POEMS: BY FRANCIS BEAUMONT, Gent.  
Viz. 

The Hermaphrodite.  
The Remedy of Love.  
Elegies.  
Sonnets, with other Poems.    
LONDON, Printed for Laurence Blaiklock, and are to be sold at his Shop near the middle Temple Gate in Fleetstreet. 1653.   

TO THE Right Worshipful, the worthily honoured, ROBERT PARKHURST Esq  
Were these but worthless Poems, or light Rhymes,  
Writ by some common scribbler of the Times,  
Without your leave I durst not then engage  
You, to ennoble 'em by your patronage;  
But these though Orphans, and left Fatherless,  
Their rich endowments show they do possess  
A Father's blessing; whom the Fates thought fit  
To make a Master of a Mine of wit:  
Whose ravishing conceits do tower so high,  
As if his Quill had dropped from Mercury:  
But when his fancy chanced of love to sing,  
You'd swear his Pen were plumed from Cupid's wing;  
He doth an amorous passion so discover,  
As if (save Beaumond) none had ere been Lover;  
Some praise a manly bounty, some incline  
More to applaud the virtues feminine;  
Some several graces in both Sexes hid,  
But only Beaumont's, he alone that did  
By a rare stratagem of wit connex  
What's choice and excellent in either Sex.  
Then cherish (Sir) these Saplings, whose each strain,  
Speaks them the issue of brave Beaumont's brain;  
Which made me thus dare to prefix your name,  
Which will, if aught can, add unto their fame.  
I am, Sir, Your most humble and devoted Servant, L. B.   

To the true Patroness of all Poetry, CALLIOPE.  
IT is a statute in deep wisdoms lore,  
That for his lines none should a Patron choose,  
By wealth or poverty, by less or more,  
But who the same is able to peruse:  
Nor ought a man his labour dedicate,  
Without a true and sensible desert,  
To any power of such a mighty state:  
But such a wise defendresse as thou art;  
Thou great and powerful Muse, then pardon me,  
That I presume thy maiden cheek to stain,  
In dedicating such a work to thee,  
Sprung from the issue of an idle brain:  
I use thee as a woman ought to be,  
I consecrate my idle hours to thee.  
F. B.   

In laudem Authoris.  
LIke to the weak estate of a poor friend,  
To whom sweet fortune hath been ever slow,  
Which daily doth that happy hour attend,  
When his poor state may his affection show:  
So fares my love, not able as the rest,  
To chant thy praises in a lofty vain;  
Yet my poor Muse, doth vow to do her best,  
And wanting wings, she'll tread an humble strain;  
I thought at first her homely steps to raise,  
And for some blazing Epithets to look:  
But then I feared that by such wondrous praise,  
Some men would grow suspicious of thy book:  
For he that doth thy due deserts rehearse,  
Derives that glory from thy worthy verse.  
W. B.   

To the Author.  
EIther the goddess draws her troops of loves  
From Paphos, where she erst was held divine,  
And doth unyoke her tender necked doves,  
Placing her seat in this small pap'ry shrine;  
Or the sweet graces through th' Idalian grove,  
Led the best Author in their danced rings;  
Or wanton Nymphs inwatry bowers have wove,  
With fair Mylesian threads, the verse he sings;  
Or curious Pallas once again doth strive  
With proud Arachue, for illustrious glory,  
And once again doth loves of Gods revive,  
Spinning in silver twists a lasting story:  
If none of these then Venus chose his sight,  
To lead the steps of her blind son aright.  
J. B.   

To the Author.  
THe matchless lust of a fair Poefie,  
Which was erst buried in old Rome's decays;  
Now begins with heat of rising Majesty,  
Her dust wrapped head from rotten Tomb to raise,  
And with fresh splendour gilds her fearless crest,  
Rearing her Palace in our Poet's breast.  
The wanton Ovid, whose enticing rhymes  
Have with attractive wonder forced attention  
No more shall be admired at: for these times  
Produce a Poet, whose more rare invention,  
Will tear the lovesick Myrtle from his brows,  
T' adorn his Temple with deserved boughs.  
The strongest Marble fears the smallest rain,  
The rusting canker eats the purest gold;  
Honours best dye dreads envies blackest stain,  
The crimson badge of beauty must wax old:  
But this fair issue of thy fruitful brain,  
Nor dreads age, envy, cankring, rust or rain,  
J. B.   

The Author to the Reader.  
I Sing the fortune of a luckless Pair,  
Whose spotless souls now in one body be;  
For Beauty still is Prodromus to care,  
Crossed by the sad stars of nativity:  
And of the strange enchantment of a well.  
Given by the Gods; my sportive Muse doth write,  
Which sweet lipped Ovid long ago did tell,  
Wherein who baths straight turns Hermaphrodite:  
I hope my Poem is so lively writ,  
That thou wilt turn half mad with reading it.   

