Sed Carmina major jmago    

Poems, etc. Written upon several OCCASIONS, And to several PERSONS: BY EDMOND WALLER, Esq  
Licenced, May 18. 1686.  
ROGER L'ESTRANGE.  
The Fifth Edition, with several Additions  
Never before Printed.  
Non ego mordaci distrinxi carmine quenquam,  
Nulla venenato littera Mista ioco est.  
Printed for H. Herringman, and are to be sold by J. Knight and F. Saunder at the Blue Anchor in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange. 1686.   

The Printer TO THE READER:  
WHen the Author of these Verses (Written only to please himself, and such particular persons to whom they were directed) returned from abroad some years since, He was troubled to find his name in Print, but somewhat satisfied to see his Lines so ill rendered that he might justly disown them, and say to a mistaking Printer, as one did to an ill Reciter,— Male dum recitas, incipit esse tuum. Having been ever since pressed to correct the many and gross faults (such as use to be in Impressions wholly neglected by the Authors) his answer was, that he made these when ill Verses had more favour and escaped better, than good ones do in this age; the severity whereof he thought not unhappily diverted by those faults in the impression, which hitherto have hung upon his Book, as the Turks hang old rags (or such like ugly things) upon their fairest Horses and other goodly Creatures, to secure them against fascination; and for those of a more Confined understanding, who pretend not to Censure) as they add more most what they least comprehend, so his Verse● (maimed to that degree that himself scarce knew what to make of many of them) might that may at least have a Title to some Admiration, which is no small matter, if what an old Author observes be true, That the aim of Orators, is Victory; of Historians, Tr●●● and of Poets, Admiration; He had reason therefore to indulge those faults in his Book whereby it might be reconciled to some, and commended to others.  
The Printer also be thought would fore the worse, if those faults were amended; for we see maimed statues sell better than whole ones, and clipped and washed Many go about when the entire and weighty lies ●oarded up. These are the reasons which for above twelve years passed he has opposed to our request; To which it was replied, that as it would be too late to recall that which had so long been made public, so might it find excuse from his Youth (the season it was produced in) And for what had been doom source and now added, if it commend not his Poetry, it might his Philosophy, which teaches him so cheerfully to bear so great a Calamitr, as the loss of the best part of his fortune (torn from him in Prison, in which, and in 〈◊〉, the best portion of his life hath also been spent) that he can still sing under the burden, not unlike that Roman, 
— Quem demisere Philippi  
Decifis humilem p●nnis inopemque Patorn▪  
Et Laris, & ●undi—  
Whose spreading wings the civil war had clipped▪  
And him of his old Patrimony Stripped,   
Who yet not long after could say, 
Musis amicus Tristitiam & Metus  
Tradam protervis in Mare Creticum  
Portare ventis.—  
They that acquainted with the Muses be,  
sand care and 〈◊〉 by the winds to Sea.  Not so much moved with these reasons of ours (or pleased with our R●●●●●s) as wearied with our importunity, He has at last given no leave, To assure the Reader, That the Poems which have been so long and so ill set forth under his name, are here to be found as he first ●uit them; as also to add some others which have since been composed by him. And though his Advice to the contrary might have discouraged us, yet observing how often they have been reprinted, what price they have born, and how earnestly they have been always inquired after, but especially of late, making good that of Horace,— Melioradies, ut Vina, Poemata reddit; Some Vinsos' being (like some wines) recommended to our Taste by time and Age, we have adventured upon this new and well corrected Edition, which for our own sakes, as well as thin●, we hope will succeed better than be apprehended.  Vivitur ingenia, C●tera mortis erunt. 

Postscript.  
NOT having the same Argument as at first to persuade the Author that I might print his Verses more Correctly, which he found so ill done at his Return; I have now, adventured, without giving him farther Trouble by, importuning him for a new Permission, to Collect all that I can find, either left out of the former Edition, or such as have been since made by him; to which I am the more encouraged, because the first (though most of them were composed Fifty or Sixty years since) seem still New, which would be more strange in so changing a Language, had it not been by him improved, which may make one think it true that I have heard from some learned Critics, that Virgil when he said— Nova carmina pango. Meant not Verses that were never seen before (for in that sense all at first are New) but such as he thought might be ever New. May these still appear to be so for the diversion of the Readers, and interest of 〈…〉  〈…〉 Their Humble Servant.   

TO THE KING On His NAVY.  
WHere e'er thy Navy spreads her canvas wings,  
Homage to thee, and Peace to all she brings.  
The French and Spaniard, when thy Flags appear;  
Forget their Hatred, and consent to fear.  
So jove from Ida did both Hosts survey,  
And when he pleased to Thunder, part the sray.  
Ships heretofore in Seas like Fishes sped,  
The mighty still upon the smaller fed.  
Thou on the deep impofest Nobler Laws,  
And by that Justice hast removed the Cause  
Of those rude Tempests, which for Rapine sent,  
Too oft alas, involved the innocent.  
Now shall the Ocean, as thy Thames, be free  
From both those fates, of Storms, and Piracy:  
But we most happy, who can fear no force  
But winged Troops, or Pegasean Horse:  
'Tis not so hard for greedy foes to spoil  
Another Nation, as to touch our soil.  
Should Nature's self invade the World again,  
And o'er the Centre spread the liquid Main;  
Thy power were safe, and her destructive hand  
Would but enlarge the bounds of thy command.  
Thy dreadful Fleet would style thee Lord of all,  
And ride in Triumph o'er the drowned Ball.  
Those Towers of Oak o'er fertile plains might go,  
And visit Mountains where they once did grow.  
The World's Restorer never could endure,  
That finished Babel should those men secure,  
Whose Pride designed that Fabric to have stood  
Above the reach of any second Flood:  
To thee his Chosen more indulgent, he  
Dares trust such Power with so much Piety.   

Of the danger His Majesty (being Prince) escaped in the Road at Saint Andrews.  
Now had his Highness bid farewell to Spain,  
And reached the sphere of his own power, the main;  
With British bounty in his Ship he Feasts,  
Th'Hesperian Princes, his amazed guests;  
To find that watery Wilderness exceed  
The entertainment of their great Madrid.  
Healths to both Kings, attended with the roar  
Of Cannon's echoed from th'affrighted shore,  
With loud resemblance of his Thunder prove  
Bacchus the seed of Cloud eompelling jove.  
While to his Harp Divine Arion sings  
The Loves and Conquests of our Albion Kings.  
Of the fourth Edward was his Noble song;  
Fierce, Goodly, Valiant, Beautiful and Young:  
He rend the Crown from vanquished Henry's head;  
Raised the white Rose, and trampled on the Red:  
Till Love triumphing o'er the Victor's pride,  
Brought Mars and Warwick to the Conquered side;  
Neglected Warwick (whose bold hand like fate,  
Gives and resumes the Sceptre of our State)  
Woos for his Master, and with double shame,  
Himself deluded; mocks the Princely Dame,  
The Lady Bona; whom just anger burns;  
And Foreign War with Civil Rage returns.  
Ah spare your Sword, where Beauty is to blame;  
Love gaveth ' Affront, & must repair the same: (eyes  
When France shall boast of her, whose conquering  
Have made the best of English hearts their prize;  
Have power to alter the decrees of Fate,  
And change again the Counsels of our State.  
What the Prophetic Muse intends, alone  
To him that feels the secret Wound, is known.  
With the sweet sound of this harmonious lay  
About the Keel delighted Dolphin's play;  
Too sure a sign of Seas ensuing rage,  
Which must anon this Royal Troop engage:  
To whom soft sleep seems more secure and sweet,  
Within the Town commanded by our Fleet.  
These mighty Peers placed in the gilded Barge,  
Proud with the burden of so brave a charge:  
With painted Oars the Youths begin to sweep  
Neptune's smooth face, and cleave the yielding deep,  
Which soon becomes the seat of sudden War  
Between the Wind and Tide, that fiercely jar.  
As when a sort of lusty Shepherds try  
Their force at Football, care of victory  
Makes them salute so rudely breast to breast.  
That their Encounters seem too rough for jest:  
They ply their feet, and still the restless Ball  
Tossed too and fro is urged by them all:  
So fares the doubtful Barge'twixt Tide and Winds;  
And like effect of their contention finds.  
Yet the bold Britain's still securely rowed;  
Charles and his Virtue was their sacred load:  
Than which a greater pledge Heaven could not give,  
That the good Boat this Tempest should outlive.  
But storms increase, and now no hope of grace  
Among them shines, save in the Prince's Face.  
The rest resign their courage, skill and sight  
To danger, horror, and unwelcome night.  
The gentle Vessel, wont with state and pride  
On the smooth back of Silver Thames to ride,  
Wanders Astonished in the angry main;  
As Titan's Car did, while the golden rain  
Filled the young hand of his advent'rous Son,  
When the whole world an equal hazard run  
To this of ours; the light of whose desire  
Waves threaten now, as that was scared by fire.  
Th'impatient Sea grows impotent and raves,  
That (night assisting) his impetuous waves  
Should find resistance from so light a thing:  
These surges ruin, those our safety bring.  
Th'oppressed Vessel doth the charge abide;  
Only because assailed on every side:  
So Men with rage and passion set on fire,  
Trembling for haste, impeach their mad desire.  
The pale Iberians had expired with fear;  
But that their wonder did divert their care;  
To see the Prince with danger moved no more,  
Than with the Pleasures of their Court before.  
Godlike his courage seemed, whom nor delight  
Could soften, nor the face of Death affright:  
Next to the power of making Tempests cease,  
Was in that storm to have so calm a peace.  
Great Maro could no greater Tempest feign;  
When the loud Winds usurping on the Main,  
For angry juno, laboured to destroy  
The hated relics of confounded Troy.  
His bold Aeneas, on like Billows tossed,  
In a tall Ship, and all his Country lost,  
Dissolves with fear; and both his hands upheld,  
Proclaims them happy whom the Greeks had quelled  
In Honourable fight: Our Hero set  
In a small shallop; fortune in his debt,  
So near a hope of Crowns and Sceptres, more  
Than ever Priam, when he flourished, wore;  
His Loins yet full of ungot Princes, all  
His Glory in the bud; lets nothing fall  
That argues Fear: if any thought annoys  
The gallant youth, 'tis Love's untasted joys,  
And dear remembrance of that futal glance,  
For which he lately pawned his Heart in France.  
Where he had seen a brighter Nymph than she  
That sprung out of his present foe, the Sea.  
That noble Ardour, more than mortal Fire,  
The Conquered Ocean could not make expire▪  
Nor angry Thetis, raise her waves above  
Th'heroic Princes Courage, or his Love;  
'twas Indignation, and not Fear he felt,  
The shrine should perish, where that Image dwelled.  
Ah Love forbid! the Noblest of thy Train  
Should not survive to let her know his pain:  
Who nor his Peril minding, nor his Flame,  
Is entertained with some less serious Game  
Among the bright Nymphs of the Gallique Court;  
All highly born, obsequious to her sport:  
They Roses seem, which in their early pride,  
But half reveal, and half their Beauties hide;  
She the glad morning, which her beams does throw,  
Upon their smiling leaves, and gilds them so:  
Like bright Aurora, whose refulgent Ray  
Foretells the fervour of ensuing day;  
And warns the Shepherd with his Flocks retreat  
To leasie shadows, from the threatened heat.  
From Cupid's strings, of many shafts that fled,  
Winged with those plumes which noble fame had shed,  
As through the wondering world she flew, and told  
Of his Adventures haughty, brave and bold,  
Some had already touched the Royal Maid;  
But love's first summons seldom are obeyed:  
Light was the Wound; the Prince's care unknown,  
She might not, would not yet reveal her own.  
His glorious name had so possessed her ears,  
That with delight those antique tales she hears  
Of jason, Theseus, and such Worthies old,  
As with his Story best resemblance hold.  
And now she views, as on the wall it hung,  
What old Musaus so Divinely sung:  
Which Art with life and love did so inspire,  
That she discerns, and favours that desire,  
Which there provokes th'adventurous youth to swim,  
And in Leander's danger pities him:  
Whose not new love alone, but fortune seeks  
To frame his story like that amorous Greeks.  
For from the Stern of some good Ship appears  
A friendly light, which moderates their fears:  
New courage from reviving hope they take,  
And climbing o'er the waves, that Taper make;  
On which the hope of all their Lives depends;  
As his on that fair Hero's hand extends.  
The Ship at anchor like a fixed Rock  
Breaks the proud Billows, which her large sides knock;  
Whose rage restrained foaming higher swells,  
And from her Port the weary Barge repels;  
Threatening to make her, forced out again,  
Repeat the dangers of the troubled main.  
Twice was the Cable hurled in vain; the fates  
Would not be moved for our Sister States:  
For England is the third successful throw,  
And then the Genius of that Land they know:  
Whose Prince must be (as their own Books devise)  
Lord of the Scene, where now his danger lies.  
Well sung the Roman Bard; all human things  
Of dearest value hang on slender strings.  
O see the then sole hope, and in design  
Of Heaven our joy, supported by a line:  
Which for that instant was Heaven's care above,  
The chain that's fixed to the Throne of jove;  
On which the fabric of our World depends;  
One Link dissolved, the whole Creation ends.   

Of His Majesty's receiving the News of the Duke of Buckingham's Death.  
So earnest with thy God, can no new care,  
No sense of danger interrupt thy Prayer?  
The sacred Wrestler till a blessing given,  
Quits not his hold, but halting conquers Heaven:  
Nor was the stream of thy Devotion stopped;  
When from the Body such a Limb was lopped,  
As to thy present state was no less maim;  
Though thy wise choice has since repaired the same.  
Bold Homer durst not so great virtue feign  
In his best pattern, of Patroclus slain;  
With such amazement as weak Mother's use,  
And frantic gesture, he receives the news:  
Yet fell his Darling by th'impartial chance  
Of war, imposed by Royal Hector's Lance;  
Thine in full peace, and by a vulgar hand  
Torn from thy bosom, left his high command.  
The famous Painter could allow no place  
For private sorrow in a Prince's face:  
Yet, that his piece might not exceed belief,  
He cast a Veil upon supposed grief.  
'Twas want of such a Precedent as this,  
Made the old Heathen frame their Gods amiss.  
Their Phoebus should not act a fonder part  
For their fair Boy, than he did for his Heart;  
Nor blame for Hyacinthus fate his own,  
That kept from him wished death; hadst thou been known.  
He that with thine shall weigh good David's deeds,  
Shall find his Passion, not his Love exceeds.  
He cursed the Mountains where his brave friend died;  
But let false Ziba with his Heir divide:  
Where thy immortal Love to thy best Friends,  
Like that of Heaven, upon their Seed descends.  
Such huge extremes inhabit thy great mind:  
Godlike, unmoved; and yet like Woman, kind.  
Which of the ancient Poets had not brought  
Our Charles His Pedigree from Heaven, and taught  
How some bright dame compressed by mighty jove,  
Produced this mixed Divinity and Love?   

To the Queen, occasioned upon sight of Her Majesty's Picture.  
WEll fare the hand, which to our humble sight  
Presents that Beauty, which the dazzling Light  
Of Royal spendor hides from weaker eyes;  
And all access (save by this Art) denies.  
Here only we have Courage to behold  
This Beam of Glory; here we dare unfold  
In numbers thus the wonders we conceive:  
The gracious Image seeming to give leave,  
Propitious stands, vouchsafing to be seen;  
And by our Muse saluted,  
Mighty Queen,  
In whom th'extremes of Power and Beauty move;  
The Queen of Britain, and the Queen of Love.  
As the bright Sun (to which we owe no sight  
Of equal Glory to your Beauty's light)  
Is wisely placed in so sublime a seat,  
T'extend his light, and moderate his heat:  
So happy 'tis you move in such a sphere;  
As your high Majesty with awful fear,  
In humane Breasts might qualify that Fire,  
Which kindled by those Eyes had flamed higher,  
Than when the scorched World like hazard run,  
By the approach of the ill guided Sun.  
No other Nymphs have Title to men's Hearts,  
But as their Meaness larger hope imparts:  
Your Beauty more the fondest Lover moves  
With Admiration, than his private loves;  
With Admiration; for a pitch so high  
(save sacred Charles his) never Love durst fly.  
Heaven that preferred a Sceptre to your hand,  
Favoured our freedom, more than your command:  
Beauty had crowned you, and you must have been  
The whole World's Mistress, other than a Queen.  
All had been Rival's; and you might have spared '  
Or killed and tyrannised without a Guard.  
No power achieved, either by Arms or Birth,  
Equals love's Empire, both in Heaven and Earth.  
Such eyes as yours, on jove himself have thrown  
As bright and fierce a lightning as his own:  
Witness our jove, prevented by their flame  
In his swift passage to th'Hesperian Dame;  
When, like a Lion, finding in his way  
To some intended spoil, a fairer prey;  
The Royal youth pursuing the report  
Of Beauty, found it in the Gallique Court.  
There public care with private passion fought  
A doubtful combat in his noble thought:  
Should he confess his greatness, and his love,  
And the free Faith of your great Brother prove,  
With his Achates breaking through the cloud  
Of that disguise which did their Grace's shroud,  
And mixing with those gallants at the Ball,  
Dance with the Ladies and outshine them all;  
Or on his journey o'er the Mountains ride?  
So when the fair Leucothoe he espied,  
To check his steeds, impatient Phoebus earned;  
Though all the world was in his course concerned.  
What may hereafter her Meridian do,  
Whose dawning beauty warmed his bosom so?  
Not so divine a flame, since deathless gods  
Forbore to visit the defiled abodes  
Of men, in any mortal breast did burn;  
Nor shall; till Piety and they return.   

Upon His Majesty's repairing of Paul's.  

THat shipwrackt vessel which th'Apostle bore,  
Scarce suffered more upon Melitas' shore,  
Than did his Temple in the Sea of Time;  
(Our Nations Glory, and our Nation's crime)  
When the first Monarch of this happy Isle,  
Moved with the ruin of so brave a pile,  
This work of cost and piety begun,  
To be accomplished by his glorious Son;  
Who all that came within the ample thought  
Of his wise Sire, has to perfection brought.  
He like Amphion makes those Quarries leap  
Into fair figures from a confused heap:  
For in his Art of Regiment is found  
A power, like that of Harmony in sound.  
Those antique Minstrels sure were Charles-like Kings  
Cities their Lutes, and Subjects Hearts their Strings,  
On which with so divine a hand they struck,  
Consent of motion from their breath they took.  
So all our minds with his conspire to grace  
The Gentiles great Apostle, and deface  
Those State-obscuring sheds, that like a Chain  
Seemed to confine and fetter him again;  
Which the glad Saint shakes off at his command,  
As once the Viper from his sacred hand:  
So joys the aged Oak, when we divide  
The creeping Ivy from his injured side.  
Ambition rather would affect the fame  
Of some new structure, to have born her name:  
Two distant Virtues in one act we find,  
The Modesty and Greatness of his mind;  
Which not content to be above the rage  
And injury of all-impairing age,  
In its own worth secure, doth higher climb,  
And things half swallowed from the jaws of Time  
Reduce; an earnest of his grand design  
To frame no new Church, but the Old refine:  
Which Spouse-like may With comely grace command  
More than by force of argument or hand.  
For doubtful reason few can apprehend;  
And War brings ruin where it should amend:  
But Beauty with a bloodless conquest, finds  
A welcome Sovereignty in rudest minds.  
Not aught which Sheba's wondering Queen beheld  
Amongst the works of Solomon, excelled  
His ships and building; emblems of a Heart  
Large both in Magnanimity and Art.  
While the propitious Heavens this work attend,  
Long wanted showers they forget to send;  
As if they meant to make it understood,  
Of more importance than our vital food.  
The Sun which riseth to salute the Choir  
Already finished, setting shall admire  
How private bounty could so far extend;  
The King built all, but Charles the Western end:  
So proud a Fabric to Devotion given,  
At once it threatens and obliges Heaven.  
Laomedon that had the Gods in pay,  
Neptune, with him that rules the sacred day,  
Could no such structure raise; Troy walled so high,  
Th' Atrideses might as well have forced the sky.  
Glad, though amazed, are our neighbour Kings,  
To see such power employed in peaceful things.  
They lift not urge it to the dreadful field;  
The task is easier to destroy, than build.   
— Sie gratia Regum  
Pieriis tentata modis.  Horat.  

The Country to my Lady of Carlisle.  
Madam,  

OF all the sacred Muse inspired,  
Orpheus alone could with the Woods comply;  
Their rude Inhabitants his Song admired,  
And Nature's self in those that could not lie.  
Your Beauty next our Solitude invades,  
And warms us, Shining through the thickest shades.   

Nor ought the Tribute, which the wondering Court  
Pays your fair Eyes, prevail with you to scorn  
The answer and consent to that report,  
Which Echo-like the Country does return:  
Mirrors are taught to Flatter, but our Springs  
Present th'impartial Images of things.  
A Rural Judge disposed of Beauty's prize,  
A simple Shepherd was preferred to jove;   

Down to the Mountains from the partial Skies  
Came juno, Pallas, and the Queen of Love,  
To plead for that, which was so justly given  
To the bright Carlisle of the Court of Heaven.   

Carlisle! a Name which all our Woods are taught,  
Loud as his Amarillis to re●ound;  
Carlisle! a Name which on the Bark is wrought  
Of every Tree that's worthy of the Wound.  
From Phoebus' rage, our Shadows, and our Streams,  
May guard us better than from Carlisle's Beams.    

The Countess of Carlisle in Mourning.  
WHen from black Clouds no part of Sky is clear,  
But just so much as lets the Sun appear;  
Heaven then would seem thy Image, and reflect  
Those Sable Vestments, and that Bright Aspect.  
A spark of Virtue by the deepest shade  
Of sad adversity is fairer made;  
Nor less advantage doth thy Beauty get,  
A Venus rising from a Sea of Jet.  
Such was th'appearance of new form Light,  
While yet it struggled with Eternal night.  
Then mourn no more; lest thou admit increase  
Of Glory, by thy noble Lords Decease.  
We find not that the Laughter-loving Dame  
Mourned for Anchises; 'twas enough she came  
To grace the Mortal with her deathless Bed,  
And that his living Eyes such Beauty fed:  
Had she been there, untimely joy through all  
men's Hearts diffused, had marred the Funeral.  
Those eyes were made to banish grief: as well  
Bright Phoebus might affect in shades to dwell,  
As they to put on sorrow; nothing stands  
But power to grieve, exempt from thy commands.  
If thou lament, thou must do so alone;  
Grief in thy presence, can lay hold on none.  
Yet still persist the memory to love  
Of that great Mercury of our mighty jove,  
Who by the power of his enchanting tongue,  
Swords from the hands of threatening Monarches wrung.  
War he prevented, or soon made it cease,  
Instructing Princes in the Arts of Peace:  
Such as made Sheba'scurious Queen resort  
To the large-hearted Hebrews Famous Court.  
Had Homer sat amongst his wondering guests,  
He might have learned at those stupendous Feasts,  
With greater Bounty, and more sacred State  
The Banquets of the Gods to celebrate.  
But O! what Elocution might he use,  
What potent Charms that could so soon infuse  
His absent Master's love into the Heart  
Of Henrietta, forcing her to part  
From her loved Brother, Country, and the Sun,  
And like Camilla O'er the waves to run  
Into his arms; while the Parisian Dames  
Mourn for their Ravished glory: at their flames  
No less amazed, than the amazed Stars,  
When the bold Charmer of Thessalian Wars  
With Heaven itself, and numbers does repeat  
Which call descending Cynthia from her Seat.   

In answer to one who Writ against a fair Lady.  
WHat Fury has provoked thy wit to dare  
With Diomedes, to wound the Queen of Love,  
Thy Mistriss' Envy, or thine own Despair?  
Not the just Pallas in thy Breast did move  
So blind a Rage, with such a different Fate;  
He Honour won, where thou hast purchased Hate.  
She gave assistance to his Trojan Foe;  
Thou that without a Rival thou mayest love,  
Dost to the Beauty of this Lady owe,  
While after her the Gazing world does move.  
Canst thou not be content to Love alone,  
Or is thy Mistress not content with one?  
Hast thou not read of fairy Arthur's shield,  
Which but disclosed, amazed the weaker eyes  
Of proudest Foes, and won the doubtful Field?  
So shall thy Rebel wit become her prize.  
Should thy iambics swell into a Book,  
All were confuted with one Radiant look.  
Heaven he obliged that placed her in the skies,  
Rewarding Ph●ebus, for inspiring so  
His noble Brain, by likening to those Eyes  
His joyful Beams: but Phoebus is thy Foe,  
And neither aids thy Fancy nor thy Sight;  
So ill thou Rim'st against so fair a Light.   

On my Lady Dorothy Sidneys Picture.  
SUch was Philoclea, such Mucidorus Flame;  
The matchless Sidney that immortal Frame  
Of perfect Beauty on two Pillars placed:  
Not his high Fancy could one pattern graced  
With such extremes of Excellence compose,  
Wonders so distant in one Face disclose:  
Such cheerful Modesty, such humble State,  
Moves certain Love, but with a doubtful Fate:  
As when beyond our Greedy reach we see,  
Inviting Fruit on too sublime a Tree.  
All the rich Flowers through his Arcadia found,  
Amazed we see, in this one Garland bound.  
Had but this Copy, which the Artist took  
From the fair Picture of that noble Book,  
Stood at Calanders; the brave friends had jarred,  
And Rivals made, th'ensuing story marred.  
Just nature first instructed by his thought,  
In his own House thus practised what he taught.  
This glorious piece transcends what he could think;  
So much his Blood is nobler than his Ink.   

To Vandike.  
RAre Artisan! whose Pencil moves  
Not our Delights alone, but Loves  
From thy Shop of Beauty, we  
Slaves return, that entered free-  
The heedless Lover does not know  
Whose Eyes they are that wound him so:  
But confounded with thy Art,  
Inquires her name that has his Heart.  
Another who did long refrain,  
Feels his Old wound bleed fresh again,  
With dear remembrance of that Face,  
Where now he reads new hopes of Grace:  
Nor Scorn, nor Cruelty does find;  
But gladly suffers a false wind  
To blow the ashes of Despair  
From the reviving Brand of care:  
Fool that forgets her stubborn look,  
This softness from thy finger took.  
Strange that thy Hand should not inspire  
The beauty only, but the fire:  
Not the form alone, and grace,  
But act and power of a Face.  
May'st thou yet thyself as well,  
As all the world besides, excel;  
So you th'unfeigned Truth rehearse;  
That I may make it Live in Verse  
Why thou couldst not at one assay,  
That Face to aftertimes convey,  
Which this admires; was it thy wit  
To make her oft before thee fit?  
Confess, and we'll Forgive thee this;  
For who would not repeat that bliss,  
And frequent sight of such a Dame,  
Buy with the hazard of his Fame?  
Yet who can tax thy blameless skill,  
Though thy good hand had failed still?  
When Natures self so often errs:  
She for this many thousand years  
Seems to have practised with much care,  
To Frame the Race of Women Fair;  
Yet never could a perfect Birth  
Produce before to grace the Earth:  
Which waxed old, ere it could see  
Her that amazed thy Art and Thee.  
But now 'tis done, O let me know  
Where those immortal Colours grow,  
That could this deathless piece compose  
In Lilies, or the Fading Rose?  
No, for this Thest thou hast climbed higher  
Than did Promethe●s for his Fire.   

