A SATYR, Written to the KING'S most Excellent Majesty, BY GEORGE WITHER, When he was Prisoner in the marshalsey, for his first BOOK.  
LONDON: Printed by T.S. for john Budge, dwelling in Pauls-Church-yard, at the sign of the Green Dragon, 1622.   

The Satire to the mere Courtiers.  
SIrs; I do know your minds; You look for fees,  
For more respect than needs, for caps and knees.  
But be content, I have not for you now;  
Nor will I have at all to do with you.  
For, though I seem oppressed, and you suppose  
I must be fain to crouch to Virtue's foes;  
Yet know, your favours I do sleight them more  
In this distress, then ere I did before.  
Here to my Liege a message I must tell;  
If you will let me pass, you shall do well;  
If you deny admittance, why then know,  
I mean to have it where you will or no,  
Your formal wisdom which hath never been  
In aught but in some fond invention seen,  
And you that think men borne to no intent,  
But to be trained in Apish compliment;  
Doth now (perhaps) suppose me indiscreet,  
And such unused messages unmeet.  
But what of that? Shall I go suit my matter  
Unto your wits, that have but wit to flatter?  
Shall I, of your opinions so much prize  
To lose my will that you may think me wise,  
Who never yet to any liking had,  
Unless he were a Knave, a Fool, or mad?  
You Mushrooms know, so much I weigh your powers,  
I neither value you, nor what is yours.  
Nay, though my crosses had me quite outworn,  
Spirit enough I'd find your spite to scorn:  
Of which resolved, to further my adventure,  
Unto my King, without your leaves I enter.   

To the Honest Courtiers.  
But You, whose only worth doth colour give.  
To Them, that they do worthy seem to live,  
Kind Gentlemen, your aid I crave, to bring  
A Satire to the presence of his King:  
A show of rudeness doth my forehead arm,  
Yet you may trust him; he intends no harm.  
He that hath sent him, loyal is, and true,  
And one, whose love (I know) is much to you:  
But now, he lies bound to a narrow scope;  
Almost beyond the Cape of all good Hope.  
Long hath he sought to free himself, but fails:  
And therefore seeing nothing else prevails,  
Me, to acquaint his Sovereign, here he sends,  
As one despairing of all other friends.  
I do presume that you will favour show him,  
Now that a Messenger from thence you know him.  
For many thousands that his face ne'er knew,  
Blame his Accusers, and his Fortune rue:  
And by the help which your good word may do,  
He hopes for pity from his Sovereign to.  
Then in his presence with your favours grace him,  
And there's no Vice so great, shall dare outface him.   

To the Kings most Excellent MAJESTY. A SATYR.  
Quid tu, si pereo?  

WHat once the Poet said, I may avow,  
'Tis a hard thing not to write Satyrs, now,  
Since, what we speak (abuse reigns so in all)  
Spite of our hearts, will be Satirical.  
Let it not therefore now be deemed strange,  
My unsmoothed lines their rudeness do not change;  
Nor be distasteful to my gracious King,  
That in the Cage, my old harsh notes I sing:  
And rudely, make a Satire here unfold,  
What others would in neater terms have told.  
And why? my friends and means in Court are scant,  
Knowledge of curious phrase, and form I want.  
I cannot bear't to run myself in debt,  
To hire the Groom, to bid the Page entreat,  
Some favoured Follower to vouchsafe his word  
To get me a cold comfort from his Lord.  
I cannot soothe, (though it my life might save,)  
Each Favourite, nor crouch to every Knave.  
I cannot brook delays as some men do,  
With scoffs, and scorns, and take't in kindness to.  
For ere I'd bind myself for some slight grace,  
To one that hath no more worth than his place.  
Or, by a base mean free myself from trouble,  
I rather would endure my penance double:  
'Cause to be forced to what my mind disdains,  
Is worse to me then tortures, racks, and chains.  
And therefore unto thee I only fly,  
To whom there needs no mean but Honesty.  
To thee, that lov'st nor Parasite or Minion,  
Should ere I speak possess thee with opinion.  
To thee, that dost what thou wilt undertake,  
For love of justice, not the persons sake.  
To thee, that knowst how vain all fair shows be,  
That flow not from the heart's sincerity;  
And canst, though shadowed in the simplest veil,  
Discern both Love and Truth, and where they fail.  
To thee do I appeal; in whom Heaven knows,  
I next to God my confidence repose.  
For, can it be thy Grace should ever shine,  
And not enlighten such a Cause as mine?  
Can my hopes (fixed in thee great King) be dead;  
Or thou those Satyrs hate thy Forests bred?  
Where shall my second hopes be founded then,  
If ever I have heart to hope again?  
Can I suppose a favour may be got  
In any place, when thy Court yields it not?  
Or that I may obtain it in the land,  
When I shall be denied it at thy hand?  
And if I might, could I delighted be,  
To take't of others, when I missed of thee?  
Or if I were, could I have comfort by it,  
When I should think my Sovereign did deny it?  
No; were I sure, I to thy hate were borne,  
To seek for others favours, I would scorn.  
For, if the beft-worth-loves I could not gain,  
To labour for the rest I would disdain.   

But why should I thy favour here distrust,  
That have a cause so known, and known so just?  
Which not alone my inward comfort doubles,  
But all suppose me wronged that hear my troubles.  
Nay, though my fault were Real, I believe  
Thou art so Royal, that thou wouldst forgive.   

For, well I know, thy sacred Majesty  
Hath ever been admired for Clemency,  
And at thy gentleness the world hath wondered,  
For making Sunshine, where thou mightst have thundered.  
Yea, thou in mercy, life to them didst give  
That could not be content to see thee live.  
And can I think that thou wilt make me, then,  
The most unhappy of all other men?  
Or let thy loyal Subject, against reason,  
Be punished more for Love, than some for Treason?  
No, thou didst never yet thy glory stain  
With an injustice to the meanest Swain.  
'Tis not thy will I'm wronged, nor dost thou know,  
If I have suffered injuries or no.  
For if I have not heard false Rumours fly,  
thoust graced me with the style of Honesty,  
And if it were so (as some think it was)  
I cannot see how it should come to pass  
That thou, from whose free tongue proceedeth nought  
Which is not correspondent with thy thought.  
Those thoughts to, being framed in Reason's mould,  
Should speak that once, which should not ever hold.   

But passing it as an uncertainty,  
I humbly beggethee, by that Majesty,  
Whose sacred Glory strikes a loving-feare  
Into the hearts of all, to whom 'tis dear:  
To deign me so much favour, without merit,  
As read this plaint of a distempered spirit:  
And think, unless I saw some hideous storm,  
Too great to be endured by such a worm,  
I had not thus presumed unto a King,  
With Aesop's Fly, to seek an Eagles wing:   

Know I am he, that entered once the list,  
'Gainst all the world to play the Satirist:  
T was I, that made my measures rough and rude,  
Dance armed with whips amidst the multitude,  
And unappalled with my charmed Scrolls,  
Teaz'd angry Monsters in their lurking holes.  
I've played with Wasps and Hornets without fears,  
Till mad they grew, and swarmed about my ears.  
I've done it, and me thinks 'tis such brave sport,  
I may be stung, but ne'er be sorry for't.  
For, all my grief is, that I was so sparing,  
And had no more in't, worth the name of daring.  
He that will tax these times must be more bitter,  
Tart lines of Vinegar and Gall are fitter.  
My fingers and my spirits were benumbed,  
My ink ran forth too smooth, 'twas two much gummed;  
I'd have my Pen so paint it, where it traces,  
Each accent, should draw blood into their faces.  
And make them, when their Villainies are blazed,  
Shudder and startle, as men half amazed,  
For fear my Verse should make so loud a din,  
Heaven hearing might rain vengeance on their sin.  
Oh now, for such a strain! would Art could teach it.  
Though half my spirits I consumed to reach it.  
I de learn my Muse so brave a course to fly,  
Men should admire the power of Poosie.  
And those that dared her greatness to resist,  
Quake even at naming of a Satirist.  
But when his scourging numbers flowed with wonder,  
Should cry, God bless us, as they did at thunder.   

Alas! my lines came from me tootoo dully,  
They did not fill a Satyr's mouth up fully.  
Hot blood, and youth, enraged with passions store,  
Taught me to reach a strain ne'er touched before.  
But it was coldly done, I throughly 〈◊〉 not:  
And somewhat there is yet to do, I did not.  
More sound could my scourge have yerked many,  
Which I omitted not for fear of any.  
For want of action, discontentment's rage,  
Base disrespect of Virtue (in this age)  
With other things which were to Goodness wrong,  
Made me so fearless in my careless Song:  
That, had not reason within compass won me,  
I had told Truth enough to have undone me.  
(Nay, have already, if that her Divine  
And unseen power, can do no more than mine.)  
For though foreseeing wariness was good,  
I framed my style unto a milder mood;  
And clogging her high-towring wings with mire,  
Made her half earth, that was before all fire.  
Though (as you saw) in a disguised show  
I brought my Satyrs to the open view:  
Hoping (their outsides, being mis-esteemed)  
They might have passed, but for what they seemed:  
Yet some whose Comments jump not with my mind,  
In that low phrase, a higher reach would find,  
And out of their deep judgements seem to know,  
What 'tis uncertain if I meant or no:  
Aiming thereby, out of some private hate,  
To work my shame, or overthrow my state.  
For, amongst many wrongs my foe doth do me,  
And diverse imputations laid unto me,  
(Deceived in his aim) he doth misconster  
That which I have enstiled a Manlike Monster,  
To mean some private person in the State,  
Whose worth I sought to wrong out of my hate;  
Upbraiding me, I from my word do start,  
Either for want of better Ground, or Heart.  
'Cause from his expectation I did vary  
In the denying of his Commentary,  
Whereas 'tis known I meant Abuse the while,  
Not thinking any one could be so vile  
To merit all those Epithets of shame,  
How ever many do deserve much blame.   

But say, (I grant) that I had an intent  
To have it so (as he interprets) meant,  
And let my gracious Liege suppose there were  
One whom the State may have just cause to fear;  
Or think there were a man (and great in Court)  
That had more faults than I could well report;  
Suppose I knew him, and had gone about  
By some particular marks to paint him out,  
That he best knowing his own faults, might see,  
He was the Man I would should noted be:  
Imagine now such doings in this Age,  
And that this man so pointed at, should rage,  
Call me in question, and by his much threatening,  
By long imprisonment, and ill-intreating  
Urge a Confession, wert not a mad part  
For me to tell him, what lay in my heart?  
Do not I know a great man's Power and Might;  
In spite of Innocence, can smother Right,  
Colour his Villainies, to get esteem,  
And make the honest man the Villain seem?  
And that the truth I told should in conclusion,  
For want of Power and Friends be my confusion?  
I know it, and the world doth know 'tis true,  
Yet, I protest, if such a man I knew,  
That might my Country prejudice, or Thee,  
Were he the greatest or the proudest He  
That breathes this day: (if so it might be found,  
That any good to either might redound.)  
So far I'll be (though Fate against me run)  
From starting off from that I have begun,  
I un-appalled dare in such a case  
Rip up his foulest Crimes before his face,  
Though for my labour I were sure to drop  
Into the mouth of Ruin without hope.   

But such strange far-fetched meanings they have sought,  
As I was never privy to in thought;  
And that unto particulars would tie  
Which I intended universally.  
Whereat some with displeasure over-gone,  
(Those I scarce dreamed of, saw, or thought upon)  
Maugre those caveats on my Satyr's brow,  
Their honest and just passage disallow.  
And on their heads so many censures rake,  
That spite of me, themselves they'll guilty make.   

Nor is't enough, to suage their discontent,  
To say I am (or to be) innocent.  
For as, when once the Lion made decree,  
No horned beast should nigh his presence be,  
That, on whose forehead only did appear  
A bunch of flesh, or but some tuft of hair,  
Was even as far in danger as the rest,  
If he but said, it was a horned beast:  
So, there be now, who think in that their power  
Is of much force, or greater far than our;  
It is enough to prove a guilt in me,  
Because (mistaking) they so think't to be.   

Yet 'tis my comfort, they are not so high,  
But they must stoop to Thee and Equity.  
And this I know, though pricked; they storm again,  
The world doth deem them ne'er the better men.  
To stir in filth, makes not the stench the less,  
Nor doth Truth fear the frown of Mightiness.  
Because those numbers she doth deign to grace,  
Men may suppress a while, but ne'er deface.   

I wonder, and 'tis wondered at by many,  
My harmless lines should breed distaste in any:  
And so, that (whereas most good men approve  
My labour to be worthy thanks, and love)  
I as a Villain, and my Country's foe,  
Should be imprisoned, and so strictly to,  
That not alone my liberty is barred.  
But the resort of friends (which is more hard.)  
And whilst each wanton, or loose Rhymers Pen,  
With oily words, sleeks o'er the sins of men,  
Vailing his wits to every Puppets beck,  
Which ere I'll do, I'll joy to break my neck.  
(I say) while such as they in every place  
Can find protection, patronage and grace;  
If any look on me, 'tis but a skance  
Or if I get a favour, 'tis by chance.  
I must protect myself: poor Truth and I  
Can have scarce one speak for our honesty.  
Then whereas they can gold and gifts attain,  
Malicious Hate, and Envy is my gain,  
And not alone have here my Freedom lost,  
Whereby my best hope's likely to be crossed:  
But have been put to more charge in one day.  
Then all my Patron's bounties yet will pay.  
What I have done, was not for thirst of gain,  
Or out of hope preferments to attain.  
Since to contemn them, would more profit me,  
Then all the glories in the world that be:  
Yet they are helps to Virtue, used aright,  
And when they wanting be, she wants her might.  
For Eagles minds ne'er fit a Raven's feather,  
To dare, and to be able, suit together.   

But what is't I have done so worthy blame,  
That some so eagerly pursue my fame?  
Vouchsafe to view't with thine own eyes, and try  
(Save want of Art) what fault thou canst espy.  
I have not sought to scandalise the State,  
Nor sown sedition, nor made public bate:  
I have not aimed at any good man's fame,  
Nor taxed (directly) any one by name.  
I am not he that am grown discontent  
With the Religion; or the Government.  
I meant no Ceremonies to protect,  
Nor do I favour any new-sprung Sect;  
But to my Satyrs gave this only warrant,  
To apprehend and punish Vice apparent.  
Who aiming in particular at none,  
In general upbraided every one:  
That each (unshamed of himself) might view  
That in himself, which no man dares to show.   

And hath this Age bred up neat Vice so tenderly,  
She cannot brook it to be touched so slenderly?  
Will she not bide my gentle Satyrs bites?  
Harme take her then, what makes she in their sights?  
If with impatience she my Whipcord feel,  
How had she raged at my lash of Steel?  
But am I called in question for her cause?  
Is't Vice that these afflictions on me draws?  
And need I now thus to Apologise,  
Only because I scourged Villainies?  
Must I be fain to give a reason why,  
And how I dare allow of Honesty?  
Whilst that each fleering Parasite is bold  
Thy Royal brow undaunted to behold:  
And every Temporizer strikes a string,  
That's Music for the hearing of a King?  
Shall not he reach out to obtain as much,  
Who dares more for thee then a hundred such?  
Heaven grant her patience, my Muse takesed so badly,  
I fear she'll lose her wits, for she raves madly.  
Yet let not my dread Sovereign too much blame her,  
Whose awful presence, now hath made her tamer.  
For if there be no Fly but hath her spleen,  
Nor a poor Pismire, but will wreak her teen;  
How shall I then, that have both spleen and gall,  
Being unjustly dealt with, bear with all?  
I yet with patience take what I have borne,  
And all the world's ensuing hate can scorn:  
But 't were in me as much stupidity,  
Not to have feeling of an injury,  
As it were weakness not to brook it well:  
What others therefore think I cannot tell;  
But he that's less than mad, is more than Man,  
Who sees when he hath done the best he can,  
To keep within the bounds of Innocence:  
Sought to discharge his due to God and Prince.  
That he, whilst Villainies unreproved go,  
Scoffing, to see him overtaken so,  
Should have his good endeavours misconceived,  
Be of his dearest liberty bereaved;  
And which is worse, without reason why,  
Be frowned on by Authorities grim eye.  
By that great Power my soul so much doth fear,  
She scorns the stearn'st frowns of a mortal Peer,  
But that I Virtue love, for her own sake,  
It were enough to make me undertake  
To speak as much in praise of Vice again.  
And practise some to plague these shames of men.  
I mean those my Accusers, who mistaking  
My aims, do frame conceits of their own making.  
But if I list, I need not buy so dear  
The just revenge might be inflicted here.  
Now could I measures frame in this just fury,  
Should sooner find some guilty than a jury:  
The words, like swords (tempered with Art) should pierce  
And hang, and draw, and quarter them in verse.  
Or I could rack them on the wings of Fame,  
(And he's half hanged (they say) hath an ill name)  
Yea, I'd go near to make those guilty Elves,  
Lycambes-like, be glad to hang themselves:  
And though this Age will not abide to hear  
The faults reproved, that Custom hath made dear;  
Yet, if I pleased, I could write their crimes,  
And pile them up in walls for aftertimes:  
For they'll be glad (perhaps) that shall ensue,  
To see some story of their Father's true.  
Or should I smothered be in darkness still,  
I might not use the freedom of a quill:  
'T would raise up braver spirits than mine own,  
To make my cause, and this their guilt more known.  
Who by that subject should get Love and Fame,  
Unto my foe's disgrace, and endless shame:  
Those I do mean, whose Comments have misused me:  
And to those Peers I honour, have accused me:  
Making against my Innocence their batteries,  
And wronging them by their base flatteries:  
But of revenge I am not yet so fain,  
To put myself unto that needless pain:  
Because I know a greater Power there is,  
That noteth smaller injuries than this;  
And being still as just as it is strong,  
Apportions due revenge for every wrong.   

But why (some say) should his too fancy Rhymes  
Thus tax the wise and great ones of our times?  
It suits not with his years to be so bold,  
Nor fits it us by him to be controlled.  
I must confess ('tis very true indeed)  
Such should not of my censure stand in need.  
But blame me not, I saw good Virtue poor,  
Desert, among the most, thrust out of door,  
Honesty hated, Courtesy banished,  
Rich men excessive, poor men famished:  
Coldness in Zeal, in Law's partiality,  
Friendship but Compliment, and vain Formality,  
Art I perceive contemned, while most advance  
(To offices of worth) Rich Ignorance:  
And those that should our Lights and Teachers be  
Live (if not worse) as wantonly as we.  
Yea, I saw Nature from her course run back,  
Disorders grow, Good Orders go to wrack.  
So to increase what all the rest began,  
I to this current of confusion ran.  
And seeing Age, left off the place of guiding,  
Thus played the fancy wag, and fell to chiding.   

Wherein, how ever some (perhaps) may deem,  
I am not so much faulty as I seem:  
For when the Elders wronged Susanna's honer,  
And none withstood the Shame they laid upon her;  
A Child rose up to stand in her defence,  
And spite of wrong confirmed her Innocence:  
To show, those must not, that good undertake,  
Strain curtsy, who shall do'●, for manners sake.  
Nor do I know, whether to me God gave  
A boldness more than many others have,  
That I might show the world what shameful blot  
Virtue by her lasciurous Elders got.  
Nor is't a wonder, as some do suppose,  
My Youth so much corruption can disclose;  
Since every day the Sun doth light mine eyes,  
I am informed of new villainies:  
But it is rather to be wondered how  
I either can, or dare be honest now.   

And though again there be some others rage  
That I should dare (so much above mine age)  
Thus censure each degree, both young and old,  
I see not wherein I am overbold.  
For if I have been plain with Vice, I care not,  
There's nought that I know good, and can, and dare not.  
Only this one thing doth my mind deter,  
Even a fear (through ignorance) to err.   

But oh knew I, what thou wouldst well approve,  
Or might the smallest respect within thee move;  
So in the sight of God it might be good,  
And with the quiet of my conscience stood:  
(As well I know thy true integrity  
Would command nothing against Piety:)  
There's nought so dangerous, or full of fear,  
That for my Sovereign's sake I would not dare.  
Which good belief, would it did not possess thee;  
Provided some just trial might reblesse me:  
Yea, though a while I did endure the gall  
Of thy displeasure in this loathsome thrall.  
For notwithstanding in this place I lie  
By the command of that Authority,  
Of which I have so much respective care.  
That in mine own (and just) defence I fear  
To use the free speech that I do intend,  
Lest Ignorance, or Rashness should offend.  
Yet is my meaning and my thought as free  
From wilful wronging of thy Laws or Thee,  
As he ●o whom thy Place and Persons dearest,  
Or to himself that finds his conscience cle aest.  
If there be wrong, 'tis not my making it,  
All the offence is some's mistaking it.  
And is there any justice borne of late,  
Makes those faults mine, which others perpetrate?  
What man could ever any Age yet find,  
That spent his spirits in this thankless kind,  
Showing his meaning, to such words could tie it,  
That none could either wrong, or misapply it.   

Nay, your own Laws, which (as you do intend)  
In plain'st and most effectual words are penned,  
Cannot be framed so well to your intent,  
But some there be will err from what you meant.  
And yet (alas) I must be tied unto  
What never any man before could do?  
Must all I speak, or write, so well be done  
That none may pick more meanings thence then one?  
Then all the world (I hope) will leave dis-union,  
And every man become of one opinion.  
But since some may, what care soe'er we take,  
divers constructions of our Writings make,  
The honest Readers ever will conceive  
The best intention's, and all others leave:  
Chiefly in that, where I forehand protest  
My meaning ever was the honestest,  
And if I say so, what is he may know  
So much as to affirm it was not so?  
Sat other men so near my thoughts to show it,  
Or is my heart so open that all know it?  
Sure if it were, they would no such things see,  
As those whereof some have accused me.  
But I care less how it be understood,  
Because the heavens know my intent was good.  
And if it be so, that my too-free Rhymes  
Do much displease the world, and these bad times;  
'Tis not my fault, for had I been employed  
In something else, all this had now been void.  
Or if the world would but have granted me  
Wealth, or Affairs, whereon to busy me,  
I now unheard of, peradventure than,  
Had been as mute as some rich Clergyman.   

But they are much deceived that think my mind  
Will ere be still, while it can doing find;  
Or that unto the world so much it leans,  
As to be curtold for default of means.  
No, though most be, all Spirits are not earth,  
Nor suiting with the fortunes of their birth,  
My body's subject unto many Powers:  
But my soul's as free, as is the Emperors:  
And though to curb her in, I oft assay,  
She'll break int' action spite of dirt and clay.  
And is't not better than to take this course,  
Then fall to study mischiefs and do worse?  
I say she must have action, and she shall:  
For if she will, how can I do withal?  
And let those that o're-busie think me, know,  
He made me, that knew, why he made me so.  
And though there's some that say my thoughts do fly  
A pitch beyond my state's sufficiency;  
My humble mind, I give my Saviour thank  
Aspires nought yet, above my fortune's rank.  
But say it did, wil't not befit a man  
To raise his thoughts as near Heaven as he can?  
Must the free spirit tied and kerbed be  
According to the body's poverty?  
Or can it ever be so subject to  
Base Change, to rise, and fall, as fortunes do?   

Men borne to noble means, and vulgar minds  
Enjoy their wealth; and there's no Law that binds  
Such to abate their substance, though their Pates  
Want Brains, and they worth, to possess such states.  
So God to some, doth only great minds give,  
And little other means, whereon to live.  
What law or conscience than shall make them smother  
Their Spirit, which is their life, more than other  
To bate their substance? since if 'twere confessed,  
That a brave mind could ever be suppressed,  
Were't reason any should himself deprive  
Of what the whole world hath not power to give?  
For wealth is common, and fools get it to,  
When to give spirit's more than Kings can do.   