To Mr FRANCIS BEAUMONT (then living.)  
HOw I do love thee BEAUMONT, and thy Muse,  
That unto me dost such Religion use!  
How I do fear myself, that am not worth  
The least indulgent thought thy Pen drops forth!  
At once thou makest me happy, and unmakest;  
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.  
What fate is mine, that so itself bereaves?  
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?  
When even there where most thou praisest me,  
For writing better, I must envy thee.  
BEN. JOHNSON.   

Upon M. FLETCHER'S Incomparable Plays.  
APollo sings, his harp resounds; give room,  
For now behold the golden Pomp is come,  
Thy Pomp of Plays which thousands come to see,  
With admiration both of them and thee.  
O Volume worthy leaf, by leaf and cover  
To be with juice of Cedar washed all over;  
Here's words with lines, and lines with Scenes consent,  
To raise an Act to full astonishment;  
Here melting numbers, words of power to move  
Young men to swoone, and Maids to die for love.  
Love lies a bleeding here, Evadne there  
Swells with brave rage, yet comely every where:  
Here's a mad lover, there that high design  
Of King and no King, (and the rare Plot thine)  
So that when e'er we circumvolve our Eyes;  
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varieties,  
Ravish our spirits, that entranced we see  
None writes loves passion in the world like Thee.  
ROB. HERRICK.   

To the Memory of the incomparable Pair of Authors, Beaumond and Fletcher.  
GReat pair of Authors, whom one equal star  
Begot so like in Genius, that you are  
In fame, as well as writings, both so knit,  
That no man knows where to divide your Wit,  
Much less your praise; you, who had equal fire,  
And did each other mutually inspire;  
Whether one did contrive, the other writ,  
Or one framed the Plot, the other did indite;  
Whether one found the matter, th' other Dress,  
Or th' one disposed what the other did express;  
Where e'er your parts between yourselves lay, we,  
In all things which you did, but one thread see,  
So evenly drawn out, so gently spun,  
That Art with Nature ne'er did smother run.  
Where shall I fix my praise then? or what part  
Of all your numerous Labours hath desert  
More to be framed than other? shall I say,  
I've met a Lover so drawn in your Play,  
So passionately written, so inflamed,  
So jealously enraged, then gently tamed,  
That I in reading have the Person seen,  
And your Pen hath part Stage, and Actor been?  
Or shall I say, that I can scarce forbear  
To clap, when I a Captain do meet there;  
So lively in his own vain humour dressed,  
So braggingly, and like himself expressed,  
That Modern Cowards, when they saw him played,  
Saw, blushed, departed guilty, and betrayed?  
You wrote all parts right; what soe'er the Stage  
Had from you, was seen there as in the Age,  
And had their equal life: Vices which were  
Manners abroad, did grow corrected there:  
They who possessed a box, and half Crown spent  
To learn obsceneness, returned innocent;  
And thanked you for this coz'nage, whose chaste Scene  
Taught loves so Noble, so reformed, so clean;  
That they who brought foul fires, and thither came  
To bargain, went thence with a holy flame.  
Be't to your praise too, that your Stock and vein  
Held both to Tragic and to Comic strain;  
Where e'er you listed to be high and grave,  
No Busk in showed more solid, no quill gave  
Such feeling objects to draw tears from eyes,  
Spectators sat part in your Tragedies.  
And where you lifted to be low, and free,  
Mirth turned the whole house into Comedy;  
So piercing (where you pleased) hitting a fault,  
That humours from your Pen issued all salt.  
Nor were you thus in works and Poems knit,  
As to be but two halves, and make one wit;  
But as some things we see have double cause,  
And yet the effect itself, from both whole draws:  
So though you were thus twisted and combined  
As two bodies, to have but one fair mind;  
Yet if we praise you rightly, we must say  
Both joy'nd, and both did wholly make the Play:  
For that you could write singly, we may guess  
By the divided pieces, which the Press  
Hath severally set forth; nor were gone so  
(Like some our Modern Authors) made to go  
On merely by the help of th' other, who  
To purchase fame do come forth one of Two;  
Nor wrote you so, that one's part was to lick  
The other into shape, nor did one stick  
The others cold Inventions with such wit,  
As served like spice, to make them quick and fit;  
Nor out of mutual want, or emptiness,  
Did you conspire to go still Twins to th' Press:  
But what thus joined you wrote, might have come forth  
As good from each, and stored with the same worth  
That thus united them, you did join sense;  
In you 'twas League, in others Impotence;  
And the Press which both thus amongst us sends,  
Sends us one Poet in a Pair of Friends.   

On the happy Collection of Beaumont's and Fletcher's Works.  

FLETCHER arise, Usurpers share thy Bays,  
They Canton thy vast Wit to build small Plays:  
He comes! his Volume breaks through clouds and dust,  
Down, little Wits, Ye must refund, Ye must.   