Of the Lady who can sleep when she pleases.  
No wonder Sleep from careful Lovers flies  
To bathe himself in Sacharissi's eyes;  
As Fair Astrea once from Earth to Heaven  
By Strife and loud Impiety was driven:  
So with our Plaints offended and our Tears;  
Wise Somnus to that Paradise repairs,  
Waits on her Will and wretches does forsake  
To court the Nymph, for whom those wretches wake!  
More proud than Phoebus of his Throne of Gold  
Is the soft God, those softer Limbs to hold;  
Nor would exchange with jove, to hide the Skies  
In darkening Clouds, the power to close her eyes:  
Eyes which so far all other Lights control,  
They warm our Mortal parts, but these our Soul.  
Let her free Spirit, whose unconquered Breast  
Holds such deep quiet, and untroubled rest,  
Know, that though Venus and her Son should spare  
Her Rebel Heart, and never teach her Care;  
Yet Hymen may enforce her vigils keep,  
And for another's Joy suspend her Sleep.   

Of the misreport of her being Painted.  
As when a sort of Wolves infest the night  
With their wild howl at fair Cynthia's light;  
The noise may chase sweet slumber from our eyes,  
But never reach the Mistress of the Skies:  
So with the news of Sacharissa's wrongs,  
Her vexed servants blame those envious tongues;  
Call Love to witness, that no painted Fire  
Can scorch Men so, or kindle such desire:  
While unconcerned she seems moved no more  
With this new Malice, than our Loves before;  
But from the height of her great Mind looks down  
On both our passions, without Smile or Frown:  
So little care of what is done below  
Hath the bright Dame, whom Heaven affecteth so.  
Paints her, 'tis true, with the same hand which spreads  
Like Glorious Colours through the Flowery Meads;  
When lavish Nature with her best Attire  
Clothes the gay Spring, the season of desire.  
Paints her, 'tis true, and does her Cheek adorn  
With the same Art wherewith she paints the Morn:  
With the same Art, wherewith she gildeth so  
Those painted Clouds which form Thaumantias bow.   

Of her passing through a crowd of People.  
AS in old Chaos Heaven with Earth confused,  
And Stars with Rocks, together crushed and bruised;  
The Sun his light no further could extend  
Than the next hill, which on his Shoulders leaned:  
So in this throng bright Sacharissa fared,  
Oppressed by those who strove to be her Guard:  
As Ships though never so obsequious, ●all  
Foul in a Tempest on their Admiral  
A greater Favour this disorder brought  
Unto her Servants, than their awful thought  
Durst entertain, when thus compelled they pressed  
The yielding Marble of her snowy Breast.  
While love insults, disguised in the Cloud,  
And welcome force of that unruly Crowd.  
So th'amorous Tree, while yet the Air is calm,  
Just distance keeps from his desired Palm:  
But when the Wind her ravished Branches throws  
Into his Arms, and mingles all their Boughs;  
Though loath he seems her tender leaves to press,  
More loath he is that Friendly storm should cease,  
From whose rude Bounty, he the double use  
At once receives, of Pleasure and Excuse.   

The Story of Phoebus and Daphne applied.  
THirsis a Youth of the inspired Train,  
Fair Sacharissa loved, but loved in vain:  
Like Phoebus sung the no less amorous Boy;  
Like Daphne she as lovely and as Coy:  
With numbers he the flying Nymph pursues,  
With numbers such as Phoebus' self might use.  
Such is the chase, when Love and Fancy leads,  
O'er craggy Mountains, and through floury Meads;  
Invoked to testify the Lover's care,  
Or form some Image of his cruel fair:  
Urged with his fury like a wounded Deer,  
O'er these he fled, and now approaching near,  
Had reached the Nymph with his harmonious lay,  
Whom all his charms could not incline to stay;  
Yet what he sung in his immortal strain,  
Though unsuccessful, was not sung in vain:  
All but the Nymph, that should redress his wrong,  
Attend his passion, and approve his Song.  
Like Phoebus thus, acquiring unsought praise,  
He catcht at Love, and filled his Arm with Bays.   

Fabula Phoebi & Daphnis.  
ARcadiae juvenis Thirsis, Phaebique Sacerdos,  
Ingenti frustra Sacharissae ardebat amore:  
Haud Deus ipse olim Daphni m●jora canebat,  
Nec fuit asperior Daphne, nec pul●hrior illa:  
Carminibus Phoebo dignis premit ille fugacem  
Per rupes, per saxa, volans per florida vates  
Pascua; formosam nunc his componere Nympham,  
Nunc illis crudelem insana ment solebat:  
Audiit illa proculmiserum, ●itheramque sonantem,  
Audiit, at nullis respectexit mota querelis;  
Ne tamen omnino caneret, desertus, ad alta  
Sidera perculsi, referunt nova carmina montes.  
Sic non quaesitis cumulatus la●dibus olim  
Elapsa reperit Daphni sua laurea Phoebus.   

Of Mrs. Arden.  
BEhold, and listen, while the fair  
Breaks in sweet sounds the willing air,  
And with her own breath fans the Fire  
Which her bright eyes do first inspire.  
What reason can that Love control,  
Which more than one way courts the Soul?  
So when a flash of Lightning falls  
On our Abodes, the danger calls  
For humane Aid, which hopes the Flame  
To Conquer, though from Heaven it came:  
But is the Winds with that conspire;  
Men strive not, but deplore the Fire.   

To Amoretta.  

FAir, that you may truly know  
What you unto Thirsis owe;  
I will tell you how I do  
Sacharissa Love, and you.   

Joy salutes me, when I set  
My blessed Eyes on Amoretta:  
But with wonder I am struck,  
When I on the other look.   

If sweet Amoretta complains,  
I have sense of all her pains;  
But for Sacharissa I  
Do not only Grieve, but Die.   

All that of myself is mine,  
Lovely Amoretta, is thine;  
Sacharissa's Captive fain  
Would untie his Iron chain;   

And those scorching Beams to shun,  
To thy gentle shadow run.  
If the soul had free Election  
To dispose of her affection,  
I would not thus long have born  
Haughty Sacharissa's scorn:  
But 'tis sure some power above,  
Which controls ours Will in Love.   

If not Love, a strong desire  
To create and spread that Fire  
In my Breast, solicits me  
Beauteous Amoretta, for thee.   

'Tis Amazement, more than Love,  
Which her radiant eyes do move;  
If less splendour wait on thine,  
Yet they so benignly shine,   

I would turn my dazelled sight  
To behold their milder light.  
But as hard 'tis to destroy  
That high Flame, as to enjoy:  
Which, how easily I may do  
Heaven (as easily scaled) does know.  
Amoretta, as sweet and good  
As the most delicious Food,  
Which but tasted, does impart  
Life and gladness to the Heart:  
Sacharissa's beauties Wine,  
Which to madness doth incline;  
Such a Liquor as no Brain  
That is Mortal, can sustain.  
Scarce can I to Heaven excuse  
The Devotion, which I use  
Unto that adored Dame;  
For 'tis not unlike the same,  
Which I thither aught to send:  
So that if it could take end;  
'Twould to Heaven itself be due  
To succeed her, and not you,  
Who already have of me  
All that's not Idolatry;  
Which, though not so fierce a Flame,  
Is longer like to be the same.  
Then smile on me, and I will prove,  
Wonder is shorter lived than Love.    

On the Head of a Stag.  
SO we some antique Hero's strength  
Learn by his Lance's weight and length;  
As these vast beams express the beast,  
Whose shady brows alive they dressed:  
Such Game, while yet the world was new,  
The mighty Nimrod did pursue.  
What Huntsman of our feeble Race,  
Or Dogs, dare such a Monster chase?  
Resembling with each blow he strikes  
The charge of a whole Troop of Pikes.  
O fertile Head, which every year  
Could such a crop of wonder bear!  
The teeming earth did never bring  
So soon, so hard, so hugh a thing;  
Which, might it never have been cast,  
Each years growth added to the last,  
These lofty Branches had supplied  
The Earth's bold Son's prodigious Pride;  
Heaven with these Engines had been scaled,  
When Mountains heaped on▪ Mountains failed.   

To a Lady in a Garden.  

Seas not my Love, how Time resumes  
The Glory which he lent these Flowers?  
Though none should taste of their perfumes,  
Yet must they live but some few hours;  
Time, what we forbear, devours.   

Had Helen or th'Egyptian Queen,  
Been ne'er so thrifty of their Graces;  
Those Beauties must at length have been  
The spoil of Age, which finds out faces  
In the most retired places.   

Should some malignant Planet bring  
A barren drought, or ceaseless Shower  
Upon the Autumn, or the Spring,  
And spare us neither Fruit nor Flower;  
Winter would not stay an hour.   

Could the resolve of Love's neglect  
Preserve you from the violation  
Of coming years, then more respect  
Were due to so Divine a fashion;  
Nor would I indulge my passion.    

The Miser's Speech in a Masque.  
BAlls of this Metal slacked Atlanta's pace,  
And on the Amorous Youth bestowed the Race  
Venus, the Nymphs mind measuring by her own,  
Whom the rich spoils of Cities overthrown  
Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise  
Th'adventurous Lover how to gain the prize.  
Nor less may jupiter to Gold ascribe;  
For when he turned himself into a Bribe,  
Who can blame Danae, or the brazen Tower,  
That they withstood not that Almighty shower?  
Never till then, did Love make jove put on  
A Form more bright, and Nobler than his own:  
Nor were it just, would he resume that shape,  
That slack Devotion should his Thunder scape.  
'Twas not Revenge for grieved Apollo's wrong,  
Those Ass' ears on Mida's Temples hung:  
But fond Repentance of his happy wish,  
Because his Meat grew Metal like his Dish.  
Would Bacchus bless me so; I'd constant hold  
Unto my wish, and die Creating Gold.   

On the Friendship betwixt two Ladies.  

TEll me Lovely loving Pair,  
Why so kind, and so severe?  
Why so careless of our care,  
Only to yourselves so dear?   

By this cunning change of hearts,  
You the power of Love control;  
While the Boys deluded Darts,  
Can arrive at neither soul.   

For in vain to either Breast  
Still beguiled Love does come;  
Where he finds a foreign Guest,  
Neither of your hearts at home.   

Debtors thus with like design,  
When they never mean to pay;  
That they may the Law decline,  
To some friend make all away.   

Not the silver Doves that fly,  
Yoked in Citharea's Car;  
Not the wings that lift so high,  
And convey her Son so far,   

Are so Lovely, Sweet, and Fair,  
Or do more ennoble Love,  
Are so choicely matched a pair,  
Or with more consent do move.    

Of her Chamber.  
THey taste of death that do at Heaven arrive;  
But we this Paradise approach alive.  
Instead of Death, the dart of Love does strike,  
And renders all within these walls alike:  
The high in Titles, and the Shepherd here,  
Forgets his Greatness, and forgets his Fear:  
All stand amazed, and gazing on the fair,  
Lose thought of what themselves, or others are;  
Ambition loose, and have no other scope,  
Save Carlisl●s favour to employ their hope.  
The Thracian could (though all those tales were true  
The bold Greeks tell) no greater wonders do;  
Before his feet, so Sheep and Lions lay  
Fearless and wrathless, while they heard him play:  
The Gay, the Wise, the Gallant, and the Grave,  
Subdued alike, all, but one passion have:  
No worthy mind, but finds in hers there is  
Something proportioned to the rule of his.  
Whilst she with cheerful, but impartial grace,  
(Born for no one, but to delight the race  
Of men) like Phoebus, so divides her light,  
And warms us, that, she stoops not from her height.   

Of Loving at first sight.  

NOt caring to observe the Wind,  
Or the new Sea explore,  
snatched from myself, how far behind,  
Already I behold the shore!   

●ay not a thousand dangers sleep  
〈◊〉 the smooth bosom of this deep?  
●o: 'tis so Rockless and so Clear,  
●hat the rich bottom does appear  
●av'd all with precious things, not torn  
●●om shipwrackt vessels, but there born.   

sweetness, Truth, and every Grace,  
●hich time and use are wont to teach,  
〈◊〉 eye may in a moment reach,  
●nd read distinctly in her face.   

Someother Nymph with Colours faint,  
And pencil slow may Cupid paint,  
And a weak heart in time destroy;  
She has a stamp, and prints the Boy,  
Can with a single look inflame  
The coldest Breast, the rudest tame.    

The Self Banished.  

IT is not that I love you less  
Than when before your feet I lay:  
But to prevent the sad increase  
Of hopeless Love, I keep away.   

In vain (alas!) for every thing  
Which I have known belong to you,  
Your Form does to my Fancy bring,  
And makes my old wounds bleed anew.   

Who in the Spring from the new Sun,  
Already has a Fever got,  
Too late begins those shafts to shun,  
Which Phoebus through his veins has shot;   

Too late he would the pain assuage,  
And to thick shadows does retire;  
About with him he bears the rage,  
And in his tainted blood the Fire.   

But vowed I have, and never must  
Your banished servant trouble you;  
For if I break, you may mistrust  
The vow I made to love you too.    

SONG.  

GO lovely Rose,  
Tell her that wastes her time and me,  
That now she knows,  
When I resemble her to thee,  
How sweet and fair she seems to be.   

Tell her that's young,  
And shuns to have her Graces spied,  
That hadst thou sprung  
In Deserts, where no men abide,  
Thou must have uncommended died.   

Small is the worth  
Of Beauty from the light retired;  
Bid her come forth,  
Suffer herself to be desired,  
And not blush so to be admired.   

Then die, that she,  
The common fate of all things rare,  
May read in thee;  
How small a part of time they share,  
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.    

Thirsis, Galatea.  Th. 
AS lately I on Silver Thames did ride,  
Sad Galatea on the Bank I spied:  
Such was her look as sorrow taught to shine;  
And thus she graced me with a voice Divine.  Gal. 
You that can tune your sounding strings so well  
Of Lady's Beauties, and of Love to tell;  
Once change your Note, and let your Lute report  
The justest grief that ever touched the Court.  Th. 
Fair Nymph, I have in your Delights no share▪  
Nor aught to be concerned in your care:  
Yet would I sing, if I your sorrows knew,  
And to my aid invoke no Muse but you.  Gal. 
Hear then, and let your Song augment ou● grief▪  
Which is so great, as not to wish relief:  
She that had all which Nature gives or Chance,  
Whom Fortune joined with Virtue to advance,  
To all the joys this Island could afford,  
The greatest Mistress, and the kindest Lord:  
Who with the Royal mixed her Noble blood,  
And in high Grace with Gloriana stood;  
Her Bounty, Sweetness, Beauty, Goodness, such,  
That none e'er thought her happiness too much:  
So well inclined her favours to confer,  
And kind to all, as Heaven had been to her.  
The Virgin's part, the Mother, and the Wife,  
So well she acted in this span of life,  
That though few years (too few alas!) she told,  
She seemed in all things, but in Beauty, old.  
As unripe Fruit, whose verdant stalks do cleave  
Close to the Tree, which grieves no less to leave  
The smiling pendant which adorns her so,  
And until Autumn, on the Bough should grow:  
So seemed her youthful soul not easily forced,  
Or from so fair, so sweet a seat divorced.  
Her fate at once did hasty seem and slow,  
At once too cruel, and unwilling too.  Th. 
Under how hard a Law are Mortals borr  
Whom now we envy, we anon must mourn:  
What Heaven sets highest, and seems most to prize,  
Is soon removed from our wondering eyes.  
But since the Sisters did so soon untwine  
So fair a Thread, I'll strive to piece the line.  
Vouchsafe sad Nymph to let me know the Dame,  
And to the Muses I'll commend her name,  
Make the wide Country echo to your moan,  
The listening Trees and savage Mountains groan:  
What Rocks not moved when the death is sung  
Of one so good, so lovely, and so young?  Gal. 
'Twas Hamilton, whom I had named before;  
But naming her, Grief lets me say no more.   

The Battle of the Summer-Islands.  

Cant. I.  

What Fruits they have, and how Heaven smiles  
Upon those late discovered Isles.   

AId me Be●●ona, while the dreadful Fight  
Betwixt a Nation and two Whales I write:  
Seas stained with gore, I sing, adventurous toil,  
And how these Monsters did disarm an Isle.  
Berm●das walled with Rocks, who does not know,  
That happy Island, where huge Lemons grow,  
And Orange trees which Golden Fruit do bear,  
Th'Hesperian Garden boasts of none so fair?  
Where shining Pearl, Coral, and many a pound,  
On the rich Shore, of Ambergris is found:  
The lofty Cedar, which to Heaven aspires,  
The Prince of Trees, is fuel for their Fires:  
The smoke by which their loaded spits do turn,  
For ●ncense might, on Sacred Altars burn:  
Their private Roofs●on odorous Timber born,  
Such as might Palaces for Kings adorn.  
The sweet Palmettas' a new B●cchus yield,  
With Leaves as ample as the broadest shield:  
Under the shadow of whose friendly Boughs  
They sit carousing, where their Liquor grows.  
Figs there unplanted through the Fields do grow,  
Such as fierce Cato did the Romans show,  
With the rare Fruit inviting them to spoil  
Carthage the Mistress of so rich a soil.  
The naked Rocks are not unfruitful there,  
But at some constant seasons every year,  
Their barren tops with luscious Food abound,  
And with the eggs of various Fowls are crowned:  
Tobacco is the worst of things, which they  
To English Landlords as their Tribute pay:  
Such is the Mould, that the Blessed Tenant feeds  
On precious Fruits, and pays his Rent in Weeds:  
With candid Plantines, and the jucy Pine,  
On choicest Melons and sweet Grapes they dine;  
And with Potatoes fat their wanton Swine.  
Nature these Cates with such a lavish hand  
Pours out among them, that our courser Land  
Tastes of that bounty, and does Cloth return,  
Which not for Warmth, but Ornament is worn:  
For the kind Spring which but salutes us here,  
Inhabits there, and courts them all the year:  
Ripe Fruits and blossoms on the ●ame Trees live;  
At once they promise, what at once they give:  
So sweet the Air, so moderate the Clime;  
None sickly lives, or dies before his time.  
Heaven sure has kept this spot of earth uncurst,  
To show how all things were Created first.  
The tardy Plants in our cold Orchards placed,  
Reserve their Fruit for the next ages taste:  
There a small grain in some few Months will be  
A firm, a lofty, and a spacious Tree:  
The Palma Christi, and the fair Papah,  
Now but a seed (preventing Nature's law)  
In half the Circle of the hasty year  
Project a shade, and lovely fruit do wear:  
And as their Trees in our dull Region set  
But faintly grow, and no perfection get;  
So in this Northern Tract our hoarser Throats  
Utter unripe and ill-constrained notes:  
Where the supporter of the Poet's style,  
Phoebus, on them eternally does smile.  
O how I long! my careless Limbs to lay  
Under the Plantanes shade, and all the day  
With amorous Airs my fancy entertain,  
Invoke the Mus●s, and improve my vein!  
No passion there in my free breast should move▪  
None but the sweet and best of passions, Love:  
There while I sing, if gentle Love be by  
That tunes my Lute, and winds the Strings so high,  
With the sweet sound of Sacharissa's name,  
I'll make the listening Savages grow tame.  
But while I do these pleasing dreams indite,  
I am diverted from the promised fight.    

Canto II.  

Of their alarm, and how their Foes  
Discovered were, this Canto shows.   

THough Rocks so high about this Island rise,  
That well they may the numerous Turk despise;  
Yet is no humane fate exempt from fear,  
Which shakes their hearts, while through the Isle they hear  
A lasting noise, as horrid and as loud  
As Thunder makes, before it breaks the Cloud.  
Three days they dread this murmur, ere they know  
From what blind cause th'unwonted sound may grow:  
At length Two Monsters of unequal size,  
Hard by the shore a Fisherman espies;  
Two mighty Whales, which swelling Seas had tossed,  
And left them prisoners on the rocky Coast;  
One as a Mountain vast, and with her came  
● Cub not much inferior to his Dame:  
●ere in a Pool among the Rocks engaged,  
●hey roared like Lions, caught in toils, and raged:  
●he man knew what they were, who heretofore  
●ad seen the like lie murdered on the shore,  
●y the wild fury of some Tempest cast  
●he fate of ships and shipwrackt men to taste.  
●s careless Dames whom Wine and Sleep betray  
〈◊〉 frantic dreams their Infants overly:  
So there sometimes the raging Ocean fails,  
And her own brood exposes; when the Whales  
Against sharp Rocks like reeling vessels quashed,  
Though huge as Mountains, are in pieces dashed;  
Along the shore their dreadful Limbs lie scattered,  
Like Hills with Earthquakes shaken, torn & shattered  
Hearts sure of Brass they had, who tempted first,  
Rude Seas that spare not what themselves have nurs●  
The welcome news through all the Nation spread  
To sudden joy and hope converts their dread.  
What lately was their public terror, they  
Behold with glad eyes as a certain prey;  
Dispose already of th'untaken spoil,  
And as the purchase of their future toil,  
These share the Bones, and they divide the Oil;  
So was the Huntsman by the Bear oppressed,  
Whose Hide he sold before he caught the Beast.  
They man their Boats, and all their young men arm  
With whatsoever may the Monsters harm;  
Pikes, Halberds, Spits, and Darts that wound so far,  
The Tools of Peace, and Instruments of War:  
Now was the time for vigorous Lads to show  
What love or honour could invite them too;  
A goodly Theatre where Rocks are round  
With reverend age, and lovely Lasses crowned▪  
Such was the Lake which held this dreadful pair  
Within the bounds of noble Warwick's share:  
Warwick's bold Earl, than which no title bear●  
A greater sound among our British Peers;  
And worthy he the memory to renew,  
The fate and honour to that title due;  
Whose brave adventures have transferred his name,  
And through the new world spread his growing fame.  
But how they fought, & what their valour gained,  
Shall in another Canto be contained.    

Canto III.  

The bloody fight, successless toil,  
And how the Fishes sacked the Isle.   

THe Boat which on the first assault did go  
Struck with a harping Iron the younger ●o;  
Who when he felt his side so rudely gored,  
Loud as the Sea that nourished him he roared.  
●s a broad Bream to please some curious taste,  
While yet alive in boiling water cast,  
●ex't with unwonted heat, boils, flings about  
The scorching brass, and hurls the liquor out:  
So with the barbed Javelin stung, he raves,  
And scourges with his tail the suffering waves:  
Like Spencer's Talus with his Iron flail,  
●e threatens ruin with his ponderous tail;  
Dissolving at one stroke the battered Boat,  
And down the men fall drenched in the Moat:  
With every fierce encounter they are forced  
To quit their Boats, and fare like men unhorsed.  
The bigger Whale like some huge Carack lay,  
Which wanteth Sea room, with her foes to play:  
Slowly she swims, and when provoked she would  
Advance her tail, her head salutes the mud;  
The shallow water doth her force infringe,  
And renders vain her tails impetuous swinge:  
The shining steel her tender sides receive,  
And there like Bees they all their weapons leave.  
This sees the Cub, and does himself oppose  
Betwixt his cumbered mother and her foes:  
With desperate courage he receives her wounds,  
And men and boats his active tail confounds.  
Their forces joined, the Seas with billows fill,  
And make a tempest, though the winds be still.  
Now would the men with half their hoped prey  
Be well content, and wish this Cub away:  
Their wish they have; he to direct his dam  
Unto the gap through which they thither came,  
Before her swims, and quits the hostile Lake,  
A prisoner there, but for his mother's sake.  
She by the Rocks compelled to stay behind,  
Is by the vastness of her bulk confined.  
They shout for joy, and now on her alone  
Their fury falls, and all their Darts are thrown.  
Their Lances spent; one bolder than the rest  
With his broad sword provoked the sluggish beast:  
Her oily side devours both blade and heft,  
And there his Steel the bold Bermudian left.  
Courage the rest from his example take,  
And now they change the colour of the Lake:  
Blood flows in Rivers from her wounded side,  
As if they would prevent the tardy tide,  
And raise the flood to that propitious height,  
As might convey her from this fatal straight.  
She swims in blood, and blood does spouting throw  
To Heaven, that Heaven men's cruelties might know.  
Their fixed Javelins in her side she wears,  
And on her back a grove of Pikes appears:  
You would have thought, had you the monster seen  
Thus dressed, she had another Island been.  
Roaring she tears the air with such a noise,  
(As well resembled the conspiring voice  
Of routed Armies, when the field is won)  
To reach the ears of her escaped son.  
He (though a league removed from the foe)  
Hastes to her aid; the pious Trojan so  
Neglecting for Creusa's life his own,  
Repeats the danger of the burning Town.  
The men amazed blush to see the seed  
Of monsters, human piety exceed:  
Well proves this kindness what the Grecians sung,  
That Loves bright mother from the Ocean sprung.  
Their courage droops, and hopeless now they wish  
For composition with th'unconquered fish:  
So she their weapons would restore again,  
Through Rocks they'd hew her passage to the main.  
But how instructed in each others mind,  
Or what commerce can men with monsters find?  
Not daring to approach their wounded foe,  
Whom her courageous son protected so;  
They charge their Muskets, and with hot desire  
Of full revenge, renew the fight with fire:  
Standing a looff, with lead they bruise the scales,  
And tear the flesh of the incensed Whales.  
But no success their fierce endeavours found,  
Nor this way could they give one fatal wound.  
Now to their Fort they are about to send  
For the loud Engines which their Isle defend.  
But what those pieces fromed to batter walls  
Would have effected on those mighty Whales,  
Great Neptune will not have us know, who sends  
A tide so high, that it relieves his friends.  
And thus they parted with exchange of harms;  
Much blood the Monsters lost, and they their Arms.     