I speak not this, because I think there be  
More than the ordinarest gifts in me;  
But against those, who think I do presume  
On more than doth befit me to assume:  
Or would have all, whom Fortune bars from store,  
Make themselves wretched, as she makes them poor.  
And 'cause in other things she is unkind,  
Smother the matchless blessings of their mind:  
Whereas (although her favours do forsake them)  
Their minds are richer than the world can make them.  
Why should a good attempt disgraced seem,  
Because the person is of mean esteem?  
virtue's a chaste Queen, and yet doth not scorn  
To be embraced by him that's meanest borne,  
She is the prop, that Majesty's support,  
Yet one whom Slaves as well as Kings may court.  
She loveth all that bear affection to her,  
And yields to any that hath heart to woo her.  
So Vice, how high so ere she be in place,  
Is that which Grooms may spit at in disgrace:  
She is a strumpet, and may be abhorred,  
Yea, spurned at in the bosom of a Lord.  
Yet had I spoke her fair, I had been free,  
As many others of her Lovers be.  
If her escapes I had not chanced to tell,  
I might have been a villain, and done well:  
Got some special favour, and not sat  
As now I do, shut up within a grate.  
Or if I could have happed on some loose strain,  
That might have pleased the wanton Readers vain:  
Or but clawed Pride, I now had been unblamed,  
(Or else at least there's some would not have shamed  
To plead my cause:) but see my fatal curse,  
Sure I was either mad, or somewhat worse:  
For I saw Vices followers bravely kept,  
In Silks they walked, on beds of Down they slept,  
Richly they fed on dainties evermore,  
They had their pleasure, they had all things store,  
(Whilst Virtue begged) yea, favours had so many,  
I knew they brook't not to be touched of any:  
Yet could not I, like other men, be wise,  
Nor learn (for all this) how to temporize;  
But must (with too much honesty made blind)  
Vpbraid this loved darling of mankind:  
Whereas I might have better thrived by feigning:  
Or if I could not choose, but be complaining,  
More safe I might have railed on Virtue sure,  
Because her lovers and her friends are fewer.  
I might have brought some other things to pass,  
Made Fiddlers Songs, or Ballads, like an Ass,  
Or any thing almost indeed but this.  
Yet since 'tis thus, l'me glad 'tis so amiss;  
Because if I am guilty of a crime,  
'Tis that, wherein the best of every time,  
Hath been found faulty (if they faulty be)  
That do reprove Abuse and villainy.   

For what I'm taxed, I can examples show,  
In such old Authors as this State allow:  
And I would feign once learn a reason why  
They can have kinder usage here then I?  
I muse men do not now in question call  
Seneca, Horace, Persius, Inuenall,  
And such as they? Or why did not that Age  
In which they lived, put them in a Cage?  
If I should say, that men were juster then,  
I should near hand be made vnsayed again:  
And therefore sure I think I were as good  
Leave it to others to be understood.  
Yet I as well may speak, as deem amiss,  
For such this Ages curious cunning is,  
I scarcely dare to let mine heart think aught,  
For there be some will seem to know my thought,  
Who may outface me that I think awry,  
When there's no witness, but my Conscience by:  
And then I likely am as ill to speed,  
As if I spoke, or did amiss indeed.   

Yet lest those who (perhaps) may malice this,  
Interpret also these few lines amiss,  
Let them that after thee, shall read or hear,  
From a rash censure of my thoughts forbear.  
Let them not mould the sense that this contains  
According to the forming of their brains,  
Or think I dare, or can, here tax those Peers,  
Whose Worths, their Honours, to my soul endears,  
(Those by whose loued-feared Authority)  
I am restrained of my liberty:  
For lest there yet may be a man so ill,  
To haunt my lines with his black Comment still,  
(In hope my luck again may be so good,  
To have my words once rightly understood)  
This I protest, that I do not condemn  
Ought as unjust, that hath been done by them;  
For though my honest heart not guilty be  
Of the least thought, that may disparage me;  
Yet when such men as I, shall have such foes,  
Accuse me of such crimes, to such as those,  
Till I had means my Innocence to show,  
Their justice could have done no less than so.   

Nor have I such a proud conceited wit,  
Or self-opinion of my knowledge yet,  
To think it may not be that I have run  
Upon some Errors in what I have done,  
Worthy this punishment which I endure;  
(I say I cannot so myself assure)  
For 'tis no wonder if their Wisdoms can  
Discover Imperfections in a man  
So weak as I, (more than himself doth see)  
Since my sight dull with insufficiency,  
In men more grave, and wiser far than I,  
Innumerable Errors doth espy,  
Which they with all their knowledge I'll be bold,  
Cannot (or will not) in themselves behold.  
But ere I will myself accuse my Song,  
Or keep a Tongue shall do my Heart that wrong,  
To say I willingly in what I penned,  
Did aught that might a Goodman's sight offend;  
Or with my knowledge did insert one word,  
That might disparage a true Honoured Lord;  
Let it be in my mouth a helpless sore,  
And never speak to be believed more.   

Yet man irresolute is, unconstant, weak,  
And doth his purpose oft through frallty break,  
Lest therefore I by force hereafter may  
Be brought from this mind, and these words unsay,  
Here to the World I do proclaim before,  
If e'er my resolution be so poor,  
'tis not the Right, but Might that makes me do it;  
Yea, nought but fearful basevesse brings me to it;  
Which if I still hate, as I now detest,  
Never can come to harbour in my breast.   

Thus my fault then (if they a fault imply)  
Is not alone an ill unwillingly,  
But also, might I know it, I intend,  
Not only to acknowledge, but amend:  
Hoping that thou wilt not be so severe,  
To punish me above all other here.  
But for m'intents sake, and my love to Truth,  
Impute my Errors to the heat of Youth,  
Or rather Ignorance; then to my Will,  
Which sure I am was good, what ere be ill,  
And like to him now, in whose place thou art,  
What e'er the residue be, accept the Heart.  
But I grow tedious, and my love abused,  
Disturbs my thoughts, and makes my lines confused,  
Yet pardon me, and deign a gracious eye  
On this my rude, vnfiled Apology.  
Let not the bluntness of my phrase offend,  
Weight but the matter, and not how 'tis penned,  
By these abrupt lines in my just defence,  
judge what I might say for my innocence.  
And think, I more could speak, that here I spare,  
Because my power suits not to what I dare.  
My unaffected style retains (you see)  
Her old Frize-Cloake of young Rusticitiê:  
If others will use neater terms, they may,  
Ruder I am, yet love as well as they:  
And (though if I would smoothed I cannot do't)  
My humbel heart I bend beneath thy foot:  
While here my Muse her discontent doth sing  
To thee her great Apollo, and my King:  
Emploring thee by that high sacred Name,  
By justice, by those Powers that I could name:  
By whatsoever may move, entreat I thee,  
To be what thou art unto all, to me;  
I fear it not, yet give me leave to pray,  
I may have foes, whose power doth bear such sway;  
If they but say I'm guilty of offence,  
'Twere vain for me to plead my innocence.   

But as the Name of God thou bearest, I trust  
Thou imitatest him to, in being just:  
That when the right of Truth thou com'st to scan,  
Thou'lt not respect the person of the man:  
For if thou do, then is my hope undone;  
The head-long-way to ruin I must run.  
For whilst that they have all the helps which may  
Procure their pleasure with my soon decay:  
How is it like that I my peace can win me,  
When all the aid I have, comes from within me?  
Therefore (good King) that mak'st thy bounty shine  
Sometime on those whose worths are small as mine;  
Oh save me now from Envy's dangerous shelf,  
Or make me able, and I'll save myself.  
Let not the want of that make me a scorn,  
To which there are more Fools than Wisemen borne.  
Let me not for my Meanness be despised,  
Nor others greatness make their words more prized,  
For whatsoever my outward Fate appears,  
My Soul's as good, my Heart as great as theirs.  
My love unto my Country and to thee,  
As much as his that more would seem to be.  
And would this Age allow but means to show it,  
Those that misdoubt it, should ere long time know it.   

Pity my youth then, and let me not lie  
Wasting my time in fruitless misery.  
Though I am mean, I may be borne unto  
That service, which another cannot do.  
In vain the little Mouse the Lion spared not,  
She did him pleasure, when a greater dared not.  
If aught that I have done, do thee displease,  
Thy misconceived wrath I will appease,  
Or sacrifice my heart; but why should I  
Suffer for God knows whom, I know not why?  
If that my words through some mistake offends,  
Let them conceive them right and make amends.  
Or were I guilty of offence indeed,  
One fault (they say) doth but one pardon need:  
Yet one I had, and now I want one more;  
For once I stood accused for this before.  
As I remember I so long agone,  
Sung Thame, and Rhynes Epithalamion:  
When SHE that from thy Royal self derives  
Those gracious virtues that best Title gives:  
She that makes Rhine proud of her excellence,  
And me oft mind her reverence;  
Deigned in her great good-nature to incline  
Her gentle care to such a cause as mine;  
And which is more, vouchsafed her word, to clear  
Me from all dangers (if there any were,)  
So that I do not now entreat, or sue  
For any great boon, or request that's new:  
But only this (though absent from the Land)  
Her former favour still in force might stand:  
And that her word (who present was so dear)  
Might be as powerful, as when she was here.  
Which if I find, and with thy favour may  
Have leave to shake my loathed bands away,  
(As I do hope I shall) and be set free  
From all the troubles, this hath brought on me,  
I'll make her Name give life unto a Song,  
Whose neverdying note shall last as long  
As there is either River, Grove or Spring,  
Or Down for Sheep, or Shepherd's Lad to sing.  
Yea, I will teach my Muse to touch a strain,  
That was ne'er reached to yet by any Swain.  
For though that many deem my years unripe,  
Yet I have learned to tune an Oaten Pipe,  
Whereon I'll try what music I can make me,  
(Until Bellona with her Trump awake me.)  
And since the world will not have Vice thus shown,  
By blazing Virtue I will make it known.  
Then if the Court will not my lines approve  
I'll go unto some Mountain, or thick Grove:  
There to my fellow Shepherds will I sing,  
Tuning my Reed unto some dancing Spring,  
In such a note, that none should dare to trouble it,  
Till the Hills answer, and the Woods redouble it.  
And peradventure I may then go near  
To speak of something thou'lt be pleased to hear:  
And that which those who now my tunes abhor,  
Shall read, and like, and deign to love me for:  
But the mean while, oh pass not this suit by,  
Let thy free hand sign me my liberty:  
And if my love may move thee more to do,  
Good King consider this my trouble to.  
Others have found thy favour in distress,  
Whose love to thee and thine I think was less.  
And I might fitter for thy service live  
On what would not be much for thee to give.   

And yet I ask it not for that I fear  
The outward means of life should fail me here:  
For though I want to compass those good ends  
jaime at for my Country and my Friends,  
In this poor state I can as well content me,  
As if that I had Wealth and Honours lent me,  
Nor for my own sake do I seek to shun  
This thraldom, wherein now I seem undone:  
For though I prise my Freedom more than Gold,  
And use the means to free myself from hold,  
Yet with a mind (I hope) unchanged and free,  
Here can I live, and play with misery:  
Yea, in despite of want and slavery,  
Laugh at the world in all her bravery.  
Here have I learned to make my greatest Wrongs  
Matter of Mirth, and subjects but for Songs:  
Here can I smile to see myself neglected,  
And how the mean man's suit is disrespected;  
Whilst those that are more rich, and better friended,  
Can have twice greater faults thrice sooner ended.   

All this, yea more, I see and suffer to,  
Yet live content midst discontents I do.  
Which whilst I can, it is all one to me,  
Whether in Prison or abroad it be.  
For should I still lie here distressed and poor,  
It shall not make me breathe a sigh the more;  
Since to myself it is indifferent,  
Where the small remnant of my days be spent,  
But for Thy sake, my Countries, and my Friends,  
For whom, more than myself, God this life lends,  
I would not, could I help it, be a scorn,  
But (if I might) live free, as I was borne:  
Or rather for my Mistress virtue's sake,  
Fair Virtue, of whom most account I make,  
If I can choose, I will not be debased  
In this last action, lest She be disgraced:  
For 'twas the love of her that brought me to,  
What Spleen nor Envy could not make me do.  
And if her servants be no more regarded;  
If enemies of Vice be thus rewarded,  
And I should also Virtues wrongs conceal,  
And if none lived to whom she dared appeal:  
Will they that do not yet her worth approve,  
Be ever drawn to entertain her love,  
When they shall see him plagued as an Offender,  
Who for the love he bears her, doth commend her?   

This may to others more offensive be,  
Then prejudicial any way to me:  
For who will his endeavours ever bend  
To follow her, whom there is none will friend?  
Some I do hope there be that nothing may  
From love of Truth and Honesty dismay.  
But who will (that shall see my evil Fortune)  
The remedy of Times Abuse importune?  
Who will again, when they have smothered me,  
Dare to oppose the face of Villainy?  
Whereas he must be fain to undertake  
A Combat with a second Lernaean Snake;  
Whose ever-growing heads when as he crops,  
Not only two springs, for each one he lops,  
But also he shall see in midst of dangers,  
Those he thought friends turn foes, at leastwise stranger:   

More I could speak, but sure if this do fail me,  
I never shall do aught that will avail me;  
Nor care to speak again, unless it be  
To him that knows how heart and tongue agree;  
No, nor to live, when none dares undertake  
To speak one word for honest Virtue's sake.  
But let his will be done, that best knows what  
Will be my future good, and what will not.  
Hap well or ill, my spotless meaning's fair,  
And for thee, this shall ever be my prayer,  
That thou mayst here enjoy a long-blest Reign,  
And dying, be in Heaven re-crowned again.   

SO now, if thou hast deigned my Lines to hear,  
There's nothing can befall me that I fear:  
For if thou hast compassion on my trouble,  
The joy I shall receive will be made double;  
And if I fall, it may some Glory be,  
That none but JOVE himself did ruin me.   
Your Majesty's most loyal Subject, and yet Prisoner in the marshalsea, GEORGE WITHER.   

Epithalamia: OR NUPTIAL POEMS UPON THE MOST BLESSED AND HAPPY MARRIAGE between the High and Mighty Prince Frederick the fifth, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavier, etc. AND THE MOST VIRTUOUS, Gracious, and thrice Excellent Princess, Elizabeth, Sole Daughter to our dread Sovereign, james, by the grace of God King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, Defender of the Faith, etc. Celebrated at White-Hall the fourteenth of February. 1612.  
Written by George Wither.  
LONDON, Printed by T. S. for john Budge, dwelling in Pauls-Church-yard, at the sign of the Green Dragon, 1622.   

TO THE ALL-VERTVOUS AND THRICE EXCELLENT PRINCESS Elizabeth, sole daughter to our dread Sovereign, james by the grace of God, King of Great Britain, France and Ireland, etc. AND WIFE TO THE HIGH AND MIGHTY PRINCE, FREDERICK the fifth, Count Palatine of the Rhine, Duke of Bavier, etc. Elector, and Arch-s●w ere to the sacred Roman Empire, during the vacancy Vicar of the same, and Knight of the most honourable Order of the Garter.  
George Whither wisheth all the Health; joys, Honours, and Felicities of this World, in this life, and the perfections of eternity in the World to come.   

To the Christian Readers.  
REaders; for that in my book of Satirical Essays, I have been deemed over Cynical; to show, that I am not wholly inclined to that Vain: But indeed especially, out of the love which in duty I owe to those incomparable Princes, I have in honour of their Royal Solemnities, published these short Epithalamiaes. By which you may perceive (how ever the world think of me) I am not of such a Churlish Constitution, but I can afford Virtue her deserved honour; and have as well an affable look to encourage Honesty; as a stern frown to cast on Villainy: If the Times would suffer me, I could be as pleasing as others; and perhaps ere long I will make you amends for my former rigour; Mean while I commit this unto your censures; and bid you farewell.  
G. W.   

Epithalamion.  
BRight Northern Star, and great Minerva's peer,  
Sweet Lady of this Day: Great Britain's dear.  
Lo thy poor Vassal, that was erst so rude,  
With his most Rustic Satyrs to intrude,  
Once more like a poor Sylvan now draws near;  
And in thy sacred Presence dares appear.  
Oh let not that sweet Bow thy Brow be bend,  
To scare him with a Shaft of discontent:  
One look with Anger, nay thy gentlest Frown,  
Is twice enough to cast a Greater down.  
My Will is ever, never to offend,  
These that are good; and what I here intent,  
Your Worth compels me to. For lately grieved,  
More than can be expressed, or well believed;  
Minding for ever to abandon sport,  
And live exiled from places of resort;  
Careless of all, I yielding to security,  
Thought to shut up my Muse in dark obscurity:  
And in content, the better to repose,  
A lonely Grove upon a Mountain chose.  
East from Caer Winn, midway 'twixt Arle and Dis,  
True Springs, where Britain's true Arcadia is.  
But ere I entered my intended course,  
Great Aeolus began to offer force.  

* ●ere re●ers and ●ibes the Winter, 〈◊〉 was so ●…ing 〈…〉  The boisterous King was grown so mad with rage,  
That all the Earth, was but his fury's stage.  
Fire, Air, Earth, Sea, were intermixed in one:  
Yet Fire, through Water, Earth and Air shone.  
The Sea, as if she meant to whelm them under,  
Beat on the Cliffs, and raged more loud than thunder:  
And whilst the vales she with salt waves did fill,  
The Air showered floods, that drenched our highest hill;  
And the proud trees, that would no duty know;  
Lay over-turned, twenties in a Row.  
Yea, every Man for fear, fell to Devotion;  
Lest the whole Isle should have been drenched in th'Ocean.  
Which I perceiving, conjured up my Muse,  
The Spirit, whose good help I sometime use:  
And though I meant to break her rest no more,  
I was then fain her aid for to implore.  
And by her help indeed, I came to know,  
Why, both the Air and Seas were troubled so.  
For having urged her, that she would unfold  
What cause she knew: Thus much at last she told.  
Of late (quoth she) there is by powers Divine;  
A match concluded, 'twixt Great Thame and Rhine.  
Two famous Rivers, equal both to Nile:  
The one, the pride of Europe's greatest Isle.  
Th'other disdaining to be closely penned;  
Washes a great part of the Continent.  
Yet with abundance, doth the Wants supply,  
Of the still-thirsting Sea, that's never dry.  
And now, these, being not alone endeared,  
To mighty Neptune, and his watery Herd:  
But also to the great and dreadful jove,  
With all his sacred Companies above,  
Both have assented by their Love's inviting:  
To grace (with their own presence) this Uniting.  
jove called a Summons to the World's great wonder,  
'Twas that we heard of late, which we thought thunder. 
The reason of the 〈◊〉 Winter.   
A thousand Legions he intends to send them,  
Of Cherubins and Angels to attend them:  
And those strong Winds, that did such blustering keepe,  
Were but the Tritons, sounding in the Deep;  
To warn each River, petty Stream and Spring,  
Their aid unto their Sovereign to bring.  
The Floods and Showers that came so plenteous down,  
And lay entrenched in every Field and Town,  
Were but retainers to the Nobler sort,  
That owe their Homage at the Watery Court:  
Or else the Streams not pleased with their own store,  
To grace the Thames, their Mistress, borrowed more.  
Exacting from their neighbouring Dales and Hills,  
But by consent all (nought against their wills.)  
Yet now, since in this stir are brought to ground  
Many fair buildings, many hundreds drowned,  
And daily found of broken Ships great store,  
That lie dismembered upon every shore:  
With diverse other mischiefs known to all,  
This is the cause that those great harms befall.  
Whilst other, things in readiness, did make,  
Hell's hateful Hags from out their prisons broke: 
〈◊〉 cause of all 〈◊〉 dangers as 〈◊〉 during 〈◊〉 distempera●… of the air.   
And spiting at this hopeful match, began  
To wreak their wrath on Air, Earth, Sea, and Man.  
Some having shapes of Romish shavelings got,  
Spewed out their venom; and began to plot  
Which way to thwart it: others made their way  
With much diffraction through Land and Sea  
Extremely raging. But Almighty jove  
Perceives their Hate and Envy from above:  
He'll check their fury, and in irons chained,  
Their liberty abused, shall be restrained:  
he'll shut them up, from coming to molest  
The Merriments of Hymen's holy feast.  
Where shall be knit that sacred Gordian knot,  
Which in no age to come shall be forgot.  
Which Policy nor Force shall ne'er untie,  
But must continue to eternity:  
Which for the whole World's good was fore-decreeed,  
With Hope expected long; now come indeed.  
And of whose future glory, worth, and merit  
Much I could speak with a prophetic spirit.  
Thus by my Muses dear assistance, finding  
The cause of this disturbance, with more minding  
●y Country's welfare, than my own content, 
He noteth the most 〈◊〉 alteration of 〈◊〉 weather a 〈◊〉 before these Nuptials.   
●nd longing to behold this Tales event:  
My lonely life I suddenly forsook,  
●nd to the Court again my lourney took.  
Meanwhile I saw the furious Winds were laid;  
The risings of the swelling Waters stayed.  
The Winter 'gan to change in every thing.  
And seemed to borrow mildness of the Spring.  
The Violet and Primrose fresh did grow;  
And as in April, trimmed both Copse and row.  
The City, that I left in mourning clad,  
●rouping, as if it would have still been sad.  
● found decked up in robes so neat and trim,  
●aire Iris would have looked but stale and dim  
〈◊〉 her best colours, had she there appeared,  
The Sorrows of the Court I found well cleared,  
Their woeful habits quite cast off, and ty'rd  
〈◊〉 such a glorious fashion: I admired. 
The 〈…〉 preparation 〈◊〉 this 〈◊〉 the state wh●●… of ●is here ●●…gorically 〈◊〉   
All her chief Peers and choicest beauties to,  
〈◊〉 greater pomp, than Mortals use to do,  
Wait as attendants. Juno's come to see;  
because she hears that this solemnity  
●xceeds fair Hippodamia's (where the strife  
'twixt her, Minerva, and lame Vulcan's wife  
●id first arise,) and with her leads along  
〈◊〉 noble, stately, and a mighty throng.  
Venus, (attended with her rarest features,  
Sweet lovely-smiling, and heart-moving creatures,  
The very fairest jewels of her treasure,  
Able to move the senseless stones to pleasure.)  
Of all her sweetest Saints, hath robbed their shrines;  
And brings them for the Courtier's Valentines.  
Nor doth Dame Pallas, from these triumphs lurk;  
Her noblest wits, she freely sets on work.  
Of late she summoned them unto this place,  
To do your masks and Revels better grace.  
Here 
* Meaning the 〈…〉, and 〈…〉 of 〈…〉 on 〈◊〉 water, which 〈◊〉 most 〈…〉.  Mars himself to, clad in Armour bright,  
Hath shown his fury in a bloodless fight;  
And both on land and water, sternly dressed,  
Acted his bloody Stratagems in jest:  
Which (to the people, frighted by their error,)  
With seeming wounds and death did add more terror,  
Besides, to give the greater cause of wonder,  
jove did vouchsafe a rattling peal of thunder:  
Comets and Meteors by the stars exhaled. 
〈…〉 works 〈…〉.   
Were from the Middle-Region lately called;  
And to a place appointed made repair,  
To show their fiery Friscols in the air,  
People innumerable do resort,  
As if all Europe here would keep one Court:  
Yea, Hymen in his Safferon-coloured weed,  
To celebrate his rites is full agreed.  
All this I see: which seeing, makes me borrow  
Some of their mirth a while, and lay down sorrow.  
And yet not this: but rather the delight  
My heart doth taken in the much hoped sight  
Of these thy glories, long already due;  
And this sweet comfort, that my eyes do view  
Thy happy Bridegroom, Prince Count Palatine,  
Now thy best friend and truest Valentine.  
Upon whose brow, my mind doth read the story  
Of mighty fame, and a true future glory.  
Me thinks I do foresee already, how  
Princes and Monarches at his stirrup how:  
I see him shine in steel; the bloody fields  
Already won, and how his proud foe yields.  
God hath ordained him happiness great store:  
And yet in nothing is he happy more,  
Then in thy love (fair Princess:) For (unless Heaven, like to Man, be prone to fickleness)  
Thy Fortunes must be greater in effect,  
Then time makes show of, or men can expect.  
Yet, notwithstanding all those goods of fate,  
Thy Mind shall ever be above thy state:  
For over and beside thy proper merit,  
Our last Eliza grants her Noble spirit  
To be re-doubled on thee; and your names  
Being both one, shall give you both one fames.  
Oh blessed thou! and they to whom thou giv'st  
The leave for to be attendants where thou livest:  
And hapless we, that must of force let go,  
The matchless treasure we esteem of so.  
But yet we trust 'tis for our good and thine;  
Or else thou shouldst not change thy Thame for Rhyne.  
We hope that this will the uniting prove  
Of Countries and of Nations by your love:  
And that from out your blessed loins, shall come  
Another terror to the Whore of Rome:  
And such a stout Achilles, as shall make  
Her tottering Walls and weak foundation shake:  
For Thetis-like, thy fortunes do require,  
Thy Issue should be greater than his fire.  
But (Gracious Princess) now since thus it fares,  
And God so well for you and us prepares:  
Since he hath deigned such honours for to do you,  
And shown himself so favourable to you:  
Since he hath changed your sorrows, and your sadness,  
Into such great and unexpected gladness:  
Oh now remember you to be at leisure,  
Sometime to think on him amidst your pleasure:  
Let not these glories of the world deceive you,  
Nor her vain favours of yourself bereave you.  
Consider yet for all this jollity,  
Y'are mortal, and must feel mortality:  
And that God can in midst of all your joys,  
Quite dash this pomp, and fill you with annoys.  
Triumphs are fit for Princes; yet we find  
They ought not wholly to take up the mind,  
Nor yet to be let pass; as things in vain:  
For out of all things, wit will knowledge gain.  
Music may teach of difference in degree,  
The best tuned Commonweals will framed be:  
And that he moves, and lives with greatest grace,  
That unto Time and Measure ties his pace.  
Then let these things be 
a He declares what vs● is to be made of these shows and triumphs, and wha● meditations the mind may be occupied about, when 〈◊〉 behold them.  Emblems, to present  
Your mind with a more lasting true content.  
When you behold the infinite resort,  
The glory and the splendour of the Court;  
What wondrous favours God doth here bequeath you,  
How many hundred thousands are beneath you;  
And view with admiration your great bliss,  
Then with yourself you may imagine this.  
'Tis but a blast, or transitory shade,  
Which in the turning of a hand may fade.  
Honours, which you yourself did never win,  
And might (had God been pleased) another's been.  
And think, if shadows have such majesty,  
What are the glories of eternity;  
Then by this image of a fight on Sea,  
Wherein you heard the thundering Canons plea;  
And saw flames breaking from their murdering throats,  
Which in true skirmish, fling resistless shots;  
Your wisdom may (and will no doubt) begin,  
To cast what peril a poor Soldiers in:  
You will conceive his miseries and cares,  
How many dangers, deaths, and wounds he shares:  
Then though the most passed over, and neglect them,  
That Rhetoric will move you to respect them.  
And if hereafter, you should hap to see  
Such Mimic Apes (that Courts disgraces be:)  
I mean such Chamber-combatants; who never  
Wear other Helmet, than a Hat of Beaver:  
Or ne'er board Pinnace but in silken sail;  
And in the steed of boisterous shirts of mail,  
Go armed in Cambric: If that such a Kite  
(I say) should scorn an Eagle in your sight;  
Your wisdom judge (by this experience) can,  
Which hath most worth, Hermaphrodite, or Man.  
The night's strange 
* Fireworks.  prospects, made to feed the eyes,  
With Artful fires, mounted in the skies:  
Graced with horrid claps of sulphury thunders;  
May make you mind th' Almighty's greater wonders.  
Nor is there any thing, but you may thence  
Reap inward gain; as well as please the Sense.  
But pardon me (oh fairest) that am bold,  
My heart thus freely, plainly, to unfold.  
What though I know, you knew all this before:  
My love this shows, and that is something more.  
Do not my honest service here disdain,  
I am a faithful, though an humble Swain.  
I'm none of those that have the means or place,  
With shows of cost to do your Nuptials grace:  
But only master of mine own desire,  
Am hither come with others to admire.  
I am not of those Heliconian wits;  
Whose pleasing strains the Courts known humour fits.  
But a poor rural Shepherd, that for need,  
Can make sheep Music on an Oaten reed:  
Yet for my love (Isle this be bold to boast)  
It is as much to you, as his that's most.  
Which, since I no way else can now explain,  
If you'll in midst of all these glories deign,  
To lend your ears unto my Muse so long,  
She shall declare it in a Wedding song.   