Nor comes he private, here's great BEAUMONT too,  
How could one single World encompass Two?  
For these Coheirs had equal power to teach  
All that all Wits both can and cannot reach.  
Shakespeare was early up, and went so dressed.  
As for those dawning hours he knew was best;  
But when the Sun shone forth, You two thought fit  
To wear just Robes, and leave off Trunk-hose-Wit.  
Now, now 'twas Perfect; None must look for Now,  
Manners and Scenes may alter, but not You;  
For Yours are not mere Humours, gilded strains;  
The Fashion lost, Your massy Sense remains.   

Some think Your Wit's of two Complexions framed,  
That One the Sock, th' Other the Buskin claimed;  
That should the Stage embattle all its Force,  
FLETCHER would lead the foot, BEAUMONT the horse.  
But, you were Both for Both; not Semi-wits,  
Each Piece is wholly Two, yet never splits:  
YE are not Two Faculties (and one Soul still)  
He th' Understanding, Thou the quick free Will;  
But, as two Voices in one Song embrace,  
(FLETCHER'S keen Treble, and deep BEAUMONT'S Base)  
Two, full, Congenial Souls; still both poevailed;  
His Muse and Thine were Quartered, not Impaled:  
Both brought Your Ingots, Both toiled at the Mint,  
Beat, melted, sifted, till no dross stuck in't;  
Then in each Others scales weighed every grain;  
Then smoothed and burnished, then weighed all again;  
Stamped Both your Names upon't at one bold Hit,  
Then, than 'twas Coin, as well as Bullion- Wit.   

Thus Twins: But as when Fate one Eye deprives,  
That other strives to double which survives:  
So BEAUMONT died: yet left in Legacy  
His Rules, and Standard-wit (FLETCHER) to Thee.  
Still the same Planet, though not filled so soon,  
A Two-horned Crescent then, now one Fullmoon.  
Joint Love before, now Honour doth provoke;  
So the old Twin- Giants forcing a huge Oak,  
One slipped his footing, th' other sees him fall,  
Grasped the whole Tree, and single held up all.  
Imperial FLETCHER! here gins thy Reign,  
Scenes flow like Sunbeams from thy glorious Brain;  
Thy swift dispatching Soul no more doth stay,  
Than he that built two Cities in one day;  
Ever brimful, and sometimes running o'er,  
To feed poor languid Wits that wait at door;  
Who creep, and creep, yet ne'er aboveground stood,  
(For Creatures have most Feet which have least Blood)  
But thou art still that Bird of Paradise  
Which hath no feet, and ever nobly flies:  
Rich, lusty Sense, such as the Poet ought;  
For Poems, if not Excellent, are Naught;  
Low wit in Scenes, in state a Peasant goes;  
If mean and flat, let it foot Yeoman Prose,  
That such may spell as are not Readers grown,  
To whom He that writes Wit, shows he hath none.   

Brave Shakespeare flowed, yet had his Ebb too,  
Often above Himself, sometimes below;  
Thou always Best; if aught seemed to decline,  
'Twas the unjudging Rout's mistake, not thine:  
Thus thy fair SHEPHERDESS, which the bold Heap  
(False to Themselves and Thee) did prize so cheap,  
Was found (when understood) fit to be Crowned,  
At worst 'twas worth Two hundred thousand pound.   

Some blast thy Works, lest we should tract their Walk  
Where they steal all those few good things they talk;  
Wit-Burglary must chide those it feeds on,  
For Plundered folks ought to be railed upon;  
But (as stolen goods go off at half their worth)  
Thy strong Sense palls when they purloin it forth.  
When didst Thou borrow? where's the man  read,  
Ought begged by Thee from those Alive or Dead?  
Or from dry Goddesses, as some who when  
They stuff their page with Gods, writ worse than Men.  
Thou was't thine own Muse, and hadst such vast odds,  
Thou out-writt'st him whose verse made all those Gods:  
Surpassing those our Dwarfish Age upreares,  
As much as Greeks or Latines thee in years:  
The Ocean Fancy knew nor Banks nor dams,  
We ebb down dry to pebble- Anagrams;  
Dead and insipid, all despairing sit,  
Lost to behold this great Relapse of Wit:  
What strength remains, is like that (wild and fierce)  
Till Johnson made good Poets and right Verse.   

Such boisterous Trifles Thy Muse would not brook  
Save when she'd show how scurvily they look;  
No savage Metaphors (things rudely Great)  
Thou dost display, not butcher a Conceit;  
Thy Nerves have Beauty, which Invades and Charms;  
Looks like a Princess harnessed in bright Arms.   

Nor art Thou Loud and Cloudy; those that do  
Thunder so much, do't without Lightning too;  
Tearing themselves, and almost split their brain  
To render harsh what thou speakest free and clean;  
Such gloomy Sense may pass for High and Proud,  
But trueborn Wit still flies above the Cloud;  
Thou knewst 'twas Impotence what they call Height;  
Who blusters strong i'th' Dark, but creeps i'th' Light.   

