grief for the Departed.  
A Beagle of so neat a frame,  
That Venus gave her her own name,  
And for her Chariot, she'd been snatched,  
But that she could not where be matched.   

Her Pedigree was of good note,  
For Or and Sables was her coat,  
Wherein such smoothness did reside,  
As made the very sight to glide.  
Her body slender was, and such  
Might well make Sylvia's lap her couch:  
And yet she was not small enough  
To be conveyed away ' n a Muff.  
She never lost the company favour  
Offending it with an ill savour;  
And what a greater wonder is,  
She ne'er for th' Owner smelled amiss.   

In such fit places still she eased  
Her belly, that she ne'er displeased  
The Chambermaid. Nor would she eat  
At any time forbidden meat.   

She lately had a safe Delivery  
Gf young ones three, as smooth as Ivory;  
But  that they could look about'em,  
She went to th' other world without'em;  
And this she did, because she hoped  
Her Mistress sure would them adopt.  
Whose comfort now is, that the Bitch  
Died not o'th' Halter, Mange or Itch,  
But what great men their lives have cost'em,  
'Tis known she died of an Aposteme.    

To his FRIENDS, Comforting him after Sylvia 's Departure.  

GOod Sirs forbear, who e'er strives to beguile  
Me of my woe,  
Or labours to betray me to a smile,  
He's my cruel foe:  
For all these tears you see, did I  
Receive from my departing Sylvia's eye.   

When we incorporated in our last  
Embraces, stood  
Like Janus head inverst from hers, she cast  
Into mine eyes this stood,  
And told me whilst it there did stay  
That no new slames could enter in that way.  
Safe then within these Cisterns let them lie,  
That every tear  
When next we meet may make my Loyalty  
Clear, as itself appear.  
Then shall those waters which she set  
To guard my breast from flames, give hers new heat.    

The three Incomparable Ladies at K. Castle.  

HEnce, hence, unhallowed tongues, & move not here  
Know this is not your Sphere;  
This place, like th' Irish Soil, allows  
Nothing that's venomous.  
What e'er is loosely done or spoke,  
Doth wrath, not mirth provoke.   

(Chor.)  
For here the three chaste Sisters present be  
Who constitute each room  
Wherein they deign to come,  
A Temple Sacred unto Modesty.   

Who enters here, must speak, what e'er he says,  
With the same breath he prays.  
His guilt, whose language shall be found  
To bear a loser sound,  
Then at the Altar may be owned  
Shall not be there atoned.   

(Chor.)  
For here the three chaste, etc.   

But he, who with a breath as cool and sweet  
As Zephyrus, doth greet  
The tender flowers in May, can cheer  
Not blast a modest ear,  
May here be welcome, and find some  
Taste of Elysium.   

(Chor.)  
For here the three chaste Sisters present be,  
Who constitute each room  
Wherein they deign to come,  
A Temple sacred unto Modesty.    

A CAROL for Christmas Day.  

COme, come Cavaliers,  
Leave your doubts, leave your fears,  
And grieve not at thought of old matters.  
You own to this Day  
That which shall ne'er be a prey  
To the Traitors.   

Then sing and rejoice,  
Raise your heart, raise your voice;  
Your joys at this time do not smother.  
Let all sorrow be waved  
As you hope to be saved.  
To sigh for one sin is another.   

This Day there did come  
From a pure Virgin's womb  
A Saviour your sins to atone,  
Let the Parliament care  
And Rebels despair,  
That have none.   

But with our best notes,  
In spite of all Votes  
His praise this Day shall be sounded,  
Who left Heaven that he  
Might render all free  
From Hell, but the Devil and the Round-head.    

An ANTHEM For Christmas Day.  

HAil the most blessed of all Days,  
By whose resplendent rays,  
He first begun  
To see who made the Sun.  
In Miracles, this one  
Outvyes the six days of Creation.   