Epithalamion.  


The Marriage being on S. Valentine's day, the Author shows it by beginning with the salutation of a supposed Valentine.  VAlentine, good morrow to thee,  
Love and service both I owe thee:  
And would wait upon thy pleasure;  
But I cannot be at leisure:  
For, I owe this day as debtor,  
To (a thousand times) thy better.   

Hymen now will have effected  
What hath been so long expected:  
Thame thy Mistress, now unwedded;  
Soon, must with a Prince be bedded.  
If thou'lt see her Virgin ever,  
Come, and do it now, or never.   

Where art thou, oh fair Aurora?  
Call in Ver and Lady Flora:  
And you daughters of the Morning,  
In your nearest, and fearest adorning:  
Clear your foreheads, and be sprightful,  
That this day may seem delightful.   

All you Nymphs that use the Mountains,  
Or delight in groves and fountains;  
Shepherdesses, you that dally,  
Either upon Hill or Valley:  
And you daughters of the Bower,  
That acknowledge Vesta's power.   

Oh you sleep too long; awake ye,  
See how Time doth overtake ye.  
Hark, the Lark is up and singeth,  
And the house with echoes ringeth.  
Precious hours, why neglect ye,  
Whilst affairs thus expect ye?   

Come away upon my blessing,  
The Bride-chamber lies to dressing:  
Strew the ways with leaves of Roses,  
Some make garlands, some make poses:  
'Tis a favour, an't may joy you,  
That your Mistress will employ you.   

Where's 
a 〈◊〉  Sabrina, with her daughters,  
That do sport about her waters:  
Those that with their locks of Amber,  
Haunt the fruitful hills of 
b Wales,  Camber:  
We must have to fill the number.  
All the Nymphs of Trent and Humber.   

Fie, your haste is scarce sufficing,  
For the Bride's awake and rising.  
Enter beauties, and attend her;  
All your helps and service lend her:  
With your quaintst and newest devices,  
Trim your Lady, fair Thamisis.   

See; she's ready: with joys greet her,  
Lads, go bid the Bridegroom meet her:  
But from rash approach advice him,  
Lest a too much joy surprise him,  
None I ere knew yet, that dared,  
View an Angel unprepared.   

Now unto the Church she hies her;  
Envy bursts, if she espies her:  
In her gestures as she paces,  
Are united all the Graces:  
Which who sees and hath his senses,  
Loves in spite of all defences.   

O most true majestic creature!  
Nobles did you note her feature?  
Felt you not an inward motion,  
Tempting Love to yield devotion;  
And as you were even desiring,  
Something check you for aspiring?   

That's her Virtue which still tameth  
Loose desires, and bad thoughts blameth:  
For whilst others were unruly,  
She observed Diana truly:  
And hath by that means obtained  
Gifts of her that none have gained.   

yond's the Bridegroom, d'ye not spy him?  
See how all the Ladies eye him.  
Venus' his perfection findeth,  
And no more Adonis mindeth.  
Much of him my heart divineth:  
On whose brow all Virtue shineth.   

Two such Creatures Nature would not  
Let one place long keep: she should not:  
One she'll have (she cares not whether,)  
But our Loves can spare her neither.  
Therefore ere we'll so be spighted,  
They in one shall be united.   

Nature's self is well contented,  
By that means to be prevented.  
And behold they are retired,  
So conjoined, as we desired:  
Hand in hand, not only fixed,  
But their hearts, are intermixed.   

Happy they and we that see it,  
For the good of Europe be it.  
And hear Heaven my devotion,  
Make this Rhine and Thame an Ocean:  
That it may with might and wonder,  
Whelm the pride of 
a Tiber 〈◊〉 the Ri●er which 〈…〉 Rome.  Tiber under.   

Now yond 
b White-●all.  Hall their persons shroudeth,  
Whither all this people croudeth:  
There they feasted are with plenty,  
Sweet Ambrosia is no dainty.  
Grooms quaff Nectar; for there's meeter,  
Yea, more costly wines and sweeter.   

Young men all, for joy go ring ye,  
And your merriest Carols sing ye.  
Here's of Damsels many choices,  
Let them tune their sweetest voices.  
Fet the Muses to, to cheer them;  
They can ravish all that hear them.   

Ladies, 'tis their Highness' pleasures,  
To behold you foot the Measures:  
Lovely gestures addeth graces,  
To your bright and Angel faces.  
Give your active minds the bridle:  
Nothing worse than to be idle.   

Worthies, your affairs forbear ye,  
For the State a while may spare ye:  
Time was, that you loved sporting,  
Have you quite forgot your Courting?  
joy the heart of Cares beguileth:  
Once a year Apollo smileth. 
Semel in anno ridet Apol.    

Follow Shepherds, how I pray you,  
Can your flocks at this time stay you?  
Let us also high us thither,  
Let's lay all our wits together,  
And some Pastoral invent them,  
That may show the love we meant them.   

I myself though meanest stated,  
And in Court now almost hated,  
Will knit up my 
a Abuses stripped and whipped. He noteth the mildness of the winter which, excepting that the beginning was very windy, was as temperate as the spring,  Scourge, and venture  
In the midst of them to enter;  
For I know, there's no disdaining,  
Where I look for entertaining.   

See, me thinks the very season,  
As if capable of Reason,  
Hath lain by her native rigour,  
The fair Sunbeams have more vigour.  
They are Aeols most endeared:  
For the Air's stilled and cleared.   

Fawns, and Lambs and Kids do play,  
In the honour of this day:  
The shrill Blackbird, and the Thrush  
Hops about in every bush:  
And among the tender twigs,  
Chant their sweet harmonious ijgs.   


Moft men 〈◊〉 of opinion, ●hat this ●ay every ●ird doth choose her ●ate for 〈◊〉 year.  Yea, and moved by this example,  
They do make each Grove a temple:  
Where their time the best way using,  
They their Summer loves are choosing.  
And unless some Churl do wrong them,  
There's not an odd bird among them.   

Yet I heard as I was walking,  
Groves and hills by Echoes talking:  
Reeds unto the small brooks whistling,  
Whilst they danced with pretty rushling.  
Then for us to sleep 'twere pity;  
Since dumb creatures are so witty.   

But oh Titan, thou dost dally,  
High thee to thy Western Valley:  
Let this night one hour borrow:  
She shall paid again to morrow:  
And if thou'st that favour do them,  
Send thy sister Phabe to them.   

But she's come herself unasked,  
And brings 
a By these he means the two Masques, one of them being presented by the Lords, the other by the Gentry.  Gods and Heroes masked.  
None yet saw, or heard in story,  
Such immortal, mortal glory.  
View not, without preparation;  
Lest you faint in admiration.   

Say my Lords, and speak truth barely,  
Moved they not exceeding rarely?  
Did they not such praises merit,  
As if flesh had all been spirit?  
True indeed, yet I must tell them,  
There was One did far excel them.   

But (alas) this is ill dealing,  
Night unawares away is stealing:  
Their delay the poor bed wrongeth,  
That for Bride with Bridegroom longeth:  
And above all other places,  
Must be blest with their embraces.   

Revelers, than now forbear ye,  
And unto your rests prepare ye:  
Let's a while your absence borrow,  
Sleep to night, and dance to morrow.  
We could well allow your Courting:  
But 'twill hinder better sporting.   

They are gone, and Night all lonely,  
Leaves the Bride with Bridegroom only.  
Muse now tell; (for thou hast power  
To fly through wall or tower:)  
What contentments their hearts cheereth;  
And how lovely she appeareth.   

And yet do not; tell it no man,  
Rare conceits may so grow common:  
Do not to the Vulgar show them,  
('Tis enough that thou dost know them.)  
Their ill hearts are but the Centre,  
Where all misconceiving enter.   

But thou Luna that dost lightly,  
Haunt our downs and forests nightly:  
Thou that favourst generation,  
And art help to procreation:  
See their issue thou so cherish,  
I may live to see it flourish.   

And you Planets, in whose power  
Doth consist these lives of our;  
You that teach us Divinations.  
Help with all your Constellations,  
How to frame in Her, a creature,  
Blest in Fortune, Wit, and Feature.   

Lastly, oh you Angels ward them,  
Set your sacred Spells to guard them;  
Chase away such fears or terrors,  
As not being, seem through errors:  
Yea, let not a dreams molesting,  
Make them start when they are resting.   

But THOU chiefly, most adored,  
That shouldst only be implored:  
Thou to whom my meaning tendeth,  
Whether ere in show it bendeth:  
Let them rest to night from sorrow,  
And awake with joy to morrow.   

Oh, to my request be heedful,  
Grant them that, and all things needful.  
Let not these my strains of Folly,  
Make true prayer be unholy:  
But if I have here offended:  
Help, forgive, and Ice it mended.   

Deign me this. And if my Muses  
Hasty issue; she peruses;  
Make it unto her seem grateful,  
Though to all the World else hateful.  
But how ere, yet Soul persever  
Thus to wish her good for ever.    

THus ends the Day, together with my Song;  
Oh may the joys there of continue long!  
Let Heavens just, allseeing, sacred power,  
Favour this happy marriage day of your;  
And bless you in your chaste embraces so,  
We Britain's may behold before you go  
The hopeful Issue we shall count so dear,  
And whom (unborn) his foes already fear.  
Yea, I desire, that all your sorrows may  
Never be more, than they have been to day.  
Which hoping; for acceptance now I sue,  
And humbly bid your Grace and Court adieu.  
I saw the sight I came for; which I know  
Was more than all, the world beside could show.  
But if amongst Apollo's Lays, you can  
Be pleased to lend a gentle ear to Pan;  
Or think your Country Shepherd loves as dear,  
As if he were a Courtier, or a Peer:  
Then I, that else must to my Cell of pain,  
Will joyful turn unto my flock again:  
And there unto my fellow shepherds tell,  
Why you are loved; wherein you do excel.  
And when we drive our flocks a field to graze them,  
So chant your praises, that it shall amaze them.  
And think that Fate hath new recalled from death  
Their still-lamented, sweet Elizabeth.  
For though they see the Court but now and then,  
They know desert as well as Greater men:  
And honoured Fame in them doth live or die,  
As well as in the mouth of Majesty.  
But taking granted what I here entreat;  
At heaven for you my devotions beat:  
And though I fear, fate will not suffer me  
To do you service, where your Fortunes be:  
How ere my skill hath yet despised seemed,  
(And my unripened wit been misesteemed:)  
When all this costly Show away shall flit,  
And not one live that doth remember it;  
If Envy's trouble let not to persever;  
I'll find a means to make it known for ever.   

CERTAIN EPIGRAMS CONCERNING MARRIAGE.  

Epigram 1.  
'tIs said; in Marriage above all the rest  
The children of a King find comforts least,  
Because without respect of Love or Hate  
They must, and oft be, ruled by the State:  
But if contented Love, Religion's care,  
Equality in State, and years declare  
A happy Match (as I suppose no less)  
Then rare and great's Eliza's Happiness.   

Epigram. 2.  
GOd was the first that Marriage did ordain,  
By making One, Two; and Two, One again,   

Epigram. 3.  
Soldier; of thee I ask, for thou canst best,  
Having known sorrow, judge of joy and Rest:  
What greater bliss, then after all thy harms,  
To have a wife that's fair, and lawful thine;  
And lying prisoned 'twixt her ivory arms,  
There tell what thou hast scaped by powers divine?  
How many round thee thou hast murdered seen;  
How oft thy soul hath been near hand expiring,  
How many times thy flesh hath wounded been:  
Whilst she thy fortune, and thy worth admiring,  
With joy of health, and pity of thy pain;  
Doth weep and kiss, and kiss and weep again.   

Epigram. 4.  
Fair Helen having stained her husband's bed,  
And mortal hatred 'twixt two Kingdoms bred;  
Had still remaining in her so much good,  
That Heroes for her lost their dearest blood:  
Then if with all that ill, such worth may last,  
Oh what is she worth, that's as fair, and chaste!   

Epigram. 5.  
OLd Orpheus know a good wife's worth so well,  
That when his died, he followed her to hell,  
And for her loss, at the Elysian Grove,  
He did not only Ghosts to pity move,  
But the sad Poet breathed his sighs so deep;  
'Tis said, the Devils could not choose but weep.   

Epigram. 6.  
LOng did I wonder, and I wonder much,  
Rome's Church should from her Clergy take that due:  
Thought I, why should she that contentment grudge?  
What, doth she all with continence endue?  
No: But why then are they debarred that state?  
Is she become a foe unto her own?  
Doth she the members of her body hate?  
Or is it for some other cause unshown?  
Oh yes: they find a woman's lips so dainty:  
They tie themselves from one, cause they'll have twenty.   

Epigram. 7.  
WOmen, as some men say▪ unconstant be;  
'Tis like enough, and so no doubt are men:  
Nay, if their 'scapes we could so plainly see,  
I fear that scarce there will be one for ten.  
Men have but their own lusts that tempt to ill:  
Women have lusts, and men's allurements to:  
Alas, if their strengths cannot curb their will;  
What should poor women that are weaker do?  
Oh they had need be chaste and look about them,  
That strive 'gainst lust within, and knaves without them.   
FINIS.   

THE SHEPHERD'S HUNTING: Being certain Eglogues written during the time of the Author's Imprisonment in the marshalsea.  
By George Wither, Gentleman.  
LONDON, Printed by T. S. for john Budge, dwelling in Pauls-Church-yard, at the sign of the Green Dragon, 1622.   

To those Honoured, Noble, and right Virtuous Friends, my Visitants in the marshalsea: And to all other my unknown Favourers, who either privately, or publicly wished me well in my imprisonment.  
NOble Friends; you whose virtues made me first in love with Virtue; and whose worths made me be thought worthy of your loves: I have now at last (you see) by God's assistance, and your encouragement, run through the Purgatory of imprisonment; and by the worthy favour of a just Prince, stand free again, without the least touch of dejected baseness. Seeing therefore I was grown beyond my Hope so fortunate (after acknowledgement of my Creator's love, together with the unequalled Clemency of so gracious a Sovereign) I was troubled to think, by what means I might express my thankfulness to so many well-deserving friends: No way I found to my desire, neither yet ability to perform when I found it. But at length considering with myself what you were (that is) such, who favour honesty for no second reason, but because you yourselves are good; and aim at no other reward, but the witness of a sound conscience that you do well, I found, that thankfulness would prove the acceptablest present to suit with your dispositions; and that I imagined could be no way better expressed, then in manifesting your courtesies, and giving consent to your reasonable demands. For the first, I confess (with thanks to the disposer of all things, and a true grateful heart towards you) so many were the unexpected Visitations, and unhoped kindnesses received, both from some among you of my Acquaintance, and many other unknown Well-willers of my Cause, that I was persuaded to entertain a much better conceit of the Times, than I lately conceived, and assured myself, that Virtue had far more followers than I supposed.  
Somewhat it disturbed me to behold our ages Favourites, whilst they frowned on my honest enterprises, to take unto their protections the egregiousts fopperies: yet much more was my contentment, in that I was respected by so many of You, amongst whom there are some, who can and may as much disesteem these, as they neglect me: nor could I fear their Malice or Contempt, whilst I enjoyed your favours, who (howsoever you are undervalved by Fools for a time) shall leave unto your posterity so noble a memory, that your names shall be reverenced by Kings, when many of these who now flourish with a show of usurped Greatness, shall either wear out of being, or despoiled of all their patched reputation, grow contemptible in the eyes of their beloved Mistress the World. Your Love it is that (enabling me with patience to endure what is already past) hath made me also careful better to prepare myself for all future misadventures, by bringing to my consideration, what the passion of my just discontentments had almost quite banished from my remembrance.  
Further, to declare my thankfulness, in making apparent my willing mind to be commanded in any services of love, which you shall think fit (though I want ability to perform great matters) yet I have according to some of your requests, been contented to give way to the printing of these Eglogues; which though it to many seem a sleight matter, yet being well considered of, may prove a strong argument of my readiness to give you content in a greater matter: for they being (as you well know) begotten with little care, and preserved with less respect, gave sufficient evidence, that I meant (rather than any way to deceive your trust) to give the world occasion of calling my discretion in question, as I now assure myself this will: and the sooner, because such expectations (I perceive) there are (of I know not what Inventions) as would have been frustrated, though I had employed the utmost and very best of my endeavours.  
Notwithstanding for your sakes, I have here adventured once again to make trial of the World's censures: and what hath received being from your Loves, I here re-dedicated to your Worths, which if your noble dispositions will like well of; or if you will but reasonably respect what yourselves drew me unto, I shall be nothing displeased at others cavils, but resting myself contented with your good opinions, scorn all the rabble of uncharitable detractors: For none, I know, will malign it, except those, who either particularly malice my person, or profess themselves enemies to my former Books; who (saving those that were incensed on others speeches) as diverse of you (according to your protestations) have observed, are either open enemies of our Church; men notoriously guilty of some particular Abuses therein taxed, such malicious Critics who have the repute of being judicious, by detracting from others; or at best, such Gulls, as never approve any thing good, or learned, but either that which their shallow apprehensions can apply to the soothing of their own opinions, or what (indeed rather) they understand not.  
Trust me, how ill soever it hath been rewarded, my love to my Country is inviolate: my thankfulness to you unfeigned, my endeavour to do every man good; all my aim, content with honesty: and this my pains (if it may be so termed) more to avoid idleness, then for affectation of praise: and if notwithstanding all this, I must yet not only rest myself content that my innocence hath escaped with strict imprisonment (to the impairing of my state, and hindrance of my fortunes) but also be constrained to see my guiltless lines, suffer the despite of ill tongues: yet for my further encouragement, let me entreat the continuance of your first respect, wherein I shall find that comfort as will be sufficient to make me set light, and so much contemn all the malice of my adversaries, that ready to burst with the venom of their own hearts, they shall see  
My Mind enamoured on fair Virtue's light,  
Transcends the limits of their bleared sight,  
And placed above their Envy doth contemn,  
Nay, sit and laugh at, their disdain, and them.  
But Noble Friends, I make question neither of yours, nor any honest man's respect, and therefore will no further urge it, nor trouble your patience: only this I'll say, that you may not think me too well conceited of myself; though the Time were to blame, in ill requiting my honest endeavours, which in the eyes of the World deserved better; yet some what I am assured there was in me worthy that punishment, which when God shall give me grace to see and amend, I doubt not but to find that regard as will be fitting for so much merit as my endeavours may justly challenge. Mean while, the better to hold myself in esteem with you, and amend the world's opinion of Virtue, I will study to amend myself, that I may be yet more worthy to be called  
Your Friend, GEO: WITHER.   

The Shepherds Hunting.  

The first Eglogue.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Willy leaves his Flock a while,  
To lament his Friend's exile;  
Where, though prisoned, he doth find,  
he's still free that's free in Mind:  
And that there is no defence  
Half so firm as Innocence.  PHILARETE. WILLIE. Philarete. 
WIlly, thou now full jolly tun'st thy Reeds,  
Making the Nymphs enamoured on thy strain,  
And whilst thy harmless flock unscarred feeds,  
Hast the contentment, of hills, groves, & plains:  
Trust me, I joy thou and thy Muse so speeds  
In such an Age, where so much mischief reigns:  
And to my Care it some redress will be,  
Fortune hath so much grace to smile on thee.  Willy. 
To smile on me? I ne'er yet knew her smile,  
Unless 'twere when she purposed to deceive me;  
Many a Train, and many a painted Wile  
She casts, in hope of Freedom to bereave me:  
Yet now, because she sees I scorn her guile  
To fawn on fooles, she for my Muse doth leave me.  
And here of late, her wont Spite doth tend,  
To work me Care, by frowning on my friend.  Philarete. 
Why then I see her Copper-coyne's no starling,  
'Twill not be currant still, for all the guilding)  
A Knave, or Fool, must ever be her Darling,  
For they have minds to all occasions yielding:  
If we get any thing by all our parling.  
It seems an Apple, but it proves a Wielding:  
But let that pass: sweet Shepherd tell me this,  
For what beloved Friend thy sorrow is.  Willy. 
Art thou, Philarete, in durance here,  
And dost thou ask me for what Friend I grieve?  
Can I suppose thy love to me is dear,  
Or this thy joy for my content believe?  
When thou think'st thy cares touch not me as near:  
Or that I pin thy Sorrows at my sleeve?  
I have in thee reposed so much trust,  
I never thought, to find thee so unjust.  Philarete. 
WILL, why Willy? Prithee do not ask me why?  
Doth it diminish any of thy care,  
That I in freedom maken melody;  
And think'st I cannot as well somewhat spare  
From my delight, to moon thy misery?  
'Tis time our Loves should these suspects forbear:  
Thou art that friend, which thou vnnam'd shouldst know,  
And not have drawn my love in question so.  Philarete. 

Forgive me, and I'll pardon thy mistake,  
And so let this thy gentle-anger cease,  
(I never of thy love will question make)  
Whilst that the number of our days increase,  
Yet to myself I much might seem to take,  
And something near unto presumption press:  
To think me worthy love from such a spirit,  
But that I know thy kindness past my merit.   