And as thy thoughts were clear, so, Innocent;  
Thy Fancy gave no unswept Language vent;  
Slaunder'st not Laws, profanest not holy Page,  
(As if thy Father's Crosier awed the Stage;)  
High Crimes were still arraigned, though they made shift  
To prosper out four Acts, were plagued i'th' fift:  
All's safe and wise; no stiff-affected Scene,  
Nor swollen, nor flat, a True Full Natural vein;  
Thy Sense (like well-dressed Ladies) clothed as skinned,  
Not all unlaced, nor City-starched and pinned;  
Thou hadst no Sloth, no rage, no sullen Fit,  
But Strength and Mirth, FLETCHER'S a Sanguine Wit.   

Thus, two great Consul-Poets all things swayed,  
Till all was English Borne, or English Made:  
Mitre and Coif here into One Piece spun,  
BEAUMONT a Judge's, This a Prelate's Son.  
What strange Production is at last displayed,  
(Got by Two Fathers, without Female aid)  
Behold, two Masculines espoused each other,  
Wit and the World were born without a Mother.   
I. BERKENHEAD.   

Salmacis & Hermaphroditus: OR The Hermaphrodite.  
MY wanton lines do treat of Amorous love,  
Such as would bow the hearts of Gods above.  
Thou Venus our great Citheraean Queen,  
That hourly trip'st on the Idalian green;  
Thou laughing Ericina deign to see  
These verses wholly consecrate to thee:  
Temper them so within thy Paphian shrine,  
That every lover's eye may melt a line;  
Command the god of love, that little king,  
To give each verse a sleight touch with his wing;  
That as I writ, one line may draw the other,  
And every word skip nimbly o'er another.  
There was a lovely Boy the Nymphs had kept,  
That on th' Idalian Mountains oft had slept,  
Begot and born by powers that dwelled above,  
By learned Mercury on the Queen of love.  
A face he had that showed his Parent's fame,  
And from them both conjoined he drew his name;  
So wondrous fair he was, that (as they say)  
Diana being bunting on a day,  
She saw the Boy upon a green bank lay him,  
And there the virgin huntress meant to slay him;  
Because no Nymphs would now pursue the chase,  
For all were struck blind with the wantoness face.  
But when that beauteous face Diana saw,  
Her arms were numbed, and she could not draw,  
Yet did she strive to shoot, but all in vain,  
She bent her bow, but loosed it strait again:  
Then she began to chide her wanton eye,  
And feign would shoot, but durst not see him die:  
She turned and shot, but did of purpose miss him,  
She turned again and could not choose but kiss him;  
Then the Boy ran: for some say had he stayed,  
Diana had no longer been a maid:  
Phoebus so doted on this roseate face,  
That he hath oft stolen closely from his place,  
When he did lie by fair Leucothoes' side,  
To dally with him in the vales of Ide.  
And ever since this lovely boy did die,  
Phoebus each day about the world doth fly,  
And on the earth he seeks him all the day,  
And every night he seeks him in the sea:  
His cheeks were sanguine, and his lips were red,  
As are the blushing leaves of the Rose spread;  
And I have heard that till this Boy was born,  
Roses grew white upon the virgin thorn;  
Till one day walking to a pleasant spring,  
To hear how cunningly the birds could sing,  
Laying him down upon a flowery bed,  
The Roses blushed and turned themselves to red:  
The rose that blushed, not for his great offence,  
The gods did punish, and for's impudence  
They gave this doom, and 'twas agreed by all,  
The smell of the white rose should be but small.  
His hair was bushy, burr it was not long,  
The Nymphs had alone his tresses mighty wrong;  
For as it grew they pulled away his hair,  
And made habiliments of gold to wear:  
His eyes were Cupids, for until his birth  
Cupid had eyes, and lived upon the earth;  
Till on a day when the great Queen of love  
Was by her white doves drawn from heaven above,  
Unto the top of the Idalian hill,  
To see how well the Nymphs her charge fulfil,  
And whether they had done the goddess right  
In nursing of her sweet Hermaphrodite;  
Whom when she saw, (although complete and full)  
Yet she complained his eyes were somewhat dull:  
And therefore more the wanton boy to grace,  
She pulled the sparkling eyes from Cupid's face,  
Feigning a cause to take away his sight,  
Because the Ape would sometimes shoot for spite:  
But Venus set those eyes in such a place,  
As graced those clear eyes with a clearer face;  
For his white hand each goddess did him woo,  
For it was whiter than the driven snow;  
His leg was straighter than the thigh of Jove,  
And he far fairer than the god of love.  
When first this well shaped boy, beauties chief king,  
Had seen the labour of the fifteenth spring,  
How curiously it painted all the earth,  
He began to travel from his place of birth,  
Leaving the stately hills where he was nursed,  
And where the Nymphs had brought him up at first;  
He loved to travel unto coasts unknown,  
To see the Regions far beyond his own,  
Seeking clear watery springs to bathe him in,  
For he did love to wash his Ivory skin.  
The lovely Nymphs have oft times seen him swim,  
And closely stolen his  from off the brim,  
Because the wanton wenches would so feign  
See him come naked to ask his  again;  
He loved besides to see the Lician grounds,  
And know the wealthy Carians utmost bounds.  
Using to travel thus, one day he found  
A Crystal brook that triled along the ground;  