SONG.  
PEace, babbling Muse,  
I dare not sing what you indite;  
Her eyes refuse  
To read the passion which they write;  
●he strikes my Lute, but if it sound,  
Threatens to hurl it on the ground:  
And I no less her anger dread,  
●han the poor wretch that feigns him dead,  
●hile some fierce Lion does embrace  
●is breathless corpse, and licks his face;  
Wrapped up in silent fear he lies,  
Torn all in pieces if he cries.   

Of Love.  
ANger in hasty words or blows,  
Itself discharges on our foes,  
And sorrow too finds some relief,  
In tears which wait upon our grief:  
So every passion, but fond Love,  
Unto its own redress does move;  
But that alone the wretch inclines  
To what prevents his own designs;  
Makes him lament, and sigh, and weep,  
Disordered, tremble, fawn and creep;  
Postures which render him despised,  
Where he endeavours to be prized.  
For women, born to be controlled,  
Stoop to the forward and the bold,  
Affect the haughty and the proud,  
The gay, the frolic, and the loud.  
Who first the generous Steed oppressed,  
Not kneeling did salute the beast;  
But with high courage, life and force  
Approaching, tamed th'unruly horse.  
Unwisely we the wiser East  
Pity, supposing them oppressed  
With Tyrant's force, whose law is will,  
By which they govern, spoil and kill:  
Each Nymph but moderately fair,  
Commands with no less Rigour here.  
Should some brave Turk, that walks among  
His twenty Lasles bright and young,  
And beckons to the willing Dame  
Preferred to quench his present flame,  
Behold as many Gallants here,  
With modest guise, and silent fear,  
All to one Female Idol bend,  
Whilst her high pride does scarce descend  
To mark their follies, he would swear  
That these her guard of Eunuches were;  
And that a more Majestic Queen,  
Or humbler slaves he had not seen.  
All this with indignation spoke,  
In vain I struggled with the yoke  
Of mighty love; that conquering look,  
When next beheld, like lightning struck  
My blasted soul, and made me bow  
Lower than those I pitied now.  
So the tall Stag upon the brink  
Of some smooth stream about to drink,  
Surveying there, his armed head,  
With shame remembers that he fled  
The scorned dogs, resolves to try  
The combat next; but if their cry  
Invades again his trembling ear,  
He strait resumes his wont care;  
Leaves the untasted Spring behind,  
And winged with fear, outflies the wind.   

To Phillis.  
PHillis, why should we delay  
Pleasures shorter than the day?  
Could we (which we never can)  
Stretch our lives beyond their span;  
Beauty like a shadow flies,  
And our youth before us dies;  
Or would youth and beauty stay,  
Love hath wings, and will away.  
Love hath swifter wings than Time;  
Change in love to Heaven does climb.  
Gods that never change their state,  
Vary oft their love and hate.  
Phillis, to this truth we owe,  
All the love betwixt us two:  
Let not you and I require,  
What has been our past desire;  
On what Shepherds you have smiled,  
Or what Nymphs I have beguiled;  
Leave it to the Planets too,  
What we shall hereafter do;  
For the joys we now may prove,  
Take advice of present love.   

To Phillis.  
PHillis, 'twas love that injured you,  
And on that Rock your Thirsis threw,  
Who for proud Caelia could have died,  
Whilst you no less accused his pride.  
Fond Love his darts at random throws,  
And nothing springs from what he sows:  
●rom foes discharged as often meet  
The shining points of Arrows fleet,  
In the wide air creating fire,  
As souls that join in one desire.  
Love made the lovely Venus burn  
In vain, and for the cold youth mourn▪  
Who the pursuit of churlish Beasts,  
Preferred to sleeping on her Breasts.  
Love makes so many hearts the prize,  
Of the bright Carliles conquering eyes,  
Which she regards no more than they,  
The tears of lesser beauties weigh:  
So have I seen the lost Clouds pour,  
Into the Sea a useless shower,  
And the vexed Sailors curse the rain,  
For which poor Shepherds prayed in vain.  
Then Phillis, since our passions are  
Governed by chance, and not the care  
But sport of Heaven, which takes delight  
To look upon this Parthian flight  
Of Love, still flying or in chase,  
Never encountering face to face;  
No more to love we'll sacrifice,  
But to the best of Deities;  
And let our hearts which love disjoined,  
By his kind Mother be combined.   

SONG.  
WHile I listen to thy voice,  
(Chloris) I feel my life decay,  
That powerful noise  
Calls my flitting soul away.  
Oh! suppress that Magic sound,  
Which destroys without a wound.  
Peace Chloris, peace, or singing die;  
That together you and I,  
To Heaven may go:  
For all we know,  
Of what the blessed do above,  
Is, that they sing, and that they love.   

SONG.  

STay Phoebus, stay,  
The world to which you fly so fast,  
Conveying day  
From us to them, can pay your haste,  
With no such object, nor salute your rise  
With no such wonder, as the Mornay's eyes.   

Well does this prove,  
The error of those antique books,  
Which made you move,  
About the world; her charming looks  
Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,  
Did not the rolling Earth snatch her away.    

To Amoretta.  

AMoret, the milky way,  
Framed of many nameless stars,  
The smooth stream where none can say,  
He this drop to that prefers;   

Amoretta, my lovely foe,  
Tell me where thy strength does lie;  
Where the power that charms us so,  
In thy Soul, or in thy eye?   

By that snowy neck alone,  
Or thy grace in motion seen,  
No such wonders could be done:  
Yet thy waist is straight and clean,  
As Cupid's shafr, or Hermas rod,  
And powerful too, as either God.    

To my Lord of Falkland.  
BRave Holland leads, & with him Falkland goes:  
Who hears this told, and does not strait suppose  
We send the Graces and the Muses forth,  
To Civilize, and to instruct the North?  
Not that these ornaments make swords less sharp;  
Apollo bears as well his Bow as Harp;  
And though he be the Patron of that Spring,  
Where in calm peace the Sac●ed Virgins sing,  
He courage had to guard th'invaded Throne  
Of Love, and cast th'ambitious ●iants down.  
Ah (noble Friend) with what impatience all  
That know thy worth, and know how prodigal  
Of thy great Soul thou art, longing to twist  
Bays with that Ivy, which so early kissed▪ 〈…〉  
Thy youthful Temples, with what horror we  
Think on the blind events of war and thee?  
To Fate exposing that all-knowing breast,  
Among the throng as cheaply as the rest:  
Where Oaks and Brambles (if the Copse be burn●●  
Confounded lie to the same Ashes turned.  
Some happy wind over the Ocean blow  
This Tempest yet, which frights our Island so▪  
Guarded with Ships, and all the Sea our own,  
From Heaven this mischief on our heads is thrown.  
In a late Dream the Genius of this Land,  
Amazed, I saw, like the fair Hebrew stand,  
When first she felt the Twins begin to jar,  
And found her womb the feat of Civil War:  
Inclined to whose relief, and with presage  
Of better for●un● for the present age,  
Heaven sends, quoth I, this discord for our good,  
To warm, perhaps, but not to waste our blood,  
To raise our drooping spirits, grown the scorn  
Of our proud neighbours, who ere long shall mourn,  
(Though now they joy in our expected harms)  
We had occasion to resume our Arms.  
A Lion so with self provoking smart,  
His rebel tail scourging his Nobler part,  
Calls up his courage, then begins to roar,  
And charge his foes, who thought him mad before.   

For Drinking of Healths.  
LEt Bruits and Vegetals, that cannot think,  
So far as drought and nature urges, drink:  
A more indulgent Mistress guides our sprights,  
Reason, that dares beyond our appetites;  
She would our Care as well as Thirst redress,  
And with Divinity rewards excess:  
Deserted Ariadne thus supplied▪  
Did perjured Theseus cruelty deride;  
Bacchus embraced, from her exalted thought  
Banished the man, her passion, and his fault.  
Bacchus and Phoebus are by jove allied,  
And each by others timely heat supplied:  
All that the Grapes owe to his ripening fires,  
Is paid in numbers which their jucie inspires.  
Wine fills the Veins, and healths are understood,  
To give our Friends a Title to our Blood:  
Who naming me, doth warm his courage so,  
Shows for my sake what his bold hand would do.   

On my Lady Isabel playing on the Lute.  
SUch moving sounds, from such a careless touch  
So unconcerned herself, and we so much!  
What Art is this, that with so little pains  
Transports us thus, and o●r our spirit reigns?  
The trembling strings about her fingers crowed,  
And tell their Joy for every kiss aloud▪  
Small force there needs to make them tremble so,  
Touched by that hand who would not tremble too?  
Here Loves takes stand, and while she charms the ear,  
Empties his quiver on the listening Deer;  
Music ●o softens and disarms the mind,  
That not an Arrow does resistance find.  
Thus the fair Tyrant celebrates the prize,  
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes.  
So Nero once, with Harp in hand surveyed  
His flaming Rome, and as it burned he played.   

To a Lady singing a Song of his Composing.  

CHloris yourself you so excel  
When you vouchsafe to breathe my thought,  
That like a spirit with this spell  
Of my own teaching I am caught.   

That Eagles fate, and mine are one,  
Which on the shaft that made him die,  
Espied a feather of his own  
Wherewith he want to soar so high.   

Had Echo with so sweet a grace,  
Narcissus' loud complaints returned,  
Not for reflection of his face,  
But of his voice the Boy had burned.    

Of the marriage of the Dwarves.  

DEsign or chance makes other wive,  
But Nature did this Match contrive;  
Eve might as well have Adam fled,  
As she denied her little Bed  
To him, for whom Heaven seemed to frame,  
And measure out this only Dame.   

Thrice happy is that humble pair  
Beneath the level of all care;  
Over whose heads those Arrows fly  
Of sad distrust and Jealousy;  
Secured in as high extreme,  
As if the world held none but them.   

To him the fairest Nymphs do show  
Like moving Mountains topped with snow;  
And every Man a Polyph●me  
Does to his Galatea seem;  
None may presume her faith to prove,  
He proffers Death that proffers Love.   

Ah (Chloris) that kind nature thus  
From all the world had servered us,  
Creating for ourselves us two,  
As Love has me for only you.    

Love's farewell.  
TReading the path to Nobler ends,  
A long farewell to Love I gave;  
Resolved my Country and my Friends  
All that remained of me should have;  
And this Resolve no mortal Dame,  
None but those eyes could have overthrown.  
The Nymph, I dare not, need not name,  
So high, so like herself alone.  
Thus the tall Oak which now aspires  
Above the fear of private Fires,  
Grown and designed for nobler use,  
Not to make warm, but build the hou●e,  
Though from our meaner flames secure,  
Must that which falls from Heaven endure.   

From a Child.  
Madam,  
AS in some Climes the warmer Sun  
Makes it full Summer ere the Spring's begun '  
And with ripe fruit the bending boughs can load,  
Before our Violets dare look abroad:  
So measure not by any common use,  
The early Love your brighter eyes produce.  
When lately your fair hand in women's weed,  
Wrapped my glad head, I wished me so indeed,  
That hasty time might never make me grow  
Out of those favours you afford me now;  
That I might ever such indulgence sinned,  
And you not blush, or think yourself too kind,  
Who now I fear while I these joys express,  
Begin to think how you may make them less;  
The sound of Love makes your soft heart afraid,  
And guard itself, though but a Child invade,  
And innocently at your white breast throw  
A Dart as white, a Ball of new fallen snow.   

On a Girdle.  

THat which her ●lender waste confined,  
Shall now my joyful Temples bind;  
No Monarch but would give his Crown,  
His Arms might do what this has done.   

It was my Heaven's extremest Sphere,  
The Pale which held that lovely Dear;  
My Joy, my Grief, my Hope, my Love,  
Did all within this Circle move.   

A narrow compass, and yet there  
Dwelled all that's good, and all that's fair:  
Give me but what this Ribbon bound,  
Take all the rest the Sun goes round.    

The Apology of Sleep.  
For not approaching the Lady, who can do▪ any thing but sleep when she pleaseth,  
MY charge it is those breaches to repair  
Which nature takes from sorrow, toil and care▪  
Rest to the Limbs, and quiet I confer  
On troubled minds; but nought can add to her,  
Whom Heaven and her transcendent thoughts have placed  
Above those ills, which wretched Mortals taste.  
Bright as the deathless gods, and happy She,  
From all that may infringe delight, is free▪  
Love at her Royal Feet his quiver lays,  
And not his Mother with more haste obeys.  
Such real pleasures, such true joys suspense,  
What Dream can I present to recompense?  
Should I with lightning fill her awful hand,  
And make the Clouds seem all at her command;  
Or place her in Olympus' top, a guest  
Among th'immortals, who with Nectar feast:  
That power would seem, that entertainment short  
Of the true splendour of her present Court;  
Where all the Joys and all the Glories are  
Of three great Kingdoms, severed from the care.  
I that of ●umes and humid vapours made,  
Ascending do the seat of sense invade,  
No Cloud in so serene a Mansion find,  
To overcast her evershining mind;  
Which holds resemblance with those spotless Skies,  
Where flowing Nilus' want of Rain supplies;  
That Crystal Heaven, where Phoebus never shrouds  
His golden beams, nor wraps his Face in Clouds.  
But what so hard which numbers cannot force▪  
So stoops the Moon, and Rivers change their course:  
The bold Maeonian made me dare to steep  
Ioves dreadful Temples in the dew of sleep.  
And since the Muses do invoke my power,  
I shall no more decline that Sacred Bower,  
Where Gloriana th●ir great Mistress lies,  
But gently taming those victorious Eyes,  
Charm all her senses; till the joyful Sun  
Without a Rival half his course has run:  
Who, while my hand that fairer light confines,  
May boast himself the brightest thing that shines.   

At Pens-hurst.  
WHile in the Park I sing, the listening Deer  
Attend my passion, and forget to fear.  
When to the Beeches I report my flame,  
They bow their Heads as if they felt the same:  
To God's appealing, when I reach their bowers  
With loud complaints, they answer me in showers▪  
To thee a wild and cruel Soul is given,  
More deaf than Trees, and prouder than the Heaven.  
Love's ●oe professed, why dost thou falsely ●eign  
Thyself a Sidney▪ from which Noble strain  
He sprung, that could so far exalt the name  
Of Love, and warm our Nation with his Flame,  
That all we can of Love or high desire,  
Seems but the smoke of amorous Sidneys fire.  
Nor call her Mother, who so well does prove,  
One breast may hold both Chastity and Love.  
Never can she, that so exceeds the Spring  
In Joy and Bounty, be supposed to bring  
One so destructive; to no humane stock  
We owe this fierce unkindness, but the Rock,  
That cloven Rock produced thee, by whose side  
Nature to recompense the fatal pride  
Of such stern Beauty, placed those healing springs,  
Which not more help, than that destruction brings.  
Thy heart no ruder than the rugged stone,  
I might ●ike Orpheus with my numerous moan  
Melt to compassion; now my traitorous song,  
With thee conspires to do the Singer wrong▪  
While 〈◊〉 I suffer not myself to lose  
The memory of what augments my woes▪  
But with my own breath still foment the Fire,  
Which flames as high as fancy can aspire.  
This last complaint th'indulgent ears did pierce  
Of just Apollo, Precedent of Verse:  
Highly concerned, that the Muse should bring  
Damage to one whom he had taught to sing;  
Thus he advised me, on yo● aged Tree,  
Hang up thy Lute, and hie thee to the Sea,  
That there with wonders thy diverted mind  
Some truce at least may with this passion find.  
Ah cruel Nymph! from whom her humble Swai●  
Flies for relief unto the raging Main;  
And from the Winds and Tempests does expect  
A milder fate, than from her cold neglect:  
Yet there he'll pray that the unkind may prove  
Blest in her choice; and vows this endless Love  
Springs from no hope of what she can confer,  
But from those gifts which Heaven has heaped on her.   

Another.  
HAd Sacharissa lived when Mortals m●de  
Choice of their Deities, this Sacred shade  
Had held an Altar to her power, that gave  
The Peace and Glory which these allays have:  
Embroidered so with Flowers where she stood,  
That it became a Garden of a Wood:  
Her presence has such more than humane Grace,  
That it can civilize the rudest place;  
And beauty too, and order can impart,  
Where Nature ne'er intended it, nor Art.  
The Plants acknowledge this, and her admire  
No less than those of old, did Orpheus' Lyre:  
If she sit down, with tops all towards her bowed,  
They round about her into Arbours crowd;  
Or if she walk, in even ranks they stand,  
Like some well-marshalled and obsequious band.  
Amphion so made stones and timber leap  
Into fair Figures from a confused heap:  
And in the symmetry of her parts is found  
A power, like that of harmony in sound.  
Ye lofty Beeches, tell this matchless Dame,  
That if together ye fed all one Flame,  
It could not equalise the hundredth part  
Of what her Eyes have kindled in ●y heart.  
Go Boy, and carve this passion on the Bark  
Of yonder Tree, which stands the sacred mark  
Of Noble Sidneys birth; when such benign,  
Such more than-mortal making stars did shine;  
That there they cannot but for ever prove  
The monument and pledge of humble Love:  
His humble Love, whose hope shall ne'er rise higher  
Than for a pardon that he dares admire.   

To my Lord of Leicester.  

NOt that thy Trees at Pens-hurst groan  
Oppressed with their timely load,  
And seem to make their silent moan,  
That their great Lord is now abroad:  
They to delight his taste or eye,  
Would spend themselves in fruit, and die.   

Not that thy harmless Deer repine,  
And think themselves unjustly slain  
By any other hand than thine,  
Whose Arrows they would gladly slain:  
No, nor thy friends which hold too dear  
That peace with France, which keeps thee there.   

All these are less than that great cause,  
Which now exacts your presence here,  
Wherein there meet the divers Laws  
Of public and domestic care.  
For one bright Nymph our youth contends▪  
And on your prudent choice depends.   

Not the bright shield of Thetis' Son,  
For which such stern debate did rise,  
That the Great Ajax Telamonius  
Refused to live without the Prize,  
Those Achive Peers did more engage,  
Than she the gallants of our age.   

That beam of Beauty which begun  
To warm us so when thou wert here,  
Now scorches like the raging Sun  
When Syrius does first appear.  
O fix this Flame, and let despair  
Redeem the rest from endless care!    

To a very young Lady.  

WHy came I so untimely forth  
Into a world, which wanting thee  
Could entertain us with no worth  
Or shadow of felicity?  
That time should me so far remove  
From that which I was born to love.   

Yet fairest blossom do not slight  
That age which you may know so soon;  
The Rosy Morn resigns her light,  
And milder Glory to the Noon:  
And than what wonders shall you do,  
Whose dawning Beauty warms us so?   

Hope waits upon the flowery prime,  
And Summer though it be less gay,  
Yet is not looked on as a time  
Of declination or decay.  
For with a full hand That does bring  
All that was promised by the Spring▪    

SONG.  

SAy lovely dream, where couldst thou find  
Shadows to counterfeit that face?  
Colours of this glorious kind,  
Come not from any mortal place.   

〈◊〉 Heaven itself thou sure were't dressed  
With that Angellike disguise;  
Thus deluded am I blest,  
And see my joy with closed Eyes.   

But ah this Image is too kind  
To be other than a dream!  
Cruel Sacharissa's Mind  
Never put on that sweet extreme.   

Fair dream, if thou intend'st me grace,  
Change that Heavenly face of thine;  
Paint despised Love in thy face,  
And make it to appear like mine.   

Pale, Wan, and Meager let it look,  
With a pity-moving shape,  
Such as wander by the Brook  
Of Lethe, or from graves escape.   

Then to that matchless Nymph appear,  
In whose shape thou shinest so,  
Softly in her sleeping ear,  
With humble words express my wo.   

Perhaps from Greatness, State, and Pride,  
Thus surprised she may fall:  
Sleep does disproportion hide,  
And death resembling equals all.    

SONG.  

BEhold the brand of Beauty tossed;  
See how the motion does dilate the Flame:  
Delighted Love his spoils does boast,  
And triumph in this game.  
Fire to no place confined,  
Is both our wonder and our fear,  
Moving the mind,  
As Lightning hurled through the Air.   

High Heaven the Glory does increase  
Of all her shining lamps this artful way;  
The Sun in Figures such as these  
Joys with the Moon to play.  
To the sweet strains they advance,  
Which do result from their own spheres;  
As this Nymphs dance,  
Moves with the numbers which she hears.    

On the discovery of a Ladies Painting.  

Pigmaleons' fate reversed is mine.  
His marble Love took flesh and Blood;  
All that I worshipped as Divine,  
That Beauty now 'tis understood,  
Appears to have no more of life  
Than that whereof he framed his Wife.   

As Women yet who apprehend  
Some sudden cause of causeless fear,  
Although that seeming cause take end,  
And they behold no danger near,  
A shaking through their Limbs they find,  
Like leaves saluted by the wind:   

So though the Beauty do appear  
No Beauty, which amazed me so;  
Yet from my breast I cannot tear  
The passion which from thence did grow,  
Nor yet out of my fancy raze  
The print of that supposed face.   

A real Beauty, though too near,  
The fond Narcissus did admire;  
I dote on that which is no where,  
The sign of Beauty feeds my fire:  
No mortal Flame was e'er so cruel  
As this, which thus survives the fuel.    

To a Lady from whom he received a Silver Pen.  
Madam,  

INtending to have tried  
The silver Favour which you gave,  
In Ink the shining point I died,  
And drenched it in the sable wave:  
When grieved to be so foully stained.  
On you it thus to me complained.   

Suppose you had deserved to take  
From her fair hand so fair a boon;  
Yet how deserved I to make  
So ill a change, who ever won  
Immortal praise for what I wrought,  
Instructed by her Noble thought?   

I that expressed her commands  
To mighty Lords and Princely Dames,  
Always most welcome to their hands,  
Proud that I would record their names,  
Must now be taught an humble stile  
Some meaner Beauty to beguile.   

So I, the wronged Pen to please,  
Make it my humble thanks express  
Unto your Ladyship in these:  
And now 'tis forced to confess,  
That your great self did ne'er indite,  
Nor that to one more Noble write.    

On a Brede of divers Colours, woven by four Ladies.  
TWice Twenty slender Virgin fingers twine  
This curious Web, where all their fancies shine;  
As Nature Them, so They this shade have wrought  
Soft as their hands, and various as their thought.  
Not Juno's Bird, when his fair train dispread,  
He woos the Female to his painted bed;  
No not the bow which so adorns the Skies,  
So Glorious is, or boasts so many dies.   

To my Lord of Northumberland upon the death of his Lady.  
TO this great loss a Sea of Tears is due;  
But the whole debt not to be paid by you:  
Charge not yourself with all, nor render vain  
Those showers the eyes of us your servants rain.  
Shall grief contract the largeness of that heart,  
In which nor fear nor anger has a part?  
Virtue would blush, if time should boast (which dries  
Her sole child dead, the tender Mother's eyes)  
Your mind's relief, where reason triumphs so  
Over all passions, that they ne'er could grow  
Beyond their limits in your Noble breast,  
To harm another, or impeach your rest.  
This we observed, delighting to obey  
One who did never from his great self stray:  
Whose mild example seemed to engage  
Th'obsequious Seas, and teach them not to rage.  
The brave Emilius, his great charge laid down,  
(The force of Rome, and fate of Macedon)  
In his lost sons did feel the cruel stroke  
Of changing fortune, and thus highly spoke  
Before Rome's people: we did oft implore  
That if the heavens had any bad in store  
For your Emilius, they would pour that ill  
On his own house, and let you flourish ●till.  
You on the barren Seas (my Lord) have spent,  
Whole Springs and Summers, to the public lent:  
Suspended all the pleasures of your life,  
And shortened the short joy of such a wife:  
For which your country's more obliged, then  
For many lives of old, less-happy men.  
You that have sacrificed so great a part  
Of Youth and private bliss, aught to impart  
Your sorrow too, and give your friends a right  
As well in your Affliction, as Delight:  
Then with Emilian courage bear this cross,  
Since public persons only public loss  
Ought to affect: and though her form and youth,  
Her application to your Will and Truth,  
That Noble Sweetness, and that humble State  
All snatched away by such a hasty fate,  
Might give excuse to any common Breast,  
With the huge weight of so just grief oppressed;  
Yet let no portion of your life be stained  
With passion, but your character maintained  
To the last Act; it is enough her Stone  
May honoured be with Superscription  
Of the sole Lady, who had power to move  
The Great Northumberland to grieve and love.   

To my Lord Admiral of his late Sickness and Recovery,  
WIth joy like ours, the Thracian youth invades  
Orpheus returning from th' Elysian shades,  
Embrace the Hero, and his stay implore,  
Make it their public suit, he would no more  
Desert them so, and for his Spouses sake,  
His vanished Love, tempt the Lethean Lake:  
The Ladies too, the brightest of that time,  
Ambitious all his lofty bed to climb,  
Their doubtful hopes with expectation feed,  
Who shall the fair Eurydice succeed▪  
Eurydice, for whom his numerous moan  
Makes listening Trees, and savage Mountains groan:  
Through all the Air his sounding strings dilate  
Sorrow, like that which touched our hearts of late●  
Your piing sickness, and your restless pain,  
At once the Land affecting, and the Main:  
When the glad news that you were Admiral,  
Scarce through the Nation, spread, 'twas feared by all,  
That our Great Charles, whose wisdom shines in you,  
Would be perplexed how to choose a new.  
So more than private was the joy and grief,  
That at the worst, it gave our souls relief:  
That in our age such sense of virtue lived,  
They joyed so justly, and so justly grieved.  
Nature, (her fairest lights eclipsed,) seems  
Herself to suffer in those sharp extremes:  
While not from thine alone thy blood retires,  
But from those cheeks which all the world admires▪  
The stem thus threatened, and the sap in thee,  
Droop all the branches of that noble Tree:  
Their Beauty they, and we our Loves suspend,  
Nought can our wishes, save thy health intend▪  
As Lilies overcharged with Rain they bend  
Their beauteous heads, & with high Heaven contend;  
Fold thee within their snowy Army, and cry  
He is too faultless and too young to die:  
So like immortals round about thee they  
Si●, that they fright approaching death away:  
Who would not languish by so fair a train,  
To be lamented and restored again?  
Or thus withheld, what hasty soul would go,  
Though to be blest? o'er her Adonis so  
Fair Venus mourned, and with the precious shower  
Of her warm tears cherished the springing Flower.  
The next support fair hope of your great name,  
And second pillar of that Noble frame,  
By loss of thee would no advantage have,  
But step by step pursues thee to the grave.  
And now relentless fate, about to end  
The line which back ward does so far extend,  
That antic stock which still the world supplies  
With bravest Spirits, and with brightest Eyes,  
Kind Phoebus interposing, bid me say  
Such storms no more shall shake that house, but they  
Like Neptune, and his Sea-born Niece, shall be  
The shining Glories of the Land and Sea:  
With Courage guard, and Beauty warm our age,  
And Lovers fill, with like Poetic rage.   