Man to God's image made, that time  
Of wonders was the prime:  
But here we can  
See God unmade to th' shape of man.  
Omnipotence is weak,  
The Word itself knows not to speak.  
And what may yet  
Far more astonishment beget,  
Th' immortal God did this endure  
That so he might procure  
Unto himself a power to die;  
And to us mortal men,  
Who were his Rebels then,  
A power to live eternally,   

For this high love, what thanks shall we return?  
What Incense burn?  
All he requires is only this,  
That we would make his sufferings our bliss.   

That from the Manger where he lay  
This Sacred Day,  
We would permit that he may come  
And in our hearts find nobler room.  
But hearts are mangers too, whilst sin  
Feeds there: Let's cast it out, & take him in.    

A CAROL.  

1.  
BOldly, boldly, Christmas here  
Still in thy own old shape appear;  
And make no scruple to come forth  
With all thy stratagems of mirth.  
None here has a hand  
I'th' great work of the Land:  
But all are at leisure  
With pastime and pleasure  
To render due honour to Christmas.   

2.  
Endless toil and fruitless pains  
To him that this great Feast profanes.  
When he should sleep, let him contrive  
A thousand projects, and none thrive.  
Nor let his ghost have  
Repose in the grave  
But wander and fright  
His brethren by night  
Who give nor due honour to Christmas.   

3.  
But rejoice we, whom this Tide  
With such a Jewel hath supplied,  
As no Sabaeans lawless bands  
Nor Fiend shall wrest out of our hands.  
A better world's ours,  
Be this in the powers  
O'th' Saints that are mortal,  
And will be cut short all  
For giving no honour to Christmas.   

4.  
Drown the thought in Wassail Bowles,  
Of what we lost to save our souls.  
The Thiefs that snatched our Goods away  
But like hand-Cormorants did prey,  
At length a Hemp-string  
Their necks shall so wring,  
That they will again  
Disgorge all amain  
Whilst we give due honour to Christmas.   

5.  
If the Mountain-Harp and Crowd  
To harmless mirth may be allowed  
The Drum and Trumpet we'll be willing  
To leave to such as live by killing.  
Give us Beer and Wine,  
We'll never repine  
At those that will soak  
In blood, till they choke.  
But render due honour to Christmas.   

6.  
In this humble Jollity  
The Conqueror's height and greatness we  
Envy no more than that of's Nose,  
Or of the Crimes by which he risen.  
Let him on with his Work  
To humble the Kirk,  
And's Destiny follow  
From thence to the Gallow,  
Whilst we give due honour to Christmas.    

Another Carol for Christmas Day,  

LIft up your heads and hearts, all you that be  
Oppressed by prosperous villainy.  
And let your Countenance this time as clear  
As is your conscience, appear.  
That wretched eye profanes these Sacred Rays,  
That is with tears possessed  
For any earthly interest,  
And is not worthy to see better days.   

2  
That power by which the Air did first begin  
Now borrows it to breath therein:  
He that like Raiment put on Light, doth dress  
Himself in humane nakedness.  
Thus he's our Representative, and thus  
Th' Almighty's irony  
Applied to him's a verity,  
Behold God is become as one of us.   

3.  
Here then, ye loyal souls, come here and take  
A cure for all that makes you ache.  
This Day presents such sufferings as will drown  
The sad remembrance of your own.  
Still let the Serpents of this age by't on,  
Let them new poison brew,  
'Tis lost all that they spit at you,  
For lo, this Day holds forth the Brazen one.   

4.  
Are you in banishment? To salve your woe  
Think that the King of Kings was so.  
Or in restraint? Let all complaints be dumb,  
God was once dungeoned in a womb.  
What though  lost your store by th' licenc'd theft  
O'th' bowelless Committee  
And Sequestrators of less pity.  
The Lord of All, was of himself bereft.   