A brook that in reflection did surpass  
The clear reflection of the clearest glass;  
About the side there grew no foggy reeds,  
Nor was the front compassed with barren weeds,  
But living turf grew all along the side,  
And grass that ever flourished in his pride;  
Within this brook a beauteous Nymph did dwell,  
Who for her comely feature did excel;  
So fair she was, of such a pleasing grace,  
So strait a body, and so sweet a face,  
So soft a belly, such a lusty thigh,  
So large a forehead, such a crystal eye,  
So soft and moist a hand, so smooth a breast,  
So fair a cheek, so well in all the rest:  
That Jupiter would revel in her bower  
Were he to spend again his golden shower.  
Her teeth were whiter than the Morning-milk,  
Her lips were softer than the softest silk,  
Her hair as far surpassed the burnished gold,  
As silver doth excel the basest mould;  
Jove courted her for her transluent eye,  
And told her he would place her in the sky;  
Promising her if she would be his love,  
He would engrave her in the heavens above:  
Telling this lovely Nymph, that if he would,  
He could deceive her in a shower of gold;  
Or like a swan come to her naked bed,  
And so deceive her of her Maidenhead.  
But yet because he thought that pleasure best  
Where each consenting joins each loving breast,  
He would put off that all commanding crown,  
Whose terror struck th' aspiring Giants down;  
That glittering crown whose radiant fight did toss  
Great Pelion from the top of mighty Osse:  
He would depose from his world-swaying head  
To taste the amorous pleasure of her bed;  
This added, he besides the more to grace her,  
Like a bright star he would in heaven's vault place her.  
By this the proud lascivious Nymph was moved,  
Perceiving that by great jove she was loved:  
And hoping as a star she should e'er long  
Be stern or gracious to the sea-man's song,  
(For mortals still are subject to the eye,  
And what it sees they strive to get as high)  
She was contented that almighty jove  
Should have the first and best fruits of her love;  
For women may be likened to the year,  
Whose first fruits still do make the daintiest cheer.  
But yet Astraea first should plight her troth,  
For the performance of Ioves sacred oath;  
Just times decline, and all good days are dead,  
When heavenly oaths had need be warranted.  
This heard great jupiter and liked it well,  
And hastily he seeks Astraeas' cell,  
About the massy earth searching her tower;  
But she had long since left this earthly bower,  
And flew to heaven above, loathing to see  
The sinful actions of humanity:  
Which when jove did perceive, he left the earth,  
And flew up to the place of his own birth;  
The burning heavenly throne, where he did spy  
Astraeas' palace in the glittering sky.  
This stately tower was builded up on high,  
Far from the reach of any mortal eye;  
And from the Palace side there did distil  
A little water through a little quill,  
The dew of justice which did seldom fall,  
And when it dropped, the drops were very small:  
Glad was great jove, when he beheld her tower,  
Meaning a while to rest him in her bower;  
And therefore sought to enter at her door,  
But there was such a busy rout before;  
(Some serving-men, and some promoters be,)  
That he could pass no foot without a fee:  
But as he goes he reaches out his hands,  
And pays each one in order as he stands,  
And still as he was paying those before.  
Some slipped again betwixt him and the door;  
At length (with much ado) he passed them all,  
And entering strait into a spacious hall,  
Full of dark angles and of hidden ways,  
Crooked Meanders, infinite delays,  
All which delays and entries he must pass  
 he could come where just Astraea was:  
All these being passed by his immortal wit,  
Without her door he saw a Porter fit,  
An aged man that long time there had been,  
Who used to search all those that entered in,  
And still to every one he gave this curse,  
None must see justice but with empty purse.  
This man searched jove for his own private gain,  
To have the money which did yet remain,  
Which was but small, for much was spent before  
On the tumultuous rout that kept the door;  
When he had done he brought him to the place  
Where he might see divine Astraea's face,  
There the great king of gods and men in went,  
And saw his daughter Venus there lament,  
And crying loud for justice, whom Jove found  
Kneeling before Astraea on the ground,  
And still she cried and begged for a just doom  
Against black Vulcan, that unseemly groom,  
Whom she had chosen for her only love,  
Though she was daughter to great thundering Jove;  
And though the fairest goddess, yet content  
To marry him though weak and impotent:  
But for all this they always were at strife,  
For evermore he railed at her his wife,  
Telling her still thou art no wife of mine,  
Another's Strumpet, Mars his concubine.  
By this Astraeae spied almighty Jove,  
And bowed her finger to the Queen of love,  
To cease her suit which she would hear anon,  
When the great King of all the world was gone;  
Then she descended from her stately throne,  
Which seat was builded all of Jasper stone,  
And o'er the seat was painted all above  
The wanton unseen stealths of amorous Jove.  
There might a man behold the naked pride  
Of lovely Venus in the Vale of Ide,  