Ala Malade.  
AH lovely Amoretta, the care  
Of all that know what's good or fair,  
Is Heaven become our Rival too?  
Had the rich gifts conferred on you,  
So ample thence the common end  
Of giving Lovers, to pretend.  
Hence to this pining sickness (meant  
To weary thee to a consent  
Of leaving us) no power is given,  
Thy Beauties to impair; for Heaven  
Solicits thee with such a care,  
As Roses from their stalks we tear,  
When we would still preserve them new,  
And fresh as on the bush they grew.  
With such a Grace you entertain,  
And look with such contempt on pain,  
That languishing you conquer more,  
And wound us deeper than before.  
So lightnings which in storms appear▪  
Scorch more than when the Skies are clear.  
And as pale sickness does invade  
Your frailer part, the breaches made  
In that fair Lodging, still more clear  
Make the bright guest your soul, appear.  
So Nymphs o'er pathless Mountains born,  
Their light Robes by the Brambles torn  
From their fair Limbs, exposing new  
And unknown Beauties to the view  
Of following gods, increase their flame,  
And haste to catch the flying Game.   

Of the Queen.  

THe Lark that shuns on losty boughs to build;  
Her humble Nest, lies silent in the Field;  
But if the promise of a cloudless day,  
Aurora smiling, bids her rise and play,  
Then strait she shows, 't was not for want of voice  
Or power to climb, she made so low a choice:  
Singing she mounts, her airy wings are stretched  
Towards Heaven, as if from Heaven her note she fetch  
So we retiring from the busy throng,  
Use to restrain th' ambition of, our Song;  
But since the light which now informs our age  
Breaks from the Court indulgent to her r●ge,  
Thither my Muse, like bold Promethe●s, fliest  
To light her Torch at Gloriana's eyes.   

Those Sovereign beams, which heal the wounded soul  
And all our cares but once beheld control;  
There the poor Lover that has long, endured  
Some proud Nymphs scorn, of his fond passion cured  
Fares like the man who first upon the ground  
A glow worm spied supposing he had found  
A moving Diamond, a breathing Stone  
(For life it had, and like those Jewels shone:)  
He held it dear, till by the springing day.  
●nform'd, he threw the worthless worm away.  
She saves the Lover as we Gangrenes stay,  
By cutting hope, like a jopt Limb, away:  
This makes her bleeding patients to accuse  
High Heaven, and these expostulations use:  
Could Nature then no private Woman grace  
(Whom we might dare to love) with such a face,  
Such a complexion, and so radiant eyes,  
Such lovely motion, and such sharp replies?  
Beyond our reach, and yet within our sight,  
What envious power has placed this glorious light?  
Thus in a Starry night fond Children cry  
For the rich spangles that adorn the Sky;  
Which though they shine for ever fixed there,  
With light and influence relieve us here.  
All her affections are to one inclined,  
Her bounty and compassion to Mankind:  
To whom while she so far extends her grace,  
She makes but good the promise of her face:  
For Mercy has (could Mercies self be seen)  
No sweeter look than this propitious Queen;  
Such guard and comfort the distressed find  
From her large power, and from her larger mind,  
That whom ill fate would ruin, it prefers,  
For all the Miserable are made hers.  
So the fair Tree whereon the Eagle builds,  
Poor Sheep from tempests, & their Shepherd's shields:  
The Royal Bird possesses all the bows,  
But shade and shelter to the Flock allows.   

Joy of our age, and safety of the next,  
For which so oft thy fertile Womb is vexed:  
Nobly contented, for the public good  
To waste thy spirits and diffuse thy blood:  
What vast hopes may these Islands entertain,  
Where Monarches thus descended are to reign?  
Led by Commanders of so fair a Line,  
Our Seas no longer shall our power confine.   

A brave Romance who would exactly frame,  
First brings his Knight from some immortal Dame▪  
And then a weapon, and a flaming shield,  
Bright as his mother's eyes, he makes him wield.  
None might the mother of Achilles be,  
But the fair Pearl, and glory of the Sea;  
The man to whom great Maro gives such fame  
From the high bed of heavenly Venus came;  
And our next Charles, (whom all the stars design  
Like wonders to accomplish) springs from thine.    

Upon the Death of my Lady Rich.  
MAY those already cursed ●ssexian plains,  
Where hasty death and pining sickness reigns  
Prove all a Desert, and none there make stay,  
But ●●v●ge Beast, or men as wild as they.  
There the fair light which all our Island graced,  
Like Hero's Taper in the window placed,  
Such fate from the malignant air did find,  
As that exposed to the boisterous wind.  
Ah cruel Heaven ● to snatch so soon away  
Her, for whose life had we had time to pray,  
With thousand vows and tears we should have sought  
That sad decrees suspension to have wrought.  
But we (alas) no whisper of her pain  
Herd, till 't was sin to wish her here again.  
That horrid word at once like Lightning spread,  
Struck all our ears, The Lady Rich is dead.  
Heart rending news, and dreadful to those few  
Who her resemble, and her steps pursue.  
That death should licence have to rage among  
The fair, the wife, the virtuous, and the young!  
The Paphiam Queen from that sierce battle born,  
With gored hand and veil so rudely torn,  
Like terror did among th'immortals breed,  
Taught by her wound that Goddesses may bleed.  
All stand amazed, but beyond the rest  
Th'heroic Dame whose happy womb she blest,  
Moved with just grief expostulates with Heaven,  
Urging the promise to the obsequious given,  
Of longer life; for ne'er was pious Soul  
More apt t'obey, more worthy to control.  
A skilful Eye at once might read the Race  
Of Caledonian Monarches in her Face,  
And sweet Humility; her look and mind,  
At once were losty, and at once were kind.  
There dwelled the sorn of Vice, and pity too,  
For those that did what she disdained to do:  
So gentle and severe, that what was bad  
At once her hatred and her pardon had.  
Gracious to all, but where her Love was due,  
So fast, so Faithful, Loyal, and so True,  
That a bold hand as soon might hope to force.  
The rolling lights of Heaven, as change her course.  
Some happy Angel, that beholds her there,  
Instruct us to record what she was here:  
And when this cloud of sorrow's overblown,  
Through the wide world we'll make her graces known.  
So fresh the wound is, and the grief so vast,  
That all our Art and Power of speech is waste:  
Here passion sways; but there the Muse shall raise  
Eternal monuments of louder praise.  
There our delight complying with her fame,  
Shall have occasion to recite thy name,  
Fair Sacharissa, and now only fair:  
To sacred friendship we'll an Altar rear,  
Such as the Romans did erect of old,  
Where on a marble Pillar shall be told  
The lovely passion each to other bare,  
With the resemblance of that matchless pair,  
Narcissus to the thing for which he pined,  
Was not more like, than yours to her fair mind:  
Save that you graced the several parts of life,  
A spotless Virgin, and a faultless Wife:  
Such was the sweet converse 'twixt her and you,  
As that she holds with her associates now.  
How false is hope, and how regardless fate,  
That such a love should have so short a date!  
Lately I saw her sighing, part from thee  
(Alas that such the last farewell should be!)  
So look 't Astraea, her remove designed:  
On those distressed friends she left behind:  
Consent in Virtue knit your hearts so fast,  
That still the knot, in spite of death does last:  
For as your tears and sorrow-wounded soul  
Prove well that on your part this bond is whole:  
So all we know of what they do above,  
Is, that they happy are, and that they love.  
Let dark oblivion and the hollow grave  
Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have:  
Well chosen Love is never taught to die,  
But with our nobler part invades the Sky:  
Then grieve no more, that one so Heavenly shaped  
The crooked hand of trembling age escaped;  
Rather since we beheld her not decay,  
But that she vanished so entire away:  
Her wondrous beauty and her goodness merit,  
We should suppose that some propitious spirit,  
In that celestial form frequented here,  
And is not dead, but ceases to appear.   

To the Queen-Mother of France upon her Landing.  
GReat Queen of Europe, where thy offspring wears  
All the chief Crowns, where Princes are thy heirs.  
As welcome thou to Sea-girt Britain's shore,  
As erst Latona (who fair Cynthia bore)  
To Delos was. Here shines a Nymph as bright,  
By thee disclosed, with like increase of light.  
Why was her joy in Belgia confined?  
Or why did you so much regard the wind?  
Scarce could the Ocean (though enraged) have tossed  
Thy Sovereign Bark, but where th' obsequious coast  
Pays tribute to thy Bed: Rome's conquering hand  
More vanquished Nations under her command  
Never reduced; glad Berecinthia, so  
Among her deathless Progeny did go;  
A wreath of Flowers adorned her reverend Head,  
Mother of all that on Ambrosia fed:  
Thy godlike race must sway the age to come,  
As she Olympus, peopled with her womb.  
Would those Commanders of Mankind obey  
Their honoured Parent, all pretences lay  
Down at your Royal Feet, compose their Jars,  
And on the growing Turk discharge these Wars:  
The Christian Knights that sacred Tomb should wrest  
From Pagan hands, and Triumph o'er the East;  
Our England's Prince and Gallia's Dolphin might  
Like young Rinaldo, and Tancredo fight  
In single combat; by their sword again  
The proud Argantes and fierce Sultan slain;  
Again, might we their valiant deeds recite,  
And with your Tuscan Muse exalt the fight.   

To the mutable Fair.  
HEre Caelia for thy sake I part  
With all that grew so near my heart;  
The passion that I had for thee,  
The Faith, the Love, the Constancy,  
And that I may successful prove  
Transform myself to what you love.  
Fool that I was so much to prise  
Those simple virtues you despise,  
Fool that with such dull Arrows strove,  
Or hoped to reach a flying Dove;  
For you that are in motion still  
Decline our force, and mock our skill.  
Who like Don Quixot do advance  
Against a Windmill our vain Lance.  
Now will I wander through the Air,  
Mount, make a stoop at every fair,  
And with a Fancy unconfined  
(As lawless as the Sea or Wind)  
Pursue you wheresoe'er you fly,  
And with your various thoughts comply.  
The formal Stars do travel so,  
As we their names and courses know,  
And he that on their changes looks,  
Would think them governed by our Books.  
But never were the clouds reduced  
To any Art the motion used  
By those free vapours are so light,  
So frequent, that the conquered sight  
Despairs to sinned the rules that guide  
Those gilded shadows as they slide.  
And therefore of the Spacious Air  
Ioves royal consort had the care:  
And by that power did once escape,  
Declining bold Ixion's rape;  
She with her own resemblance graced  
A s●ining cloud which he embraced.  
Such was that Image, so it smiled  
With seeming kindness which beguiled  
Your Thirsis lately when he thought  
He had his fleeting Caelia caught.  
T was shaped like her, but for the fair  
He filled his Arms with yielding Air:  
A fate for which he grieves the less,  
Because the gods had like success.  
For in their story one (we see)  
Pursues a Nymph, and takes a Tree:  
A second with a Lovers haste  
Soon overtakes whom he had chased;  
But she that did a Virgin seem,  
Possessed appears a wandering stream:  
For his supposed love a third  
Lays greedy hold upon a bird;  
And stands amazed to find his dear,  
A wild Inhabitant of the air.  
To these old tales such Nymphs as you  
Give credit, and still make them new,  
The Amorous now like wonders find  
In the swift changes of your mind.  
But Caelia if you apprehend  
The Muse of your incensed friend;  
Nor would that he record your blame,  
And make it live, repeat the same,  
Again deceive him, and again,  
And then be swears he'll not complain.  
For still to be deluded so,  
Is all the pleasure Lovers Know,  
Who, (like good Falconers) take delight,  
Not in the quarry, but the flight.   

Of Salley.  
OF jason, Theseus, and such worthies old,  
Light seem the tales Antiquity has told.  
Such beasts and monsters as their force oppressed  
Some places only, and some times infest;  
Salley that scorned all power and laws of Men,  
Goods with their owners hurrying to their den,  
And future age's threatening with a rude  
And savage race successively renewed,  
Their King despising with rebellious pride,  
And foes professed to all the World beside,  
This pest of Mankind gives our Hero fame,  
And through th'obliged world dilates his name.  
The Prophet once to cruel Agag said,  
As thy fierce sword has mother's childless made,  
So shall the sword make thine; and with that word  
He hewed the man in pieces with his sword:  
Just Charles like measure has returned to these,  
Whose Pagan hands had stained the troubled Seas;  
With Ships they made the spoilt Merchant mourn,  
With ships their City and themselves are torn.  
One squadron of our winged Castles sent  
O'r-threw their Fort, and all their Navy rend:  
For not content the dangers to increase,  
And act the part of tempests in the Seas,  
Like hungry Woolves these Pirates from our shore,  
Whole flocks of sheep, and ravished cattle bore;  
Safely they might on other Nation's prey,  
Fools to provoke the Sovereign of the Sea:  
Mad Cacus so whom like ill fate persuades  
The herd of fair Alcmena's seed invades;  
Who for revenge, and mortals glad relief,  
Sacked the dark cave, and crushed that horrid Thief.  
Moroccoes Monarch wondering at this fact,  
Save that his presence his affairs exact,  
Had come in person to have seen and known  
The injured world's revenger, and his own.  
Hither he sends the chief among his Peers,  
Who in his Bark proportioned Presents bears  
To the renowned for piety and force,  
Poor captives manumised and matchless horse.   

Puerperium.  

YOu Gods that have the power,  
To trouble, and compose  
All that's beneath your bower,  
Calm silence on the Seas, on Earth impose.   

Fair Venus in thy soft arms,  
The God of rage confine,  
For thy whispers are the charms  
Which only can divert his fierce design.   

What though he frown, and to tumult do incline,  
Thou the flame,  
Kindled in his breast canst tame,  
With that snow which unmelted lies on thine?   

Great Goddess give this thy sacred Island rest,  
Make Heaven smile,  
That no storm disturb us, while  
Thy chief care our Halcyon builds her nest.   

Great Gloriana, fair Gloriana,  
Bright as high Heaven is, and fertile as Earth,  
Whose beauty relieves us,  
Whose Royal bed gives us  
Both glory and peace.  
Our present joy, and all our hopes increase.    

Of a Lady who writ in praise of Mira.  
WHile she pretends to make the Graces known  
Of matchless Mira, she reveals her own,  
And when she would another's praise indite,  
Is by her Glass instructed how to write.   

To one married to an old Man.  
SInce thou wouldst needs, bewitched with some ill charms,  
Be buried in those monumental arms:  
All we can wish, is, may that earth lie light  
Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.   

To Flavia Song.  

'tIs not your beauty can engage  
My wary heart:  
The Sun in all his pride and rage,  
Has not that Art;  
And yet he shines as bright as you,  
If brightness could our souls subdue.   

'Tis not the pretty things you say,  
Nor those you write,  
Which can make Thirsis heart your prey:  
For that delight,  
The graces of a well-taught mind,  
In some of our own sex we find.   

No Flavia, 'tis your love I fear,  
Loves surest darts,  
Those which so seldom fail him are  
Headed with hearts;  
Their very shadows makes us yield,  
Dissemble well, and win the field.    

The Fall.  
SEe how the willing earth gave way  
To take th' impression where she lay.  
See how the mould as loath to leave  
So sweet a burden, still doth cleave  
Close to the Nymphs stained garment; here  
The coming Spring would first appear,  
And all this place with Roses strew,  
If busy feet would let them grow;  
Here Venus Smiled to see blind Chance  
Itself, before her son advance,  
And a fair image to present  
Of what the Boy so long had meant:  
'T was such a chance as this made all  
The World into this order fall:  
Thus the first love●s, on the clay  
Of which they were composed lay;  
So in their prime with equal grace  
Met the first patterns of our race:  
Then blush not (fai●) or on him frown,  
Or wonder how you both came down;  
But touch him, and he'll tremble straight,  
How could he then support your weight?  
How could the Youth alas, but bend  
When his whole Heaven upon him leaned?  
If aught by him amiss were done,  
'T was that he let you rise so soon.   

Of Silvia.  

OUr sighs are heard, just Heaven declares  
The sense it has of lovers cares:  
She that so far the rest outshined,  
Silvia the fair whiles she was kind;  
As if her frowns impaired her brow,  
Seems only not unhandsome now:  
So when the sky makes us endure  
A storm, itself becomes obscure.   

Hence 'tis that I conceal my flame,  
Hiding from Flavia's self her name:  
Lest she provoking Heaven should prove  
How it rewards neglected love.  
Better a thousand such as I  
Their grief untold should pine and die;  
Then her bright morning overcast  
With sullen clouds should be defaced.    

The Budd.  

LAtely on yonder swelling bush,  
Big with many a coming Rose,  
This early Bud began to blush,  
And did but half itself disclose;  
I plucked it, though no better grown,  
And now you see how full 'tis blown.   

Still as I did the leaves inspire,  
With such a purple light they shone  
As if they had been made of fire,  
And spreading so, would flame anon:  
All that was meant, by Air or Sun  
To the young flower, my breath has done.   

If our loose breath so much can do,  
What may the same inform's of love,  
Of purest love and music too  
When Flavia it aspires to move:  
When that, which life-less buds persuades  
To wax more soft, her youth invades.    

Upon Ben. Johnson.  
MIrror of Poets, mirror of our age!  
Which her whole face beholding on thy stage,  
Pleased and displeased with her own faults, endures  
A remedy like those whom music cures:  
Thou hast alone those various inclinations  
Which Nature gives to Ages, Sexes, Nations:  
So traced with thy All-resembling Pen  
That what ere custom has imposed on men;  
Or ill got habit, which deforms them so,  
That scarce a Brother can his Brother know,  
Is represented to the wondering eyes  
Of all that see or read thy Comedies:  
Who ever in those Glasses looks, may find  
The spots returned, or graces of his mind:  
And by the help of so divine an Art  
At leisure view and dress his Nobler part.  
Nar●iss●s cozened by that flattering Well,  
Which nothing could but of his beauty tell,  
Had here discovering the deformed estate  
Of his fond mind, preserved himself with hate;  
But Virtue too, as well as Vice, is clad  
In Flesh and Blood so well, that Plato had  
Beheld what his high fancy once embraced  
Virtue with colours, speech, and motion graced:  
The sundry postures of thy copious Muse  
Who would express, a thousand Tongues must use;  
Whose fate's no less peeuliar than thy Art,  
For as thou couldst all characters impart:  
So none could render thine, who still escapes  
Like Proteus in variety of shapes:  
Who was, nor this, nor that, but all we find,  
And all we can imagine in mankind.   

To Mr. George Sands, on his translation of some parts of the Bible.  

HOw bold a work attempts that Pen,  
Which would enrich our vulgar tongue  
With the high raptures of those men,  
Who here with the same spirit sung,  
Wherewith they now assist the Choir  
Of Angels, who their Songs admire?   

whatever these inspired Souls  
Were urged to express did shake,  
The aged deep, and both the Poles;  
Their numerous Thunder could awake  
Dull Earth, which does with Heaven consent  
To all they wrote, and all they meant.   

Say (Sacred Bard) what could bestow  
Courage on thee, to soar so high?  
Tell me (brave Friend) what helped thee so  
To shake of all mortality?  
To light this Torch, thou h●st climbed higher,  
Than he who stole Celestial fire.    

Chlorus and Hilas. Made to a Sarabran.  C●l. 
HIlas, o Hilas, why sit we mute,  
Now that each Bird saluteth the Spring▪  
Wind up the slackened strings of thy Lute,  
Never canst thou want matter to sing:  
For love thy Breast does fill with such a fire,  
That whatsoever is fair, moves thy desire.  Hil. 
Sweetest you know, the sweetest of things,  
Of various flowers the Bees do compose,  
Yet no particular taste it brings  
Of Violet, Woodbine, Pink or Rose:  
So love the result is of all the graces  
Which flow from a thousand several faces.  Chl. 
Hilas, the Birds which chant in this Grove,  
Could we but know the Language they use,  
They would instruct us better in Love,  
●nd reprehend thy inconstant Muse:  
For Love their Breasts does fill with such a fire,  
That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.  Hil. 
Chloris, this change the Birds do approve,  
Which the warm Season hither does bring;  
Time from yourself does further remove  
●ou, than the Winter from the gay Spring:  
She that like lightning shined while her face lasted,  
The Oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.   

Under a Lady's Picture.  
SUch Helen was, and who can blame the Boy  
That in so bright a Flame consumed his Troy?  
But had like Virtue shined in that fair Greek,  
The amorous Shepherd had not dared to seek,  
Or hope for Pity, but with silent moan,  
And better Fate had perished alone.   

In Answer Of Sir John Suckling's Verses.  Pro. 
STay here, fond Youth, and ask no more, be wi●e▪  
Knowing too much, long since lost Paradise.  Con. 
And by your knowledge we should be bereft  
Of all that Paradise which yet is left.  Pro. 
The virtuous joys thou hast, thou wouldst, shoul● still  
Last in their pride, and wouldst not take it ill  
If rudely from sweet dreams, and for a toy  
Thou awaked, he wakes himself that does enjoy.  Con. 
How can the joy or hope which you allow  
Be styled virtuous, and the end not so▪  
Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire●  
'Tis true, He wakes that feels this real fire,  
But to sleep better; for who e'er drinks deep  
Of this Nepenthe, rocks himself asleep.  Pro. 
Fruition adds no new wealth, but destroys,  
And while it pleaseth much, yet still it cloys:  
Who thinks he should be happier made for that  
〈◊〉 reasonably might hope he might grow fat  
By eating to a Surfeit, this once past,  
What relishes? even kisses lose their taste.  Con. 
blessings may be repeated, while they cloy,  
But shall we starve, cause Surfeitings destroy?  
And if fruition did the tas●e impair  
Of Kisses, why should yonder happy pair,  
Whose joys, just Hymen warrants all the night,  
consume the day too in this less delight?  ●ro. 
Urge not 'tis necessary; alas! we know  
The homeliest thing that Mankind does, is so.  
The world is of a large extent we see,  
And must be peopled, Children there must be,  
So must Bread too; but since there are enough  
Born to that drudgery. what need we plough?  Con. 
I need not plough, since what the stooping Hind  
Gets of my pregnant Land, must all be mine:  
But in this nobler Tillage 'tis not so;  
For when Anchises did fair Venus know,  
What interest had poor Vulcan in the Boy,  
Famous Aeneas, or the present joy?  Pr●. 
Women enjoyed, what e'retofore they have been,  
Are like Romances read, or Scenes once seen:  
Fruition dulls, or spoils the Play much more  
Than if one read, or knew the Plot before.  Con. 
Plays and Romances read, and seen, do fall  
In our opinions, yet not seen at all  
Whom would they please? to an Heroic tale,  
Would you not ●●sten, lest it should grow stale?  Pro. 
'Tis expectation makes a blessing dear,  
●●aven were not Heaven, it we knew what it were.  Con. 
If 'twere not Heaven, if we knew what it were,  
● would not be Heaven to those that now are there.  Pro. 
As in Prospects we are there pleased most,  
Where something keeps the eye from being lost,  
And leaves us room to guests; so here restraint,  
●●lds up delight, that with excess would faint.  Con. 
〈◊〉 preserves the pleasure we have got▪ 〈…〉  
〈…〉  
In goodly prospects who contracts the space,  
Or takes not all the bounty of the place?  
We wish removed what standeth in our light  
And nature blame for limiting our sight,  
Where you stand wisely winking that the view  
Of the fair prospect may be always new.  〈◊〉. 
They who know all the wealth they have are po●●  
He's only rich that cannot tell his store.  Con. 
Not he that knows the wealth he has, is poor,  
But he that dares not touch, nor use his store.   

To a Friend of the different success of their Loves.  
THrice happy pair of whom we cannot kno●  
Which first began to love, or loves most now  
Fair course of passion where two Lover's 〈◊〉,  
And run together, 〈…〉  
Successful Youth, whom Love has taught the way  
To be victorious in the first Essay.  
Sure Love's an Art best practised at first,  
And where th'experienced still prosper worst;  
I with a different Fate pursued in vain  
The haughty Calia, till my just disdain  
Of her neglect, above that passion born,  
Did pride to pride oppose, and scorn to scorn,  
Now she relents, but all too late to move  
A heart directed to a Nobler love;  
The scales are turned, her kindness weighs no more,  
Now, than my vows and service did before:  
So in some well wrought hangings you may see  
How Hector leads, and how the Grecians flee;  
●ere the fierce Mars his courage so inspires▪  
●hat with bold hands the Argive Fleet he fires;  
〈…〉 there from Heaven the blue eyed Virgin falls  
●nd frighted Tro● retires within her Walls.  
They that are foremost in that bloody Race  
Turn head anon, and give the Conqueror's chase▪  
So like the chances are of Love and War,  
That they alone in this distinguished are:  
In love the victors from the vanquished fly,  
They fly that wound, and they pursue that die.   

An Apology for having loved before,  

THey that never had the use  
Of the Grapes surprising juice;  
To the first delicious cup,  
All their Reason render up:  
Neither do not care to know,  
Whether it be best or no.  
So they that are to love inclined;  
Swayed by Chance, not Choice or Art,  
To the first that's fair or kind,  
Make a present of their heart▪  
'Tis not she that first we love,  
But whom dying we approve.   

To Man that was i'th' ●evening made,  
Stars gave the first delight;  
Admiring in the gloomy shade,  
Those little drops of light.   

Then at Aurora, whose fair hand  
Removed them from the Skies,  
He gazing toward the 〈◊〉 did stan●▪  
She entertained his Eyes,   

But when the bright Sun did appear,  
All those he can despise,  
His wonder was determined there,  
And could no higher rise;   

He neither might, nor wished to know  
A more refulgent light▪  
For that (as mine your beauties now)  
Employed his utmost sight.    