Besides; me thought thou spak'st now of a friend,  
That seemed more grievous discontents to bear,  
Some things I find that do in show offend,  
Which to my Patience little trouble are,  
And they ere long I hope will have an end;  
Or though they have not, much I do not care:  
So this it was, made me that question move,  
And not suspect of honest Willies love.   Willie. 
Alas, thou art exiled from thy Flock,  
And quite beyond the Deserts here confined,  
Hast nothing to converse with but a Rock:  
Or at least Out laws in their Caves half pined:  
And dost thou at thy own misfortune mock,  
Making thyself to, to thyself unkind?  
When heretofore we talked we did embrace:  
But now I scarce can come to see thy face.  Philarete. 
Yet all that Willy, is not worth thy sorrow,  
For I have Mirth here thou wouldst not believe,  
From deepest cares the highest joys I borrow.  
If ought chance out this day, may make me grieve  
I'll lcarne to mend, or scorn it by to morrow.  
This barren place yields somewhat to relieve:  
For, I have found sufficient to content me,  
And more true bliss then ever freedom lent me.  Willie. 
Are Prisons then grown places of delight?  Philarete. 
'Tis as the conscience of the Prisoner is,  
Thevery Grates are able to affright  
The guilty Man, that knows his deeds amiss;  
All outward Pleasures are exiled quite,  
And it is nothing (of itself) but this:  
Abhorred loanenesse, darkness, sadness, pains,  
Num'n-cold, sharpe-hunger, schorcning thirst and chains.  Willie. 
And these are nothing?—  Philarete. 
— Nothing yet to me.  
Only my friend's restraint is all my pain.  
And since I truly find my conscience free  
From that my loanenesse to, I reap some gain.  Willie. 
But grant in this no discontentment be▪  
It doth thy wished liberty restrain:  
And to thy soul I think there's nothing nearer,  
For I could never hear thee prize ought dearer.  Philarete. 

True, I did ever set it at a Rate  
Too dear for any Mortals worth to buy,  
'Tis not our greatest Shepherds whole estate,  
Shall purchase from me, my least liberty:  
But I am subject to the powers of Fate,  
And to obey them is no slavery:  
They may do much, but when they have done all,  
Only my body they may bring in thrall.   

And 'tis not that (my Willy) 'tis my mind,  
My mind's more precious, freedom I so weigh  
A thousand ways they may my body bind,  
In thousand thralls, but ne'er my mind betray:  
And thence it is that I contentment find,  
And bear with Patience this my load away:  
I'm still myself, and that I'd rather be,  
Then to be Lord of all these Downs in fee.   Willie. 
Nobly resolved, and I do joy to hear't,  
For 'tis the mind of Man indeed that's all.  
There's nought so hard but a brave heart will bear't,  
The guiltless men count great afflictions small,  
They'll look on Death and Torment, yet not fear't,  
Because they know 'tis rising so to fall:  
Tyrants may boast they to much power are borne,  
Yet he hath more that Tyrannies can scorn.  Philarete. 
●is right, but I no Tyrannies endure,  
●or have I suffered aught worth name of care  Willie. 
What e'er thou'lt call't, thou may'st, but I am sure,  
Many more pine that much less pained are:  
Thy look me thinks doth say thy meaning's pure  
And by this past I find what thou dost dare:  
But I could never yet the reason know,  
Why thou art lodged in this house of wo.  Philarete. 
Nor I by Pan, nor never hope to do,  
But thus it pleases some; and I do guess  
Partly a cause that moves them thereunto,  
Which neither will avail me to express,  
Nor thee to hear, and therefore let it go,  
We must not say, they do so that oppress:  
Yet I shall ne'er to soothe them or the times,  
Injure myself, by bearing others crimes.  Willie. 
Then now thou mayst speak freely, there's none hears,  
But he, whom I do hope thou dost not doubt.  Philarete. 
True: but if doors and walls have gotten ears,  
And Closet-whispering may be spread about:  
Do not blame him that in such causes fears  
What in his Passion he may blunder out:  
In such a place, and such strict times as these,  
Where what we speak is taken as others please.  
But yet to morrow, if thou come this way,  
I'll tell thee all my story to the end,  
'Tis long, and now I fear thou canst not stay,  
Because thy Flock must watered be and penned,  
And Night begins to muffle up the day,  
Which to inform thee how alone I spend,  
I'll only sing a sorry Prisoners Lay,  
I framed this Morn, which though it suits no fields,  
Is such as fits me, and sad Thraldom yields.  Willie. 
Well, I will set my Kit another string,  
And play unto it whilst that thou dost sing.  
Sonnet.  
Philarete. 

NOw that my body dead alive,  
Bereaved of comfort, lies in thrall.  
Do thou my soul begin to thrive,  
And unto Hony, turn this Gall:  
So shall we both through outward we,  
The way to inward comfort know.   

As to the Flesh we food do give;  
To keep in us this Mortal breath:  
So Souls on Meditations live,  
And shun thereby immortal death:  
Nor art thou ever nearer rest,  
Then when thou findest me most oppressed.   

First think my Soul; If I have Foes  
That take a pleasure in my care,  
And to procure these outward woes,  
Have thus entrapped me unaware:  
Thou shouldst by much more careful be,  
Since greater foes lay wait for thee.   

Then when Mewed up in grates of steel,  
Minding those joys mine eyes do miss,  
Thou findest no torment thou dost feel,  
So grievous as Privation is:  
Muse how the Damned in flames that glow,  
Pine in the loss of bliss they know.   

Thou seest there's given so great might  
To some that are but clay as I,  
Their very anger can affright,  
Which, if in any thou espy.  
Thus think; If Mortals frowns strike fear,  
How dreadful will God's wrath appear?   

By my late hopes that now are crossed,  
Consider those that firmer be:  
And make the freedom I have lost,  
A means that may remember thee:  
Had Christ, not thy Redeemer been,  
What horrid thrall thou hadst been in.   

These iron chains, these bolts of steel,  
Which other poor offenders grind,  
The wants and cares which they do feel,  
May bring some greater thing to mind:  
For by their grief thou shalt do well,  
To think upon the pains of Hell.   

Or, when through me thou seest a Man  
Condemned unto a mortal death,  
How sad he looks, how pale, how wan,  
Drawing with fear his panting breath:  
Think, if in that such grief thou see,  
How sad will, Go ye cursed be.   

Again, when he that feared to Die  
(Past hope) doth see his Pardon brought,  
Read but the joy that's in his eye,  
And then convey it to thy thought:  
There think, betwixt thy heart and thee,  
How sweet will, Come ye blessed, be.   

Thus if thou do, though closed here,  
My bondage I shall deem the less,  
I neither shall have cause to fear,  
Nor yet bewail my sad distress:  
For whether live, or pine, or dye,  
We shall have bliss eternally.    Willy. 

Trust me I see the Cage doth some Birds good,  
And if they do not suffer too much wrong,  
Will teach them sweeter descants than the wood:  
Believe't, I like the subject of thy Song,  
It shows thou art in no distempered mood:  
But cause to hear the residue I long,  
My Sheep to morrow I will nearer bring,  
And spend the day to hear thee talk and sing.   

Yet ere we part, Philarete, aread,  
Of whom thou learnd'st to make such songs as these,  
I never yet heard any Shepherd's reed  
Tune in mishap, a strain that more could please;  
Surely, Thou dost invoke at this thy need  
Some power, that we neglect in other lays:  
For here's a Name, and words, that but few swains  
Have mentioned at their meeting on the Plains.   Philarete. 

Indeed 'tis true; and they are sore to blame,  
They do so much neglect it in their Songs,  
For, thence proceedeth such a worthy fame,  
As is not subject unto Envy's wrongs:  
That, is the most to be respected name  
Of our true Pan, whose worth sits on all tongues:  
And what the ancient Shepherds use to praise  
In sacred Anthems, upon Holidays.   

He that first taught his Music such a strain  
Was that sweet Shepherd, who (until a King)  
Kept Sheep upon the hony-milky Plain,  
That is enriched by Iordans watering;  
He in his troubles eased the body's pains,  
By measures raised to the Souls ravishing:  
And his sweet numbers only most divine,  
Gave first the being to this Song of mine.   Willy. 
Let his good spirit ever with thee dwell,  
That I might hear such Music every day.  Philarete. 
Thanks, Swain: but hark, thy Wether rings his Bell.  
And Swains to fold, or homeward drive away.  Willy. 
And you goes Cuddy, therefore fare thou well:  
I'll make his Sheep for me a little stay;  
And, if thou think it fit, I'll bring him to,  
Next morning hither.—  Philarete. 
— Prithee, Willy, do.  
FINIS.   

The Shepherds Hunting.  
The second Eglogue.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Cuddy here relates, how all  
Pity Philarete's thrall.  
Who requested, doth relate  
The true cause of his estate;  
Which broke off, because 'twas long,  
They begin, a three man Song.  WILLY. CUDDY. PHILARETE. Willy. 
LO, Philaret, thy old friend here, and I,  
Are come to visit thee in these thy Bands,  
Whilst both our Flocks in an Enclosure by,  
Do pick the thin grass from the fallowed lands.  
He tells me thy restraint of liberty,  
Each one throughout the Country understands:  
And there is not a gentle-natured Lad  
On all these Downs, but for thy sake is sad.  Cuddy. 
Not thy acquaintance, and thy friends alone,  
Pity thy close restraint, as friends should do:  
But some that have but seen thee, for thee moan:  
Yea, many that did never see thee to.  
Some deem thee in a fault, and most in none;  
So diverse ways do diverse Rumours go  
And at all meetings where our Shepherds be,  
Now the main News that's extant, is of thee.  Philarete. 
Why, this is somewhat yet: had I but kept  
Sheep on the Mountains, till the day of doom,  
My name should in obscurity have slept  
In Brakes, in Briars, shrubbed Furze and Broom.  
Into the World's wide ear it had not crept,  
Nor in so many men's thoughts found a room:  
But what cause of my sufferings do they know?  
Good Cuddy, tell me, how doth rumour go?  Cuddy. 
Faith 'tis uncertain; some speak this, some that:  
Some dare say nought, yet seem to think a cause,  
And many a one prating he knows not what;  
Comes out with Proverbes and old ancient saws,  
As if he thought thee guiltless, and yet not:  
Then doth he speak half Sentences, than pause:  
That what the most would say, we may suppose;  
But, what to say, the Rumour is, none knows.  Philarete. 
Nor care I greatly; for, it skils not much,  
What the unsteady common-people deems,  
His Conscience doth not always feel least touch,  
That blameless in the sight of others seems:  
My cause is honest, and because 'tis such,  
I hold it so, and not for men's esteems:  
If they speak justly well of me, I'm glad;  
If falsely evil, it ne'er makes me sad.  Willy. 
I like that mind: but, Shepherd, you are quite  
Beside the matter that I long to hear:  
Remember what you promised yesternight,  
you'd put us off with other talk, I fear;  
Thou knowst that honest Cuddies heart's upright;  
And none but he, except myself, is near:  
Come therefore, and betwixt us two relate,  
The true occasion of thy present state.  Philarete. 
My Friends I will: You know I am a Swain,  
The kept a poor Flock on a barren Plain:  
Who though it seems, I could do nothing less,  
Can make a Song, and woe a Shepherdess.  
And not alone the fairest where I live,  
Have heard me sing, and favours deigned to give:  
But, though I say't, the noblest Nymph of Thame,  
Hath graced my Verse, unto my greater fame.  
Yet, being young, and not much seeking praise,  
I was not noted out for Shepherd's lays:  
Nor feeding Flocks, as, you know, others be:  
For the delight that most possessed me  
Was hunting Foxes, Wolves, and Beasts of Prey:  
That spoil our Foulds, and bear our Lambs away.  
For this, as also for the love I bear  
Unto my Country, I laid by all care  
Of gain, or of preferment, with desire  
Only to keep that state I had entire.  
And like a true grown Huntsman sought to speed  
Myself with Hounds of rare and choicest breed,  
Whose Names and Natures ere I further go,  
Because you are my friends I'll let you know.  
My first esteemed Dog that I did find,  
Was by descent of old Actaeon's kind;  
A Brache, which if I do not aim amiss,  
For all the world is just like one of his:  
She's named Love, and scarce yet knows her duty;  
Her Dammes my Ladies pretty Beagle, Beauty.  
I bred her up myself with wondrous charge,  
Until she grew to be exceeding large,  
And waxed so wanton, that I did abhor it,  
And put her out amongst my neighbours for it.  
The next is Lust, a Hound that's kept abroad  
Mongst some of mine acquaintance, but a Toad  
Is not more loathsome: 'tis a Cur will range  
Extremely, and is ever full of mange:  
And cause it is infectious, she's not wont  
To come among the rest, but when they hunt.  
Hate is the third, a Hound both deep and long:  
His Sire is True, or else supposed Wrong.  
He'll have a snap at all that pass him by,  
And yet pursues his game most eagerly.  
With him goes Envy coupled, a lean Cur,  
And yet she'll hold out, hunt we ne'er so far:  
She pineth much, and feedeth little to,  
Yet stands and snarleth at the rest that do.  
Then there's Revenge, a wondrous deepmouthed dog,  
So fleet, I'm fain to hunt him with a clog,  
Yet many times he'll much outstrip his bounds,  
And hunts not closely with the other Hounds:  
He'll venture on a Lion in his ire;  
Cursed Choler was his Dam, and Wrong his Sire.  
This Choler, is a Brache, that's very old,  
And spends her mouth toomuch to have it hold:  
She's very tasty; an unpleasing Cur.  
That bites the very Stones, if they but stir:  
Or when that aught but her displeasure moves,  
She'll bite and snap at any one she loves.  
But my quick scented'st Dog is jaelousie,  
The truest of this breedes in Italy.  
The Dam of mine would hardly fill a Glove,  
It was a Ladies little Dog, called Love:  
The Sire a poor deformed Cur, named Fear;  
As shagged and as rough as is a Bear:  
And yet the Whelp turned after neither kind,  
For he is very large, and nere-hand blind,  
far off, he seemeth of a pretty colour,  
But doth not prove so, when you view him fuller.  
A vile suspicious Beast; whose looks are bad,  
And I do fear in time he will grow mad.  
To him I couple Avarice, still poor;  
Yet she devours as much as twenty more:  
A thousand Horse she in her paunch can put,  
Yet whine, as if she had an empty gut;  
And having gorged what might a Land have found,  
she'll catch for more, and, hide it in the ground.  
Ambition is a Hound as greedy full;  
But he for all the daintiest bits doth cull:  
He scorns to lick up Crumbs beneath the Table,  
he'll fetch't from boards and shelves, if he be able:  
Nay, he can climb, if need be; and for that  
With him I hunt the Martin, and the Cat:  
And yet sometimes in mounting, he's so quick,  
I see fetches falls, are like to break his neck.  
Fear is wel-mouthed, but subject to Distrust;  
A Stranger cannot make him take a Crust:  
A little thing will soon his courage quail,  
And 'twixt his legs he ever claps his Tail.  
With him, Despair, now, often coupled goes,  
Which by his roaring mouth each hunts man knows.  
None hath a better mind unto the game;  
But he gives off, and always seemeth lame.  
My bloodhound Cruelty, as swift as wind,  
Hunts to the death, and never comes behind;  
Who, but she's strapt, and muzzled to, withal,  
Would eat her fellows and the prey and all.  
And yet, she cares not much for any food;  
Unless it be the purest harmless blood.  
All these are kept abroad at charge of many,  
They do not cost me in a year a penny.  
But there's two couple of a middling size,  
That seldom pass the sight of my own eyes.  
Hope, on whose head I've laid my life to pawn;  
Compassion, that on every one will fawn.  
This would, when 'twas a whelp, with Rabbits play  
Or Lambs, and let them go unhurt away:  
Nay, now she is of growth, she'll now and then  
Catch you a Hare, and let her go again.  
The two last, joy, and Sorrow; make me wonder,  
For they can ne'er agree, nor bide asunder.  
Joy's ever wanton and no order knows,  
She'll run at Larks, or stand and bark at Crows.  
Sorrow goes by her, and ne'er moves his eye:  
Yet both do serve to help make up the cry:  
Then comes behind all these to bear the base,  
Two couple more of a far larger Race,  
Such wide-mouthed Trollops, that 'twould do you good,  
To hear their loud-loud Echoes tear the Wood:  
There's Vanity, who by her gaudy Hide,  
May far away from all the rest be spied,  
Though huge, yet quick, for she's now here, now there;  
Nay, look about you, and she's every where:  
Yet ever with the rest, and still in chase,  
Right so, Inconstancy fills every place;  
And yet so strange a fickle natured Hound,  
Look for her, and she's no where to be found.  
Weakness is no fair Dog unto the eye,  
And yet she hath her proper quality.  
But there's Presumption, when he heat hath got,  
He drowns the Thunder, and the Canonshot:  
And when at Start, he his full roaring makes,  
The Earth doth tremble, and the Heaven shakes:  
These were my Dogs, ten couple just in all,  
Whom by the name of Satyrs I do call:  
Mad Curs they be, and I can ne'er come nigh them,  
But I'm in danger to be bitten by them.  
Much pains I took, and spent days not a few,  
To make them kept together, and hunt true:  
Which yet I do suppose had never been,  
But that I had a Scourge to keep them in.  
Now when that I this Kennel first had got,  
Out of mine own Demeanes I hunted not,  
Save on these Downs, or among yonder Rocks,  
After those beasts that spoiled our Parish Flocks:  
Nor during that time, was I ever wont,  
With all my Kennel in one day to hunt:  
Nor had done yet, but that this other year,  
Some Beasts of Prey that haunt the Deserts here,  
Did not alone for many Nights together  
Devour, sometime a Lamb, sometime a Wether:  
And so disquiet many a poor man's Herd,  
But thereof losing all were much afeard.  
Yea, I among the rest, did far as bad,  
Or rather worse; for the best 
* Hopes.  Ewes I had,  
(Whose breed should be my means of life and gain,  
Were in one Evening by these Monsters slain:  
Which mischief I resolved to repay,  
Or else grow desperate and hunt all away.  
For in a fury such as you shall see  
Huntsmen, in missing of their sport will be)  
I vowed a Monster should not lurk about  
In all this Province, but I'd find him out.  
And thereupon without respect or care,  
How lame, how full, or how unfit they were,  
In haste vnkennelled all my roaring crew,  
Who were as mad, as if my mind they knew;  
And e'er they trailed a flightshot, the fierce Curs,  
Had roused a heart, and through Brakes, Briars, and Furs  
Followed at gaze so close, that Love and Fear  
Got in together, and had surely, there  
Quite overthrown him, but that Hope thrust in  
'Twixt both, and saved the pinching of his skin.  
Whereby he scap't, till coursing overth wart,  
Despair came in, and gripped him to the heart.  
I hallowed in the resdue to the fall,  
And for an entrance, there I fleshed them all:  
Which having done, I dipped my staff in blood  
And onward led my Thunder to the Wood;  
Where what they did, I'll tell you out anon,  
My keeper calls me, and I must be gone.  
Go, if you please a while, attend your Flocks,  
And when the Sun is over yonder Rocks,  
Come to this Cave again, where I will be,  
If that my Guardian, so much favour me.  
Yet if you please, let us three sing a strain,  
Before you turn your sheep into the Plain.  Willie. 
jam content.—  Cuddy. 
— As well content am I  Philarete. 
Then Will begin, and we'll the rest supply.  

Song.  Willie. 
Shepherd, would these Gates were open,  
Thou mightst take with us thy fortunes.  Philarete. 
No, I'll make this narrow scope,  
(Since my Fate doth so importune)  
Means unto a wider Hope.  Cuddy. 
Would thy Shepherdess were here,  
Who beloved, loves so dear?  Philarete. 

Not for both your Flocks, Isweare,  
And the gain they yield you yearly,  
Would I so much wrong my Dear.   

Yet, to me, nor to this Place,  
Would she now be long a stranger:  
She would hold it in disgrace,  
(If she feared not more my danger)  
Where I am to show her face.   Willie. 
Shepherd, we would wish no harms,  
But something that might content thee.  Philarete. 
Wish me then within her arms;  
And that wish will ne'er repent me,  
If your mishes might prove charms.  Willie. 
Be thy Prison her embrace,  
Be thy air her sweetest breathing.  Cuddy. 
Be thy prospect her sweet Face,  
For each look a kiss bequeathing,  
And appoint thyself the place.  Philarete. 
Nay pray, hold there, for I should scantly then,  
Come meet you here this afternoon again:  
But fare you well since wishes have no power,  
Let us depart and keep the pointed hour.    