When Pallas and Jove's beauteous wife and she  
Strove for the prize of beauty's rarity,  
And there lame Vulcan and his Cyclops strove  
To make the thunderbolt for mighty Jove;  
From this same stately throne she down descended,  
And said the griefs of Jove should be amended,  
Ask the King of gods what luckless cause,  
What great contempt of state, what breach of laws,  
(For sure she thought some uncouth cause befell  
That made him visit poor Astraea's cell)  
Troubled his thoughts, and if she might decide it  
Who vexed great Jove full dear should abide it:  
Jove only thanked her, and began to show  
His cause of coming, (for each one doth know  
The longing words of lovers are not many  
If they desire to be enjoyed of any,)  
Telling Astraea, it would now befall  
That she might make him blest that blesseth all:  
For as he walked upon the flowery earth,  
To which his own hands whilom gave a birth,  
To see how straight he held it, and how just  
He ruled this massy ponderous heap of dust:  
He laid him down by a cool rivers side,  
Whose pleasant water did so gently slide,  
With such soft whispering, for the brook was deep,  
That it had lulled him in a heavenly sleep.  
When first he laid him down there was none near him,  
(For he did call before, but none could hear him,)  
But a fair Nymph was bathing when he waked,  
(Here sight great jove, and after brought forth) naked  
He seeing loved the Nymph, yet here did rest  
Where just Astraea might make jove be blest,  
If she would pass her faithful word so far  
As that great jove should make the maid a star;  
Astraea yielded, at which jove was pleased,  
And all his longing hopes and fears were eased,  
jove took his leave and parted from her fight,  
Whose thoughts were full of lovers sweet delight;  
And she ascended to the throne above,  
To hear the griefs of the great Queen of love:  
But she was satisfied, and would no more  
Rail at her husband as she did before;  
But forth she tripped apace, because she strove  
With her swift feet to overtake great jove;  
She skipped so nimbly as she went to look him,  
That at the Palace door she overtook him;  
The way was plain and broad as they went out,  
And now they could see no tumultuous rout.  
Here Venus fearing lest the love of jove  
Should make this maid be placed in heaven above;  
Because she thought this Nymph so wondrous bright  
That she would dazzle her accustomed light,  
And fearing now she should not first be seen  
Of all the glittering stars as she had been;  
But that the wanton Nymph would every night  
Be first that should salute each mortal sight,  
Began to tell great jove she grieved to see  
The heaven so full of his iniquity:  
Complaining that each strumpet now was graced,  
And with immortal goddesses was placed,  
Entreating him to place in heaven no more  
Each wanton strumpet, and lascivious whore.  
jove, mad with love, minded not what she said,  
His thoughts were so entangled with the maid:  
But furiously he to his Palace leapt,  
Being minded there till morning to have slept.  
For the next morn so soon as Phoebus' rays  
Should yet shine cool by reason of the seas,  
And e'er the parting tears of Thetis bed  
Should be quite shaked from off his glittering head,  
Astraea promised to attend great jove  
At his own Palace in the heavens above,  
And at that Palace she would set her hand  
To what the lovesick god should her command:  
But to descend to earth she did deny,  
She loathed the sight of any mortal eye,  
And for the compass of the earthly round  
She would not set one foot upon the ground:  
Therefore jove meant to rise but with the sun,  
Yet thought it long until the night was done.  
In the mean space Venus was drawn along  
By her white doves unto the sweeting throng  
Of hammering blacksmiths at the lofty hill  
Of stately Aetna, whose top burneth still;  
For at that mountain's glittering top  
Her cripple husband Vulcan kept his shop;  
To him she went, and so collogues that night  
With the best strains of pleasures sweet delight,  
That ere they parted she made Vulcan swear  
By dreadful Styx, (an oath that gods do fear)  
If jove would make the mortal maid a star,  
Himself should frame his instruments of war:  
He took his oath by black Cocytus' lake  
He never more a thunderbolt would make;  
For Venus so this night his senses pleased,  
That now he thought his former griefs were eased,  
She with her hands the blacksmiths' body bound,  
And with her Ivory arms she twined him round,  
And still the fair Queen with a pretty grace  
Dispersed her sweet breath o'er his swarthy face;  
Her snowy arms so well she did display,  
That Vulcan thought they melted as they lay,  
Until the morn in this delight they lay.  
Then up they got and hasted fast away  
In the white Chariot of the Queen of love,  
Towards the Palace of great thundering jove:  
Where they did see divine Astraea stand  
To pass her word for what jove should command;  
In limped the blacksmith, after stepped his Queen,  
Whose light arraiment was of lovely green:  
When they were in, Vulcan began to swear  
By oaths that Jupiter himself doth fear,  
If any whore in heavens bright vault were seen,  
To dim the shining of his beauteous Queen,  
Each mortal man should the great god disgrace,  
And mock almighty Jove unto his face:  
And Giants should enforce bright heaven to fall  