5.  
All this, and death, he for your sake endures  
In whom was found no guilt but yours:  
And for his Cause will not you suffer too,  
As cheerfully as he for you?  
Th'Oppressor's glory, and your misery  
Death quickly terminates,  
And then shall you exchange Estates,  
And have them settled to eternity.    

A CAROL.  


Prithee Round-head, now forbear,  
Come not near,  
Christmas here doth domineer.  
Here are sports, and songs, and Music,  
Which perhaps,  
Which perhaps, Sir, may make you sick.   

2  
'Twil perplex your holy eye  
To espy  
When we dance, though modestly.  
And you'll hence be more offended;  
With the light,  
With the light all sport is ended.   

3  
And to grieve your godly ear,  
Songs I fear,  
Of our Saviour's birth you'll hear.  
Here his mother you'll find Sainted,  
And yourselves,  
And yourselves called Devils painted.   

4.  
If you love your nose, O fie,  
Come not nigh,  
All the house doth smell of Pye.  
Nor would you the sent eschew, Sir,  
Half so fain,  
Half so fain as we would you, Sir.   

5.  
For the taste, indeed, here's great  
Store of meat,  
But your Saintship may not eat;  
For the meat, which we provide all  
Offered is,  
Offered is unto this Idol.   

6.  
Venture then no farther on,  
Get thee gone:  
But lest thou shouldst go alone,  
Take for company I prithee  
From this place,  
From this place all sorrow with thee.    

Thus Latin'd,  

1.  
FOres jam, Rotunde, has  
Fugias,  
Regnat hic Nativitas.  
Lusus hic & cantilenae,  
Tibi quae,  
Tibi quae futurae poenae.   

2.  
Dolor erit oculis,  
Videris,  
Cum nos in tripudiis.  
Et plus eris hinc confusus;  
Desinit,  
Desinit Cum luce lusus.   

3.  
Nouè piis parcamus  
Auribus,  
Christum natum Canimus.  
Mater hîc est Diva dicta,  
Ipsi vos,  
Ipsi vos Daemonia picta.   

4.  
Aedes (naso cave sis)  
Epulis  
Fragrant Natalitiis,  
Nidor tibi nec infestus  
Plus quam tu  
Plus quam tu nobis molestus.   

5.  
Dapes ecce hîc lautas,  
Sed ne has  
Tangat vestra Sanctitas,  
Quicquid est in mensâ situm,  
Esse duc  
Esse duc Idolothytum.   

6  
Ocyus ergo hinc jam Te  
Proripe,  
Sed ne careas comite,  
Sume tibi in sodalem  
Omne hac  
Omne hac à domo malum.     

On Mrs. F. P. Discovered at her Devotion in Holywell  

INto the Spring, whose copious flow be  
A Monument of Martyred Chastity,  
The fair Francisca, that she might commend  
The Well to more Devotion, did descend,  
With feature so Divine, that you would guess  
She rather were the Saint, than Votaress.   

With swifter course the streams to court her glide  
And murmuring, seem the envious stones to chide,  
Which stay their haste: And now they had possessed  
What ever was beneath her Ivory breasts.  
But these did yet appear above the same  
Like the white Rocks, which gave this Isle a name.   

At length she kneeled, & then they reached her lip,  
Which they with smiling smoothness wooed to sip:  
The waters thirsting to be drank by her  
More than for them the long choked Hart did e'er.  
But swelling to't, she risen, as if she thus  
Meant to revenge the fate of Tantalus.   

An hour is well nigh spent, whilst with such heat  
Of pure Devotion, she doth there repeat  
Her powerful Orisons, that whilst she pray'th  
The benumbed Fountain proves a sweeting Bath.   

And now, her Rites performed, she takes her leave:  
The waters striving to detain her, cleave  
Fast to her Veil, but when alas, they found  
'Twas vain, they sadly dropped in tears to th'ground.  
Now if the stories I have read before,  
Were Truth or Fable, I'll inquire no more.  
For seeing Francisca in it, I can tell,  
That I discovered there a Miracle.  
And thus much of it, henceforth I'll confess,  
'Tis Sacred, though but from this Votaress.    