The Shepherds Hunting.  
The third Eglogue.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Philarete with his three Friends,  
Hear his hunting story ends.  
Kind Alexis with much ruth,  
Wales the banished Shepherd's youth:  
But he slighteth Fortune's stings,  
And in spite of Thraldoms sings.  PHILARETE. CUDDY. ALEXIS. WILLY. Philarete. 
SO, now I see y'are Shepherds of your word,  
Thus were you wont to promise, and to do.  Cuddy. 
More than our promise is, we can afford,  
We come ourselves, and bring another to:  
Alexis, whom thou knowst well is no foe:  
Who loves thee much: and I do know that he  
Would feign a hearer of thy Hunting be.  Philarete. 
Alexis you are welcome, for you know  
You cannot be but welcome where I am;  
You ever were a friend of mine in show,  
And I have found you are indeed the same:  
Upon my first restraint you hither came,  
And proffered me more tokens of your love,  
Than it were fit my small deserts should prove.  Alexis. 
'Tis still your use to underprise your merit;  
Be not so coy to take my proffered love,  
'Twill neither unbeseeme your worth nor spirit.  
To offer curtsy doth thy friend behoove:  
And which are so, this is a place to prove.  
Then once again I say, if cause there be.  
First makea trial, if thou please, of me.  Philarete. 
Thanks good Alexis; sit down by me here,  
I have a task, these Shepherds know, to do;  
A Tale already told this Morn well near,  
With which I very fain would forward go,  
And am as willing thou shouldst hear it to:  
But thou canst never understand this last,  
Till I have also told thee what is past.  Willy. 
It shall not need, for I so much presumed,  
I on your mutual friendships, might be bold,  
That I a freedom to myself assumed,  
To make him know, what is already told.  
If I have done amiss, than you may scold.  
But in my telling I prevised this,  
He knew not whose, nor to what end it is.  Philarete. 
Well, now he may, for here my Tale goes on:  
My eager Dogs and I to Wood are gone.  
Where, beating through the Converts, every Hound  
A several Game had in a moment found:  
I rated them, but they pursued their prey,  
And as it fell (by hap) took all one way.  
Then I began with quicker speed to follow,  
And teaz'd them on, with a more cheerful hollow:  
That soon we passed many weary miles,  
Tracing the subtle game through all their wiles.  
These doubled, those re-doubled on the scent,  
Still keeping in full chase where ere they went.  
Up Hills, down Cliffs, through Bogs, and over Plains,  
Stretching their Music to the highest strains.  
That when some Thicket hid them from mine eye,  
My ear was ravished with their melody.  
Nor crossed we only Ditches, Hedges, Furrows,  
But Hamlets, Tithings, Parishes, and Burrowes:  
They followed where so e'er the game did go,  
Through Kitchen, Parlour, Hall, and Chamber to.  
And, as they passed the City, and the Court,  
My Prince looked out, and deigned to view my sport.  
Which then (although I suffer for it now)  
(If some say true) he liking did allow;  
And so much (had I had but wit to stay)  
I might myself (perhaps) have heard him say.  
But I, that time, as much as any daring,  
More for my pleasure then my safety caring;  
Seeing fresh game from every covert rise,  
(Crossing by thousands still before their eyes)  
Rushed in, and then following close my Hounds,  
Some beasts I found lie dead, some full of wounds,  
Among the willows, scarce with strength to move,  
One I found here, another there, whom Love  
Had gripped to death: and, in the selfsame state,  
Lay one devoured by Envy, one by Hate;  
Lust had bit some, but I soon past beside them,  
Their festered wounds so stunk, none could abide them.  
Choler hurt diverse, but Revenge killed more:  
Fear frighted all, behind him and before.  
Despair drove on a huge and mighty heap,  
Forcing some down from Rocks and Hills to leap:  
Some into water, some into the fire,  
So on themselves he made them wreak his ire.  
But I remember, as I passed that way,  
Where the great King and Prince of Shepherds lay,  
About the walls were hid, some (once more known)  
That my fell Cur Ambition had o'erthrown:  
Many I heard, pursued by Pity, cry;  
And oft I saw my Bloodhound, Cruelty,  
Eating her passage even to the heart,  
Whither once gotten, she is loath to part.  
All plied it well, and made so loud a cry,  
'Twas heard beyond the Shores of Brittany.  
Some rated them, some stormed, some liked the game,  
Some thought me worthy praise, some worthy blame.  
But I, not fearing th'one, mis-steeming t'other,  
Both, in shrill hallows and loud yearnings smother.  
Yea, the strong mettled, and my long-breathed crew,  
Seeing the game increasing in their view,  
Grew the more frolic, and the courses length  
Gave better breath, and added to their strength.  
Which jove perceiving, for jove heard their cries  
Rumbling amongst the Spheres concavities:  
He marked their course, and courages increase,  
Saying, 'twere pity such a chase should cease.  
And therewith swore their mouths should never waste,  
But hunt as long's mortality did last.  
Soon did they feel the power of his great gift,  
And I began to find their pace more swift:  
I followed, and I rated, but in vain  
Strived to o'ertake, or take them up again.  
They never stayed since, nor nights nor days,  
But to and fro still run a thousand weigh'st  
Yea, often to this place where now I lie,  
They'll wheel about to cheer me with their cry;  
And one day in good time will vengeance take  
On some offenders, for their Master's sake:  
For know, my Friends, my freedom in this sort  
For them I lose, and making myself sport.  Willy. 
Why? was there any harm at all in this?  Philarete. 
No, Willy, and I hope yet none there is.  Willy. 
How comes it then?—  Philarete. 
— Note, and I'll tell thee how?  
Thou knowst that Truth and Innocency now,  
If placed with meanness, suffers more despite  
Than Villainies, accompanied with might.  
But thus it fell, while that my Hounds pursued  
Their noisome prey, and every field lay strewed  
With Monsters, hurt and slain; upon a beast,  
More subtle, and more noisome than the rest,  
My leane-flanckt Bitch, called Envy, happed to light:  
And, as her wont is, did so surely bite,  
That, though she left behind small outward smart,  
The wounds were deep, and rankled to the heart.  
This, joining to some other, that of late,  
Were very eagerly pursued by Hate,  
(To fit their purpose having taken leisure)  
Did thus conspire to work me a displeasure.  
For imitation, farresurpassing Apes,  
They laid aside their Fox and Wolvish shapes,  
And shrouded in the skins of harmless Sheep  
Into byways, and open paths did creep;  
Where, they (as hardly drawing breath) didly,  
Showing their wounds to every passer by;  
To make them think that they were sheep so foiled,  
And by my Dogs, in their late hunting, spoiled.  
Beside, some other that envied my game,  
And, for their pastime, kept such Monsters tame:  
As, you do know, there's many for their pleasure  
Keep Foxes, Bears, & Wolves, as some great treasure:  
Yea, many get their living by them to,  
And so did store of these, I speak of, do.  
Who, seeing that my Kennel had affrighted,  
Or hurt some Vermin wherein they delighted;  
And finding their own power by much to weak,  
Their Malice on my Innocence to wreak,  
Swollen with the deepest rancour of despite,  
Some of our greatest Shepherds Folds by night  
They closely entered; and there having stained  
Their hands in villainy, of me they plained,  
Affirming, (without shame, or honesty,)  
I, and my Dogs, had done it purposely.  
Whereat they stormed, and called me to a trial,  
Where Innocence prevails not, nor denial:  
But for that cause, here in this place I lie,  
Where none so merry as my dogs, and I.  Cuddy. 
Believe it, here's a Tale will suten well,  
For Shepherds in another Age to tell.  Willy. 
And thou shalt be remembered with delight,  
By this, hereafter, many a Winter's night.  
For, of this sport another Age will ring;  
Yea, Nymphs that are unborn thereof shall sing,  
And not a Beauty on our Green's shall play,  
That hath not heard of this thy hunting day.  Philarete. 
It may be so, for if that gentle Swain,  
Who wonnes by Tavy, on the Western plain,  
Would make the Song, such life his Verse can give,  
Then I do know my Name might ever live.  Alexis. 
But tell me; are our Plains and Nymphs forgot,  
And canst thou frolic in thy trouble be?  Philarete. 
Can I, Alexis, sayst thou? Can I not,  
That am resolved to scorn more misery?  Alexis. 

Oh, but that youth's yet green, and young blood hot,  
And liberty must needs be sweet to thee.  
But, now most sweet whilst every bushy Vale,  
And Grove, and Hill, rings of the Nightingale.   

Me thinks, when thou remember'st those sweet lays  
Which thou wouldst lead thy Shepherdess to hear,  
Each Evening tied among the Levy sprays,  
The thought of that should make thy freedom dear:  
For now, whilst every Nymph on Holiday's  
Sports with some jolly Lad, and maketh cheer,  
Thine, sighs for thee, and mewed up from resort,  
Will neither play herself, nor see their sport.   

Those Shepherds that were many a Morning wont,  
Unto their Boys to leave the tender Herd;  
And bear thee company when thou didst hunt;  
methinks the sport thou hast so gladly shared  
Among those Swains should make thee think upon't,  
For't seems all vain, now, that was once endeared.  
It cannot be: since I could make relation,  
How for less cause thou hast been deep in passion.   Philarete. 

'Tis true: my tender heart was ever yet  
Too capable of such conceits as these;  
I never saw that Object, but from it,  
The Passions of my Love I could increase.  
Those things which move not other men a whit,  
I can, and do make use of, if I please:  
When I am sad, to sadness I apply,  
Each Bird, and Tree, and Flower that I pass by.   

So, when I will be merry, I aswell  
Something for mirth from every thing can draw,  
From Misery, from Prisons, nay from Hell:  
And as when to my mind, grief gives a flaw,  
Best comforts do but make my woes more fell:  
So when I'm bend to Mirth, from mischief's paw.  
(Though ceased upon me) I would something cull,  
That spite of care, should make my joys more full.   

I feel those wants, Alexis, thou dost name,  
Which spite of youths affections I sustain;  
Or else, for what is't I have gotten Fame,  
And am more known than many an elder Swain?  
I● such desires I had not learned to tame,  
(Since many pipe much better on this Plain:)  
But tune your Reeds, and I will in a Song,  
Express my Care, and how I take this Wrong.   

Sonnet.  

I That ere'st-while the world's sweet Air did draw,  
(Graced by the fairest ever Mortal saw;)  
Now closely penned, with walls of Ruthless stone.  
Consume my Days, and Nights and all alone.   

When I was wont to sing of Shepherd's loves,  
My walks were Fields, and Downs, and Hills, and Groves:  
But now (alas) so strict is my hard doom,  
Fields, Downes, Hills, Groves, and als but one pooreroome.   

Each Morn, as soon as Daylight did appear,  
With Nature's Music Birds would charm mine ear:  
Which now (instead) of their melodious strains,  
Hear, rattling Shackles, Gyves, and Bolts, and Chains.   

But, though that all the world's delight forsake me,  
I have a Muse, and she shall Music make me:  
Whose airy Notes, in spite of closest cages,  
Shall give content to me, and after ages.   

Nor do I pass for all this outward ill.  
My hearts the same, and undeiected still;  
And which is more than some in freedom win,  
I have truerest, and peace, and joy within.   

And then my Mind, that spite of prison's free,  
When ere she pleases any where can be;  
she's in an hour, in France, Rome, Turkey, Spain,  
In Earth, in Hell, in Heaven, and here again.   

Yet there's another comfort in my woe,  
My cause is spread, and all the world may know,  
My fault's no more, but speaking Truth, and Reason;  
No Debt, nor Theft, nor Murder, Rape, or Treason.   

Nor shall my foes with all their Might and Power,  
Wipe out their shame, nor yet this fame of our:  
Which when they find, they shall my fate envy,  
Till they grow lean, and sick, and mad, and die.   

Then though my Body here in Prison rot,  
And my wronged Satyrs seem a while forgot:  
Yet, when both Fame, and life hath left those men,  
My Verse and I'll revive, and live again.   

So thus enclosed, I bear afflictions load,  
But with more true content then some abroad;  
For whilst their thoughts, do feel my Scourges sting,  
In bands I'll leap, and dance, and laugh, and sing.    Alexis. 
Why now I see thou droup'st not with thy care,  
Neither exclaim'st thou on thy hunting day;  
But dost with unchanged resolution bear,  
The heavy burden of exile away.  
All that did truly know thee, did conceive,  
Thy actions with thy spirit still agreed;  
Their good conceit thou dost no whit bereave,  
But showest that thou art still thyself indeed.  
If that thy mind to baseness now descends,  
Thou'lt injure Virtue, and deceive thy friends.  Willie. 
Alexis, he will injure Virtue much,  
But more his friends, and most of all himself,  
If on that common bar his mind but touch,  
It wracks his fame upon disgraces shelf.  
Whereas if thou steer on that happy course,  
Which in thy just adventure is begun;  
No thwarting Tide, nor adverse blast shall force  
Thy Bark without the Channels bounds to run.  
Thou art the same thou wert, for aught I see,  
When thou didst freely on the Mountains hunt,  
In nothing changed yet, unless it be  
More merrily disposed than thou wert wont.  
Still keep thee thus, so other shall know,  
Virtue can give content in midst of woe.  
And she (though mightiness with frowns doth threat)  
That, to be Innocent, is to be great.  
Thrive and farewell.—  Alexis. 
— In this thy trouble flourish.  Cuddy. 
While those that wish thee ill, fret, pine, and perish.   

The Shepherds Hunting.  
The fourth Eglogue.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Philaret on Willy calls,  
To sing out his Pastorals:  
Warrants Fame shall grace his Rhymes,  
Spite of Envy and the Times;  
And shows how in care he uses,  
To take comfort from his Muses.  PHILARETE. WILLIE. Philarete. 
Prithee, Willy tell me this,  
What new accident there is,  
That thou (once the blythest Lad)  
Art become so wondrous sad?  
And so careless of thy quill,  
As if thou hadst lost thy skill?  
Thou wert wont to charm thy flocks,  
And among the massy rocks  
Hast so cheered me with thy Song,  
That I have forgot my wrong.  
Something hath thee surely crossed,  
That thy old wont thou hast lost.  
Tell me: Have I ought missaid  
That hath made thee ill-apaid?  
Hath some Churl done thee a spite?  
Dost thou miss a Lamb to night?  
Frowns thy fairest Shepherds Lass?  
Or how comes this ill to pass?  
Is there any discontent  
Worse than this my banishment?  Willie. 
Why, doth that so evil seem  
That thou nothing worst dost deem?  
Shepherds, there full many be,  
That will change Contents with thee.  
Those that choose their Walks at will,  
On the Valley or the Hill.  
Or those pleasures boast of can,  
Groves or Fields may yield to man:  
Never come to know the rest,  
Wherewithal thy mind is blest.  
Many a one that oft resorts  
To make up the troop at sports.  
And in company some while,  
Happens to strain forth a smile:  
Feels more want, and outward smart,  
And more inward grief of heart  
Then this place can bring to thee,  
While thy mind remaineth free.  
Thou bewail'st my want of mirth,  
But what findest thou in this earth,  
Wherein aught may be believed  
Worth to make me Joyed; or grieved?  
And yet feel I (naithelesse)  
Part of both I must confess.  
Sometime, I of mirth do borrow,  
Otherwhile as much of sorrow;  
But, my present state is such,  
As, nor joy, nor grieve I much.  Philarete. 
Why, hath Willy then so long  
Thus forborn his wont Song?  
Wherefore doth he now let fall,  
His well tuned Pastoral?  
And my ears that music bar,  
Which I more long after far,  
Then the liberty I want.  Willy. 
That, were very much to grant,  
But, doth this hold always lad,  
Those that sing not, must be sad?  
Didst thou ever that Bird hear  
Sing well; that sings all the year?  
Tom the Piper doth not play  
Till he wears his Pipe away:  
There's a time to slack the string,  
And a time to leave to sing.  Philarete. 
Yea; but no man now is still,  
That can sing, or tune a quill.  
Now to chant it, were but reason;  
Song and Music are in season.  
Now in this sweet jolly tide,  
Is the earth in all her pride:  
The fair Lady of the May  
Trimmed up in her best array;  
Hath invited all the Swains,  
With the Lasses of the Plains,  
To attend upon her sport  
At the places of resort.  
Coridon (with his bold Rout)  
Hath already been about  
For the elder Shepherd's dole,  
And fetched in the Summer-Pole:  
Whilst the rest have built a Bower,  
To defend them from a shower;  
Seil'd so close, with boughs all green,  
Titan cannot pry between.  
Now the Dayrie-Wenches dream  
Of their Strawberries and Cream:  
And each doth herself advance  
To be taken in, to dance:  
Every one that knows to sing,  
Fits him for his Carrolling:  
So do those that hope for meed,  
Either by the Pipe or Reed:  
And though I am kept away,  
I do hear (this very day)  
Many learned Grooms do wend,  
For the Garlands to contend.  
Which a Nymph that hight Desert,  
(Long a stranger in this part)  
With her own fair hand hath wrought  
A rare work (they say) past thought,  
As appeareth by the name,  
For she calls them Wreaths of Fame.  
She hath set in their due place  
Every flower that may grace;  
And among a thousand more,  
(Whereof some but serve for show)  
She hath wove in Daphne's tree,  
That they may not blasted be.  
Which with Time she edged about,  
Lest the work should ravel out.  
And that it might wither never,  
I intermixed it with Live-ever.  
These are to be shared among,  
Those that do excel for song:  
Or their passions can rehearse  
In the smoothest and sweetest verse.  
Then, for those among the rest,  
That can play and pipe the best.  
There's a Kidling with the Dam,  
A fat Wether, and a Lamb.  
And for those that leapen far,  
Wrestle, Run, and throw the Bar,  
There's appointed guerdons to.  
He, that best, the first can do,  
Shall, for his reward, be paid,  
With a Sheephook, fair in-laid  
With fine Bone, of a strange Beast  
That men bring out of the West.  
For the next, a Scrip of red,  
Tasseled with fine coloured Thread,  
There's prepared for their meed,  
That in running make most speed,  
(Or the cunning Measures foot)  
Cups of turned Maple-roote:  
Whereupon the skilful man  
Hath engraved the Loves of Pan:  
And the last hath for his due,  
A fine Napkin wrought with blue.  
Then, my Willy, why art thou  
Careless of thy merit now?  
What dost thou here, with a wight  
That is shut up from delight,  
In a solitary den,  
As not fit to live with men?  
Go, my Willy, get thee gone,  
Leave me in exile alone.  
Hie thee to that merry throng,  
And amaze them with thy Song.  
Thou art young, yet such a Lay  
Never graced the month of May,  
As (if they provoke thy skill)  
Thou canst fit unto thy Quill,  
I with wonder heard thee sing,  
At our last years Revelling.  
Then I with the rest was free,  
When unknown I noted thee:  
And perceived the ruder Swains,  
Envy thy far sweeter strains.  
Yea, I saw the Lasses cling  
Round about thee in a Ring:  
As if each one jealous were,  
Any but herself should hear.  
And I know they yet do long  
For the res'due of thy song.  
Hast thee then to sing it forth;  
Take the benefit of worth.  
And Desert will sure bequeath  
Fame's fair Garland for thy wreath,  
Hie thee, Willy, hie away.  Willy. 
Phila, rather let me stay,  
And be desolate with thee,  
Then at those their Revels be,  
Nought such is my skill I wis,  
As indeed thou deemest it is.  
But what ere it be, I must  
Be content, and shall I trust.  
For a Song I do not pass,  
'Mongst my friends, but what (alas)  
Should I have to do with them  
That my Music do contemn?  
Some there are, as well I wot,  
That the same yet favour not:  
Yet I cannot well avow,  
They my Carols disallow:  
But such malice I have spid,  
'Tis as much as if they did.  Philarete. 
Willy, What may those men be,  
Are so ill, to malice thee?  Willy. 
Some are worthy-well esteemed,  
Some without worth are so deemed.  
Others of so base a spirit,  
They have nor esteem, nor merit.  Philarete. 
What's the wrong?—  Willy. 
— A slight offence,  
Wherewithal I can dispense;  
But hereafter for their sake.  
To myself I'll music make.  Philarete. 
What, because some Clown offends,  
Wilt thou punish all thy friends?  Willy. 
Do not, Phill, mis-understand me,  
Those that love me may command me,  
But, thou knowst, I am but young,  
And the Pastoral I sung,  
Is by some supposed to be,  
(By a strain) too high for me:  
So they kindly let me gain,  
Not my labour for my pain.  
Trust me, I do wonder why  
They should me my own deny.  
Though I'm young, I scorn to flit  
On the wings of borrowed wit.  
I'll make my own feathers rear me,  
Whither others cannot bear me.  
Yet I'll keep my skill in store,  
Till I've seen some Winters more  Pillarete. 
But, in earnest, meanest thou so?  
Then thou art not wise, I trow:  
Better shall advise thee Pan,  
For thou dost not rightly than:  
That's the ready way to blot  
All the credit thou hast got.  
Rather in thy Ages prime,  
Get another start of Time:  
And make those that so fond be,  
(Spite of their own dulness) see,  
That the sacred Muses can  
Make a child in years, a man.  
It is known what thou canst do,  
For it is not long ago,  
When that Cuddy, Thou, and I,  
Each the others skill to try,  
At Saint Dunstanes charmed well,  
(As some present there can tell)  
Sang upon a sudden Theme,  
Sitting by the Crimson stream.  
Where, if thou didst well or no,  
Yet remains the Song to show,  
Much experience more I've had,  
Of thy skill (thou happy Lad)  
And would make the world to know it;  
But that time will further show it.  
Envy makes their tongues now run  
More than doubt of what is done.  
For that needs must be thy own,  
Or to be some others known:  
But how then wilt suit unto  
What thou shalt hereafter do?  
Or I wonder where is he,  
Would with that song part to thee.  
Nay, were there so mad a Swain,  
Could such glory sell for gain;  
Phoebus would not have combined,  
That gift with so base a mind.  
Never did the Nine impart  
The sweet secrets of their Art,  
Unto any that did scorn,  
We should see their favours worn.  
Therefore unto those that say,  
Where they pleased to sing a Lay.  
They could do't, and will not tho;  
This I speak, for this I know:  
None ere drunk the Thespian spring,  
And knew how, but he did sing.  
For, that once infused in man.  
Makes him show't do what he can.  
Nay, those that do only sip,  
Or, but e'en their fingers dip  
In that sacred Fount (poor Elves)  
Of that brood will show themselves.  
Yea, in hope to get them fame,  
They will speak, though to their shame.  
Let those then at thee repine,  
That by their wits measure thine;  
Needs those Songs must be thine own,  
And that one day will be known.  
That poor imputation to,  
I myself do undergo:  
But it will appear ere long,  
That 'twas Envy sought our wrong.  
Who at twiceten have sung more,  
Then some will do, at fourscore,  
Cheer thee (honest Willy) then,  
And begin thy Song again.  Willy. 
fain I would, but I do fear  
When again my Lines they hear,  
If they yield they are my Rhymes,  
They will feign some other Crimes;  
And 'tis no safe ventring-by  
Where we see Detraction lie.  
For do what I can, I doubt,  
She will pick some quarrel out;  
And I oft have heard defended,  
Little said, is soon amended.  Philarete. 
See'st thou not in clearest days,  
Oft thick fogs cloud Heavens rays.  
And that vapours which do breath  
From the earth's gross womb beneath,  
Seem not to us with black steames,  
To pollute the Sun's bright beams,  
And yet vanish into air,  
Leaving it (unblemished) fair?  
So (my Willy) shall it be  
With Detractions breath on thee.  
It shall never rise so high,  
As to stain thy Poesy.  
As that Sun doth oft exhale  
Vapours from each rotten Vale;  
Poesy so sometime drains,  
Gross conceits from muddy brains;  
Mists of Envy, fogs of spite,  
'twixt men's judgements and her light:  
But so much her power may do,  
That she can dissolve them to.  
If thy Verse do bravely tower,  
As she makes wing, she gets power:  
Yet the higher she doth sore,  
she's affronted still the more:  
Till she to the highest hath past,  
Then she rests with fame at last,  
Let nought therefore, thee affright:  
But make forward in thy flight:  
For if I could match thy Rhyme,  
To the very Stars I'd climb.  
There begin again, and fly,  
Till I reached Eternity.  
But (alas) my Muse is slow:  
For thy place she flags too low:  
Yea, the more's her hapless fate,  
Her short wings were clipped of late.  
And poor I, her fortune ruing,  
Am myself put up a muing.  
But if I my Cage can rid,  
I'll fly where I never did.  
And though for her sake I'm crossed,  
Though my best hopes I have lost,  
And knew she would make my trouble  
Ten times more than ten times double:  
I should love and keep her to,  
Spite of all the world could do.  
For though banished from my flocks,  
And confined within these rocks,  
Here I waste away the light,  
And consume the sullen Night,  
She doth for my comfort stay,  
And keeps many cares away.  
Though I misle the flowery Fields,  
With those sweets the Springtide yields,  
Though I may not see those Groves,  
Where the Shepherds chant their Loves,  
(And the Lasses more excel,  
Then the sweet voiced Philomela)  
Though of all those pleasures past,  
Nothing now remains at last,  
But Remembrance (poor relief)  
That more makes, then mends my grief:  
she's my mind's companion still,  
Maugre Envy's evil will.  
(Whence she should be driven to,  
Were't in mortals power to do.)  
She doth tell me where to borrow  
Comfort in the midst of sorrow;  
Makes the desolatest place  
To her presence be a grace;  
And the blackest discontents  
To be pleasing ornaments.  
In my former days of bliss,  
Her divine skill taught me this,  
That from every thing I saw,  
I could some invention draw:  
And raise pleasure to her height,  
Through the meanest objects sight.  
By the murmur of a spring,  
Or the least boughs rusteling.  
By a Daisy whose leaves spread,  
Shut when Titan goes to bed;  
Or a shady bush or tree,  
She could more infuse in me,  
Then all Nature's beauties can,  
In some other wiser man.  
By her help I also now,  
Make this churlish place allow  
Some things that may sweeten gladness,  
In the very gall of sadness.  
The dull loannesse, the black shade,  
That these hanging vaults have made,  
The strange Music of the waves,  
Beating on these hollow Caves,  
This black Den which Rocks embosse  
Overgrown with eldest Moss.  
The rude Portals that give light,  
More to Terror then Delight.  
This my Chamber of Neglect,  
Walled about with Disrespect,  
From all these and this dull air,  
A fit object for Despair,  
She hath taught me by her might  
To draw comfort and delight.  
Therefore thou best earthly bliss,  
I will cherish thee for this.  
Poesy; thou sweetest content  
That e'er Heaven to mortals lent:  
Though they as a trifle leave thee  
Whose dull thoughts cannot conceive thee,  
Though thou be to them a scorn,  
That to nought but earth are borne:  
Let my life no longer be  
Then I am in love with thee.  
Though our wise ones call thee madness  
Let me never taste of gladness.  
If I love not thy mad'st fits,  
More than all their greatest wits.  
And though some too seeming holy,  
Do account thy raptures folly:  
Thou dost teach me to contemn,  
What make Knaves and Fools of them.  
Oh high power! that oft doth carry  
Men above—  Willie. 
— Good Philarete tarry,  
I do fear thou wilt be gone,  
Quite above my reach anon.  
The kind flames of Poesy  
Have now borne thy thoughts so high,  
That they up in Heaven be,  
And have quite forgotten me.  
Call thyself to mind again,  
Are these Raptures for a Swain,  
That attends on lowly Sheep,  
And with simple Herds doth keep?  Philarete. 
Thanks my Willie; I had run  
Till that Time had lodged the Sun,  
If thou hadst not made me stay;  
But thy pardon here I pray.  
Loved Apolo's sacred sire  
Had raised up my spirits higher  
Through the love of Poesy,  
Then indeed they use to fly.  
But as I said, I say still,  
If that I had Willi's skill,  
Envy nor Detractions tongue,  
Should ere make me leave my song:  
But I'd sing it every day  
Till they pined themselves away.  
Be thou then advised in this,  
Which both just and sitting is:  
Finish what thou hast begun,  
Or at least still forward run.  
Hail and Thunder ill he ' l bear  
That a blast of wind doth fear:  
And if words will thus afray thee,  
Prithee how will deeds dismay thee?  
Do not think so rather a Song  
Can pass through the vulgar throng,  
And escape without a touch,  
Or that they can hurt it much:  
Frosts we see do nip that thing  
Which is forwardest in the Spring:  
Yet at last for all such lets  
Somewhat of the rest it gets.  
And l'me sure that so mayst thou,  
Therefore my kind Willie now.  
Since thy folding time draws on  
And I see thou must be gone,  
Thee I earnestly beseech  
To remember this my speech  
And some little counsel take,  
For Philarete his sake:  
And I more of this will say,  
If thou come next Holiday.  
FINIS.   