To Zelinda.  
FAirest piece of well formed Earth,  
Urge not thus your haughty birth:  
The power which you have o'er us lies  
Not in your Race, but in your Eyes:  
None but a Prince's alas that voice  
Confines you to a narr●● choice!  
Should you no Honey vow to taste,  
But what the Master-Bees have placed  
In compass of their Cells, how small  
A portion to your share would fall?  
Nor all appear among those few,  
Worthy the stock from whence they grew?  
The sap which at the Root is bred  
In Trees, through all the Boughs is spread;  
But Virtues which in Parents shine,  
Make not like progress through the Line▪  
'Tis not from whom, but 〈◊〉 we live;  
The place does oft those graces give  
Great Iuli●s on the Mountains bred,  
A Flock perhaps, or Herd, had led,  
He that the world subdued▪ had been  
But the best wrestler on the Green:  
'Tis Art and Knowledge which draw forth  
The hidden Seeds of Native worth;  
They blow those sparks▪ and make them rise  
Into such flames as touch the Skies  
To the old Heroes hence was given  
A Pedigree which reached to Heaven▪  
Of mortal Seed they were not held.  
Which other mortals so excelled▪  
And Beauty too in such excess  
As yours, Zeli●da claims no less.  
Smile but on me; and you shall scorn  
Henceforth to be of Princes born.  
I can describe the shady Grove  
Where your loved Mother slept with jove,  
And yet excuse the faultless Dame,  
Caught with her Spouses shape and name;  
Thy matchless form will credit bring  
To all the wonders I shall sing.   

On Mr. John Fletcher's Plays.  

FLetcher, to thee we do not only owe  
All our good Plays, but all those other too,  
Thy Wit repeated, does support the Stage,  
Credits the last, and entertains this Age,  
No Worthies form'd by any Muse but thine  
Could purchase Robes, to make themselves so fine.  
What brave Commander is not proud to see  
Thy brave Mela●ti●s in his Gallantry.  
Our greatest Ladies love to see their scorn  
Outdone by thine, in what themselves have worn;  
The impatient Widow ere the year be done,  
Sees thy Aspasia weeping in her Gown.   

I never yet the Tragic strain assayed,  
Deterred by that inimitable Maid.  
And when I venture at the Comic stile,  
Thy scornful Lady seems to mock my toil.   

Thus has thy Muse at once improved and marred  
Our sport in Plays by rendering it too hard;  
So when a sort of lusty Shepherds throw,  
The Bar by turns, and none the rest outgo  
So far, but that the best are measuring casts,  
Their emulation, and their pastime lasts;  
But if some brawny Yeoman of the Guard  
Step in and toss the Axletree a yard  
Or more beyond the furthest mark, the rest,  
Despai●●ing stand, their sport is at the best.    

To Chloris.  
CHloris since first our calm of peace  
Was frighted hence, this good we find,  
Your favours with your fears increase,  
And growing mischief's make you kind:  
So the fair Tree which still preserves  
Her Fruit and State, whilst no wind blows,  
In storms from that uprightness swerves,  
And the glad earth about her strews  
With Treasure from her yielding boughs.   

On St. James' Park, as lately improved by His Majesty.  

Of the first Paradise there's nothing found,  
Plants set by Heaven are vanished, & the ground▪  
Yet the description lasts; who knows the ●ate  
Of lines that shall this Paradise relate?  
Instead of River's rolling by the side  
Of Eden's Garden, here flows in the Tide;  
The Sea which always served his Empire, now  
Pays Tribute to our Prince's pleasure too:  
Of famous Cities we the Founders know;  
But Rivers old, as Seas, to which they go,  
Are Nature's bounty; 'tis of more Renown  
To make a River than to build a Town.  
For future shade young Trees upon the banks  
Of the new stream appear in even ranks:  
The voice of Orpheus or Amphion's hand  
In better order could not make them stand;  
May they increase as fast, and spread their boughs,  
As the high Fame of their great Owner grows!  
May he live long enough to see them all  
Dark shadows cast, and as his Place tall.  
Methinks I see the love that shall be made,  
The Lovers walking in that amorous shade,  
The Gallants dancing by the River's side,  
They bathe in Summer, and in Winter slide.  
Methinks I hear the Music in the Boats,  
And the loud Echo which returns the Notes,  
Whilst over head a flock of new sprung Fowl  
Hangs in the Air, and does the Sun control:  
Darkening the Sky they hover o'er, and shroud  
The wanton Sailors with a feathered cloud:  
Beneath a shoal of silver Fishes glides,  
And plays about the gilded Barges sides;  
The Ladies angling in the Crystal Lake,  
Feast on the waters with the pray they take;  
At once victorious with their Lines and Eyes  
They make the Fishes and the Men their prize;  
A thousand Cupids on the Billows ride,  
And Sea-Nymphs enter with the swelling Tide,  
From Thetis sent as Spies to make report,  
And tell the wonders of her Sovetaign's Court,  
All that can living feed the greedy Eye●  
Or dead the palate, here you may desory▪  
The choicest things that furnished Na●h's Ark,  
Or Peter's sheet, inhabiting this Park●●  
All with a border of rieh Fruit-trees or owned,  
Whose loaded-branches hide the lofty mound.  
Such various ways the spacious Allies lead,  
My doubtful Muse knows not what path to tread▪  
●onder the harvest of cold months laid up,  
●ives a fresh boolness to the Royal Cup,  
There Ice, like Crystal, firm, and never lost,  
Tempers hot jusy with December's Frost,  
Winter's dark Prison, whence he cannot fly,  
Though the warm Spring his enemy draws nigh:  
strange! that extremes should thus preserve the snow  
High on the Alps, or in deep Caves below.  
Here a well-polisht Mall gives us the joy  
To see our Prince his matchless force employ;  
His manly posture and his graceful mien  
Vigour and Youth in all his motion seen,  
His shape ●o lovely, and his limbs so strong,  
Confirm our hopes we shall obey him long:  
No sooner has he touched the flying Ball,  
But 〈…〉 more than hals the Mall▪  
And such a fury from his arm has got  
As from a smocking Culverin 'twere shot.   

Near this my Muse, what most delights her, sees,  
A living Gallery of aged Trees;  
Bold Sons of earth that thrust their arms so high,  
As if once more they would invade the Sky;  
In such green Palaces the first Kings reigned,  
Slept in their shades, and Angels entertained:  
With such old Counsellors they did advise,  
And by frequenting sacred Groves grew wise;  
Free from th' impediments of light and noise  
Man thus retired his nobler thoughts employs:  
Here Charles contrives the ordering of his States,  
Here he resolves his neighbouring Princes fates:  
What Nation shall have Peace, where War be made  
Determined is in this oraculous shade;  
The World from India to the frozen North,  
Concerned in what this Solitude brings forth.  
His Fancy objects from his view receives,  
The prospect thought and contemplation gives:  
That seat of Empire here salutes his eye,  
To which three Kingdoms do themselves apply,  
The structure by a Prelate raised, Whitehall,  
Built with the fortune of Rome's Capitol;  
Both disproportioned to the present State  
Of their proud Founders, were approved by Fate;  
From hence he does that antique Pile behold,  
Where Royal heads receive the sacred gold;  
It gives them Crowns, and does their ashes keep;  
There made like gods, like mortals there they sleep  
Making the circle of their Reign complete,  
Those Suns of Empire, where they rise they set:  
When others fell, this standing did presage  
The Crown should triumph over popular rage,  
Hard by that House where all our Ills were shaped,  
Th' auspicious Temple stood, and yet escaped.  
So Snow on Aetna does unmelted lie,  
Whence rolling flames and scattered cinders fly;  
The distant Country in the ruin shares,  
What falls from Heaven the burning Mountain spares.  
Next, that capacious Hall he sees the room,  
Where the whole Nation does for Justice come.  
Under whose large roof flourishes the Gown,  
And Judges grave on high Tribunals frown.  
Here like the people's Pastor he does go,  
His flock subjected to his view below;  
On which reflecting in his mighty mind,  
No private pa●●ion does Indulgence find;  
The pleasures of his Youth suspended are,  
And made a Sacrifice to public care;  
Here free from Court compliances he walks,  
And with himself, his best adviser, talks,  
How peaceful Olive may his Temple's shade,  
For mending Laws, and for restoring Trade;  
Or how his Brows may be with Laurel charged,  
For Nations conquered, and our Bounds enlarged:  
Of ancient Prudence here he ruminates.  
O● rising Kingdoms, and of falling States:  
What ruling Arts gave Great Augustus' Fame,  
And how Alcides purchased such a name:  
His eyes upon his native Palace bend  
Close by, suggest a greater argument,  
〈◊〉 thoughts rise higher when the does restect●  
On what the world may from that Star expect  
Which at his Birth appeared to let us see  
Day for his sake could with the Night agree;  
A Prince on whom 〈◊〉 different lights did smile●  
Born, the divided world to reconcile:  
Whatever Heaven or high extracted blood  
Could promise or foretell, he will make good;  
Refors●● these. Nations and improve them more▪  
Than this fair Park from what it was before.    

To Sir William D'avenant upon his Two fir●● Books of Gondibert, written in ●rance  
THus the wi●e Nightingale that leaves her ho●●  
Her native Wood, when storms and winter 〈◊〉  
Pursuing constantly the cheerful Spring,  
To foreign Groves does her old Music bring;  
The 〈…〉 unstrung▪  
At 〈◊〉, upon the Willows hung▪  
Yours sounds aloud, and tells us you excel  
No less in Cou●●ge, than in Singing well;  
Whilst unconcerned you let your Country know.  
They have impoverished themselves, not you;  
Who with the Muse's help can mock those Fates  
Which threaten Kingdoms, and disorder States.  
So Ovid when from C●sar 's rage he fle●,  
The Roman Muse to Pontus with him led;  
Where he so sung, that we through pity's Glass,  
See Nero milder than Augustus was.  
Hereafter such in thy behalf shall be  
Th'indulgent Censure of Posterity.  
To banish those who with such art can sing,  
●●a rude crime which its own curse does bring:  
age's too come, shall ne'er know how they fought,  
Nor how to Love their present Youth be taught.  
This to thyself. Now to thy matchless Book,  
Wherein those few that can with Judgement look,  
May find old Love in pure fresh Language told,  
Like new stampt-Coin made out of Angel-gold.  
Such truth in Love as th'antique world did know.  
In such a stile 〈◊〉 Courts may boast of now.  
Which no bold tales of Gods or Monsters swell,  
But humane Passions, such as with us dwell.  
Man is thy ●heme, his Virtue or his Rage  
Drawn to the Life in each elaborate Page.  
Mars nor Be●ona are not named here;  
But such a Gondibert as both might fear.  
Venus had here, and Hebe been outshined,  
By the bright Birtha, and thy Rhodalind.  
Such is thy happy skill, and such the odds  
Betwixt thy Worthies and the Grecian gods.  
Whose Deities in vain had here come down  
Where mo●● all Beauty wears the Sovereign Crown  
Such as of flesh composed, by flesh and blood  
(Though not resisted) may be understood.   

To my worthy Friend Mr. Wase, the Translator of Gratius.  

THus by the Music we may know  
When Noble Wits a Hunting go  
Through Groves that on Parnassus grow.   

The Muses all the Chase adorn,  
My Friend on Pegasus is born,  
And young Apollo winds the Horn.  
Having old Gratius in the wind.  
No pack of Critics e'er could find  
Or he know more of his own mind.   

Here Huntsmen with delight may read  
How to choose Dogs for scent or speed,  
And how to change or mend the breed.   

What Arms to use, or Nets to frame,  
Wild Beasts to combat or to tame,  
With all the Mysteries of that game.   

But (worthy Friend) the face of War  
In ancient times does differ ●ar  
From what our fiery battles are.   

Nor is it like (since powder known)  
That man so ●ruel to his own,  
Should spare the race of Beasts alone.   

No quarter now but with the Gun,  
Men wait in Trees from Sun to Sun,  
And all is in a moment done.   

And therefore we expect your next  
Should be no Comment but a Text,  
To tell how modern Beasts are vexed.   

Thus would I further yet engage  
Your gentle Muse to court the age  
With somewhat of your proper rage.   

Since none does more to 〈◊〉 owe,  
Or in more Languages can show  
Those Arts which you so early know.    

To the King, upon His Majesty's happy Return.  

THe rising Sun complies with our weak sight,  
First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light  
At such a distance from our eyes, as though  
He knew what harm his hasty Beams would do.   

But your full MAJESTY at once breaks forth  
In the Meridian of Your Reign, Your Worth,  
Your Youth, and all the splendour of Your State,  
Wrapped up, till now, in clouds of adverse Fate,  
With such a flood of light invade our eyes,  
And our spread hearts with so great joy surprise,  
That, if Your Grace incline that we should live,  
You must not (SIR) too hastily forgive.  
Our guilt preserves us from th' excess of joy,  
Which scatters 〈◊〉, and would life destroy.   

All are obnoxious, and this faulty Land  
Like fainting Hester does before you stand,  
Watching your Sceptre, the revolted Sea  
Trembles to think she did your Foes obey.   

Great Brit●●i●, Like blind Rolipheme, of late  
In a wild r●ge became the scorn and hate  
Of her proud Neighbours, who began to think,  
She, with the weight of her own force would sink  
But You are come, and all their hopes are vain,  
This Giant Isle has got her Eye again;  
Now she might spare the Ocean, and oppose  
Your conduct to the fiercest of her Foes:  
Naked, the Graces guarded you from all  
Dangers abroad, and now your Thunder shall.  
Princes, that saw you, different Passions prove,  
For now they dread the Object of their love;  
Nor without envy can behold His height,  
Whose Conversation was their late delight,  
So Semele contented with the rape  
Of jove disguised in a mortal shape,  
When she beheld his hands with lightning filled,  
and his bright rays, was with amazement killed,  
And though it be our sorrow and our crime  
To have accepted life so long a time  
Without You here, yet does this absence gain  
No small advantage to Your present Reign:  
For, having viewed the persons and the things,  
The Councils, State and Strength of Europe's Kings,  
You know your work; Ambition to restrain,  
And set them bounds, as Heaven does to the Main:  
We have you now with ruling wisdom fraught,  
Not such as Books, but such as Practise taught:  
So the l●st Sun, while least by us enjoyed,  
Is the whole night, for our concern employed:  
He ripens Spices, Fruit, and precious Gums,  
Which from remotest Regions hither comes.  
This seat of Yours, from th' other world removed,  
Had Archimede's known, he might have proved  
His Engines force, fixed here, your power and skill  
Make the world's motion wait upon your will.  
Much suffering Monarch, the first English born,  
That has the Crown of these three Nations worn,  
How has your patience, with the barbarous rage  
Of Your own Soil, contended half an age?  
Till (Your tried Virtue, and Your sacred Word,  
At last preventing Your unwilling Sword)  
Armies and Fleets, which kept You out so long,  
Owned their great Sovereign, and redressed His wron●  
When strait the People, by no force compelled▪  
Nor longer from their inclination held,  
Break forth at once, like Powder let on fire,  
And with a Noble rage their KING require▪   

So th'injured Sea, which from her wont course,  
To gain some Acres, Avarice did force,  
If the new Banks, neglected once, decay,  
No longer will from her old Channel ●tay,  
Raging, the late-got Land the over●●ows,  
And all that's built upon't to ruin goes.   

Offender's now, the chiefe●●, do begin  
To strive for Grace, and expiate their 〈◊〉  
All Winds blow fair, that did the World imbroil,  
Your Viper's Treacle yield, and 〈…〉,   

If then such praise the Macedonian got,  
●or having rudely cut the Gordian knot;  
What Glory's due to him that could divide  
●uch ravelled interests, has the knot untied,  
And without stroke so smooth a passage made,  
Where craft and malice such impeachments laid▪   

But while we praise You, You ascribe it all  
To his high hand, which threw the untouched Wall  
Of self-demolisht jerico so low:  
His Angel 'twas that did before You go,  
Tamed savage hearts, and made affections yield,  
Like Ears of Corn when Wind salutes the Field.   

Thus Patience crowned: like Iob's Your Trouble end▪  
Having your Foes to pardon, and your Friend●:  
For though your Courage were so firm a Rock,  
What private V●rtue could endure the shock?  
Like Your great Master, You the Storm withstood,  
And pitied those who Love with frailty showed.   

Rude Indians torturing all the Royal Race  
Him with the Throne and dear bought Sceptre grace  
〈…〉: what Region could be found,  
Where yo●● heroic Head had not been crowned?   

The next experience of Your mighty mind,  
〈◊〉 how You combat Fortune now she's kind;  
And this way too, You are victorious found,  
●●e flatters with the same success she frowned;  
While to Yourself severe, to others kind,  
With power unbounded, and a will confined,  
Of this vast Empire You possess the care,  
〈◊〉 softer part falls to the People's share:  
●●●ey and equal Government are things  
Which Subjects make as happy as their Kings.   

Faith Law, and Piety, that banished train,  
〈◊〉 and Truth, with You return again:  
〈◊〉 Cities Trade, and Countries easre life  
〈…〉 strife.  
Your Reign no less assures the Ploughman's peace,  
Than the warm Sun advances his increase;  
And does the Shepherds as securely keep  
From all their fears, as they preserve their sheep.   

But above all, the Muse inspired train  
Triumph, and raise their drooping heads again;  
Kind Heaven at once has in Your Person sent  
Their sacred Judge, their Guard, and Argument.   

Nec magis express● vultus per aenea signa  
Quam per val is op●● mores, animique 〈◊〉  
C●rorum apparent—    

To my Lady Morton on New-years-day, 16●0. at the Lovure in Paris.  
Madam,  
NEW-years may well expect to find  
Welcome from you, to whom they are 〈◊〉  
Still as they pass, they court, and smile on you,  
And make your Beauty as themselves seem new.  
To the fair Villars we Dalkith prefer;  
And fairest Morton now as much to her;  
So like the Sun's advance your Titles show;  
Which, as he rises, does the warmer grow.  
But thus to style you fair, your Sex's praise;  
Gives you but Myrtle, who may challenge Bay●▪  
From armed Foes to bring a Royal prize,  
Shows your brave Heart victorious, as your Eyes;  
〈◊〉 judeth marching with the General's head,  
〈◊〉 give us passion when her Story's read,  
What may the living do which brought away;  
Though a less bloody, yet a Nobler prey?  
Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand  
〈◊〉 her fair Charge, the Princess, like a brand,  
●brand preserved to warm some Prince's heart  
〈◊〉 make whole Kingdoms take her Brother's part  
〈◊〉 Venus from prevailing Greeks did shroud  
〈◊〉 hope of Rome, and saved him in a cloud;  
This gallant act may cancel all our rage,  
Begin a better, and absolve this age.  
Dark shades become the Portrait of our time,  
Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Cri●●  
Let him that draws it hide the rest in night,  
This portion only may endure the light,  
Where the kind Nymph changing her faultless shap●  
Becomes unhandsome, handsomely to s●●pe,  
When through the Guards, the River, and the S●●  
Faith, Beauty, Wit and Courage, made their 〈◊〉  
As the brave Eagle does with sorrow see  
The Forest wasted, and that lofty Tree  
Which holds her Nest about to be O'●e thrown  
Before the feathers of her young are grown,  
She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay,  
●ut bears them boldly on her wings away;  
So fled the Dame, and O'er the Ocean bore  
Her Princely burden to the gallic shore.  
Born in the storms of 〈◊〉 this Royal fair,  
Produced 〈…〉,  
Though now she flies her native Isle, less kind,  
●ess safe for her, than either Sea or Wind,  
Shall, when the Blossom of her Beauty's blown,  
See her great Brother on the British Throne,  
Where Peace shall smile, and no dispute arise,  
But which Rules most, his Sceptre, or her Eyes.   

Of a fair Lady playing with a Snake.  
STrange that 〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
〈…〉  
To start at Love, and play with Snakes.  
By this and by her coldness 〈◊〉  
Her Servants have a task too hard,  
The Tyrant has a double guard.  
Thrice happy Snake, that in her sleeve  
May boldly creep, we dare not give  
Our thoughts so unconfined a leave:  
Contented in that Nest of Snow  
He lies, as he his Bliss did know,  
And to the Wood no more would go.  
Take heed, (fair Eve) you do not make  
Another Tempter of this Snake,  
A marble one so warmed would speak.   

To his worthy Friend Master E'velyn, upon his Translation of Lucretius.  
THat Chance and Atoms make this all  
In Order Democratical,  
Where Bodies freely run their course  
Without design, or Fate, or Force.  
In English Verse Lucretins sings  
As if with Pegasean wings,  
He soared beyond our utmost Sphere,  
And other Worlds discovered there;  
His boundless and unruly Wit  
To Nature does no bounds permit;  
But boldly has removed those Bars,  
Of Heaven, and Earth, and Seas, and Stars,  
By which she was before supposed  
By moderate Wits to be enclosed,  
Till his ●ree Muse threw down the Pale,  
And did at once dispark them all.  
So vast this Argument did seem  
That the great Author did esteem  
The Roman Language, which was spread  
●'re the whole world in Triumph led  
Too weak, too narrow to unfold  
The Wonders which he would have told.  
This speaks thy Glory, Noble Friend,  
And British Language does commend;  
For here Lucretius whole we find,  
His Words, his Music, and his Mind,  
Thy Art has to our Co●●try brought  
All that he writ, and all he thought.  
Ovid translated, Virgil too,  
Showed long since what our tongue could do;  
Nor Lucan we, nor Harace spared,  
Only Lucretius was too hard▪  
Lucretius, like a Fort did stand  
Untouched, till your victorious Hand  
Did from his Head this Garland bear.  
Which now upon your own you wear:  
A Garland made of such new Bays,  
And sought in such untrodden ways,  
As no Man's Temples e'er did Crown,  
Save this famed Authors and your own,   

Part of the 4th Book of Virgil 〈◊〉, beginning  

— Talesque miseries 〈◊〉  
Fertquer fertq●e for o●.—   
And ending with▪  
Adnixi torquent spumas & caerula v●rrunt.  

All this her weeping sister does repeat  
To the stern Man, whom nothing could entreat;  
Lost were her Pray is, and fruitless were her Tears,  
Fate and great jove had stopped his gentle Ears.  
As when loud winds a well-grown Oak would rend  
Up by the roots, this way, and that they bend  
His reeling Trunk, and with a boisterous sound  
Scatter his leaves, and strew them on the ground,  
He fixed stands, as deep his root doth ●ie,  
Down to the Centre, as his top is high.  
No less on every side the Hero pressed,  
Feels Love and Pity shake his Noble breast,  
And down his Cheeks though fruitless tears do roll,  
Unmoved remains the purpose of his Soul.  
Then Dido urged with approaching Fate  
Begins the light of cruel Heaven to hate;  
Her resolution to dispatch and die  
Confirmed by many a horrid Prodigy.  
The water consecrate for Sacrisice,  
Appears all black to her amazed eye●,  
The Wine to putrid Blood converted flows,  
Which from her, none, not her own sister knows.  
Besides there stood as sacred to her Lord  
A marble Temple which she much adored,  
With snowy Fleeces and fresh Garlands crowned,  
Hence every night proceeds a dreadful sound.  
Her Husband's voice invites her to his Tomb,  
And dismal Owls presage the ills to come.  
Besides, the Prophecies of Wizards old  
Increased her terror and her fall foretold.  
Scorned and deserted to herself she seems,  
And finds Aeneas cruel in her dreams.  
So, to mad Pentheus, double Thebes appears,  
And Furies howl in his distempered ears,  
Orestes so with like distraction toft,  
Is made to fly his Mother's angry ghost.  
Now grief and fury, at their height arrive,  
Death she decrees, and thus does it contrive▪  
Her grieved Sister with a cheerful grace,  
(Hope well-dislembled shining in her face)  
She thus deceives. (Dear Sister) let us prove  
The Cure I have invented for my Love.  
Beyond the Land of Aethi●pia lies  
The place where Atlas does support the Shies;  
Hence came an old Magician that did keep  
Th' Hesperian Fruit, and made the Dragon sleeps;  
Her potent Charms do troubled Souls relieve,  
And where she lists, makes calmest minds to grieve,  
The course of Rivers or of Heaven can stop.  
And call Trees down from th'airy Mountains 〈◊〉.  
Witness ye Gods, and thou my deatest part,  
How loath I am to tempt this guilty Art.  
Erect a Pile, and on it let us place  
That Bed where I my ruin did embrace.  
With all the relics of our impious Guest,  
Arms, Spoils, and Presents, let the Pil● be 〈◊〉  
(The knowing-woman thus prescribes) that we  
May 〈◊〉 the Man out of our 〈◊〉  
Thus speaks the Queen, but hides the fatal end  
For which she doth those sacred 〈◊〉 pretend.  
Nor worse effects of Grief her Sister thought  
Would 〈…〉 murder wronghs,  
Therefore obeys 〈◊〉, and now 〈◊〉 high  
The 〈◊〉 Oaks 〈…〉  
Hung all with wreaths and 〈◊〉 garlands round;  
So by herself was her own 〈◊〉 〈◊〉.  
Upon the top, the Trojan's Image lies,  
And his sharp Sword where with anon the dies.  
They by the Altar stand, while with loose hair  
The Magic Propheress begins her Prayer,  
On Chaos, E●ebus, and all the Gods,  
Which in the infernal shades have their abodes,  
She loudly calls, besprinkling all the Room  
With drops supposed from L●thes Lake to come,  
She seeks the 〈◊〉 which on the forehead grows  
Of new-foaled Col●● and herbs by moonlight mows.  
A Cake of Leaven in her pions hands  
Holds the devoted Queen, and barefoot stands,  
One tender Foot was bare, the other 〈◊〉,  
Her Robe ungi●● invoking every God,  
And every Power; if any be above  
Which takes 〈…〉 Love  
Now was the ti●e when weary Mortals steep  
The●● careful Temples in the dew of sleep.  
On Seas, on Earth, and all that in them dwell,  
A death like quiet, and deep silence fell,  
But not on Dido, whose untamed mind  
Refused to be by sacred night confined:  
A double passion in her breast does move  
Love and fierce anger for neglected Love.  
Thus she afflicts her Soul, What shall I do?  
With Fate inverted shall I humbly woo?  
And some proud Prince in wild Numidi● born,  
Pray to accept me, and forget my scorn?  
Or shall I, with th' ungrateful Trojan go,  
Quit all my State, and wait upon my Foe?  
Is not enough by sad experience known,  
The perjured Race of false L●oinedon?  
With my Sidoni●●i shall I give them chase?  
Bands hardly for●ed from their native place?  
No, die, and let this Sword thy fury tame,  
Nought but thy blood can quench this guilty flame.  
Ah Sister! vanquished with my passion thou  
Betrayd'st me first, dispensing with my vow.  
Had I been constant to Sycbaeus still,  
And single-lived, I had not known this ill.  
Such thoughts torment the Queen's enraged breast,  
While the Dardanian does securely rest  
In his tall ship for sudden flight prepared,  
To whom once more the Son of jove appeared,  
Thus seems to speak the youthful Deity,  
Voice, Hair, and Colour, all like Mercury.  
Fair 〈◊〉! Canst thou indulge thy sleep?  
Nor better guard in such great danger keep,  
Mad by neglect to lose so fair a wind?  
If here thy ships the purple 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
Thou shalt behold this hostile Harbour shine  
With a new Fleet, and Fire, to ruin thine;  
She meditates Revenge resolved to die,  
Weigh Anchor, quickly, and her Fury fly.  
This said, the God in shades of Night retired.  
Amazed Aeneas with the warning fired,  
Shakes off dull sleep, and rousing up his men,  
Behold! the Gods command our flight again;  
Fall to your Oars, and all your Canvas spread,  
What God soe'er that thus vouchsaf'st to lead,  
We follow gladly, and thy Will obey,  
Assist us still smoothing our happy way,  
And make the rest propitious. With that word  
He cuts the Cable with his shining Sword;  
Through all the Navy doth like Ardour reign,  
They quit the Shore, and rush into the Main;  
Placed on their banks, the lusty Trojans sweep  
Neptune's smooth face, and cleave the yielding deeps.    