Ere he would frame one thunderbolt at all;  
Jove did entreat him that he would forbear,  
The more he spoke the more did Vulcan swear.  
Jove heard the words and began to make his moan,  
That mortal men would pluck him from his throne,  
Or else he must incur this plague he said,  
Quite to forgo the pleasure of the maid;  
And once he thought rather than lose those blisses,  
Her heavenly sweets her most delicious kisses,  
Her soft embraces, and the amorous nights,  
That he should often spend in her delights,  
He would be quite thrown down by mortal hands  
From the blessed place where his bright palace stands:  
But afterwards he saw with better sight,  
He should be scorned by every mortal wight,  
If he should want his thunderbolts to beat  
Aspiring mortals from his glittering seat;  
Therefore the god no more did woe or move her,  
But left to seek her love, though not to love her:  
Yet he forgot not that he wooed the Lass,  
But made her twice as beauteous as she was,  
Because his wont love he needs would show.  
This have I heard, but yet not thought it true;  
And whether her clear beauty was so bright,  
That it could dazzle the immortal sight  
Of Gods, and make them for her love despair,  
I do not know, but sure the maid was fair:  
Yet the fair Nymph was never seen resort  
Unto the savage and the bloody sport  
Of chaste Diana, nor was ever wont  
To bend a bow, nor never used to hunt;  
Nor did she ever strive with pretty cunning  
To overgo her fellow Nymphs in running:  
For she was the fair water-Nymph alone,  
That unto chaste Diana was unknown.  
It is reported that her fellows used  
To bid her (though the beauteous Nymph refused)  
To take a painted quiver, or a dart,  
And put her lazy idleness apart.  
But she would none but in the fountains swims,  
Where oft she washeth o'er her snowy limbs;  
Sometimes she combed her soft dishevelled hair,  
Which with a fillet tied she oft did wear;  
But sometimes lose she let it hang behind,  
When she was pleased to grace the Eastern wind,  
For up and down it would her tresses hurl,  
And as she went it made her lose hair curl:  
Oft in the water did she see her face,  
And oft she used to practise what acquaint grace  
Might well become her, and what comely feature  
Might be best fitting so divine a creature.  
Her skin was with a thin veil overthrown,  
Through which her naked beauty clearly shone;  
She used in this light raiment as she was  
To spread her body on the dewy grass:  
Sometimes by her own fountains as she walks  
She nipped the flowers from off the fertile stalks,  
And with a garland of the sweeting vine  
Sometimes she doth her beauteous front entwine;  
But she was gathering flowers with her white hand,  
When she beheld Hermaphroditus stand  
By her clear fountain wondering at the sight,  
That there was any brook could be so bright,  
For this was the bright river where the boy  
Did die himself, that he could not enjoy  
Himself in pleasure, nor could taste the blisses  
Of his own-melting and delicious kisses.  
Here did she see him, and by Venus' law  
She did desire to have him as she saw:  
But the fair Nymph had never seen the place  
Where the boy was, nor his enchanting face;  
But but by an uncouth accident of love  
Betwixt great Phoebus and the son of Jove,  
(Lightheaded Bacchus) for upon a day  
As the boy-god was keeping on his way,  
Bearing his vineleaves and his Ivy bands  
To Naxos, where his house and Temple stands,  
He saw the Nymph, and seeing he did stay,  
And threw his leaves and his Ivy bands away,  
Thinking at first she was of heavenly birth,  
Some goddess that did live upon the earth;  
Virgin Diana that so lovely shone  
When she did court her sweet Endymion;  
But he a god, at last did plainly see  
She had no mark of Immortality:  
Unto the Nymph went the young god of wine,  
Whose head was chafed so with the bleeding vine,  
That now, or fear, or terror had he none,  
But began to court her as she sat alone;  
Fairer than fairest (thus began his speech)  
Would but your radiant eye please to enrich  
My eye with looking, or one glance to give  
Whereby my other parts may feed and live,  
Or with one sight my senses to inspire,  
Far livelier than the stolen Promethean fire;  
Then might I live, then by the sunny light  
That should proceed from thy chief radiant sight  
I might survive to ages, but that missing,  
(At that same word he would have fain been kissing)  
I pine (fair Nymph.) O never let me die  
For one poor glance from thy translucent eye,  
Far more transparent than the clearest brook;  
The Nymph was taken with his golden hook,  
Yet she turned back and would have tripped away,  
But Bacchus forced the lovely maid to stay,  
Ask her why she struggled to be gone,  
Why such a Nymph should wish to live alone;  
Heaven never made her fair that she should vaunt  
She kept all beauty, yet would never grant  
She should be borne so beauteous from her mother,  
But to reflect her beauty on another:  
Then with a sweet kiss cast thy beams on me,  
And I'll reflect them back again on thee.  
At Naxos stands my Temple and my shrine,  
Where I do press the lusty swelling Vine;  
There with green Ivy shall thy head be bound,  
And with the red grape be encircled round;  
There shall Silenus sing unto thy praise  
His drunken reeling songs and tippling lays.  