The Shepherds Hunting.  
The fifth Eglogue.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
Philaret Alexis moves,  
To embrace the Muse's loves;  
Bids him never careful seem,  
Of another's disesteem:  
Since to them it may suffice,  
They themselves can justly prise.  PHILARETE. ALEXIS. Philarete. 
ALexis, if thy worth do not disdain  
The humble friendship of a meaner Swain,  
Or some more needful business of the day,  
Urge thee to be too hasty on thy way;  
Come (gentle Shepherd) rest thee here by me,  
Beneath the shadow of this broad leaved tree:  
For though I seem a stranger, yet mine eye  
Observes in thee the marks of courtesy:  
And if my judgement err not, noted to,  
More than in those that more would seem to do.  
Such Virtues thy rare modesty doth hide.  
Which by their proper lustre I espied;  
And though long masked in silence they have been,  
I have a Wisdom through that silence seen,  
Yea, I have learned knowledge from thy tongue,  
And heard when thou hast in concealment sung.  
Which me the bolder and more willing made  
Thus to invite thee to this homely shade.  
And though (it may be) thou couldst never spy,  
Such worth in me, I might be known thereby:  
In thee I do; for here my neighbouring Sheep  
Upon the border of these Downs I keep:  
Where often thou at Pastorals and Plays,  
Hast graced our Wakes on Summer Holidays:  
And many a time with thee at this cold spring  
Met I, to hear your learned shepherds sing,  
Saw them disporting in the shady Groves,  
And in chaste Sonnets woo their chaster Loves:  
When I, endued with the meanest skill,  
Mongst others have been urged to tune my quill.  
But, (cause but little cunning I had got)  
Perhaps thou saw'st me, though thou knewest me not.  Alexis. 
Yes Philaret, I know thee, and thy name.  
Nor is my knowledge grounded all on fame.  
Art thou not he, that but this other year,  
Seard'st all the Wolves and Foxes in the Shear?  
And in a match at Football lately tried  
(Having scarce twenty Satyrs on thy side)  
Held'st play: and though assailed keptest thy stand  
'Gainst all the best-tride Ruffians in the Land?  
Didst thou not then in doleful Sonnets moon,  
When the beloved of great Pan was gone?  
And at the wedding of fair Thame and Rhine,  
Sing of their glories to thy Valentine?  
I know it, and I must confess that long  
In one thing I did do thy nature wrong:  
For, till I marked the aim thy Satyrs had,  
I thought them overbold, and thee half mad.  
But, since I did more nearly on thee look,  
I soon perceived that I all had mistook;  
I saw that of a Cynic thou mad'st show,  
Where since, I find, that thou wert nothing so;  
And that of many thou much blame hadst got,  
When as thy Innocency deserved it not.  
But that too good opinion thou hast seemed  
To have of me (not so to be esteemed,)  
Prevails not aught to stay him who doth fear,  
He rather should reproofs then praises hear.  
'Tis true, I found thee plain and honest to,  
Which made me like, than love, as now I do;  
And, Phila, though a stranger, this to the I'll say,  
Where I do love, I am not coy to stay.  Philarete. 
Thanks, gentle Swain, that dost so soon unfold  
What I to thee as gladly would have told▪  
And thus thy wont courtesy expressed  
In kindly entertaining this request.  
Sure, I should injure much my own content,  
Or wrong thy love to stand on compliment:  
Who hast acquaintance in one word begun,  
As well as I could in an age have done.  
Or by an overweening slowness mar  
What thy more wisdom hath brought on so far.  
Then sit thou down, and I'll my mind declare,  
As freely, as if we familiars were:  
And if thou wilt but deign to give me ear,  
Something thou mayst for thy more profit hear.  Alexis. 
Philarete, I willingly obey.  Philarete. 
Then know, Alexis, from that very day,  
When as I saw thee at thy Shepherd's Coat,  
Where each (I think) of other took first note;  
I mean that Pastor who by Tavies springs,  
Chaste Shepherds loves in sweetest numbers sings,  
And with his Music (to his greater fame)  
Hath late made proud the fairest Nymphs of Thame.  
E'en then (me thought) I did espy in thee  
Some unperceived and hidden worth to be:  
Which, in thy more apparent virtues, shined;  
And, among many, I (in thought) divined,  
By something my conceit had understood,  
That thou wert marked one of the Muse's brood,  
That, made me love thee: and that Love I bear  
Begat a Pity, and that Pity, Care:  
Pity I had to see good parts concealed,  
Care I had how to have that good revealed,  
Since 'tis a fault admitteth no excuse,  
To possess much, and yet put nought in use.  
Hereon I vowed (if we two ever met)  
The first request that I would strive to get,  
Should be but this, that thou wouldst show thy skill,  
How thou couldst tune thy Verses to thy quill:  
And teach thy Muse in some well-framed Song,  
To show the Art thou hast suppressed so long:  
Which if my new-acquaintance may obtain,  
I will for ever honour this day's gain.  Alexis. 
Alas! my small experience scarce can tell,  
So much as where those Nymphs, the Muses, dwell;  
Nor (though my ●low conceit still travels on)  
Shall I ere reach to drink of Helicon.  
Or, if I might so favoured be to taste  
What those sweet streams but overflow in waste,  
And touch Parnassus, where 〈◊〉 row'st doth lie,  
I fear my skill would hardly flag so high.  Philarete. 
Despair not Man, the Gods have prized nought  
So dear, that may not be with labour bought:  
Nor need thy pain be great, since Fate and Heaven,  
That (as a blessing) at thy birth have given.  Alexis. 
Why, say they had?—  Philarete. 
— Then use their gifts thou must.  
Or be ungrateful, and so be unjust:  
For if it cannot truly be denied,  
Ingratitude men's benefits do hide;  
Than more ungrateful must he be by odds,  
Who doth conceal the bounty of the Gods.  Alexis. 
That's true indeed, but Envy haunteth those  
Who seeking Fame, their hidden skill disclose:  
Where else they might (obscured) from her espying,  
Escape the blasts and danger of envying:  
Cryticks will censure our best strains of Wit,  
And purblind Ignorance misconstrue it.  
And which is bad, (yet worse than this doth follow)  
Most hate the Muses, and contemn Apollo.  Philarete. 
So let them: why should we their hate esteem?  
Is't not enough we of ourselves can deem?  
'Tis more to their disgrace that we scorn them,  
Then unto us that they our Art contemn.  
Can we have better pastime then to see  
Their gross heads may so much deceived be,  
As to allow those doings best, where wholly  
We scoff them to their face, and flout their folly?  
Or to behold black Envy in her prime,  
●●e selfe-consumed, whilst we vie lives with time:  
And, in despite of her, more same attain,  
Then all her malice can wipe out again?  Alexis. 
Yea, but if I applied me to those strains,  
Who should drive forth my Flocks unto the plains,  
Which, whilst the Muse's rest, and leisure crave,  
Must watering, folding, and attendance have?  
For if I leave with wont care to cherish  
Those tender herds, both I and they should perish.  Philarete. 
Alexis, now I see thou dost mistake,  
There is no meaning thou thy Charge forsake;  
Nor would I wish thee so thyself abuse,  
As to neglect thy calling for thy Muse.  
But, let these two, so each of other borrow,  
That they may season mirth, and lessen sorrow.  
Thy Flock will help thy charges to defray,  
Thy Muse to pass the long and tedious day:  
Or whilst thou tun'st sweet measures to thy Reed,  
Thy Sheep, to listen, will more near thee feed;  
The Wolves will shun them, birds above thee sing,  
And Lamkins dance about thee in a Ring.  
Nay, which is more; in this thy low estate,  
Thou in contentment shalt with Monarch's mate:  
For mighty Pan, and Ceres, to us grants,  
Our Fields and Flocks shall help our outward wants:  
The Muses teach us Songs to put off cares,  
Graced with as rare and sweet conceits as theirs:  
And we can think our Lasses on the Green's  
As fair, or fairer, than the fairest Queens:  
Or, what is more than most of them shall do,  
we'll make their juster fames last longer to,  
And have our Lines by greatest Princes graced  
When both their name and memori's defaced.  
Therefore, Alexis, though that some disdain  
The heavenly Music of the Rural plain,  
What is't to us, if they (o'reseene) contemn  
The dainties which were ne'er ordained for them?  
And though that there be othersome envy  
The praises due to sacred Poesy,  
Let them disdain, and fret till they are weary,  
We in ourselves have that shall make us merry:  
Which, he that wants, and had the power to know it,  
Would give his life that he might die a Poet.  Alexis: 
A brave persuasion.—  Philarete. 
— Here thou see'st me penned  
Within the jaws of strict imprisonment;  
A forlorn Shepherd, void of all the means.  
Whereon Man's common hope in danger leans,  
Weak in myself, exposed to the Hate  
Of those whose Envies are insatiate:  
Shut from my friends, banished from all delights;  
Nay worse, excluded from the sacred Rites.  
Here I do live 'mongst outlaws marked for death.  
As one unfit to draw the common breath,  
Where those who to be good did never know,  
Are barred from the means should make them so▪  
I suffer, cause I wished my Country well,  
And what I more must bear I cannot tell.  
I'm sure they give my Body little scope,  
And would allow my Mind as little Hope:  
I waste my Means, which of itself is slender,  
Consume my Time (perhaps my fortunes hinder)  
And many Crosses have, which those that can  
Conceive no wrong that hurts another man,  
Will not take note of; though if half so much  
Should light on them, or their own person touch,  
Some that themselves (I fear) most worthy think,  
With all their helps would into baseness shrink.  
But, spite of Hate, and all that Spite can do,  
I can be patient yet, and merry to.  
That slender Muse of mine, by which my Name,  
Though scarce deserved, hath gained a little fame,  
Hath made me unto such a Fortune borne,  
That all misfortunes I know how to scorn;  
Yea, midst these bands can slight the Greatest that be,  
As much as their disdain misteemes of me.  
This Cave, whose very presence some affrights,  
I have oft made to Echo forth delights,  
And hope to turn, if any justice be,  
Both shame and care on those that wished it me.  
For while the World rank villainies affords,  
I will not spare to paint them out in words;  
Although I still should into troubles run,  
I knew what man could act, ere I begun;  
And I'll fulfil what my Muse draws me to,  
Maugre all jails, and Purgatories to.  
For whilst she sets me honest task's about,  
Virtue, or she, (I know) will bear me out:  
And if, by Fate, th'abused power of some  
Must, in the worlds-eye, leave me overcome,  
They shall find one Fort yet. so fenced I trow,  
It cannot fear a Mortals overthrow.  
This Hope, and Trust, that great power did infuse,  
That first inspired into my breast a Muse,  
By whom I do, and ever will contemn  
All those ill haps, my foe's despite, and them.  Alexis. 
thoust so well (young Philaret) played thy part,  
I am almost in love with that sweet Art:  
And if some power will but inspire my song,  
Alexis will not be obscured long.  Philarete. 
Enough kind Pastor: But oh! yonder see  
Two honest Shepherds walking hither, be  
Cuddy and Willy, that so dear love,  
Who are repairing unto yonder Grove:  
Let's follow them: for never braver Swains  
Made music to their flocks upon these Plains.  
They are more worthy, and can better tell  
What rare contents do with a Poet dwell.  
Then whiles our sheep the short sweet grass do shear  
And till the long shade of the hills appear,  
we'll hear them sing: for though the one be young,  
Never was any that more sweetly sung.    

A Postscript.  
To the Reader.  
IF you have read this, and received any content, I am glad, (though it be not so much as I could wish you) if you think it idle, why then I see we are not likely to fall out; for I am just of your minds; yet weigh it well before you run too far in your censures, lest this prove less barren of Wit, than you of courtesy. It is very true (I know not by what chance) that I have of late been so highly beholding to Opinion, that I wonder how I crept so much into her favour, and if I did think it worthy the fearing) I should be afraid that she having so undeservedly befriended me beyond my Hope or expectation, will, upon as little cause, ere long, again pick some quarrel against me; and it may be, means to make use of this, which I know must needs come far short of their expectation, who by their earnest desire of it, seemed to be forepossest with a far better conceit, than I can believe it proves worthy of. So much at least I doubted, and therefore loath to deceive the world (though it often beguile me) I kept it to myself, indeed, not dreaming ever to see it published: But now, by the overmuch persuasion of some friends, I have been constrained to expose it to the general view. Which seeing I have done, somethings I desire thee to take notice of. First, that I am He, who to pleasure my friend, have framed myself a content out of that which would otherwise discontent me. Secondly, that I have coveted more to effect what I think truly honest in itself, then by a seeming show of Art, to catch the vain blasts of uncertain Opinion. This that I have here written, was no part of my study, but only a recreation in imprisonment: and a trifle, neither in my conceit fitting, nor by me intended to be made common; yet some, who it should seem esteemed it worthy more respect than I did, took pains to copy it out, unknown to me, and in my absence got it both Authorized and prepared for the Press; so that if I had not hindered it, last Michaelmas-Tearme had been troubled with it. I was much blamed by some Friends for withstanding it, to whose request I should more easily have consented, but that I thought (as indeed I yet do) I should thereby more disparage myself, then content them. For I doubt I shall be supposed one of those, who out of their arrogant desire of a little preposterous Fame, thrust into the world every unseasoned trifle that drops out of their unsettled brains; whose baseness how much I hate, those that know me can witness, for if I were so affected, I might perhaps present the World with as many several Poems, as I have seen years; and justly make myself appear to be the Author of some things that others have shamefully usurped and made use of as their own. But I will be content other men should own some of those Issues of the Brain, for I would be loath to confess all that might in that kind call me Father. Neither shall any more of them, by my consent, in haste again trouble the world, unless I know which way to benefit it with less prejudice to my own estate. And therefore if any of those less serious Poems which are already dispersed into my friends hands, come amongst you, let not their publication be imputed to me, nor their lightness be any disparagement to what hath been since more serious written, seeing it is but such stuff as riper judgements have in their far elder years been much more guilty of.  
I know an indifferent Crittick may find many faults, as well in the slightness of this present Subject, as in the erring from the true nature of an Eglogue: moreover, it altogether concerns myself, which diverse may dislike. But neither can be done on just cause: The first hath been answered already: The last might consider that I was there where my own estate was chiefly to be looked unto, and all the comfort I could minister unto myself, little enough.  
If any man deem it worthy his reading I shall be glad: if he think his pains ill bestowed, let him blame himself for meddling with that concerned him not: I neither commended it to him, neither cared whether he read it or no; because I know those that were desirous of it, will esteem the same as much as I expect they should.  
But it is not unlikely, some will think I have in diverse places been more wanton (as they take it) then befitting a Satirict; yet their severity I fear not, because I am assured all that I ever yet did, was free from Obscaenity: neither am I so Cynical, but that I think a modest expression of such amorous conceits as suit with Reason, will yet very well become my years; in which not to have feeling of the power of Love, were as great an argument of much stupidity, as an over-sottish affection were of extreme folly. Lastly, if you think it hath not well answered the Title of the Shepherds Hunting, go quarrel with the Stationer, who bid himself Godfather, and imposed the Name according to his own liking; and if you, or he, find any faults, pray mend them.  
Valete.  
FINIS.   

FIDELIA: BY GEORGE WITHER. GENT:  
LONDON, Printed by T. S. for john Budge, dwelling in Pauls-Church-yard, at the sign of the Green Dragon, 1622.   

An elegiacal Epistle of Fidelia, to her unconstant Friend.  
THE ARGUMENT.  
This elegiacal Epistle, being a fragment of some greater Poem, discovers the modest affections of a discreet and constant Woman, shadowed under the name of Fidelia; wherein you may perceive the height of their Passions, so far as they seem to agree with reason, and keep within such decent bounds as beseemeth their Sex, but further it meddles not. The occasion seems to proceed from some mutability in her friend, whose objections she here presupposing, confuteth, and in the person of him justly upbraideth all that are subject to the like change, or sickleness in mind. Among the rest, some more weighty Arguments than are (perhaps) expected in such a subject, are briefly, and yet somewhat seriously handled.  

OFt I have heard tell, and now for truth I find,  
Once out of sight, and quickly out of mind.  
And that it hath been rightly said of old,  
Love that's soonest hot, is ever soon cold.  
Or else my tears at this time had not stained  
The spotless paper, nor my lines complained.  
I had not now, been forced to have sent  
These lines for Nuncio's of my discontent;  
Nor thus, exchanged, so unhappily,  
My songs of Mirth, to write an Elegy.  
But, now I must; and, since I must do so,  
Let me but crave, thou wilt not flout my woe:  
Nor entertain my sorrows with a scoff,  
But, read (at least) before thou cast them off.  
And, though thy heart's too hard to have compassion,  
Oh blame not, if thou pity not my Passion,  
For well thou knowst (alas, that ere 'twas known)  
There was a time (although that time be gone)  
I, that for this, scarce dare a beggar be,  
Presumed for more to have commanded thee.  
Yea, the Day was, (but see how things may change)  
When thou, and I, have not been half so strange;  
But oft embraced each other, gently greeting,  
With such kind words, as Turtle, Dove, or Sweeting.  
Yea, had thy meaning, and those vows of thine,  
Proved but as faithful, and as true as mine,  
It still had been so: for (I do not fain)  
I should rejoice it might be so again.  
But, sith thy Love grows cold, and thou unkind,  
Be not displeased I somewhat breathe my mind;  
I am in hope, my words may prove a mirror,  
Whereon thou looking, may'st behold thine error.  
And yet, the Heaven, and my sad heart doth know,  
How grieved I am, and with what feeling woe  
My mind is tortured, to think that I  
Should be the brand of thy disloyalty:  
Or, live to be the Author of a line  
That shall be printed with a fault of thine;  
(Since if that thou but slightly touched be,  
Deep wounds of grief, and shame, it strikes in me:)  
And yet I must; ill hap compels me to  
What I ne'er thought to have had cause to do.  
And therefore, seeing that some angry Fate  
Imposes on me, what I so much hate:  
Or, since it is so, that the Powers divine  
Me (miserable) to such cares assign;  
Oh that Love's patron, or some sacred Muse,  
Amongst my Passions, would such Art infuse,  
My well-framed words, and airy sighs might prove  
The happy blasts to re-inflame thy love.  
Or, at least, touch thee with thy fault so near,  
That thou mightst see thou wrong'st, who held thee dear:  
Seeing, confess the same, and so abhor it,  
Abhorring, pity, and repent thee for it.  
But (Dear) I hope that I may call thee so,  
(For thou art dear to me, although a foe)  
Tell me, is't true, that I do hear of thee,  
And, by thy absence, true appears to be?  
Can such abuse be in the Court of Love,  
False and inconstant now, thou He shouldst prove?  
He, that so woeful, and so pensive sat,  
Vowing his service at my feet of late?  
Art thou that quondam lover, whose sad eye  
I seldom saw yet, in my presence dry?  
And from whose gentle-seeming tongue I know  
So many pity-moving words could flow?  
Was't thou, so soughtst my love, so seeking that  
As if it had been all th'hadst aimed at?  
Making me think thy Passion without stain,  
And gently quite thee with my love again?  
With this persuasion I so fairly placed it,  
Nor Time, nor Envy, should have ere defaced it?  
Is't so? have I done thus much? and art thou  
So over-cloyed with my favours now?  
Art wearsed since with loving, and estranged  
So far? Is thy affection so much changed,  
That I of all my hopes must be deceived,  
And all good thoughts of thee be quite bereaved?   

Then true I find, which long before this day  
I feared myself, and heard some wiser say;  
That there is nought on earth so sweet, that can  
Long relish with the curious taste of Man.   

Happy was I; yea, well it was with me,  
Before I came to be bewitched by thee.  
I joyed the sweetest content that ever Maid  
Possessed yet; and truly well-a-paid,  
Made to myself (alone) as pleasant mirth  
As ever any Virgin did on earth.  
The melody I used was free, and such  
As that Bird makes, whom never hand did touch;  
But, vn-allured, (with Fowlers whistling) flies  
Above the reach of humane treacheries.   

And (well I do remember) often then  
Could I read o'er the policies of men;  
Discover what uncertainties they were;  
How they would sigh, look sad, protest, and swear;  
Nay, feign to die, when they did never prove  
The slenderest touch of a right-worthy love:  
But had chilled hearts, whose dulness understood  
No more of Passion, than they did of good.  
All which I noted well, and in my mind  
(A general humour amongst womenkind)  
This vow I made; (thinking to keep it than)  
That never the fair tongue of any man,  
Nor his complaint, though never so much grieved,  
Should move my heart to liking whilst I lived.   

But, who can say, what she shall live to do?  
I have believed, and let in liking to,  
And that so far, I cannot yet see how  
I may so much as hope, to help it now;  
Which makes me think, what e'er we women say,  
Another mind will come another day.  
And that men may to things unhoped for clime,  
Who watch but Opportunity and Time.  
For 'tis well known, we were not made of clay,  
Or such course, and ill-tempered stuff as they.  
For he that framed us of their flesh, did deign  
When 'twas at best, to new refineed again.  
Which makes us ever since the kinder Creatures,  
Of far more flexible, and yielding Natures.  
And as we oft excel in outward parts,  
So we have nobler and more gentle hearts.  
Which, you well knowing, daily do devose  
How to imprint on them your Cruelties.  
But do I finde my cause thus bad indeed?  
Or else on things imaginary feed?  
Am I the lass that late so truly jolly,  
Made myself merry oft, at others folly?  
Am I the Nymph that Cupid's fancies blamed,  
That was so cold, so hard to be inflamed?  
Am I myself? or is myself that She  
Who from this Thraldom, or such falsehood's free,  
Late owned mine own heart, and full merry then,  
Did fore-warne others to beware of Men?  
And could not, having taught them what to do,  
Now learn myself, to take heed of you to?  
Fool that I am, I fear my guerdons just,  
In that I knew this, and presumed to trust.  
And yet (alas) for aught that I could tell,  
One spark of goodness in the world might dwell:  
And then, I thought, If such a thing might be,  
Why might not that one spark remain in thee?  
For thy fair outside, and thy fairer tongue,  
Did promise much, although thy years were young.  
And Virtue (wheresoever she be now)  
Seemed then, to sit enthroned upon thy brow.  
Yea, sure it was: but, whether 'twere or no,  
Certain I am, and was persuaded so.  
Which made me loath to think, that words of fashion,  
Could be so framed, so over-laid with Passion;  
Or sighs so feeling, feigned from any breast.  
Nay, say thou hadst been false in all the rest;  
Yet from thy eye, my heart such notice took,  
Me thought, guile could not fain so sad a look.  
But now I've tried, my bought experience knows,  
They oft are worst that make the fairest shows.  
And howsoe'er men feign an outward grieving,  
'Tis neither worth respecting, nor believing:  
For, she that doth one to her mercy take,  
Warms in her bosom but a frozen snake:  
Which heated with her favours, gather sense,  
And stings her to the heart in recompense.   

But tell me why, and for what secret spite  
You in poor women's miseries delight?  
For so it seems; else why d'ye labour for  
That, which when 'tis obtained, you abhor?  
Or to what end do you endure such pain  
To win our love, and cast it off again?  
Oh that we either your hard hearts could borrow,  
Or else your strengths, to help us bear our sorrow:   

But we are cause of all this grief and shame,  
And we have none but our own selves to blame:  
For still we see your falsehood for our learning.  
Yet never can have power to take't for warning;  
But (as if borne to be deluded by you)  
We know you trustless, and yet still we try you.   