Of a War with Spain, and a Fight at Sea.  
Now for some Ages had the pride of Spain  
Made the Sun shine on half the world in vain;  
While she bid War to all that durst supply  
The place of those her cruelty made die.  
Of Nature's bounty men forbore to taste,  
And the best portion of the Earth lay waste.  
From the new world her silver and her gold  
Came, like a Tempest, to confound the old.  
Feeding with these the bribed Elector's hopes,  
Alone she gave us Emperors and Popes;  
With these accomplishing her vast designs,  
Enrope was shaken with her Indian Mines.  
When Britain looking with a just disdain  
Upon this gilded Majesty of Spain,  
And knowing well that Empire must decline,  
Whose chief support and sinews are of coin;  
Our Nations solid virtue did oppose.  
To the rich troublers of the world's repose.  
And now some Months encamping on the Main,  
Our Naval Army had besieged Spain.  
They that the whole world's Monarchy designed,  
Are to their Ports by our bold Fleet confined,  
From whence our Red-cross they triumphant see,  
Riding without a Rival on the Sea.  
Others may use the Ocean as their Road,  
Only the English make it their abode,  
Whose ready Sails, with every wind can fly,  
And make a Covenant with th' unconstant Sky;  
Our Oaks secure, as if they there took root,  
We tread on billows with a steady foot.  
Mean while the Spaniards in America  
Near to the Line the Sun approaching saw,  
And hoped their European Coasts to sinned  
Cleared from our ships by the Autumnal wind:  
Their huge capacious Galleons stuffed with Plate  
The labouring winds drive slowly towards their ●ate.  
Before St. Lucar they their Guns discharge,  
To tell their joy, or to invite a Barge;  
This heard some Ships of ours (though out of view;  
And swift as Eagles to the Quarry ●lew:  
So heedless Lambs which for their Mother's bleat,  
Wake hungry Lions, and become their meat.  
Arrived, they soon begin that Tragic play,  
And with their smoky Cannons banish day;  
Night, Horror, Slaughter, with Confusion meets,  
And in their sable Arms embrace the Fleets.  
Through yielding Planks the angry Bullets, fly,  
And of one wound hundreds together die:  
Born under different stars one Fate they have,  
The Ship their Coffin, and the Sea their Grave.  
Bold were the Men which on the Ocean first  
Spread their new Sails, when shipwreck was the worst;  
Moore danger now from Man alone we find  
Than from the Rocks, the Billows, or the Wind;  
They that had sailed from near th' Antarctic Pole,  
Their Treasure safe, and all their Vessels whole,  
In sight of their dear Country ruin'd be  
Without the guilt of either Rock or Sea.  
What they would spare, our siercer Art destroys,  
Surpassing storms in terror and in noise;  
O●ce jove from Ida, did both Hosts survey,  
And when he pleased to thunder, part the fray;  
Here Heaven in vain that kind retreat should sound,  
The louder Cannon had the Thunder drowned.  
Some we made prize, while others burnt and rend  
With their rich Lading, to the bottom went,  
Down sinks at once (so Fortune with ●s sports)  
The Pay of Armies, and the Pride of Courts.  
Vain man! whose Rage buries as low that store,  
As Avarice had digged for it before;  
What Earth in her dark bowels could not keep  
From greedy hands lies safer in the deep,  
Where Thetis kindly does from Mortals hide  
Those seeds of Luxury, Debate and Pride.  
And now into her Lap the richest prize  
Fell with the noblest of our Enemies,  
The Marquis glad to see the fire destroy  
Wealth, that prevailing Foes were to enjoy,  
Out from his flaming Ship his Children sent  
To perish in a milder Element;  
Then laid him by his burning Ladies side,  
And since he could not save her, with her died.  
Spices and ●ums about them melting fry,  
And Phoenixlike, in that rich Nest they die;  
Alive in flames of equal Love they burned,  
And now together are to ashes turned;  
Ashes more worth than all their funeral cost,  
Than the huge Treasure which was with them lost.  
These dying Lovers, and their floating Sons  
Suspend the Fight, and silence all our Guns▪  
Beauty and Youth about to perish finds  
Such Noble pity in brave English minds,  
That the rich Spoil forgot, their Valour's prize,  
All labour now to save their Enemies.  
How Frail our Passions● how soon changed are  
Our wrath and fury to a friendly Care?  
They that but now for Honour and for Plate  
Made the Sea blush with blood, resign their hate,  
And their young Foes endeavouring to retrieve,  
With greater hazard than they fought, they dive.   

Epitaph to be written under the Latin Inscription upon the Tomb of the Only Son of the Lord, Andover.  
'TIs fit the English Reader should be told  
In our own Language what this Tomb does hold:  
'Tis not a Noble Corpse alone does lie  
Under this Stone, but a whole Family;  
His Parents pious Care, their Name, their Joy,  
And all their Hope, lies bur●ed with this Boy;  
This lovely Youth, for whom we all made moan,  
That knew his worth, as he had been our own.  
Had there been space, and ●ears enough allowed,  
His Courage, Wit, and Breeding, to have showed,  
We had not found in all the numerous Rowl  
Of his famed Anoestors, a greater Soul,  
His early Virtues to that ancient Stock  
Give as much Honour, as from thence he took.  
Like Buds appearing ere the Frosts are past,  
To become Man he made such fatal haste,  
And to perfection laboured so to climb,  
Preventing slow Experience and Time,  
That 'tis no wonder Death our hopes beguiled;  
He's seldom Old, that will not be a Child.   

To the Queen, upon Her Majesty's Birthday, after Her Happy Recovery from a Dangerous Sickness.  

FArewel the Year▪ which threatened so  
The fairest Light the world can show;  
Welcome the New, whose every day  
Restoring what was snatched away  
By pining sickness from the Fair,  
That matchless Beauty does repair  
So fast, that the approaching Spring.  
Which does to Flowery Meadows bring  
What the rude Winter from them 〈◊〉,  
Shall give her all she had 〈◊〉.  
But we recover not so fast  
The sense of such a danger past;  
We that esteemed you sent from Heaven,  
A pattern to this Island given,  
To show us what the Bles●'d do there,  
And what alive they practised here,  
When that which we Immortal thought,  
We saw so near Destruction brought,  
Felt all which you did then endure  
And tremble yet, as not secure;  
So though the Sun victorious be,  
And from a dark Eclipse set free,  
Th'Influence which we fond fear,  
Afflicts our Thoughts the following Year:  
But that which may ●elieve our Care,  
Is that You have a Help so near  
For all the Evils you can prove,  
The Kindness of Your Royal Love:  
He that was never known to Mourn,  
So many Kingdoms from him Torn;  
●is Tears reserved for You, more dear,  
More prized than all those Kingdoms were▪  
For when no healing Art prevailed,  
When Cordials and Elixirs ●aild,  
On your pale Cheek he dropped the shower,  
Revived you like a Dying Flower.   

Nunc itaque & versus & caetera ludiera pono,  
Quid verum, atque decens, curo, & rogo, & omnis in hoc sunt    

Instructions to a PAINTER, For the Drawing of the Posture and Progress of His Majesty's Forces at Sea, under the Command of His Highness-Royal: Together with the Battle and Victory obtained over the DUTCH, june 3. 1665.  
FIrst draw the Sea, that portion which between  
The greater world, and this of ours is seen;  
Here place the British, there the Holland Fleet,  
Vast floating Armies, both prepared to meet:  
Draw the whole world, expecting who sho● 〈◊〉  
●fter this Combat, o'er the conquered Main;  
Make Heaven concerned, and an unusual Star,  
Declare th'Importance of th'approaching War●  
Make the Sea● shine with Gallantry, and all  
The English Youth flock to their Admiral,  
The valiant Duke, whose early Deeds abroad,  
Such Rage in Fight, and Art in conduct showed;  
His bright Sword now a dearer Interest draws,  
Hi● Brothers, Glory, ●nd His Country's Cause.  
Let thy bold Pencil, Hope, and Courage spread  
Through the whole Nav●, by that Hero● led;  
Make all appear, where such a Prince is by,  
Resolved to Conquer, or resolved to Die:  
With His Extraction, and His Glorious mind  
Make the proud Sails swell, more than with the 〈◊〉  
eventing Cannon, make His louder Fame  
〈◊〉 the Batanians, and their Fury tame:  
〈◊〉 Wolves, though greedy of their Prey,  
〈◊〉 When they find a Lion in their way.  
〈◊〉 him bestride the Ocean, and Mankind  
〈◊〉 His Consent, to use the Sea and Wind:  
●hile his tall ships in the barred Channel stand,  
〈◊〉 grasps the Indies in His armed Hand.  
Paint an East-wind, and make it blow away  
〈◊〉 excuse of Holland for their Navies stay;  
●ake them look pale, and the bold Prince to shu●●,  
Through the cold North, and Rocky Regions run;  
●o find the Coast where Morning first appears,  
●y the dark Pole the wary Belgian steers,  
Confessing now, He dreads the English more,  
●han all the dangers of a frozen Shore;  
●hile from our Arms security to find,  
●hey fly so far, they leave the Day behind▪  
Describe their Fleet abandoning the Sea,  
And all their Merchants left a wealthy Prey;  
Our first success in War, make Bacchus' Crown,  
And half the Vintage of the Year our own:  
The Dutch their Wine, and all their Brandy lo●●  
Disarmed of that, from which their Courage grow●  
While the glad Englsh, to relieve their toil,  
In Healths to their great Leader drink the spoil:  
His high Command to Africks' Coast extend,  
And make the Moors before the English bend:  
Those barbarous Pirates willingly receive  
Conditions, such as we are pleased to give;  
Deserted by the Dutch, let Nations know,  
We can our own, and their great business do;  
False Friends chastise, and common Foes restrain,  
Which worse than Tempests did infest the Main.  
Within those straits make Holland's Smirna Fle●●  
With a small Squadron of the English meet;  
Like Falcons these, those like a numerous Flock  
Of Fowl, which scatter to avoid the Shock.  
There paint Confusion in a various shape,  
Some sink, some yield, and flying some escape:  
●●rope and Africa from either shore  
●ectators are, and hear our Cannon roar;  
While the divided world, in this agree,  
Men that Fight so, deserve to rule the Sea.  
●ut nearer home, thy Pencil use once more,  
〈◊〉 place our Navy by the Holland shore;  
The World they compassed while they fought with  
〈◊〉 here already they resign the Main: Spain,  
Those greedy Mariners, out of whose way,  
●issusive Nature could no Region lay,  
●t home preserved, from Rocks and Tempests lie●▪  
Compelled, like others, in their Beds to die;  
Their single Towns th' Iberian Armies pressed,  
We all their Provinces at once invest,  
And in a Month Ruin their Traffic more,  
Than that long War could in an Age before.  
But who can always on the Billows lie?  
The watery Wilderness yields no supply;  
Spreading our Sails, to Harwich we resort,  
And meet the Beauties of the British Court,  
Th'Illustrious Duchess, and her Glorious Train,  
Like Thetis with her Nymphs adorn the Main;  
The gazing Sea-gods, since the Paphian Queen  
Sprung from among them, no such sight had se●  
Charmed with the Graces of a Troop so fair,  
Those deathless Powers for us themselves 〈◊〉  
Resolved the aid of Neptune's Court to bring,  
And help the Nation where such Beauty's sprin●  
The Soldier here his wasted store supplies,  
And takes new Valour from the Lady's Eyes:  
Mean while like Bees when stormy Winter's goo●  
The Dutch (as if the Sea were all their own)  
Desert their Ports, and falling in their way  
●ur Hamburgh Merchants are become their Prey;  
Thus flourish they, before th'approaching Fight,  
As dying Tapers give a blazing Light.  
To check their Pride, our Fleet half victualled goes;  
●nough to serve us till we reach our Foes,  
Who now appear so numerous and bold,  
The Action worthy of our Arms we hold;  
A greater force than that which here we find,  
●●'re pressed the Ocean, nor employed the Wind.  
restrained a while by the unwelcome Night,  
●h' impatient English scarce attend the Light.  
But now the Morning, Heaven severely clear,  
●o the flerce Work Indulgent does appear;  
And Phoeb●s lists above the Waves his Light,  
That he might see, and thus record the Fight:  
As when loud winds from different quarters rush,  
●ast Clouds encountering, one another crush▪  
With swelling Sails, so, from their several Coasts,  
Join the Batavian and the British Hosts.  
For a less Prize, with less Concern and Rage,  
The Roman Fleets at Actium did Engage;  
They for the Empire of the World they knew.  
These for the Old contend, and for the New:  
At the first shock, with Blood and Powder stained  
Nor Heaven, nor Sea, their former face retained;  
Fury and Art produce Effects so strange,  
They trouble Nature, and her Visage change:  
Where burning Ships the banished Sun supply▪  
And no Light shines, but that by which men die▪  
There YORK appears▪ so prodigal▪ is he  
Of Royal Blood as ancient as▪ the Sea▪  
Which down to Him so many Ages told,  
Has through the veins of Mighty Monarches rolled  
The great Achilles marched not to the Field,  
Till Vulcan that impenetrable Shield  
And Arms had wrought, yet there no Bullets flew,  
●ut Shafts and Darts, which the weak Phrygians threw;  
Our bolder Hero on the Deck does stand  
Exposed the Bulwark of his Native Land▪  
Defensive Arms ●aid by, as useless here,  
Where massy Balls the Neighbouring Rocks do tear:  
Some Power unseen those Princes does pro●●ct,  
Who for their Country thus themselves neglect.  
Against Him first Opdam his Squadron leads,  
Proud of his late Success against the suedis,  
Made by that Action, and his high Command,  
Worthy to perish by a Prince's Hand:  
The tall Batavian in a vast Ship rides,  
●aring an Army in her hollow sides,  
●t not inclined the English Ship to board,  
〈…〉, than on his Sword,  
From whence a fatal Volley we received,  
It missed the Duke, but His Great Heart ● grieved;  
Three worthy Persons from His side it tore,  
And died His Garment with their scattered Gore:  
Happy! to whom this glorious death arrives,  
More to be valued ●han a thousand Lives!  
On such a Theatre, as this, to die,  
For such a Cause, and such a Witness by!  
Who would not thus a Sacrifice be made,  
To have his Blood on such an Altar laid?  
The rest about Him struck with horror stood,  
To see their Leader covered o●re with Blood;  
So trembled jacob, when he thought the stains  
Of his Son's Coat had issued from his veins:  
He feels no wound, but in his troubled thought  
Before for Honour, now Revenge He fought,  
His Friends in pieces torn, the bitter News  
Not brought by Fame, with His own Eyes He views;  
〈◊〉 Mind at once reflecting on their Youth,  
Their Worth, their Love, their Valour, and their Truth,  
The joys of Court, their Mothers and their Wives  
To follow Him abandoned, and their Lives.  
He storms, and shoots; but flying Bullets now  
To execute His Rage, appear too slow;  
They miss, or sweep but common Souls away,  
For such a Loss, Opdam his Life must pay:  
Encouraging His Men, He gives the Word,  
With fierce intent that hated Ship to Board,  
And make the guilty Dutch, with His own Arm,  
Wait on His Friends, while yet their Blood is warm:  
His winged Vessel like an Eagle shows,  
When through the Clouds to truss a Swan she goes;  
The Belgian Ship unmoved, like some huge Rock  
Inhabiting the Sea, expects the shock:  
From both the Fleets men's eyes are bend this 〈◊〉  
Neglecting all the business of the day,  
Bullets their flight, and Guns their noise suspend,  
The silent Ocean does th'event attend,  
Which Leader shall the doubtful victory bless,  
And give an earnest of the Wars success;  
When Heaven itself for England to declare,  
Turns Ship, and Men, and Tackle into Air;  
Their new Commander from his Charge is ●o●t,  
Which that young Prince had so unjustly lost,  
Whose great Progenitors with better Fate,  
And better Conduct swayed their Infant State.  
His flight towards Heaven th'aspiring Belgian took▪  
But fell like Phaeton with Thunder struck,  
From vaster hopes than his, he seemed to fall,  
That durst attempt the British Admiral:  
From her Broadsides, a ruder Flame is thrown,  
Than from the fiery Chariot of the Sun;  
That bears the radiant Ensign of the day,  
And she the Flag that Governs in the Sea.  
The Duke ill pleased that Fire should thus prevent  
The work which for His brighter sword He meant,  
Anger still burning in His vallant breast,  
Goes to complete Revenge upon the rest;  
So on the guardless Herd their Keeper slain,  
Rushes a Tiger in the Lybian Plain.  
The Dutch accustomed to the raging Sea,  
And in black Storms the frowns of Heaven to see,  
Never met Tempest which more urged their fears,  
Than that which in the Prince His look appears;  
Fierce, Goodly, Young, Mars he resembles, when  
jove sends him down to scourge perfidious Men,  
Such as with foul Ingratitude have paid  
Both those that Led, and those that gave them Aid;  
Where He gives on, disposing of their Fates,  
Terror and Death on His loud Cannon waits,  
With which He pleads His Brother's Cause so well▪  
He shakes the Throne to which He does appeal;  
The Sea with spoil His angry Bullets strew,  
Widows and Orphans making as they go;  
Before His Ship, fragments of Vessels torn,  
Flags, Arms, And Belgian Carcases are born,  
And his despairing Fo●s to flight inclined▪  
Spread all their Canvas to invite the Wind:  
So the rude Boreas where he lists to blow,  
Makes Clouds above, and Billows fly below▪  
Beating the Shore, and with a boisterous rage  
Does Heaven at once, and Earth, and Sea engage:  
The Dutch elsewhere, did through the watery field  
Perform enough to have made others yield;  
But English Courage growing as they fight,  
In Danger, Noise, and Slaughter takes delight;  
Their bloody Task, unwearied still, they ply,  
Only restrained by Death, or Victory:  
Iron and Lead, from Earth's dark Entrails torn,  
Like showers of Hail from either side are born▪  
So high the Rage of wretched Mortals goes,  
Hurling their Mother's Bowels at their Foes,  
Ingenious to their Ruin, every Age  
Improves the Arts, and Instruments of Rage;  
Death hastening ills Nature enough has sent,  
And yet Men still a thousand more invent.  
But Bacchus now which led the Belgians on  
So fierce at first, to favour us begun;  
Brandee and Wine, their wont Friends, at length  
Render them useless, and betray their strength:  
So Corn in Fields, and in the Garden Flowers,  
Revive, and raise themselves with moderate show●●●;  
But overcharged with never-ceafing Rain,  
Become too moist, and bend their heads again:  
Their reeling Ships on one another fall,  
Without a Foe enough to ruin all:  
Of this Disorder, and the favouring Wind,  
The watchful English such advantage find,  
Ships fraught with Fire among the heap they throw,  
And up the so entangled Belgians blow;  
The Flame invades the Powder-Rooms, and then  
Their Guns shoot Bullets, and their Vessels Men;  
The scorched Batavians on the Billows float,  
Sent from their own to pass in Charon's Boat.  
And now our Royal Admiral, Success  
With all the marks of Victory does bless;  
The burning Ships, the taken, and the slain,  
Proclaim His Triumph o'er the conquered Main:  
Nearer to Holland as their hasty flight  
Carries the noise and tumult of the Fight,  
His Cannons roar, Forerunner of His Fame,  
Makes their Hague tremble, and their Amsterdam▪  
The Eritish Thunder does their House's rock,  
And the Duke seems at every door to knock;  
His dreadful Streamer like a Comets hair  
Threatening Destruction, hastens their Despair,  
Makes them deplore their scattered Fleet as lost▪  
And fear our present Landing on their Coast.  
The trembling Dutch th'approaching 〈◊〉 behold,  
As Sheep a Lion leaping towards their Fold;  
Those Piles which serve them to repel the Main.  
They think too weak His fury to restrain:  
What Wonders may not English Valour work▪  
Led by th'Example of victorious YORK?  
Or what Defence against Him can they make,  
Who at such distance does their Country shake?  
His fatal Hand their Bulwarks will o'erthrow,  
And let in both the Ocean and the Foe:  
Thus cry the People, and their Land to keep,  
Allow our Title to command the Deep,  
Blaming their States ill Conduct to provoke  
Those Arms which freed them from the Spanish yoke.  
Painter, excuse me, if I have a while  
Forgot thy Art, and used another Style;  
For though you draw armed Heroes as they sit,  
The task in Battle does the Muse's ●it;  
They in the dark confusion of a Fight  
Discover all, instruct us how to write,  
And Light and Honour to brave Actions yield,  
Hid in the smoke and tumult of the Field.  
Ages to come shall know that Leaders toil,  
And His Great Name on whom the Muses smile;  
Their Dictates here let thy famed Pencil trace  
And this Relation with thy Colours grace.  
Then draw the Parliament, the Nobles met,  
And our Great Monarch, High above Them set;  
Like young August●s let His Image be,  
Triumphing for that Victory at Sea,  
Where Egypt's Queen, and Eastern Kings o'erthrown,  
Made the possession of the World His own.  
Last draw the Commons at His Royal Feet,  
Pouring out Treasure to supply His Fleet;  
They vow with Lives and Fortunes to maintain  
Their King's Eternal Title to the Main,  
And with a Present to the Duke approve  
His Valour, Conduct, and His Countries Love.   

TO THE KING.  
GREAT SIR, Disdain not in this piece ●o stand  
Supreme Commander both of Sea and Land▪  
Those which inhabit the Celestial Bower,  
P●imers express with Emblems of their Power;  
His Club Al●ides, Phoebus has his Bow,  
jove has his Thunder, and Your Navy You.  
But Your Great Providence no Colours here  
Can Represent; nor Pencil draw that Care  
Which keeps You waking, to secure our Peace,  
The Nation's Glory, and our Trades increase;  
You for these Ends whole days in Council sit,  
And the Diversions of Your Youth forget.  
Small were the worth of Valour and of Force,  
If Your high Wisdom governed not their Course;  
You as the Soul, as the first Mover You  
Vigour and Lif● on every Part bestow,  
How to build Ships, and dreadful Ordinance cast,  
Instruct the Artists, and reward their Haste:  
So jove himself, when Typhon Heaven does brave▪  
Descends to visit Vulcan's smoky Cave,  
Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame  
His Thunder mixed with Terror, Wrath and Flame.  
Had the old Greeks discovered Your abode,  
Crete had not been the Cradle of their God,  
On that small Island they had looked with scorn,  
And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.   

TO A Friend of the AUTHORS, A Person of HONOUR:  
Who lately writ a Religious Book, 
Supposed to be the Lord Berkley of Bethley.  Entitled, Historical Applications, and occasional Meditations upon several Subjects.  
BOld is the Man that dares engage  
For Piety, in such an Age.  
Who can presume to find a Guard  
From Scorn, when Heaven's so little spared?  
Divines are pardoned, they defend  
Altars on which their Lives depend:  
But the Profane impatient are  
When Nobler Pens make this their care.  
For why should these let in a Beam  
Of Divine Light to trouble them▪  
And call in doubt their pleasing Thought,  
That none believes what we are taught?  
High Birth and Fortune warrant give,  
That such Men write what they believe▪  
And feeling first what they indite,  
New credit give to ancient Light.  
Amongst these few our Author brings  
His well-known Pedigree from Kings.  
This Book, the Image of his Mind,  
Will make his Name not hard to find.  
I wish the Throng of Great and Good  
Made it less easily understood.   

To Mr. Henry Laws, who had then newly set a Song of mine in the Year 1635.  
VErse makes Heroic Virtue live,  
But you can Life to Verses give:  
As when in open Air we blow,  
The Breath (though strained) sounds flat and low;  
But if a Trumpet take the blast,  
It lifts it high, and makes it last:  
So in your Airs our Numbers dressed  
Make a shrill sally from the Breast  
Of Nymphs, who singing what we penned,  
Our passions to themselves commend,  
While Love victorious with thy Art  
Governs at once their Voice and Heart;  
You by the help of Tune and Time,  
Can make that Song which was but Rhyme.  
Noy pleading, no man doubts the Cause,  
Or questions Verses set by LAWS.  
As a Church-window thick with Paint,  
Le's in a light but dim and faint;  
So others with Division hide  
The light of Sense, the Poet's pride,  
But you alone may truly boast  
That not a Syllable is lost;  
The Writers and the Setter's skill  
At once the ravished Ears do fill.  
Let those which only warble long,  
And Gargoyle in their Throats a Song,  
Content themselves with VT, RE, MI,  
Let Words and Sense be set by thee.   

Upon Her Majesty's New Buildings at Somerset-House.  

GReat Queen, that does our Island bless,  
With Princes and with Palaces;  
Treated so ill, chased from your Throne,  
Returning, you adorn the Town,  
And with a brave Revenge do show,  
Their Glory went and came with you.  
While Peace from hence, and you were gone  
Your houses in that Storm o'erthrown  
Those wounds which Civil Rage did give,  
●t once you Pardon and Relieve:   

Constant to England in your Love,  
As Birds are to their wont Grove,  
Though by rude hands their Nests are spoiled,  
There, the next Spring again they build:   

Accusing some malignant Star,  
Not Britain, for that fatal War,  
Your Kindness banishes your Fear,  
Resolved to fix for ever here.   

But what new Mine this work supplies?  
Can such a Pile from Ruin rise?  
This like the first Creation shows,  
As if at your Command it rose;   

Frugality, and Bounty too,  
Those differing Virtues meet in you;  
From a confined well-managed Store  
You both employ, and feed the Poor:  
Let Foreign 〈…〉 boast  
The rude 〈…〉 Pride and Cost,  
Of 〈…〉 to which They  
Contribute nothing, but the Pay:   

This, by the Queen herself designed,  
Gives us a pattern of her mind;  
The State and Order does proclaim  
The Genius of that Royal Dame,  
Each part with just proportion graced,  
And all to such advantage placed,  
That the fair View her Window yields,  
The Town, the River, and the Fields  
Entering, Beneath us we descry,  
And wonder how we came so high;  
She needs no weary steps ascend,  
All seems before her feet to bend,  
And here, as She was born, She lies  
High, without taking pains to rise.    