A Hymn to St Winifrid, sung by Her Priest whilst Ms E. M. was at Her Devotion in Holywell.  

Blessed Saint, to whose renown this Well  
Flows a perpetual Miracle,  
Be present now, and give success  
To th'wishes of this Votaress.   

Chorus.  
Who comes not her own spots to cure,  
But baths to make thy Spring more pure.   

'Tis neither her necessity  
Nor sin, that brings her on her knee;  
For pure and like thyself She's come  
In all, but in thy Martyrdom.   

Chor.  
She comes not her own spots to cure,  
But baths to make thy Spring more pure.   

It is to honour thee, and bring  
More Votaries unto thy Spring,  
That such as did blaspheme before,   

By Her example may adore.   

(Chor.)  
But She that hath no spots to cure,  
Doth bathe to make thy Spring more pure.   

Then from the cold protect Her sense,  
Let Her not go thy Martyr hence,  
But straight conform with some warm beam,  
To Hers, the temper of the stream.   

(Chor.)  
So She that hath no spots to cure.  
Shall bathe and make thy Spring more pure.    

On the Death of the Right Honourable the Lord BYRON, who died in France.  

Called from the wrath to come; to's Native Seat,  
Byron's unspotted soul has made retreat.  
See how Heaven welcomes Him! ye Blessed Powers,  
We, to Your Joys and His, would now add ours,  
Did not our too-just Jealousies and Fears  
Of plagues ensuing, call for sighs and tears.  
Must not approaching Thunder needs dismay,  
When the protecting Laurels snatched away?  
The Wheat into the Barn being ta'en, we know  
What fate the Tares are doomed to undergo.   

Excuse our sorrow then; when such men steer  
Into the Harbour, desperate storms are near.  
And who can hope th'Incursion to escape  
Of Vengeance, when a Moses quits the gap?   

That Rome, when Pagan in the Head (like us)  
And Christian in some limbs, was prosperous,  
The Fathers of those ages attribute  
To th' Prayers of them whom it did persecute.  
And sure, his Intercession for his foes  
Hath thus long kept us from deserved woes.  
But since he lest to speak, no gracious voice  
Remains to drown our sins obstreperous noise.  
No spotless hands, like his, lift up to gain  
Pardon for those, which blood and rapine slain:  
No heart ' powers forth such true Devotion,  
As may th' Hypocrisy of ours atone.  
How to do well, we long since lost the skill,  
And now the hopes of Grace, when we do ill.   

And thus (bright Soul) thy putting off thy clay  
Becomes our Funeral; but thine own Birth day:  
Death hath performed a double Office here,  
Of Midwife, and of Executioner.  
Thou now beginnest to live, when thou giv'st o'er,  
And stoodst but candidate for life before.  
'Twas but a borrowed blast thou didst resign,  
The lasting breath of Fame is now made Thine.  
Heroes in their own time only be,  
And truly flourish with Posterity:  
Fruits of past years preserved, more precious grow,  
And loved by those who loathed 'em on the bough.  
Nor is't a single birth, thou comest forth Twins,  
Born to live both with men and Cherubims;  
In spite of thy Proscribers, thou'rt by fate  
From exile called to triumph o'er their hate.  
Here shall thy memory dwell, and thy great name  
(Their terror once) shall now be more their shame,  
Whilst thy Celestial Spirit to Heaven doth climb  
There to be crowned, for what was here thy crime.  
And though thy fate were incruental, we  
I'th' list of Loyal Martyrs will write thee.  
For he who in a just Cause doth oppose  
His life to dangers, and all else doth lose,  
Not moved thereto by Av'rice, spleen, or pride,  
But that the Righteous is the wronged side:  
For's Courage, Cause, and Conscience sake must pass  
Muster 'mongst Martyrs. And such Byron was.    