(Alas) what wrong was in my power to do thee?  
Or what despite have I ere done unto thee?  
That thou shouldst choose Me, above all the rest,  
To bethy scorn, and thus be made a jest?  
Must men's i'll natures such true villains prove them,  
To make them wrong those most that most do love them;  
Couldst thou find none in Country, Town or Court,  
But only Me, to make thy Fool, thy sport?  
Thou know'st I have no wanton courses run,  
Nor seemed easy unto lewdness won.  
And (though I cannot boast me of much wit,)  
Thou saw'st no sign of fondness in me yet.  
Nor did ill nature ever so o'ersway me,  
To flout at any that did woe or pray me,  
But grant I had been guilty of abusage,  
Of thee I'm sure I ne'er deserved such usage.  
But thou wert grieved to behold my smile.  
When I was free from love, and thy beguilings.  
Or to what purpose else didst thou bestow  
Thy time, and study to delude me so?  
Hast thou good parts? and dost thou bend them all  
To bring those that ne'er hated thee in thrall?  
Prithee take heed, although thou yet inioy'st them  
They'll be taken from thee, if thou so imploy'st them.  
For though I wish not the least harm to thee,  
I fear, the just Heavens will revenged be.  
Oh! what of Me by this time had become,  
If my desires with thine had happed to room,  
Or I, unwisely, had consented to  
What (shameless) once thou didst attempt to do?  
I might have fall'n, by those immodest tricks,  
Had not some power been stronger than my Sex.  
And if I should have so been drawn to folly,  
I saw thee apt enough to be unholy.  
Or if my weakness had been prone to sin,  
I poorly by thy strength had succoured been.  
You Men make us believe you do but try,  
And that's your part, (you say) ours to deny.  
Yet I much fear, if we through frailty stray,  
There's few of you within your bounds will stay;  
But, maugre all your seeming Virtue, be  
As ready to forget yourselves, as we.   

I might have feared thy part of love not strong,  
When thou didst offer me so base a wrong:  
And that I after loathed thee not, did prove  
In me some extraordinary Love..  
For sure had any other but in thought,  
Presumed unworthily what thou hast sought,  
Might it appear, I should do thus much for him,  
With a scarce reconciled hate abhor him.   

My young experience never yet did know  
Whether desire might range so far, or no,  
To make true Lovers carelessly request,  
What rash enjoining makes them most unblessed,  
Or blindly thorough frailty give consenting  
To that, which done brings nothing but repenting.  
But in my judgement it doth rather prove  
That they are fired with lust, then warmed with love.  
And if it be for proof men so proceed,  
It shows a doubt, else what do trials need?  
And where is that man living ever knew  
That false distrust, could be with love that's true?  
Since the mere cause of that unblamed effect,  
Such an opinion is, that hates suspect.   

And yet, thee and thy love I will excuse,  
If thou wilt neither me, nor mine abuse.  
For, I'll suppose thy passion made thee proffer  
That unto me, thou to none else wouldst offer,  
And so, think thou, if I have thee denied,  
Whom I more loved than all men else beside;  
What hope have they such favour to obtain,  
That never half so much respect could gain?   

Such was my love, that I did value thee  
Above all things below eternity.  
Nothing on Earth unto my heart was nearer  
No joy so prized, nor no jewel dearer.  
Nay: I do fear I did Idolatrize;  
For which Heavens wrath inflicts these miseries,  
And makes the things which were for blessings lent,  
To be renewers of my discontent.  
Where was there any of the Naiads,  
The Dryad's, or the Hamadryades?  
Which of the British shires can yield again,  
A mistress of the Springs, or Wood, or Plain?  
Whose eye enjoyed more sweet contents than mine,  
Till I received my overthrow by thine?  
Where's she did more delight in Springs and Rils?  
Where's she that walked more Groves, or Downs, or Hills?  
Or could by such fair artless prospect, more  
Add by conceit, to her contentments store  
Than I; whilst thou wert true, and with thy Graces  
Didst give a pleasing presence to those places?  
But now What is? What was hath overthrown,  
My Rose decked allies, now with Rue are strowne;  
And from those flowers that honeyed use to be,  
I suck nought now but juice to poison me.   

For e'en as she, whose gentle spirit can raise,  
To apprehend Loves noble mysteries,  
Spying a precious jewel richly set,  
Shine in some corner of her Cabenet,  
Taketh delight at first to gaze upon  
The pretty lustre of the sparkling stone,  
(And pleased in mind, by that doth seem to see  
How virtue shines through base obscurity;)  
But prying nearer, seeing it doth prove  
Some relic of her dear deceased Love,  
Which to her sad remembrance doth lay open,  
What she most sought, and sees most far from hope:  
Fainting almost beneath her Passions weight,  
And quite forgetful of her first conceit:  
Looking upon't again, from thence she borrows  
Sad melancholy thoughts to feed her sorrows.   

So I beholding Nature's curious bowers,  
Seeled, strowed, and trimmed up with leaves, herbs, and flowers.  
Walk pleased on a while, and do devise,  
How on each object I may moralise.  
But ere I place on many steps, I see  
There stands a Hawthorne that was trimmed by thee:  
Here thou didst once slip off the virgin sprays,  
To crown me with a wreath of living Bays.  
On such a Bank I see how thou didst lie,  
When viewing of a shady Muthery,  
The hard mishap thou didst to me discuss  
Of loving Thysbe, and young Pyramus:  
And oh (think I) how pleasing was it then,  
Or would be yet, might he return again.  
But if some neighbouring Row do draw me to  
Those Arbours, where the shadows seem to woo  
The weary lovesick Passenger, to sit  
And view the beauty's Nature strews on it;  
How fair (think I) would this sweet place appear,  
If he I love, were present with me here.  
Nay, every several object that I see,  
Doth severally (me thinks) remember thee.  
But the delight I used from thence to gather,  
I now exchange for ears, and seek them rather.   

But those whose dull and gross affections can  
Extend but only to desire a Man,  
Cannot the depth of these rare Passions know:  
For their imaginations flag too low.  
And cause their base Conceits do apprehend  
Nothing but that whereto the flesh doth tend;  
In Love's embraces they near reach unto  
More of content than the brute Creatures do.  
Neither can any judge of this, but such  
Whose braver minds for braver thoughts do touch.  
And having spirits of a nobler frame,  
Feel the true heat of Love's unquenched flame.   

They may conceive aright what smarting sting  
To their Remembrances the place will bring,  
Where they did once enjoy, and then do miss,  
What to their soul's most dear and precious is.  
With me 'tis so; for those walks that once seemed  
Pleasing, when I of thee was more esteemed,  
To me appear most desolate and lonely,  
And are the places now of torment only.  
Where I the highest of contents did borrow,  
There am I paid it home with deepest sorrow.   

Unto one place, I do remember well,  
We walked the eu'ning to hear Phylomel:  
And that seems now to want the light it had,  
The shadow of the Groue's more dull and sad,  
As if it were a place but fit for Fowls,  
That screech ill-luck; as melancholy Owls,  
Or fatal Ravens, that seld ' boding good,  
●●●ke their black Auguries from some dark wood.   

Then if from thence I half despairing go,  
Another place begins another woe:  
For thus unto my thought it seems to say,  
Hither thou saw'st him riding once that way:  
Thither to meet him thou didst nimbly hast thee,  
You he alighted, and e'en there embraced thee:  
Which whilst I sighing wish to do again,  
Another object brings another pain.  
For passing by that Green, which (could it speak)  
Would tell it saw us run at Barleybreak;  
There I beheld, what on a thin rined tree  
Thou hadst engraven for the love of me;  
When we two, all one in heat of day,  
With chaste embraces drove swift hours away.  
Then I remember to (unto my smart)  
How loath we were, when time compelled to part;  
How cunningly thy Passions thou couldst feign,  
In taking leave, and coming back again:  
So oft, until (as seeming to forget  
We were departing) down again we set?  
And freshly in that sweet discourse went on,  
Which now I almost faint to think upon.   

Viewing again those other walks and Groves  
That have been witnesses of our chaste loves;  
When I beheld those Trees whose tender skin  
Hath that cut out, which still cuts me within.  
Or come, by chance, unto that pretty Rill  
Where thou wouldst fit, and teach the neighbouring hill  
To answer, in an Echo, unto those  
Rare Problems which thou often didst propose.  
When I come there (think I) if these could take  
That use of words and speech which we partake,  
They might unfold a thousand pleasures then  
Which I shall never live to taste again.  
And thereupon, Remembrance doth so rack  
My thoughts, with representing what I lack,  
That in my mind those Clerks do argue well,  
Which hold Privation the great'st plague of hell.  
For there's no torment gripes me half so bad,  
As the Remembrance of those joys I had.   

Oh hast thou quite forgot, when sitting by  
The banks of Thame, beholding how the Fry  
Played on the siluer-waves? There where I first  
Granted to make my Fortune thus accursed;  
There where thy tootoo earnest suit compelled  
My oversoone believing heart to yield  
One favour first, which then another drew  
To get another, till (alas) I rue  
That day and hour, thinking I ne'er should need  
(As now) to grieve for doing such a deed.  
So freely I my courtesies bestowed,  
That whose I was unwarily I showed:  
And to my heart such passage made for thee,  
Thou canst not to this day removed be,  
And what breast could resist it, having seen  
How true thy love had in appearance been?  
For (I shall ne'er forget) when thou hadst there  
Laid open every discontent and care,  
Wherewith thou deeply seemedst to me oppressed,  
When thou (as much as any could protest)  
Hadst vowed and sworn, and yet perceiu'dst no sign  
Of pity-moving in this breast of mine:  
Well Love (sald'st thou) since neither sigh nor vow,  
Nor any service may avail me now:  
Since neither the recital of my smart,  
Nor those strong Passions that assail my heart;  
Nor any thing may move thee to belief  
Of these my sufferings, or to grant relief:  
Since there's no comfort, nor desert, that may  
Get me so much as Hope of what I pray;  
Sweet Love farewell; farewell fair beauties light,  
And every pleasing object of the sight:  
My poor despairing heart here biddeth you,  
And all Content, for evermore, adieu.   

Then e'en as thou seemd'st ready to depart;  
Reaching that hand, which after gave my heart,  
(And thinking this sad Farewell did proceed  
From a sound breast, but truly moved indeed)  
I stayed thy departing from me so,  
Whilst I stood mute with sorrow, thou for show.  
And the mean while as I beheld thy look,  
My eye th'impression of such Pity took,  
That, with the strength of Passion overcome,  
A deep-fetched sigh my heart came breathing from:  
Whereat thou (ever wisely using this  
To take advantage when it offered is)  
Renewd'st thy suit to me, who did afford  
Consent, in silence first, and then in word.   

So that for yielding thou mayst thank thy wit,  
And yet when ever I remember it,  
Trust me, I muse, and often (wondering) think,  
Through what craney, or what secret chink  
That Love, unwares so like a sly close Else,  
Did to my heart insinuate itself.  
Gallants I had, before thou cam'st to woe,  
Could as much love, and as well court me to;  
And, though they had not learned so the fashion,  
Of acting such well counterfeited Passion;  
In wit, and person, they did equal thee,  
And worthier seemed, unless thou'lt faithful be.  
Yet still unmoved, unconquered I remained:  
No, not one thought of love was entertained:  
Nor could they brag of the least favour to them,  
Save what mere courtesy enjoined to do them.  
Hard was my heart: But will't had harder been,  
And then, perhaps, I had not let thee in;  
Thou, Tyrant, that art so imperious there,  
And only tak'st delight to Domineer.  
But held I out such strong, such oft assailing,  
And ever kept the honour of prevailing?  
Was this poor breast from loves allure free,  
Cruel to all, and gentle unto thee?  
Did I unlock that strong affections door,  
That never could be broken open before,  
Only to thee? and, at thy intercession,  
So freely give up all my heart's possession:  
That to myself I left not one poor vein,  
Nor power, nor will, to put thee from't again?  
Did I do this, (and all on thy bare vow)  
And wilt thou thus requite my kindness now?  
Oh that thou either hadst not learned to feign,  
Or I had power to cast thee off again!  
How is it that thou art become so rude,  
And over-blinded by Ingratitude?  
Swar'st thou so deeply that thou wouldst persever.  
That I might thus be cast away for ever?  
Well, than ' as true, that Lover's perjuries,  
Among some men, are thought no injuries:  
And that she only hath least cause of grief,  
Who of your words hath smal'st, or no belief.   

Had I the wooer been, or fond won,  
This had been more though, than thou couldst have done;  
But, neither being so, what Reason is  
On thy side, that should make thee offer this?   

I know, had I been false, or my faith failed,  
Thou wouldst at women's fickleness have railed;  
And if in me it had an error been,  
In thee shall the same fault be thought no sin?  
Rather I hold that which is bad in me,  
Will be a greater blemish unto thee:  
Because, by Nature, thou art made more strong,  
And therefore abler to endure a wrong.  
But 'tis our Fortune, you'll have all the power,  
Only the Care and Burden must be our.  
Nor can you be content a wrong to do,  
Unless you say the blame upon us to.  
Oh that there were some gentle minded Poet  
That knew my heart, as well as now I know it;  
And would endear me to his love so much,  
To give the world (though but) a slender touch  
Of that sad Passion which now clogs my heart,  
And show my truth, and thee how false thou art:  
That all might know, what is believed by no man,  
There's fickleness in men, and faith in woman.   

Thou saw'st I first let Pity in, then liking,  
And lastly, that which was thy only seeking:  
And, when I might have scorned that love of thine,  
(As now ungently thou despisest mine,)  
Among the inmost Angles of my breast,  
To lodge it by my heart I thought it best:  
Which thou hast stolen to, like a thankless Mate,  
And left me nothing but a black self hate.  
What canst thou say for this, to stand contending?  
What colour hast thou left for thy offending?  
Thy wit, perhaps, can some excuse device,  
And fain a colour for those injuries;  
But well I know, if thou excuse this treason,  
It must be by some greater thing than reason.   

Are any of those virtues yet defaced,  
On which thy first affection seemed placed?  
Hath any secret foe my true faith wronged,  
To rob the bliss that to my heart belonged?  
What then? shall I condemned be unheard,  
Before thou knowest how I may be cleared?  
Thou art acquainted with the times condition,  
knowst it is full of envy, and suspicion,  
So that the war'est in thought, word, and action,  
Shall oft be injured, by foul-mouthed datraction:  
And therefore thou (methinks) shouldst wisely pause  
Before thou credit rumours without cause.  
But I have gotten such a confidence  
In thy opinion, of my innocence:  
It is not that, I know, withholds thee now,  
Sweet, tell me then; is it some sacred vow?  
Hast thou resolved, not to join thy hand  
With any one in Hymen's holy band?  
Thou shouldst have done it then, when thou wert free,  
Before thou hadst bequeathed thyself to me.  
What vow dost deem more pleasing unto Heaven,  
Than what is by unfeigned lovers given?  
If any be, yet sure it frowneth at  
Those that are made for contradicting that.  
But, if thou wouldst live chastely all thy life,  
That thou mayst do, though we be man and wife:  
Or, if thou longest a Virgin-death to die,  
Why (if it be thy pleasure) so do I.  
Make me but thine, and I'll (contented) be  
A Virgin still, yet live and lie with thee.  
Then let not thy inventing brain assay  
To mock, and still delude me every way;  
But call to mind, how thou hast deeply sworn  
Nor to neglect, nor leave me thus forlorn.  
And if thou wilt not be to me as when  
We first did love, do but come see me then.  
Vouchsafe that I may sometime with thee walk,  
Or sit and look on thee, or hear thee talk;  
And I that most content once aimed at,  
Will think there is a world of bliss in that.   

Dost thou suppose that my Desires denies  
With thy affections well to sympathise?  
Or such perverseness hast thou found in me,  
May make our Nature's disagreeing be?  
Thou know'st when thou didst wake I could not sleep;  
And if thou wert but sad, that I should weep.  
Yet (even when the tears my cheek did stain)  
If thou didst smile, why I could smile again:  
I never did contrary thee in aught:  
Nay, thou canst tell, I oft have spoke thy thought.  
Waking; the selfsame course with thee I run,  
And sleeping, oftentimes our dreams were one.   

The Dyall-needle, though it sense doth want,  
Still bends to the beloved Adamant;  
Lift the one up, the other upward tends;  
If this fall down, that presently descends:  
Turn but about the stone, the steel turns to;  
Then strait returns, if so the other do;  
And, if it stay, with trembling keeps one place,  
As if it (panting) longed for an embrace.  
So was't with me: for, if thou merry wert,  
That mirth of thine, moved joy within my heart:  
I sighed to, when thou didst sigh or frown:  
When thou wert sick, thou hast perceived me swoone;  
And being sad, have oft, with forced delight,  
Strived to give thee content beyond my might.  
When thou wouldst talk, then have I talked with thee,  
And silent been, when thou wouldst silent be.  
If thou abroad didst go, with joy I went;  
If home thou lov'dst, at home was my content:  
Yea, what did to my Nature disagree,  
I could make pleasing, cause it pleased thee.   

But, if't be either my weak Sex, or youth,  
Makes thee misdoubt my undistained truth,  
Know this; as none (till that unhappy hour,  
When I was first madethine,) had ever power  
To move my heart, by vows, or tears expense;  
No more (I swear) could any Creature since.  
No looks but thine, though aimed with Passions Art,  
Could pierce so deep to penetrate my heart.  
No name but thine, was welcome to my care;  
No word did I so soon, so gladly hear:  
Nor ever could my eyes behold or see,  
What I was since delighted in, but thee.   

And sure thou wouldst believe it to be so,  
If I could tell, or words might make thee know,  
How many a weary night my tumbled bed  
Hath known me sleepless: what salt-teares I've shed;  
What scalding-sighes, the marks of souls oppressed,  
Have hourly breathed from my careful breast.  
Nor wouldst thou deem those waking sorrow's 〈◊〉  
If thou mightst see how sleeping I am pain.  
For if sometimes I chance to take a slumber,  
Unwelcome dreams my broken rest doth cumber.  
Which dreaming makes me start, starting with fears  
Wakes; and so by waking I renew my cares:  
Until my eyes ore-tired with watch and weeping,  
Drowned in their own floods fall again to sleeping.  
Oh! that thou couldst but think, when last we parted,  
How much I, grieving for thy absence, smarted:  
My very soul fell sick, my heart to aching,  
As if they had their last Farewells been taking;  
Or feared by some secret Divination,  
This thy revolt, and causeless alteration.  
Didst thou not feel how loath that hand of mine,  
Was to let go the hold it had of thine?  
And with what heavy, what unwilling look  
I leave of thee, and then of comfort took?  
I know thou didst; and though now thus thou do,  
I am deceived, but than it grieved thee to.   

Then, if I so with Love's fell passion vexed  
For thy departure only was perplexed,  
When I had left to strengthen me some trust;  
And hope, that thou wouldst ne'er have proved unjust:  
What was my torture then, and hard endurance,  
When of thy falsehood I received assurance.   

Alas, my Tongue, awhile, with grief was dumb,  
And a cold shuddering did my joints benumb,  
Amazement seized my thought, and so prevailed,  
I found me ill, but knew not what I ailed.  
Nor can I yet tell, since my suffering then  
Was more than could be shown by Poet's Pen;  
Or well conceived by any other heart  
Then that which in such care hath borne a part.   

Oh me; how loath was I to have believed  
That to be true, for which so much I grieved?  
How gladly would I have persuaded been,  
There had been no such matter, no such sin.  
I would have had my heart think that (I knew  
To be the very truth) not to be true.  
Why may not this, thought I, some vision be,  
Some sleeping dream, or waking fantasy,  
Begotten by my over-blinded folly,  
Or else engendered through my Melancholy?  
But finding it so real (thought I) then  
Must I be cast from all my hopes again?  
What are become of all those fading blisses,  
Which late my hope had, and now so much misses?  
Where is that future fickle happiness  
Which I so long expected to possess?  
And, thought I to; where are his dying Passions,  
His honeyed words, his bitter lamentations?  
To what end were his Sonnets, Epigrams,  
His pretty Posies, witty Anagrams?  
I could not think, all that might have been feigned,  
Nor any faith, I thought so firm, been stained.  
Nay, I do sure and confidently know,  
It is not possible it should be so:  
If that rare Art and Passion was thine own,  
Which in my presence thou hast often shown.  
But, since thy change, my much-presaging heart  
Is half afraid, thou some impostor wert:  
Or that thou didst but (Player-like addressed)  
Act that which flowed from some more gentle breast.  
Thy puffed invention, with worse matter swollen,  
Those thy conceits from better wits hath stolen:  
Or else (I know) it could not be, that thou  
Shouldst be so over-cold as thou art now;  
Since those, who have that, feelingly, their own,  
Ever possess more worth concealed, then known.  
And if Love ever any Mortals touch,  
To make a brave impression, 'tis in such,  
Who sworn loves Chaplains, will not violate  
That, whereunto themselves they consecreate.   

But oh you noble brood, on whom the World  
The slighted burden of neglect hath hurled,  
(Because your thoughts for higher objects borne,  
Their grovelling humours and affection scorn)  
You, whom the Gods, to hear your strains, will follow,  
Whilst you do court the sisters of Apollo.  
You, whom there's none that's worthy, can neglect,  
Or any that unworthy is, affect.  
Oh let not those that seek to do you shame,  
Bewitch us with those songs they cannot frame:  
The noblest of our Sex, and fairest to,  
Do ever love and honour such as you.  
Then wrong us not so much to give your Passion  
To those that have it but in imitation:  
And in their dull breasts never feel the power  
Of such deep thoughts as sweetly move in your.  
As well as you, they us thereby abuse,  
For (many times) when we our Lovers choose,  
Where we think Nature, that rich jewel, sets  
Which shines in you, we light on counterfeits.   

But see, see whither discontentment bears me,  
And to what uncoth strains my Passion rears me:  
Yet pardon me, I here, again repent,  
If I have erred through that discontent.  
Be what thou wilt, be counterfeit or right,  
Be constant, serious, or be vain, or light,  
My love remains inviolate the same,  
Thou canst be nothing that can quench this flame,  
But it will burn as long as thou hast breath  
To keep it kindled (if not after death)  
Near was there one more true, than I to thee,  
And though my faith must now despised be,  
Unprized, unualued at the lowest rate,  
Yet this I'll tell thee, 'tis not all thy state,  
Nor all that better-seeming worth of thine,  
Can buy thee such another Love as mine:  
Liking it may, but oh there's as much odds,  
'twixt love and that, as between men and Gods.  
It is a purchase not procured with treasure,  
As some fools think, nor to be gained at pleasure:  
For were it so, and any could assure it,  
What would not some men part with, to procure it?  
But though thou weight not, as thou ought'st to do,  
Thou know'st I love; and once didst love me to.  
Then where's the cause of this dislike in thee?  
Survey thyself, I hope there's none in me.  
Yet look on her from whom thou art estranged?  
See, is my person, or my beauty changed?  
Once thou didst praise it, prithee view't again,  
And mark if'ft be not still the same 'twas then:  
No false Vermilion-dye my cheek distaines,  
'Tis the poor blood dispersed through pores and veins,  
Which thou hast oft seen through my forehead flushing,  
To show no dawby-colour hid my blushing:  
Nor never shall: Virtue, I hope, will save me,  
Contented with that beauty Nature gave me.  
Or, if'ft seem less, for that griefes-vaile had hid it,  
Thou threw'st it on me, 'twas not I that did it,   

And canst again restore, what may repair  
All that's decayed, and make me far more fair.  
Which if thou do, I'll be more wary than  
To keep't for thee unblemished, what I can:  
And cause at best 'twill want much of perfection,  
The rest shall be supplied with true affection.   

But I do fear, it is some others riches,  
Whose more abundance that thy mind bewitches,  
That base object, that too general aim,  
Makes thee my lesser Fortune to disclaim.  
Fie, canst thou so degenerate in spirit,  
As to prefer the means before the merit?  
(A though I cannot say it is in me)  
Such worth sometimes with poverty may be  
To equalise the match she takes upon her;  
Thomas th'other vaunt of Birth, Wealth, Beauty, Honour:  
And many a one that did for greatness wed,  
Would gladly change it for a meaner bed.  
Yet are my Fortunes known indifferent,  
Not basely mean, but such as may content:  
And though I yield the better to be thine,  
I may be bold to say thus much, for mine;  
That if thou couldst of them and me esteem,  
Neither thy state, nor birth, would misbeseeme:  
Or if it did; how can I helped (alas)  
Thou, not alone, before knewest what it was.  
But I (although not fearing so to speed)  
Did also disinableed more than need,  
And yet thou wouldst, and wooing didst persever,  
As if thou hadst intended Love for ever:  
Yea, thy account of wealth thou mad'st so small,  
Thou hadst not any question of't at all;  
But hating much that peasant-like condition,  
Didst seem displeased I held it in suspicion.  
Whereby I think, if nothing else do thwart us,  
It cannot be the want of that will part us.  
Yea, I do rather doubt indeed, that this  
The needless fear of friends displeasure is.  
Yes, that's the bar which stops out my delight,  
And all my hope and joy confoundeth quite,  
But bears there any in thy heart such sway  
To shut me thence, and wipe thy love away?  
Can there be any friend that hath the power,  
To disunite hearts so conjoined as our?  
ere I would have so done by thee; I'd rather  
Have parted with one dearer than my father.  
For though the will of our Creator binds  
Each Child to learn and know his Parents minds;  
Yet sure I am, so just a Deity,  
Commandeth nothing against Piety.  
Nor doth that band of duty give them leave,  
To violate their faith, or to deceive.  
And though that Parents have authority,  
To rule their children in minority:  
Yet they are never granted such power on them,  
That will allow to tyrannize upon them;  
Or use them under their command so ill,  
To force them, without reason, to their will.   