On the Picture of a fair Youth taken after he was dead.  
AS gathered Flowers, whilst their wounds are new,  
Look gay and fresh, as on the stalk they grew,  
Torn from the root that nourist them, a while,  
Not taking notice of their Fate, they smile,  
And in the hand, which rudely plucked them, show  
Fairer than those that to their Autumn grow;  
So Love and Beauty still that Visage grace,  
Death cannot fright them from their wont place  
Alive the hand of crooked Age had marred  
Those lovely Features, which cold death has spared  
No wonder then—  
The rest is lost.   

Epigram upon the Golden Medal.  
OUR Guard upon the Royal side,  
On the Reverse, Our Beauty's pride  
Here we discern, the Frown and Smile,  
The Force and Glory of Our Isle;  
In the rich Medal both so like  
Immortals stand, it seems Antique,  
Carved by some Master, when the bold  
Greeks made their jove descend in Gold,  
And Danae wondering at that shower,  
Which falling, stormed her brazen Tower;  
Britannia there, the Fort in vain  
Had battered been with Golden Rain;  
Thunder itself had failed to pass,  
virtue's a stronger Guard than Brass.   

Of a Tree cut in Paper.  
FAir Hand that can on Virgin-paper write,  
Yet from the stain of Ink preserve it white,  
Whose travel o'er that Silver Field does show,  
Like tract of Leverets in morning Snow;  
Love's Image thus in purest minds is wrought,  
Without a spot or blemish to the thought;  
Strange that your Fingers should the Pencil foil  
Without the help of Colours, or of Oil;  
For though a Painter Boughs and Leaves can make,  
'Tis you alone can make them bend and shake,  
Whose Breath salutes your new created Grove  
Like Southern winds, and makes it gently move;  
Orpheus could make the Forest dance, but you  
Can make the Motion and the Forest too.   

To a Lady from whom he received the foregoing Copy which for many years had been lost.  

NOthing lies hid from radiant Eyes,  
All they subdue become their Spies:  
Secrets, as choicest Jewels are  
Presented to oblige the Fair,  
No wonder then, that a lost thought  
Should there be found, where Souls are caught.   

The Picture of fair Venus, That,  
For which, men say, The Goddess sat,  
Was lost, till Lily from your Look,  
Again that Glorious Image took;   

If virtue's self were lost, we might  
From your fair Mind new Copies write:  
All things, but one, you can restore,  
The Heart you get returns no more.    

The Night-piece, or a Picture drawn in the dark.  

DArkness, which fairest Nymphs disarms,  
Defends us ill from Mira's Charms;  
Mira can lay her Beauty by,  
Take no advantage of the Eye,  
Quit all that lily's Art can take,  
And yet a thousand Captives make;   

Her Speech is graced with sweeter Sound,  
Than in another's Song is found,  
And all her well-placed words are Darts,  
Which need no Light to reach our Hearts.   

As the bright Stars and milky way,  
Showed by the Night, are hid by Day;  
So we in that accomplished Mind,  
Helped by the Night, new Graces find,  
Which by the splendour of her view  
Dazzled before we never knew;   

While we converse with her, we mark  
No want of Day, nor think it dark;  
Her shining Image is a light  
Fixed in our hearts, and conquers Night;   

Like Jewels to advantage set,  
Her Beauty by the shade does get;  
There, Blushes, Frowns, and cold Disdain,  
All, that our Passion might restrain  
Is hid, and our Indulgent mind  
Presents the fair Idea kind.   

Yet friended by the Night, we dare,  
Only in whispers, tell our Care;  
He that on her his bold hand lays  
With Cupid's pointed Arrows plays,  
They, with a touch, they are so keen,  
Wound us unshot, and She unseen;   

All near approaches threaten Death,  
We may be shipwrackt by her Breath.  
Love favoured once, with that sweet Gale,  
Doubles his Haste, and fills his Sail,  
Till he arrive, where she must prove  
The Haven, or the Rock, of Love;   

So we th' Arabian Coast do know,  
At distance, when the Spices blow,  
By the rich Odour taught to steer,  
Though neither Day, nor Stars appear.    

Of English Verse.  

POets may boast [as safely-Vain]  
Their work shall with the world remain:  
Both bound together, live, or die,  
The Verses and the Prophecy.   

But who can hope his Lines should long  
Last in a daily-changing Tongue?  
While they are new, Envy prevails,  
And as that dies, our Language fails.   

When Architects have done their part,  
The Matter may betray their Art;  
Time, if we use ill-chosen Stone,  
Soon brings a well-built Palace down.   

Poets that lasting Marble seek,  
Must carve in Latin or in Greek;  
We write in Sand, our Language grows,  
And like the Tide our work overflows.   

Chaucer his Sense can only boast,  
The glory of his Numbers lost,  
Years have defaced his matchless strain;  
And yet he did not sing in vain;   

The Beauties which adorned that Age,  
The shining Subjects of his Rage,  
Hoping they should Immortal prove,  
Rewarded with success his Love.   

This was the generous Poet's scope,  
And all an English Pen can hope  
To make the Fair approve his Flame,  
That can so far extend their Fame.   

Verse thus designed has no ill Fate,  
If it arrive but at the Date  
Of fading Beauty, if it prove  
But as long-lived as present Love.    

Sung by Mrs. Knight, to Her Majesty on Her Birthday.  
THis happy day two Lights are seen,  
A Glorious Saint, a Matchless Queen;  
Both named alike, both Crowned appear,  
The Saint above, th' Infanta here:  
May all those years which Catherine  
The Martyr did for Heaven resign,  
Be added to the Line  
Of Your blessed Life amongst us here.  
For all the pains that She did feel,  
And all the Torments of Her Wheel:  
May You as many Pleasure's share;  
May Heaven itself content  
With Catherine the Saint.  
Without appearing old,  
An hundred times may You,  
With Eyes as bright as now  
This welcome Day behold.   

To his Worthy Friend Sir Thomas higgon's, upon his Translation of the Venetian Triumph.  
THE winged Lion's not so fierce in ●ight  
As Liber's hand presents him to our Sight,  
Nor would his Pencil make him half so fierce,  
Or roar so loud as Businello's Verse;  
But your Translation does all three excel,  
The Fight, the Piece, and lofty Businel:  
As their small Galleys may not hold compare  
With our tall Ships, whose Sails employ more Air▪  
So does th' Italian to your Genius veil,  
Moved with a fuller and a nobler Gale:  
Thus while your Muse spreads the Venetian story,  
You make all Europe emulate her Glory:  
You make them blush, weak Venice should defen●  
The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend▪  
Shed Christian Blood, and populous Cities raze,  
Because the'yre taught to use some different Phrase.  
〈◊〉 listening to your Charms we could our Jars  
Compose, and on the Turk discharge these Wars▪  
Our British Arms the sacred Tomb might wrest  
From Pagan hands, and Triumph o'er the 〈◊〉:  
And then you might our own high Deeds recite,  
And with great Tasso celebrate the Fight.   

Epitaph.  
HEre lies Charles Candish: let the Marble Stone  
That hides his Ashes, make his Virtue known:  
beauty and Valour did his short Life grace,  
●he Grief and Glory of his Noble Race:  
●arly abroad he did the World survey,  
●s if He knew he had not long to stay;  
Saw what Great Alex●nder in the East,  
And mighty Julius conquered in the West;  
Then with a Mind, as great as theirs, he came  
To find at home occasion for his Fame;  
Where dark Confusion did the Nations hide,  
And where the Juster was the we●ker side  
Two Loyal Brothers took their Sovereign's part;  
Employed their Wealth, their Courage, and their Art▪  
The Elder did whole Regiments afford,  
The Younger brought his Conduct and his Sword;  
Born to Command, a Leader he begon,  
And on the Rebel's lasting Honour won:  
The Horse instructed by their General's worth,  
Still made the King victories in the North;  
Where Candish fought, the Royalists prevailed,  
Neither his Courage nor his Judgement failed;  
The Current of his Victories found no stop;  
Till Cromwell came, his Parties chiefest prop▪  
Equal success had set these Champions high,  
And both resolved to Conquer, or to Die:  
Virtue with Rage, Fury with Valour ●●rove;  
But that must fall which is decreed Above.  
Cromwell, with odds of Number, and of Fate,  
Removed this Bulwark of the Church and State;  
Which the sad Issue of the War declared,  
And made his Task to ruin both less hard:  
So when the Bank neglected is o'erthrown,  
The boundless Torrent doth the Country drown.  
Thus fell the Young, the Lovely, and the Brave,  
Strew Bays and Flowera on his honoured Grave.   

Of Her Royal Highness Mother to the Prince of Orange, and of Her Portrait written by the late Duchess of York while She lived with Her.  
HEroick Nymph, in Tempests the Support,  
In Peace the Glory of the British Court,  
Into whose Arms the Church, the State, and all  
That precious is, or Sacred here, did fall.  
Ages to come, that shall your Bounty hear,  
Will think you Mistress of the Indies were:  
Tho' straighter Bounds your Fortune did confine,  
In your large Heart was found a wealthy Mine;  
Like the blessed Oil, the Widow's lasting Feast,  
Your Treasure, as you poured it out, increased.  
While some your Beauty, some your Bounty sing,  
Your native Isle does with your Praises ring:  
But above all, a Nymph of your own Train,  
Gives us your Character in such a strain,  
As none but She, who in that Court did dwell,  
Could know such Worth, or Worth describe so well:  
So while we Mortals here at Heaven do guests,  
And more our Weakness than the Place express;  
Some Angel, a Domestic there, comes down,  
And tells the Wonders he hath seen and known.   

To the Duchess of Orleans, when She was taking Leave of the Court at Dover.  
THat Sun of Beauty did among us rise,  
England first saw the Light of your fair Eyes;  
In English too your early Wit was shown;  
Favour that Language which was then your own,  
When, though a Child, through Guards you made your way,  
What Fleet or Army could an Angel stay?  
Thrice happy Britain! If she could retain  
Whom she first bred within her ambient Main.  
Our late-burnt London in Apparel new  
Shook off her Ashes to have treated you;  
But we must see our Glory snatched away,  
And with warm Tears increase the guilty Se●:  
No Wind can favour us; how e'er it blows,  
We must be wrecked, and our dear Treasure lose  
Sighs will not let us half our Sorrows tell;  
Fair, Lovely, Great, and best of Nymphs, Farewell▪   

Written on a Card that Her Majesty tore at Ombra.  
THE Cards you ●are in Value rise,  
So do the Wounded by your Eyes:  
Who to Celestial things aspire,  
Are by that Passion raised the higher.   

To the Duchess, when he presented this Book to Her Royal Highness.  
Madam,  
I Here present you with the Rage,  
And with the Beauties of a former Age;  
Wishing you may with as great Pleasure view  
This, as we take in Gazing upon you:  
Thus we writ then, your brighter Eyes inspire,  
Anobler Flame, and raise our ●●nius higher:  
While we your Wit and early Knowledge fear,  
To our Productions we become severe;  
Your matchless Beauty gives our Fancy wing▪  
Your Judgement makes us careful how we sing.  
●ines not composed, as heretofore, in haste,  
polished, like Marble, shall like Marble last;  
And make you through as many Ages shine,  
As Tasso has the Hero's of your Line:  
Tho' other Names our wary Writers use,  
You are the Subject of the British Muse,  
Dilating Mischief to yourself unknown,  
Men write, and die, of Wounds they dare not own;  
So the bright Sun burns all our Grass away,  
While it means nothing but to give us Day.   

These Verses were writ in the Tasso of Her Royal Highness.  
TAsso knew how the fairer Sex to Grace,  
But in no One, durst all Perfection place:  
In Her alone, that owns this Book, is seen,  
Clorinda's Spirit, and her lofty Mien,  
Sophronia's Piety, Erminia's Truth,  
Armida's Charms, her Beauty, and her Youth.  
Our Princes here, as in a Glass, does dress  
Her well-taught Mind, and every Grace express:  
More to our Wonder, than Rinaldo fought,  
The Hero's Race excels the Poet's Thought,   

Upon our late Loss of the Duke of Cambridge.  
THE failing Blossoms which a young Plant bears,  
Engage our Hope for the succeeding Years:  
And Hope is all which Art or Nature brings  
At the first Trial to accomplish things.  
Mankind was first created an Essay,  
That ruder draft the Deluge washed away:  
How many Ages past, what Blood and Toil  
Before we made one Kingdom of this Isle?  
How long in vain had Nature strived to frame  
A perfect Princess ere her Highness came?  
For Joys so great we must with patience wait,  
'Tis the set-price of Happiness complete.  
As a First-fruit Heaven claimed that lovely Boy,  
The Next shall live, and be the Nation's Joy.   

Translated out of Spanish.  
Tho' we may seem importunate,  
While your Compassion we implore;  
They whom you make too Fortunate,  
May with Presumption vex you more.   

Of the Lady Mary, etc.  
AS once the Lion Honey gave,  
Out of the strong such sweetness came;  
A Royal Hero no less brave,  
Produced this sweet, this lovely Dame:  
To her the Prince that did oppose  
Such mighty Armies in the Field,  
And Holland from prevailing Foes  
Could so well free, himself does yield:  
Not Belgia's Fleet (his high Command)  
Which Triumphs where the Sun does rise,  
Nor all the Force he leads by Land,  
Could guard him from her conquering Eyes.  
Orange with Youth, Experience has;  
In Action young, in Council old:  
Orange is what Augustus was,  
Brave, Wary, Provident, and Bold:  
On that fair Tree, which bears his Name,  
Blossoms and Fruit at once are found;  
In him we all admire the same,  
His flowery Youth with wisdom Crowned.  
Empire and Freedom Reconciled,  
In Holland are by Great Nassaw;  
Like those he sprung from, Just and Mild,  
To willing People he gives Law.  
Thrice Happy Pair! so Near Allied,  
In Royal Blood, and Virtue too;  
Now Love has you together tied,  
May none this Triple knot undo.  
The Church shall be the happy place,  
Where streams which from the same source run,  
Tho' divers Lands awhile they grace,  
Unite again and are made one.  
A thousand thanks the Nation owes  
To him that does protect us all;  
For while he thus his Niece bestows,  
About our Isle he builds a Wall;  
A Wall like that which Athens had,  
By th'Oracles advice, of wood:  
Had theirs been such as Charles has made,  
That mighty State till now had stood.   

To the Servant of a Fair Lady. This Copy of Verses being omitted in the former Edition.  
FAir Fellow-Servant, may your gentle Ear  
Prove more propitious to my slighted care,  
Than the bright Dames we serve; for her Relief  
(Vexed with the long expressions of my Grief)  
Receive these Plaints; nor will her high disdain  
Forbid my humble Muse to court her Train:  
Thy skilful hand contributes to our Woe,  
And whets those Arrows which confound us so.  
A thousand Cupids in those Curls do sit,  
Those curious Nets thy slender Fingers knit:  
The Graces put not more exactly on  
Th'attire of Venus, when the Ball she won,  
Than that young Beauty by thy care is dressed,  
When all our Youth prefers her to the rest.  
You the soft Season know, when best her Mind  
May be to Pity or to Love inclined;  
In some well-chosen hour supply his ●ear,  
Whose hopeless Love durst never tempt the Ear  
Of that 〈◊〉 Goddess: you (her Priest) declar●  
What offerings may propitiate the Fair,  
Rich Orient Pearl, bright Stones that ne'er decay,  
Or polished Lines which longer last than they:  
For if I thought she took delight in those,  
To where the cheerful Morn does first disclose;  
(The shady Night removing with her Beams)  
Winged with bold Love, I'd fly to fetch such gems▪  
But since her Eyes, her Teeth, her Lip excels,  
All that is found in Mines or Fishes shells;  
Her Nobler part as far exceeding these,  
None but Immortal gifts her Mind should please:  
The shining Jewels Greece, and Troy bestowed  
On Spar●an's Queen, her lovely Neck did load,  
And snowy 〈◊〉 ●ut when the Town was burned,  
Those fading 〈◊〉 were to Ashes turned▪  
Her Beauty too had perisho and her Fame,  
Had not the 〈…〉 from the Flame.   

Upon the Earl of Roscommon's Translation of Horace De Arte Poetica: And of the Use of Poetry.  
Room was not better by her Horace taught,  
Than we are here to comprehend his thought▪  
The Poet writ to Noble Piso there,  
A Noble Piso does instruct us here,  
Gives us a pattern in his flowing Style,  
And with rich Precepts does oblige our Isle;  
Britain, whose Genius is in Verse expressed  
●old and Sublime, but negligently dressed.  
Horace will our superfluous Branches 〈◊〉  
Give us new Rules, and set our Harp in tune;  
Direct us how to back the winged Horse,  
Favour his flight, and moderate his force.  
Tho' Poets may of Inspiration boast;  
Their Rage ill governed, in the Clouds is lost.  
He that proportioned wonders can disclose,  
At once his Fancy and his Judgement shows.  
Chaste moral writing we may learn from hence;  
Neglect of which no Wit can recompense:  
The Fountain which from Helicon proceeds,  
That sacred stream should never water weeds;  
Nor make the Crop of thorns and thistles grow,  
Which Envy or perverted Nature sow.  
Well sounding Verses are the Charm we use,  
Heroic Thoughts, and Virtue to infuse;  
Things of deep sense we may in Prose unfold,  
But they move more, in lofty Numbers told;  
By the loud Trumpet, which our Courage aids,  
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades.  
The Muse's Friend unto himself severe;  
With silen● pity looks on all that E●r;  
But where a brave, a public Action shines;  
That he rewards with his Immortal Lines.  
Whether it be in Council or in Fight;  
His Country's Honour is his chief delight:  
Praise of great Acts he scatters, as a seed,  
Which may the like, in coming Ages breed.  
Here taught the fate of Verses, always prized  
With admiration, or as much despised;  
Men will be less indulgent to their Faults,  
And patience have so cultivate their thoughts:  
Poets lo●e hal● the praise they should have got,  
Could it be known what they discreetly blot:  
Finding new Words, that to the Ravished Ear  
May like the Language of the Gods appear;  
Such as of old, wife Bards employed, to make  
Unpolisht Men their wild Retreats forsake;  
Law giving Heroes, famed for taming Brutes,  
And raising Cities with their charming Lutes:  
For rudest minds with Harmony were caught,  
And civil Life was by the Muses taught.  
So wand'ring Bees would perish in the Air,  
Did not a sound proportioned to their Ear,  
Appease their Rage, invite them to the Hive,  
Unite their Force, and teach them how to thrive,  
To rob the Flowers, and to forbear the Spoil;  
Preserved in Winter by their Summer's Toil,  
They give us Food, which may with Nectar vie,  
And Wax, that does the absent Sun supply.   

Epitaph on Sir George Speke.  
UNder this Stone lies Virtue, Youth,  
Unblemished Probity and Truth:  
Just unto all Relations known,  
A worthy Patriot, Pious Son.  
Whom Neib ouring Towns so often sent,  
To give their Sense in Parliament;  
With Lives and Fortunes trusting one,  
Who so discreetly used his own.  
Sober he was, Wise, Temperate;  
Contented with an Old Estate,  
Which no soul A varice did increase,  
Nor Wanton Luxury make less.  
While yet but Young, his Father died,  
And left him to an happy Guide:  
Not Lemuel's Mother with more care  
Did counsel or instruct her Heir;  
Or teach with more success her Son  
The Vices of the Time to shun.  
An Heiress she, while yet alive,  
All that was here's to him did give:  
And he just Gratitude did show  
To one that had obliged him so;  
Nothing too much for her he thought,  
By whom he was so bred and taught;  
So early made that path to tread,  
Which did his Youth to Honour lead.  
His short Life did a P●ttern give,  
How Neighbours, Husbands, Friends should live.  
The Virtue of a private Life  
Exceed the glorious Noise and Strife  
Of Battles won; in th●se we find  
The solid Increst of Mankind.  
Approved by all, and loved so well,  
Tho' Young, like Fru● that ripe, he fell.   

Of Her Majesty on New-year's Day, 1683.  

WHat Revolutions in the World have been,  
How are we changed, since first we saw the Queen?  
She, like the Sun, does still the same appear,  
Bright as She was at her Arrival here:  
Time has Commission Mortals to impair,  
But things Celestial is obliged to spare.   

May every New-year find her still the same,  
In Health and Beauty as She hither came;  
When Lords and Commons with united Voice,  
Th' Infanta named, approved the Royal Choice:  
First of our Queens, whom not the King alone,  
But the whole Nation lifted to the Throne.   

With like Consent, and like Desert was crowned  
The Glorious Prince, that does the Turk confound.  
Victorious both; his Conduct wins the day,  
And her Example chases Vice away.  
Tho' louder Fame attend the Martial Rage;  
'Tis greater Glory to Reform the Age.    

A Presage of the Ruin of the Turkish Empire, Presented to His Majesty on His Birthday.  

SInce JAMES the Second graced the British Throne,  
Truce well observed has been infringed by none.  
Christians to him their present Union owe,  
And late Success against the Common Foe:  
While Neighbouring Princes, loathed to urge their Fate,  
Court his Assistance, and suspend their Hate.  
So angry Bulls the Combat do forbear,  
When from the Wood a Lion does appear.  
This happy day Peace to our Island sent,  
As now he gives it to the Continent.  
● Prince more fit for such a Glorious task  
Than England's King, from Heaven we cannot ask:  
●e Great and Good, proportioned to the Work,  
Their ill-drawn Swords shall turn against the Turk.   

Such Kings, like Stars, with influence unconfined,  
●●ine with Aspect propitious to Mankind;  
●avour the Innocent, repress the Bold,  
●ndwhile they flourish, make an Age of Gold.  
Bred in the Camp, famed for his Valour young,  
At Sea successful, vigorous and strong;  
His Fleet, His Army, and His mighty Mind  
Esteem and Reverence through the World do find▪  
A Prince with such advantages as these,  
Where He persuades not, may command a Peace▪  
Britain declaring for the juster side,  
The most Ambitious will forget their Pride;  
They that complain, will their endeavours cease,  
Advised by Him incline to present Peace;  
Join to the Turks destruction, and then bring  
All their Pretences to so just a King.   

If the successful Troublers of Mankind,  
With Laurel crowned, so great Applause do find;  
Shall the vexed World less Honour yield to those  
That stop their Progress, and their Rage oppose▪  
Next to that Power, which does the Ocean ●w,  
Is to set Bounds, and give Ambition Law.   

The British Monarch shall the Glory have,  
That famous Greece remains no longer Slave;  
That source of Art and cultivated Thought,  
Which they to Rome, and Romans hither brought.   

The banished Muses shall no longer mourn;  
But may with Liberty to Greece return:  
Tho' Slaves, (like Birds that sing not in a Cage)  
They lost their Genius and Poetic Rage;  
Homer's again, and Pinda●s may be found,  
And his great Actions with their numbers crowned.   

The Turk's vast Empire does united stand;  
Christians divided under the Command  
Of jarring Princes, would be soon undone,  
Did not this Hero make their Interest one;  
Peace to embrace, ruin the Common Foe,  
Exalt the Cross, and lay the Croissant low.   

Thus may the Gospel to the rising Sun  
Be spread, and flourish where it first begun;  
And this great day, so justly honoured here,  
Known to the East, and celebrated there.   
Haec Ego longaevus cecini tibi m●xime Regum:  
Ausus & ipse m●nu juvenum tentare laborem.  Virgil.  

OF Divine Love.  

6. CANTO'S.  
ASserting the Authority of the Scripture, in which this Love is revealed.  
The Preference and Love of God to Man in the Creation.  
The same Love more amply declared in our Redemption.  
How necessary this Love is to reform Mankind, and how excellent in itself.  
Showing h●w happy the World would be if this Love were universally embraced.  
Of preserving this Love in our memory, and how useful the Contemplation thereof is.   

CANTO I.  
THe Grecian Muse has all their Gods survived▪  
Nor jove at us, nor Phoebus is arrived;  
Frail Deities, which first the Poets made,  
And then invoked, to give their Fancies aid!  
Yet if they still divert us with their Rage,  
What may be hoped for in a better Age?  
When not from Helicon's imagined Spring,  
But sacred Writ, we borrow what we Sing:  
This with the Fabric of the World begun,  
Elder than Light, and shall outlast the Sun.  
Before this Oracle (like Dagon) all  
The false Pretenders, Delphos, Hammon, fall;  
Long since despised, and silent they afford  
Honour and Triumph to th' Eternal Word.  
As late Philosophy our Globe has graced,  
And rolling Earth among the Planets placed;  
So has this Book entitled us to Heaven,  
And Rules to guide us to that Mansion giv●n:  
Tells the conditions, how our Peace was made▪  
And is our Pledge for the great Author's aid▪  
His Power in Nature's ampler Book we find;  
But the less Volume does express his mind.  
This Light unknown, bold Epicurus taught▪  
That his blessed Gods vouchsafe us not a thought;  
But unconcerned, let all below them slide,  
As Fortune does, or humane Wisdom, guide▪  
Religion thus removed, the sacred Yoke,  
And Band of all Society is broke:  
What use of Oaths, of Promise, or of Test▪  
Where Men regard no God but Interest?  
What endless War would jealous Nations tear,  
●f none above did witness what they swear?  
Sad Fate of Unbelievers, (and yet just)  
Among themselves to find so little trust!  
Were Scripture silent, Nature would proclaim,  
Without a God, our falsehood and our shame.  
To know our Thoughts, the Object of his Eyes,  
Is the first step towards being good, or wise;  
For though with Judgement we on things reflect,  
Our Will determines, not our Intellect:  
Slaves to their Passion, Reason men employ  
Only to compass what they would enjoy;  
His fear, to guard us from ourselves, we need,  
And sacred Writ our Reason does exceed.  
For the Heaven shows the Glory of the Lord,  
Yet something shines more Glorious in his Word;  
His mercy this (which all his work excels)  
His tender kindness, and compassion tells:  
While we informed by that Celestial Book,  
Into the Bowels of our Maker look.  
Love there revealed, which never shall have end,  
Nor had beginning, shall our Song commend;  
Describe itself, and warm us 〈◊〉 that flame,  
Which first from Heaven, to make us Happy, came.   