AN EPITAPH On the Right Honourable The LORD BYRON, Buried in France.  

REader, A Stranger doth lie here,  
No Native so well worth a tear;  
'Tis Byron, whose Progenitors  
Seven Ages since were famed, and Ours  
Transplanted hence to English ground  
They flourished there, for faith renowned.  
In Honour and Possessions great,  
In War and Wisdom most complete;  
Yet all the Virtues of His Race,  
Nay, of Mankind, hold but the place  
Of several Items, which did come  
United here i'th' total sum.   

His Youth (small portion of's short span)  
Did soon give place unto the Man.  
To grow and fade he lost no time,  
All his ten Lustres were his prime.   

The Academy, Court, and Camp  
Marked him theirs, with their noblest Stamp.  
The Arts and Tongues, pure and refined,  
In him, like well set Jewels shined:  
And though he used 'em not for fame,  
Yet it, unsought for, greater came.  
His Prince he followed in the height  
Of Peace, when Ease and soft Delight  
Eunuch a Court. But th' Warlike Pike  
Requiring hands, Achilles like,  
He caught and used it in such wise,  
That th'Courtier seemed but his disguise.  
With courage, calmness of the mind,  
(The Lion with the Lamb) was joined,  
By Passion Reason was obeyed,  
And Reason by Religion swayed;  
Which he with knowing Zeal professed  
As Conscience moved, not Interest,  
And argued for it, not with strife  
Of words, but Sanctity of life.  
And thus resolved and firm remains  
In God's Cause and his Sovereigns,  
Till by successful Treason thrown  
Hither, (to make his worth more known)  
He here exspiring, did intrust  
This place with his Renowned dust.  
And well it was that he did lay  
His own concealed in Foreign clay.  
For at home, so immoderate  
Was good men's love, and bad men's hate,  
That there his Relics would the Object be  
Both of Profaneness, and Idolatry.    

An Epithalamium, Upon the late Nuptial ACT.  

IO to Hymen, who re-knits the hands  
O'th' late Divorced pair in Nuptial bands;  
No doubt the union will last firm and long;  
Bones broken (if well set) become more strong.  
Justice and Priesthood by Supreme Decree,  
For mutual helps sake must remarried be.  
A fit match was ne'er made in this Land.  
The one wants eyes, the other cannot stand.  
But when the blind and lame do both unite  
Into one Beggar, there are legs and sight.   

Men can no longer say now, that our State  
Their Clergy, Jeroboam like, create  
Out of the lowest of the people, when  
They do ordain the Peace, and Quorum-men.  
Nor will the assertion hold good, though they say,  
That these are formed too of no better clay.  
For as the Levite is commissioned  
By th'Justice, so by th' Levite he's Sir Johned.  
Just thus, where red and white appear but single,  
The cheek's deformed, but Heavenly where they mingle.   

Now as in Buildings, so in Laws 'tis found  
What that man raised, this levels with the ground.  
Our deceased Patriots were the Bishop's bane,  
These consecrate themselves now, and ordain;  
And 'tis most fit, that such as do possess  
Their Lands, should execute their Offices.  
'Twas well their Wisdoms they did not invade,  
For then this worthy Act had ne'er been made.   

Nor must all holy Rites the honour have  
To be performed by the Wise and Grave.  
'Tis Matrimony only has this Grace,  
Which though i'th' Sacraments it hath no place,  
O'er them and other Duties may insult:  
High Priests do this, the rest Quicunque vult.   

But though in all Degrees Wedlock before  
Was honourable, and will hence be more:  
Yet wise men fear (our frailty's such) there will  
Be Fornication found amongst us still.  
Nay they'll be guilty (Casuists say) o'th'Fact  
Who copulate by virtue of this Act,  
And that (but I believe 'em not a word)  
Their Issue will be Bastards on Record.    
FINIS.