For who hath read in all the Sacred-writ,  
Of any one compelled to marriage (yet?)  
What father so unkind (thereto required)  
Denied his Child the match that he desired,  
So that he found the Laws did not forbid it?  
I think those gentler ages no men did it.  
In those days therefore for them to have been  
Contracted without licence had been sin?  
Since there was more good Nature among men,  
And every one more truly loving then.  
But now (although we stand obliged still  
To labour for their liking, and goodwill)  
There is no duty whereby they may tie us  
From aught which without reason they deny us:  
For I do think, it is not only meant,  
Children should ask, but Parents should consent:  
And that they err, their duty as much breaking,  
For not consenting, as we not for speaking.  
" It is no marvel many matches be  
" Concluded now without their privity;  
" Since they, through greedy Avarice misled,  
" Their interest in that have forfeited.  
For, some respectless of all care, do marry  
Hot youthful - May, to cold old - january.  
Some, for a greedy end, do basely tie  
The sweetest-faire, to soule-deformitie.  
Forcing a love from where 'twas placed late,  
To reingraffe it where it turns to hate.  
It seems no cause of hindrance in their eyes,  
Though manners nor affections sympathise.  
And two Religions by their rules of state,  
They may in one made body tolerate;  
As if they did desire that double stem,  
Should fruitful bear but Neuters like to them.  
Alas, how many numbers of both kinds  
By that have ever discontented minds:  
And live (though seeming unto others well)  
In the next torments unto those of hell?  
How many, desperate grown by this their sin,  
Have both undone themselves and all their kin?  
Many a one, we see, it makes to fall  
With the too-late repenting Prodigal.  
Thousands (though else by nature gentler given,)  
To act the horridst murders oft are driven.  
And (which is worse) there's many a careless else,  
(Unless Heaven pity) kills and damns his self.  
Oh what hard heart, or what unpitying eyes,  
Could hold from tears to see those Tragedies,  
Parents, by their neglect in this, have hurled  
Upon the Stage of this respectless World?  
'Tis not one Man, one Family, one Kin,  
No nor one Country that hath ruined been  
By such their folly, which the cause hath proved,  
That foreign oft, and civil wars were moved  
By such beginnings many a City lies  
Now in the dust, whose Turrets braved the skies:  
And diverse Monarches by such fortunes crossed,  
Have seen their Kingdoms fired, and spoiled, and lost▪   

Yet all this while, thou seest, I mention not,  
The ruin, shame, and chastity hath got;  
For 'tis a task too infinite to tell  
How many thousands that would have done well,  
Do, by the means of this, suffer desires  
To kindle in their hearts unlawful fires:  
Nay some, in whose could breast near flame had been,  
Have only for mere vengeance fall'n to sin.   

Myself have seen, and my heart bled to see't,  
A witless Clown enjoy a match unmeet.  
She was a Lass that had a look to move  
The heart of cold Diogenes to love:  
Her eye was such, whose every glance did know  
To kindle flames upon the hills of Snow;  
And by her powerful piercings could imprint,  
Or sparkle fire into a heart of flint:  
And yet (unless I much deceived be)  
In very thought did hate immodesty.  
And (had sh'enioyd the man she could have loved)  
Might, to this day, have lived unreproved:  
But, being forced, perforce, by seeming▪ friends,  
With her consent, she her contentment ends.  
In that, compelled, herself to him she gave,  
Whose Bed, she rather could have with● her Grave;  
And since, I hear, what I much fear is true,  
That she hath hidden shame and fame adieu.   

Such are the causes now that Parents quite  
Are put beside much of their ancient right:  
Their fear of this, makes children to withhold  
From giving them those dues which else they would:  
And these thou see'st are the too-fruitfull ills,  
Which daily spring from their unbridled wills.  
Yet they, forsooth, will have it understood,  
That all their study, is their children's good.  
A seeming - Love shall cover all they do:  
When, if the matter were well looked into,  
Their careful reach is chiefly to fulfil  
Their own foul, greedy, and insatiate will:  
Who, quite forgetting they were ever young,  
Would have the Children dote, with them, on dung.  
Grant, betwixt two, there be true love, content,  
Birth not miss seeming, wealth sufficient,  
Equality in years, an honest fame,  
In every-side the person without blame,  
And they obedient too: What can you gather  
Of Love, or of affection, in that father,  
That but a little to augment his treasure,  
(Perhaps, no more but only for his pleasure,)  
Shall force his Child to one he doth abhor,  
From her he loves, and justly seeketh for;  
Compelling him (for such misfortune grieved)  
To die with care, that might with joy have lived?  
This you may say is Love, and swear as well,  
There's pains in Heaven, and delights in Hell:  
Or, that the Devil's fury and austerity  
Proceeds out of his care of our posterity.  
Would Parents (in this age) have us begin  
To take by their eyes, our affections in?  
Or do they think we bear them in our fist,  
That we may still remove them as we list?  
It is impossible it should be thus,  
For we are ruled by Love, not Love by us:  
And so our power so much never reached to,  
To know where we shall love, until we do.  
And when it comes, hide it awhile we may,  
But 'tis not in our strengths to driu't away.   

Either mine own eye should my chooser be,  
Or I would never wear Hymen's Livery.  
For who is he so near my heart doth rest,  
To know what 'tis, that mine approved best?  
I have myself beheld those men, whose frame  
And outward personages had nought of blame:  
They had (what might their good proportion grace)  
The much more moving part, a comely face,  
With many of those compliments, which we  
In common men, of the best breeding see.  
They had discourse, and wit enough to carry  
Themselves in fashion, at an Ordinary;  
Gallant they were, loved company and sport,  
Wore favours, and had Mistresses in Court.  
And every way were such as well might seem  
Worthy of note, respect, and much esteem;  
Yet hath my eye more cause of liking seen,  
Where nought perhaps by some hath noted been:  
And I have there found more content, by far,  
Where some of those perfections wanting are;  
Yea so much, that their beauties were a blot  
To them (me thought) because he had them not.   

There some peculiar thing innated,  
That bears an uncontrolled sway in this;  
And nothing but itself knows how to fit  
The mind with that which best shall suit with it.   

Then why should Parents thrust themselves into  
What they want warrant for, and power to do?  
How is it they are so forgetful grown,  
Of those conditions, that were once their own?  
Do they so dote amidst their wit's perfection,  
To think that age and youth hath like affection?  
(When they do see 'mong those of equal years,  
One hateth what another most endears.)  
Or do they think their wisdoms can invent  
A thing to give, that's greater than Content?  
No, neither shall they wrap us in such blindness,  
To make us think the spite they do, is kindness.  
For as I would advise no child to stray  
From the least duty that he ought to pay:  
So would I also have him wisely know,  
How much that duty is which he doth owe:  
That knowing what doth unto both belong,  
He may do them their right, himself no wrong.  
For if my Parents him I loath should choose,  
'tis lawful, yea my duty to refuse:  
Else, how shall I lead so upright a life,  
As is enjoined to the Man and Wife?  
Since that we see sometime there are repentings,  
e'en where there are the most, and best content.  
What, though that by our Parents first we live?  
Is not life misery enough to give;  
Which at their births the children doth undo,  
Unless they add some other mischief to?  
'Cause they gave being to this flesh of our,  
Must we be therefore slaves unto their power?  
We ne'er desired it, for how could we tell,  
Not being, but that not to be was well:  
Nor know they whom they profit by it, seeing  
Happy were some, if they had had no being.  
Indeed, had they produced us without sin,  
Had all our duty to have pleased them been:  
Of the next life, could they assure the state,  
And both beget us and regenerate;  
There were no reason than we should withstand  
To undergo their tyrannou'st command:  
In hope that either for our hard endurance,  
We should, at last, have comfort in assurance:  
Or, if in our endeavours we mis-sped,  
At least feel nothing when we should be dead.   

But what's the Reason for't that we shall be  
Enthralled so much unto Mortality?  
Our souls on will of any Men to tie  
Unto an everlasting misery.  
So far, perhaps to, from the good of either,  
We ruin them, ourselves, and altogether.   

Children owe much, I must confess 'tis true,  
And a great debt is to the Parents due:  
Yet if they have not so much power to crave  
But in their own defence the lives they gave:  
How much less then, should they become so cruel  
As to take from them the high-prized jewel  
Of liberty in choice, whereon depends  
The main contentment that the heaven here lends?  
Worth life, or wealth, nay far more worth then either  
Or twenty thousand lives put all together.  
Then howsoever some, severer bent,  
May deem of my opinion, or intent,  
With that which follows thus conclude I do:  
(And I have Reason for't, and Conscience to)  
No Parent may his Child's just suit deny  
On his bare will, without a reason why:  
Nor he so used, be disobedient thought,  
If vnapproued, he take the match he sought.   

So than if that thy faith uncrazed be,  
Thy friends dislike shall be no stop to me:  
For, if their will be not of force to do it,  
They shall have no cause else to drive them to it.  
What is it they against us can allege?  
Both young we are, and of the fittest age,  
If thou dissembledst not, both love; and both  
To admit hindrance in our loves are loath.  
'Tis prejudicial unto none that lives;  
And Gods, and humane Law our warrant gives.  
Nor are we much unequal in degree,  
Perhaps our Fortunes somewhat different be.  
But say that little means, which is, were not,  
The want of wealth may not dissolve this knot.  
For though some such preposterous courses wend,  
Prescribing to themselves no other end,  
marriage was not ordained t'enrich men by,  
Unless it were in their posterity.  
And he that doth for other causes wed,  
Near knows the true sweets of a marriage bed:  
Nor shall he by my will, for 'tis unfit  
He should have bliss that never aimed at it.   

Though that bewitching gold the Rabble blinds,  
And is the object of all Vulgar minds:  
Yet those, methinks, that graced seem to be,  
With so much good as doth appear in thee,  
Should scorn their better-taught desires to tie  
To that, which fools do get their honour by.  
I can like of the wealth (I must confess)  
Yet more I prise the man, though mony-lesse.  
I am not of their humour yet, that can  
For Title, or Estate, affect a Man;  
Or of myself, one body, deign to make  
With him I loath, for his possessions sake.  
Nor wish I ever to have that mind bred  
In me, that is in those; who, when they wed,  
Think it enough, they do attain the grace  
Of some new honour, to far well, take place,  
Wear costly clothes, in others sights agree,  
Or happy in opinion seem to be.   

I weigh not this: for were I sure before  
Of Spencer's wealth, or our rich Suttons store;  
Had I therewith a man, whom Nature lent,  
Person enough to give the eye content:  
If I no outward due, nor right did want,  
Which the best Husbands in appearance grant:  
Nay, though alone we had no private jars  
But merry lived from all domestic cares;  
Unless I thought his Nature so incline,  
That it might also sympathise with mine,  
(And yield such correspondence with my mind●  
Our souls might mutually contentment find,  
By adding unto these which went before,  
Some certain unexpressed pleasures more,  
Such as exceed the straight and curbed dimensions  
Of common minds, and vulgar apprehensions)  
I would not care for such a match, but tarry  
In this estate I am, and never marry.   

Such were the sweets I hoped to have possessed,  
When Fortune should with thee have made me bles●…  
My heart could hardly think of that content,  
To apprehend it without ravishment.  
Each word of thine (me-thought) was to my ears  
More pleasing than that music, which the Spheres  
(They say) do make the gods, when in their chime,  
Their motions Diapason with the time,  
In my conceit, the opening of thine eye.  
Seemed to give light to every object by,  
And shed a kind of life unto my show,  
On every thing that was within it view.  
More joy I've felt to have thee but in place,  
Then many do in the most close embrace  
Of their beloued'st friend, which well doth prove,  
Not to thy body only tends my love:  
But mounting a true height, grows so divine,  
It makes my soul to fall in love with thine.  
And sure now whatsoever thy body do,  
Thy soul loves mine, and oft they visit too.  
For late I dreamed they went I know not whither,  
Unless to Heaven, and there played together;  
And to this day I ne'er could know or see,  
'Twixt them or us the least Antipathy,  
Then what should make thee keep thy person hence,  
Or leave to love, or hold it in suspense?  
If to offend thee I unawares was driven,  
Is't such a fault as may not be forgiven?  
Or if by frowns of Fate, I have been checked,  
So that I seem not worth thy first respect,  
Shall I be therefore blamed and upbraided,  
With what could not be holpen, or avoided?  
'tis not my fault: yet cause my Fortunes do,  
Wilt thou be so unkind to wrong me too?  
Not unto Thine, but thee I set my heart,  
So nought can wipe my love out while thou art:  
Though thou wert poorer both of house and meat,  
Then he that knows not where to sleep or eat:  
Though thou wert sunk into obscurity.  
Become an abject in the world's proud eye,  
Though by perverseness of thy Fortune crossed,  
Thou wert deformed or some limb hadst lost,  
That love which Admiration first begot,  
Pity would strengthen, that it failed not:  
Yea, I should love thee still, and without blame,  
As long as thou couldst keep thy mind the same;  
Which is of Virtues so compact (I take it)  
No mortal change shall have the power to shake it.  
This may, and will (I know) seem strange to those  
That cannot the Abyss of love disclose,  
Nor must they think, whom but the outside moves  
Ever to apprehend such noble Loves;  
Or more conjecture their unsounded measure,  
Then can we mortals of immortal pleasure.   

Then let not those dull unconceiving brains,  
Who shall hereafter come to read these strains,  
Suppose that no love's fire can be so great,  
Because it gives not their cold Clime such heat;  
Or think m'inuention could have reached here  
Unto such thoughts, unless such love there were:  
For than they shall but show their knowledge weak,  
And injure me, that feel of what I speak.   

But now my lines grow tedious, like my wrong,  
And as I thought that, thou think'st this too long.  
Or some may deem, I thrust myself into  
More than beseemeth modesty to do.  
But of the difference I am not unwitting,  
Betwixt a peevish coyness, and things fitting:  
Nothing respect I, who pries over my doing:  
For here's no vain allurements, nor fond wooing,  
To train some wanton stranger to my lure;  
But with a thought that's honest, chaste, and pure,  
I make my cause unto thy conscience known,  
Suing for that which is by right my own.  
In which complaint, if thou do hap to find  
Any such word, as seems to be unkind:  
Mistake me not, it but from Passion sprung,  
And not from an intent to do thee wrong.  
Or if among these doubts my sad thoughts breed,  
Some (peradventure) may be more than need  
They are to let thee know, might we dispute,  
There's no objections but I could refute;  
And spite of Envy such defences make,  
Thou shouldst embrace that love thou dost forsake.   

Then do not (oh forgetful man) now deem,  
That 'tis aught less than I have made it seem.  
Or that I am unto this Passion moved,  
Because I cannot elsewhere be beloved:  
Or that it is thy state, whose greatness known,  
Makes me become a suitor for my own:  
Suppose not so; for know this day there be  
Some that woo hard for what I offer thee:  
And I have ever yet contented been  
With that estate I first was placed in.  
Banish those thoughts, and turn thee to my heart;  
Come once again, and be what once thou wert.  
Revive me by those wont joys repairing,  
That am nigh dead with sorrows and despairing:  
So shall the memory of this annoy,  
But add more sweetness to my future joy;  
Yea, make me think thou meantst not to deny me,  
But only wert estranged thus, to try me.  
And lastly, for that love's sake thou once bar'st me,  
By that right hand thou gav'st, that oath thouswar'st me,  
By all the Passions, and (if any be)  
For her dear sake that makes thee injure me;  
I here conjure thee; no entreat and sue,  
That if these lines do overreach thy view,  
Thou wouldst afford me so much favour for them,  
As to accept, or at least not abhor them.  
So though thou wholly cloak not thy disdain,  
I shall have somewhat the less cause to plain:  
Or if thou needs must scoff at this, or me,  
Do't by thyself, that none may witness be.  
Not that I fear 'twill bring me any blame,  
Only I am loath the world should know my shame.  
For all that shall this plaint with reason view,  
Will judge me faithful, and thee most untrue.  
But if Oblivion, that thy love bereft,  
Hath not so much good nature in thee left,  
But that thou must, as most of you men do,  
When you have conquered, tyrannize it too:  
Know this before, that it is praise to no man  
To wrong so frail a Creature as a woman.  
And to insult o'er one, so much made thine,  
Will more be thy disparagement than mine.   

But oh (I pray that it portend no harms)  
A cheering heat my chilled senses warms:  
Just now I flashing feel into my breast,  
A sudden comfort, not to be expressed;  
Which to my thinking, doth again begin  
To warn my heart, to let some hope come in;  
It tells me 'tis impossible that thou  
Shouldst live not to be mine, it whispers how  
My former fears and doubts have, been in vain,  
And that thou meanest yet to return again.  
It says thy absence from some cause did grow,  
Which, or I should not, or I could not know.  
It tells me now, that all those proofs, whereby  
I seemed assured of thy disloyalty,  
May be but treacherous plots of some base foes,  
That in thy absence sought our overthrows.   

Which if it prove; as yet me thinks it may,  
Oh, what a burden shall I cast away?  
What cares shall I say by? and to what height  
Tower in my new ascension to delight?  
Sure ere the full of it I come to try,  
I shall e'en surfeit in my joy and die.  
But such a loss might well be called a thriving  
Since more is got by dying so, then living.   

Come kill me then, my dear, if thou think fit,  
With that which never killed woman yet:  
Or write to me before, so shalt thou give  
Content more moderate that I may live:  
And when I see my staff of trust unbroken,  
I will unspeake again what is mis-spoken.  
What I have written in dispraise of Men,  
I will recant, and praife as much again;  
In recompense I'll add unto their Stories,  
Encomiasticke lines to imp their glories.  
And for those wrongs my love to thee hath done,  
Both I and it unto thy Pity run:  
In whom, if the least guilt thou find to be,  
For ever let thine arms imprison me.   

Mean while I'll try if misery will spare  
Me so much respite, to take truce with care.  
And patiently await the doubtful doom,  
Which I expect from thee should shortly come  
Much longing that I one way may be sped,  
And not still linger 'twixt alive and dead.  
For I can neither live yet as I should,  
Because I least enjoy of that I would;  
Nor quiet die, because (indeed) I first  
Would see some better days, or know the worst.   

Then hasten Dear, if to my end it be,  
It shall be welcome, cause it comes from thee.  
If to renew my Comfort ought be sent,  
Let me not lose a minute of Content.  
The precious Time is short, and will away,  
Let us enjoy each other while we may.  
Cares thrive, Age creepeth on, Men are but shades,  
joys lessen, Youth decays, and Beauty fades;  
New turns come on, the old returneth never,  
If we let our go past, 'tis past for ever.   
FINIS.   


A metrical Paraphrase upon the CREED.  
SInce it befits, that I account should give  
What way unto salvation I believe;  
Of my profession here the sum I gather.  
First, I confess a Faith in God the Father:  
In God, who (without Helper or Partaker)  
Was of himself the World's Almighty Maker,  
And first gave Time his being: who gave birth  
To all the Creatures, both of Heaven and Earth.  
Our everlasting welfare doth consist  
In his great mercies, and in jesus Christ:  
(The second person of that Three in one)  
The Father's equal, and his only Son;  
That euer-blessed, and incarnate Word,  
Which our Redeemer is, our life, Our Lord.  
For when by Satan's guile we were deceived,  
Christ was that means of help, which was conceived;  
Yea, (when we were in danger to be lost)  
Conceived for Us, by the Holy Ghost.  
And that we might not ever be forlorn,  
For our eternal safety he was Borne;  
Borne as a Man (that Man might not miseary)  
Even of the substance of the Virgin Mary,  
And lo, a greater mercy, and a wonder;  
He that can make All, suffer, suffered under  
The jewish spite (which all the world revile at)  
And Romish tyrannies of Pontius Pilate.  
In him do I believe, who was envied,  
Who with extremest hate was Crucified:  
Who being Life itself (to make assured  
Our souls of safety) was both dead, and buried;  
And that no servile fear in us might dwell,  
To conquer, He descended into Hell:  
Where no infernal Power had power to lay  
Command upon him; but on the third day  
The force of Death and Hell he did constrain,  
And so in Triumph, He arose again.  
Yea, the Almighty power advanced his head,  
Aswell above all things, as from the dead.  
Then, that from thence gifts might to men be given,  
With glory, He ascended into Heaven:  
Where, that supreme and everlasting throne,  
Which was prepared, he climbed; and sitteth on  
That blessed seat, where he shall make abode  
To plead for us, at the right hand of God.  
And no where should he be enthroned rather,  
Then there: for, he is God, as is the Father.  
And therefore, with an equal love delight I  
To praise and serve them both, as one Almighty:  
●et in their office there's a difference.  
And I believe, that jesus Christ, from thence,  
Shall in the great and universal doom,  
Return; and that with Angels He shall come,  
To question such as at his Empire grudge;  
Even those who have presumed him to judge.  
And that black day shall be so Catholic,  
As I believe not only that the quick  
To that assize shall all be summoned;  
But, he will both adjudge them, and the dead.  
Moreover, in the Godhead I conceive  
Another Person, in whom I believe:  
For all my hope of blessedness were lost,  
If I believed not in the holy Ghost.  
And though vain schismatics through pride & folly  
Contemn her power, I do believe the holy  
chaste Spouse of Christ (for whom so many search  
By marks uncertain) the true Cath'like Church.  
I do believe (God keep us in this union,)  
That there shall be for ever the Communion  
Of God's Elect: and that he still acquaints  
His Children in the fellowship of Saints.  
Though damned be Man's natural condition,  
By grace in Christ I look for the remission  
Of all my foul misdeeds; for, there begins  
Death's end, which is the punishment of sins.  
Moreover, I the Sadduces infection  
Abhor, and do believe the Resurrection:  
Yea, though I turn to dust; yet through God, I  
Expect a glorious rising of the body;  
And that, exempted from the cares here rise,  
I shall enjoy perfection and the life  
That is not subject unto change or wasting;  
But ever blessed, and for everlasting.  
This is my Faith, which that it fail not when  
It most should steed me, let God say, Amen.   

A metrical Paraphrase upon the Lord's Prayer  

To whom, that he so much vouchsafe me may,  
Thus as a member of his Church, I pray:   
LOrd, at thy Mercy-seat, ourselves we gather,  
To do our duties unto thee, Our Father.  
To whom all praise, all honour, should be given:  
For, thou art that great God which art in heaven.  
Thou by thy wisdom rul'st the world's whole frame,  
For ever, therefore, Hallowed be thy Name.  
Let never more delays divide us from  
Thy glories view, but let Thy Kingdom come.  
Let thy commands opposed be by none,  
But thy good pleasure, and Thy will be done.  
And let our promptness to obey, be even  
The very same in earth, as 'tis in heaven.  
Then, for ourselves, O Lord, we also pray,  
Thou wouldst be pleased to Give us this day,  
That food of life wherewith our souls are fed,  
Contented raiment, and our daily bread.  
With every needful thing do thou relieve us:  
And, of thy mercy, pity And forgive us  
All our misdeeds, in him whom thou didst please,  
To take in offering for our trespasses.  
And for as much, O Lord, as we believe,  
Thou so wilt pardon us, as we forgive;  
Let that love teach us, wherewith thou acquaints us,  
To pardon all them, that trespass against us.  
And though sometime thou findest we have forgot  
This Love, or thee; yet help, And lead us not  
Through Soul or bodies want, to desperation  
Nor let abundance drive, into temptation. 
See Pro. 30. 8. 9   
Let not the soul of any true Believer,  
Fall in the time of trial: But deliver  
Yea, save him from the malice of the Devil;  
And both in life and death keep us from evil.  
Thus pray we Lord: And but of thee, from whom  
Can this be had? For thine is the Kingdom.  
The world is of thy works the graven story,  
To thee belongs the power, and the glory.  
And this thy happiness hath ending never:  
But shall remain for ever, and for ever.  
This we confess; and will confess again,  
Till we shall say eternally, Amen.   Thou shalt write them upon the posts of thy house, and upon thy Gates. Deut. 6. 9 
FINIS.