CANTO II.  
THE fear of Hell, or aiming to be Blest,  
Savours too much of private Interest;  
This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul,  
Who for their Friends abandoned Soul and all:  
A greater yet, from Heaven to Hell descends.  
To save, and make his Enemies his Friends▪  
What line of Praise can fathom such a Love,  
Which reached the lowest bottom from above?  
The Royal Prophet, that extended Grace  
From Heaven to earth, measured but half that space:  
The Law was regnant, and confined his thought▪  
●ell was not conquered, when that Poet 〈◊〉▪  
Heaven was ●earce heard of, until be came down  
To make the Region, where Love triumphs, known▪  
That early Love of Creatures yet unmade,  
To ●●ame the World th'Almighty did persuade:  
For Love it was, that first created Light,  
Moved on the Waters, cha●'d away the Night  
From the rude Chaos, and bestowed new Grace  
On things disposed of to their proper place;  
Some to rest here, and some to shine above:  
Earth, Sea, and Heaven, were all th'Effects of Love▪  
And Love would be returned; but there was none▪  
That to themselves, or others yet were known:  
The World a Palace was, without a Guest,  
Till one appears, that must excel she rest;  
One, like the Author, whose Capacious mind  
Might by the Glorious Work, the Maker find;  
Might measure Heaven, and give each Star a name▪  
With Art and Courage the rough 〈…〉;  
Over the Globe, with swelling Sails might go,  
And that 'tis round, by his experience know;  
Make strongest Beasts obedient to his Will,  
And serve his use the fertile Earth to Till.  
When by his Word, God had accomplished all;  
Man to Create, he did a Council call;  
Employed his Hand, to give the Dust he took  
A graceful Figure, and Majestic Look;  
With his own Breath, conveyed into his Breast  
Life and a Soul fit to command the rest,  
Worthy alone to Celebrate his Name  
For such a Gift, and tell from whence it came:  
Birds sing his Praises, in a wilder Note,  
But not with lasting numbers, and with thought,  
Man's great Prerogative. But above all  
His Grace abounds, in his new Favourites fall.  
If he Create, it is a World he makes;  
●f he be ang'ry, the Creation shakes:  
From his just wrath our guilty Parents fled;  
He cursed the Earth, but bruised the Serpent's head.  
Amidst the Storm, his Bounty did exceed,  
In the rich promise of the Virgin's seed;  
Tho' Justice death as satisfaction craves,  
Love finds a way to pluck us from our Graves.   

CANTO III.  
NOT willing Terror should his Image move,  
He giveth a Pattern of Eternal Love;  
His Son descends, to treat a Peace with those,  
Which were, and must have ever been his Foes;  
Poor he became, and left his Glorious Seat,  
To make us humble, and to make us great;  
His business here was happiness to give  
To those, whose Malice could not let him live:  
Legions of Angels, which he might have used,  
For us resolved to perish, he refused▪  
While they stood ready to prevent his Loss,  
Love took him up, and nailed him to the Cross▪  
Immortal Love! which in his Bowels reigned,  
That we might be by such a Love constrained  
To make return of Love; upon this Pole  
Our Duty does, and our Religion roll.  
To Love is to believe, to hope, to know,  
'Tis an Essay, a taste of Heaven below.  
He to proud Potentates would not be known,  
Of those that loved him, he was hid from none.  
Till Love appear, we live in anxious doubt;  
But Smoke will vanish, when that Flame breaks out:  
This is the Fire, that would consume our Dross,  
Re●ine, and make us richer by the Loss.  
Could we forbear Dispute, and practise Love,  
We should agree, as Angels do above.  
Where Love presides, not Vice alone does find  
No Entrance there, but Virtues stay behind▪  
Both Faith and Hope, and all the meaner train  
Of moral Virtues, at the door remain;  
Love only enters, as a Native there,  
For born in Heaven, it does but sojourn here.  
He that alone, would wise and mighty be,  
Commands that others Love, as well as he:  
Love as he Loved, how can we soar so high?  
He can add wings, when he commands to fly:  
Nor should we be with this Command dismayed,  
He that Example gives, will give his Aid;  
For he took flesh, that where his Precepts fail,  
His Practice as a Pattern may prevail;  
His Love at once, and Dread instructs our thought,  
As Man he suffered, and as God he taught;  
Will for the Deed he takes, we may with ease  
Obedient be, for if we Love, we please;  
Weak though we are, to Love is no hard task,  
And Love for Love, is all that Heaven does ask:  
Love, that would all men just and temperate make,  
Kind to themselves, and others, for his sake.  
'Tis with our Minds, as with a fertile ground;  
Wanting this Love, they must with Weeds abound;  
Unruly Passions, whose effects are worse,  
Than Thorns and Thistles springing from the curse.   

CANTO. IV.  
TO Glory Man, or Misery is born,  
Of his proud Foe the Envy or the Scorn;  
Wretched he is, or happy in Extreme,  
Base in himself, but great in heavens esteem;  
With Love, of all created things, the best,  
Without it more pernicious than the rest.  
For greedy Wolves unguarded Sheep devour  
But while their hunger lasts, and then give o'er;  
Mans boundless Avarice his want exceeds,  
And on his Neighbours, round about him, feeds:  
His Pride, and vain Ambition are so vast,  
That Deluge●like, they lay whole Nations wast;  
Debauches and Excess, though with less noise,  
As great a portion of Mankind destroys.  
The Beasts and Monsters, Hercules oppressed,  
Might in that Age, some Provinces infest;  
These more destructive Monsters, are the Bane  
Of every Age, and in all Nations reign;  
But soon would vanish, if the World were blest  
With Sacred Love, by which they are repressed.  
Impendent death, and guilt that threatens Hell,  
Are dreadful guests, which here with Mortals dw●ll●,  
And a 〈◊〉 Conscience mingling with their Joy  
Thoughts of Despair, does their whole Life annoy:  
But Love appearing, all those Terrors fly,  
We live contented, and contented die;  
They in whose breast, this sacred Love has place,  
Death as a passage to their Joy embrace.  
Clouds and thick Vapours which obscure the day,  
The Sun's victorious Beams may chase away;  
Those which our Life corrupt, and darken, Love,  
The Nobler Star, must from the Soul remove:  
Spots are observed in that which bounds the year,  
This brighter Sun moves in a boundless Sphere;  
Of Heaven the Joy, the Glory, and the Light,  
Shines among Angels, and admits no Night.   

CANTO V.  
THis Iron Age, so fraudulent and bold,  
Touched with this Love, would be an Age of Gold;  
Not as they feigned, that Oaks should Honey drop,  
Or Land neglected bear an unsown Crop:  
Love would make all things easy, safe, and cheap,  
None for himself, would either sow, or reap:  
Our ready Help, and mutual Love would yield  
A nobler Harvest, than the richest Field.  
Famine and Dearth, confined to certain parts,  
Extended are, by barrenness of Hearts;  
Some pine for want, where others surfeit now,  
But then we should the use of Plenty know:  
Love would betwixt the Rich and Needy stand,  
And spread heavens bounty with an equal hand;  
At once the Givers, and Receivers bless,  
Increase their Joy, and make their Sufferings less.  
Who for himself no Miracle would make,  
Dispensed with Nature for the People's sake;  
He that long Fasting would no wonder show,  
Made Loaves and Fishes, as they eat them, grow.  
Of all his Power, which boundless was above,  
Here he used none, but to express his Love;  
And such a Love would make our Joy exceed,  
Not when our own, but other mouths we feed.  
Laws would be useless which rude Nature awe,  
Love changing Nature, would prevent the Law;  
Tigers, and Lions, into Dens we thrust,  
But milder Creatures with their freedom trust.  
Devils are chained, and tremble; but the Spouse  
No force but Love, nor Bond, but Bounty, knows:  
Men, whom we now, so 〈◊〉 and dangerous see,  
Would Guardian Angels to each other be:  
Such wonders can this mighty Love perform,  
Vultures to Doves, Wolves into Lambs transform.  
Love, what Isaiah prophesied, can do,  
Exalt the Valleys, lay the Mountains low:  
Humblethe Lofty, the Dejected raise,  
Smooth, and make straight, our rough and crooked ways.  
Love, strong as Death, and like it, levels all;  
With that possessed, the great in Title fall,  
Themselves esteem, but equal to the least,  
Whom Heaven with that high Character has blest.  
This Love, the Centre of our Union, can  
Alone bestow complete Repose on Man;  
Tame his wild Appetite, make inward Peace,  
And Foreign strife among the Nations cease:  
No Martial Trumpet should disturb our rest,  
Nor Princes Arm, though to subdue the East;  
Where for the Tomb ●●o many Hero's, taught  
By those that guided their Devotion, fight.  
Thrice Happy we, could we like Ardour have  
To gain his Love, as they to win his Grave!  
Love as he Loved, a Love so unconfined  
With Arms extended would embrace Mankind.  
Self-Love would cease, or be dilated, when  
We should behold, as many Selves, as Men;  
All of one Family, in Blood allied,  
His precious Blood, that for our Ransom died.   

CANTO VI.  

Tho' the Creation, so divinely taught,  
Prints such a lively Image in our thought,  
That the first spark of new Created light  
From Chaos struck, affects our present sight:  
Yet the first Christians did esteem more blest  
The day of Rising, than the day of Rest;  
That every week might new occasion give,  
To make his Triumph in their memory live.  
Then let our Muse compose a Sacred Charm  
To keep his Blood, among us, ever warm;  
And singing, as the Blessed do above,  
With our last breath dilate this ●lame of Love.  
But on so vast a Subject, who can find  
Words that may reach th' Ideas of his mind?  
Our Language fails, or if it could supply,  
What Mortal Thought can raise itself so high?  
Despairing here, we might abandon Art,  
And only hope to have it in our heart;  
But though we find this Sacred Task too hard,  
Yet the Design, th'endeavour brings Reward;  
The Contemplation does suspend our Woe,  
And makes a Truce with all the Ills we know.  
As Saul's afflicted Spirit, from the sound  
Of David's Harp, a present Solace found;  
So on this Theme while we our Muse engage,  
No Wounds are felt, of Fortune, or of Age:  
On Divine Love to meditate is Peace,  
And makes all care of meaner things to cease.  
Amazed at once, and comforted to find  
A boundless Power so infinitely kind;  
The Soul contending to that Light to fly  
From her dark Cell, we practise how to die;  
Employing thus the Poet's winged Art,  
To reach this Love, and grave it in our heart.  
Joy so complete, so solid and severe,  
Would leave no place for meaner Pleasures there;  
Pale they would look, as Stars that must be gone,  
When from the East the Rising Sun comes on.   
Floriferis ut Apes in saltibus omnia libant,  
sic nos Scripturae depascimur aurea dicta;  
Anrea perpetuâ semper dignissima vitâ.  
Nam Divinus Amor, cum coepit vociferari,  
Diffugiunt Animi Terrores:—  Lucr. 
Exul eram, requiesque mihi, non Fama petita est,  
Mens intenta suis ne foret usque malis.  
Namque ubi mota calent Sacrâ mea Pectora Musâ,  
Altior humano Spiritus ille malo est.  De Trist.   

OF Divine Poesy, TWO CANTOS, Occasioned upon sight of the 53d Chapter of Isaiah, turned into Verse by Mrs. Wharton.  

CANTO I.  
POets we prise, when in their Verse we find  
Some great employment of a worthy mind.  
Angels have been inquisitive to know  
The Secret, which this Oracle does show.  
What was to come Isaiah did declare,  
Which she describes, as if she had been there;  
Had seen the Wounds, which to the Reader's view,  
She draws so lively, that they Bleed a new.  
As Ivy thrives, which on the Oak takes hold,  
So with the Prophets may her lines grow old;  
If they should die, who can the World forgive?  
Such pious Lines! When wanton Sapho's live.  
Who with his Breath his Image did inspire,  
Expects it should foment a Nobler fire:  
Not Love which Brutes as well as Men may know;  
But Love like his, to whom that Breath we owe.  
Verse so designed, on that high Subject wrote,  
Is the Perfection of an ardent Thought:  
The Smoke which we from burning Incense raise,  
When we complete the Sacrifice of Praise.  
In boundless Verse the Fancy soars too high,  
For any Object, but the Deity.  
What Mortal can with Heaven pretend to share  
In the Superlatives of Wise and Fair?  
A meaner Subject when with these we grace,  
A Giant's habit on a Dwarf we place.  
Sacred should be the Product of our Muse,  
Like that sweet Oil, above all private use:  
On pain of Death forbidden to be made,  
But when it should be on the Altar laid.  
Verse shows a rich inestimable Vein,  
When dropped from Heaven, 'tis thither sent again:  
Of Bounty 'tis that he admits our Praise,  
Which does not him, but us that yield it raise.  
For as that Angel up to Heaven did rise,  
Born on the Flame of Manoah's Sacrifice:  
●o winged with Praise, we penetrate the Sky,  
Teach Clouds and Stars to praise him as we fly;  
The whole Creation, by our Fall made groan,  
●●is Praise to Echo, and suspend their Moan  
For that he Reigns, all Creatures should rejoice,  
And we with Songs supply their want of voice.  
The Church Triumphant, and the Church below  
In Songs of Praise their present Union show:  
Their Joys are full, our Expectation long;  
In Life we differ, but we join in Song.  
Angels, and we, assisted by this Art,  
May Sing together, though we dwell apart.  
Thus we reach Heaven, while vainer Poems must  
No higher rise, than Winds may lift the Dust.  
From that they spring; this from his breath that gave  
To the first Dust, th' Immortal Soul we have:  
His Praise well sung, our great endeavour here,  
Shakes off the Dust, and makes that breath appear.   

CANTO II.  
HE that did first this way of Writing grace,  
Conversed with the Almighty face to face.  
Wonders he did in Sacred Verse unfold,  
When he had more than Eighty Winters told:  
The Writer feels no dire effects of Age,  
Nor Verse that flows from so Divine a Rage.  
Eldest of Poets, he beheld the Light,  
When first it triumphed o'er eternal Night;  
Chaos he saw, and could distinctly tell  
How that Confusion into Order fell:  
As if consulted with, he has expressed  
The Work of the Creator and his Rest.  
How the flood drowned the first offending Race;  
Which might the Figure of our Globe deface:  
For new made Earth, so even and so fair,  
Less equal now, uncertain makes the Air:  
Surprised with heat, and unexpected cold  
Early distempers make our Youth look old:  
Our Days so evil, and so few, may tell  
That on the ruins of that World we dwell.  
Strong as the Oaks that nourished them, and high,  
That long-lived Race did on their force rely,  
Neglecting Heaven: but we of shorter date,  
Should be more mindful of impendent Fate.  
To Worms that crawl upon this Rubbish here,  
This Span of Life may yet too long appear:  
Enough to humble, and to make us great,  
If it prepare us for a Nobler Seat.  
Which well observing, he in Numerous Lines,  
Taught wretched Man, how fast his Life declines:  
In whom he dwelled, before the World was made,  
And may again retire, when that shall fade.  
The lasting Iliads have not lived so long,  
As his and Deborah's triumphant Song.  
Delphos unknown, no Muse could them inspi●e,  
But that which governs the Celestial Quire.  
Heaven to the Pious did this Art reveal;  
And from their store succeeding Poets steal.  
Homer's Scamander for the Trojans fought,  
And swelled so high, by her old Kishbon taught▪  
His River scarce could fierce Achilles' stay;  
Hers more successful, swept her Foes away.  
The Host of Heaven, his Ph●ebus and his Mars,  
He Arms, instructed by her ●ighting Stars.  
She led them all against the Common Foe:  
But he misled by what he saw below,  
The Powers above, like wretched Men, divides,  
And breaks their Union into different ●ides,  
The Noblest parts which in his Hero's shine,  
May be but Copies of that Heroine.  
Ho●● himself, and Agamemnon, she  
The Writer could, and the Commander, be  
Truth she relates, in a sublimer strain  
Than all the Tales the boldest Greek could feign:  
For what she sung, that Spirit did indite,  
Which gave her courage, and success in fight.  
A double Garland crowns the matchless Dame;  
From Heaven her Poem, and her Conquest came.  
Tho' of the jews she merit most esteem:  
Yet here the Christian has the greater Theme.  
Her martial Song describes how Sisera fell,  
This sings our Triumph over Death and Hell.  
The rising Light employed the sacred breath  
Of the blessed Virgin and Elizabeth  
In Songs of Joy; the Angels sung his Birth:  
Here, how he treated was upon the Earth  
Trembling we read; th' Affliction and the Scorn,  
Which for our Gild, so patiently was born.  
〈…〉 and Suffering, all belong  
Tho' 〈…〉 to one Celestial Song:  
And 〈…〉 using so divine an Art,  
Has in this Con●ort, sung the Tragic part.  
As Hann●h's Seed was vowed to sacred use,  
So here this Lady consecrates her Muse.  
With like Reward may Heaven her Bed adorn,  
With Fruit as fair as by her Muse is born.    

Of the Paraphrase on the Lord's Prayer Written by Mrs. Wharton.  
SIlence, you Winds, listen Etherial Lights,  
While our Urania sings what Heaven indites;  
The Numbers are the Nymphs, but from above  
Descends the Pledge of that Eternal Love.  
Here wretched Mortals have not leave alone,  
But are instructed to approach his Throne;  
And how can he to miserable Men  
Deny Requests, which his own Hand did Pen?  
In the Evangelists we find the Prose,  
Which paraphrased by her a Poem grows;  
A devout Rapture, so divine a Hymn,  
It may become the highest Seraphim;  
For they like her in that Celestial Choir,  
Sing only what the Spirit does inspire.  
Taught by our Lord and theirs, with us they may  
For all, but pardon for Offences, pray.   

Some Reflections of his upon the several Petitions in the same Prayer.  

I. HIS Sacred Name, with reverence profound,  
Should mentioned be, and trembling at the sound▪  
It was jehovah, 'tis our Father now,  
So low to us, does Heaven vouchsafe to bow:  
Psal. 18. 9  
He brought it down, that taught us how to pray,  
And did so dearly for our Ransom pay.  
II. His Kingdom come: For this we pray in vain,  
Unless he does in our affections reign:  
Absurd it were to wish for such a King,  
And not Obedience to his Sceptre bring;  
Whose Yoke is easy, and his Burden light,  
His Service Freedom, and his Judgements right.  
II●. His Will be done; In Fact 'tis always done,  
But as in Heaven, it must be made our own:  
His Will should all our Inclinations sway,  
Whom Nature and the Universe obey.  
Happy the Man, whose Wishes are confined  
To what has been Eternally designed;  
Referring all to his Paternal care,  
To whom more dear, than to ourselves we are.  
IV. It is not what our Avarice hoards up;  
'Tis he that feeds us, and that fills our Cup:  
Like newborn Babes, depending on the Breast,  
From day to day we on his Bounty Feast▪  
Nor should the Soul expect above a day  
To dwell in her frail Tenement of Clay:  
The setting Sun should seem to bond our Race,  
And the new day a gift of special Grace.  
V. That he should all our Trespasses forgive,  
While we in hatred with our Neighbours live;  
Though so to pray may seem an easy task,  
We curse ourselves when thus inclined we ask:  
This Prayer to use, we ought with equal care  
Our Souls as to the Sacrament prepare▪  
The Noblest Worship of the Power above,  
I● to extol, and imitate his Love:  
Not to Forgive our Enemies alone,  
But use our Bounty that they may be won.  
VI Guard us from all Temptations of the Foe,  
And those we may in several stations know:  
The Rich and Poor in slippery places stand;  
Give us enough, but with a sparing Hand:  
Not ill-persuading Want, nor wanton Wealth;  
But what proportioned is to Life and Health.  
For not the Dead, but Living sing thy Praise,  
Exalt thy Kingdom, and thy Glory raise.   
— Favete Linguis—  
Virginibus Puerisque Canto,  Horat.  

Of the last Verses in the Book.  

WHen we for Age could neither read nor write,  
The Subject made us able to indite.  
The Soul with Nobler Resolutions decked,  
The Body stooping, does Herself erect:  
No Mortal Parts are requisite to raise  
Her, that Unbodyed can her Maker praise.   

The Seas are quiet, when the Winds give o'er;  
So calm are we, when Passions are no more:  
For than we know how vain it was to boast  
Of fleeting Things, so certain to be lost.  
Clouds of Affection from our younger Eyes  
Conceal that emptiness, which Age descries.   

The Soul's dark Cottage, battered and decayed.  
Let's in new Light through chinks that time has made  
Stronger by weakness, wiser Men become  
As they draw near to their Eternal home:  
Leaving the Old, both Worlds at once they view,  
That stand upon the Threshold of the New.   
— Miratur Limen Olympi.  Virgil. 
FINIS.   

THE TABLE.  

TO the King, on His Navy. Pag. 1  
Of the Danger His Majesty (being Prince) escaped in the road at Saint Anderes. 3  
Of His Majesty's * receiving the Ne●s of the Duk● of Buckingham's death. 13  
To th● Queen, occasioned upon sight of Her Majesty's picture. 15  
Upon his Majesty's repairing of Paul's. 19  
The Country to my Lady of Carlisse. 23  
The Countess of Carlisle i● Mourning. 24  
In answer to one who writ against a fair Lady. 27  
On my Lady Dorothy Sidneys Picture. 29  
To Vandike. 30  
Of the Lady who can sleep when she pleases. 33  
Of the misreport of her being painted. 34  
Of her passing through a crowd of People. 36  
The story of Phoebus and Daphne applied. 37  
Fabula Phoebi & Daphnis. 38  
Of Mrs. Arden. 39  
To Amorett. 40  
On the Head of a Stag. 44  
To a Lady in a Garden. 45  
The Miser's Speech in a Mask. 46  
On the friendship betwixt two Ladies. 48  
Of her Chamber. 49  
Of loving at first sight. 51  
The self banished. 52  
SONG. 53  
Thirsis, Galatea. 55  
The Battle of the Summer Islands in three Cantos. 58  
SONG. 71  
Of Love. 72  
To Phillis. 75  
To Phillis. 76  
SONG. 78  
SONG. 79  
To Amorett. 80  
To my Lord of Falkland. 81  
For drinking of Healths. 83  
On my Lady Isabel playing on the Lute. 84  
To a Lady singing of a Song of his Composing. 85  
Of the Marriage of the Dwarves. 86  
Loves Farewell. 8●  
From a Child. 89  
On a Girdle. 90  
The Apology of Sleep: For not approaching the Lady who can do anything but sleep when she pleaseth. 91  
At Pens-hurst. 93  
Another. 96  
To my Lord of Leicester. 98  
To a very young Lady. 100  
SONG. 101  
SONG. 103  
On the discovery of a Ladies Painting. 104  
To a Lady from whom he received a Silver Pen. 106  
On a Brede of divers colours, woven by four Ladies 107  
To my Lord of Northumberland upon the Death of his Lady. 108  
To my Lord Admiral, of his late Sickness and Recovery 111  
〈◊〉 Malade. 114  
Of the Queen. 116  
Upon the Death of my Lady Rich. 120  
To the Queen-Mother of France upon her Landing. 125  
To the mutable Fair. 127  
Of Salley. 131  
Puerperium. 133  
Of a Lady who writ in praise of Mira. 135  
●o one married to an old man. Ibid.  
To Flavia, a Song. 136  
●he Fall. 137  
Of Silvia. 138  
The Budd. 139  
Upon Ben. Johnson. 141  
To Mr. George Sands, on his Translation of some parts. of the Bible. 143  
Chloris and Hilas, made to a Saraban. 144  
Under a Lady's Picture. 145  
In answer of Sir John Suckling's Verses. 146  
To a Friend of the different success of their Loves. 150  
An Apology for having loved before. 152  
To Zelenda. 154  
On Mr. John Fletcher's Plays. 156  
To Chloris. 158  
On St. Jame's Park, as lately improved by his Majesty. Ibid.  
To Sir William Davenant, upon his two first Books of Gondibert, written in France. 166  
To my worthy Friend, the Translator of Gratius. 169  
To the King, upon his Majesty's happy Return. 171  
To my Lady Morton on New-years-day 1650. at the Lovure in Paris. 178  
Of a fair Lady playing with a Snake. 1●1  
To his worthy Friend Mr. E'velyn upon his Translation of Lucretius. 182  
Part of the fourth Book of Virgil Translated. 185  
Upon a War with Spain, and a Fight at Sea. 193  
Epitaph, to be written under the Latin inscription upon the Tomb of the only Son of the Lord Andover. 199  
To the Queen upon her Majesty's Birthday, after Her happy recovery from a dangerous sickness. 200  
Instructions to a Painter, for the drawing of the Posture and Progress of His Majesty's Forces at Sea, under the Command of his Highness-Royal. Together with the Battle and Victory obtained over the Dutch, June 3. 1665. 203  
To the King. 222  
To a Friend of the Authors; a Person of Honour, who lately writ a Religious Book, Entitled, Historical Applications, and occasional Meditations upon several Subjects. 224  
To Mr. Henry Laws, who had then newly set a Song of mine in the year 1635. 225  
Upon Her Majesty's new Buildings at Somerset-House. 227  
On the picture of afair Youth taken after he was dead. 230  
Epigram upon the Golden Medal. 231  
Of a Tree cut in Paper. 232  
To a Lady from whom be received the foregoing Copy which for many Years had been lost. 233  
The Night-piece, or a Picture drawn in the dark. 234  
Of English Verse. 236  
So●g by Mrs. Knight, to Her Majesty on Her Birthday. 238  
To his 〈◊〉 by Friend Sir Thomas higgon's, upon his Transition of his Venetian Triumph. 240  
Epitaph. 241  
Of Her Royal Highness, Mother to the Prince of Orange, and of ●er Portr●ictt, written by the late Duchess of York white she lived with her. ●44  
To the Duchess of Orleans, when she was taking leave of the Cours at Dover. 245  
Written on a Cord that Her Majesty tore at Ombra. 246  
To ●he Duchess when he presented this Book to Her Royal Highness. 247  
Verse writ in the Tasso of her Royal Highness. 248  
Upon our late loss of the Duke of Cambridge. 249  
Translated out of Spanish. 250  
Of the Lady Mary, etc. Ibid.  
To the Servant of a fair Lady. 253  
Upon the Earl of Roscommon's Translation of Horace de Arte Poetica: And of the use of Poetry. 255  
Epitaph on Sir George Speke. 258  
Of Her Majesty on New-years-day 1683. 261  
A Presage of the Ruin of the Turkish Empire, presented to His Majesty on His Birthday. 262  
Of Divine Love. 267  
Of Divine Poesy. 287   
FINIS.