Come hither gentle Nymph: here blushed the maid,  
And feign she would have gone, but yet she stayed.  
Bacchus perceived he had o'ercome the Lass,  
And down he throws her in the dewy grass,  
And kissed the helpless Nymph upon the ground,  
And would have strayed beyond that lawful bound.  
This saw bright Phoebus, for his glittering eye  
Sees all that lies below the starry sky:  
And for an old affection that he bore  
Unto this lovely Nymph long time before,  
(For he would oft times in his circle stand,  
And sport himself upon her snowy hand:)  
He kept her from the sweets of Bacchus' bed,  
And 'gainst her will he saved her maidenhead.  
Bacchus' perceiving this apace, did high  
Unto the Palace of swift Mercury;  
But he did find him far below his birth,  
Drinking with thiefs and Catchpoles on the earth,  
And they were parting what they stole to day,  
In consultation for to morrows prey;  
To him went youthful Bacchus, and begun  
To show his cause of grief against the Sun,  
How he bereft him of his heavenly blisses,  
His sweet delight, his Nectar-flowing kisses,  
And other sweeter sweets, that he had won  
But for the malice of the bright faced Sun;  
Entreating Mercury by all the love  
That had him born amongst the sons of Jove,  
(Of which they two were part) to stand his friend  
Against the God that did him so offend;  
The acquaint tongued issue of great Atlas' race,  
Swift Mercury, that with delightful grace,  
And pleasing accents of his feigned tongue,  
Hath oft reformed a rude uncivil throng  
Of Mortals, that great messenger of jove,  
And all the meaner gods that dwell above,  
He whose acute wit was so quick and sharp,  
In the invention of the crooked Harp:  
He that's so cunning with his jesting slights  
To steal from heavenly gods, or earthly wights,  
Bearing a great hate in his grieved breast  
Against that great Commander of the West,  
Bright faced Apollo; for upon a day  
Young Mercury did steal his beasts away;  
Which the great God perceiving, straight did show  
The piercing arrows, and the fearful bow  
That killed great Python, and with that did threat him,  
To bring his beasts again, or he would beat him;  
Which Mercury perceiving, unespied,  
Did closely steal his arrows from his side;  
For this old grudge he was the easier won  
To help young Bacchus 'gainst the fiery Sun:  
And now the Sun was in the middle way,  
And had o'ercome the one half of the day;  
Scorching so hot upon the reeking sand  
That lies upon the mere Egyptian land,  
That the hot people burnt even from their birth,  
Do creep again into their Mother earth:  
When Mercury did take his powerful wand,  
His charming Caduceus in his hand,  
And the thick beaver which he used to wear  
When aught from Jove he to the Sun did bear,  
That did protect him from the piercing light  
Which did proceed from Phoebus' glittering sight;  
Clad in these powerful ornaments he flies  
With outstretched wings up to the Azure skies,  
Where seeing Phoebus in his orient shrine,  
He did so well revenge the god of wine,  
That whilst the Sun wanders his Chariot reels,  
The crafty god had stolen away his wheels;  
Which when he did perceive he down did slide  
(Laying his glittering Coronet aside)  
From the bright spangled firmament above  
To seek the Nymph that Bacchus so did love,  
And found her looking in her watery glass,  
To see how clear her radiant beauty was:  
And (for he had but little time to stay,  
Because he meant to finish out his day)  
At the first sight he began to make his moan,  
Telling her how his fiery wheels were gone;  
Promising her if she would but obtain  
The wheels that Mercury had stolen again,  
That he might end his day, she should enjoy  
The heavenly sight of the most beauteous boy  
That ever was: The Nymph was pleased with this,  
Hoping to reap some unaccustomed bliss,  
By the sweet pleasure that she should enjoy  
In the blessed sight of such a melting boy.  
Therefore at his request she did obtain,  
The burning wheels that he had lost again;  
Which when he had received, he left the land,  
And brought them thither where his coach did stand,  
And there he set them on, for all this space  
The horses had not stirred from out their place;  
Which when he saw he wept, and began to say,  
Would Mercury had stolen my wheels away,  
When Phaeton, my hare-brained issue, tried  
What a laborious thing it was to guide  
My burning Chariot, than he might have pleased me,  
And of a Father's grief he might have eased me:  
For then the steeds would have obeyed his will,  
Or else at least they would have rested still.  
When he had done, he took his whip of steel,  
Whose bitter smart he made his horses feel,  
For he did lash so hard to end the day,  
That he was quickly at the western sea.  
And there with Thetis did he rest a space,  
For he did never rest in any place  
Before that time; but ever since his wheels  
Were stolen away, his burning Chariot reels  
Towards the declining of the parting day,  
Therefore he lights and mends them in the sea.  
And though the Poets feign that Jove did make  
A triple night for fair Alcmena's sake,  
That he might sleep securely with his love,  
Yet sure the long night was unknown to jove:  
But the Sun's wheels one day disordered more,  
Were thrice as long a mending as before.  
Now was the Sun environed with the sea,  
Cooling his watery tresses as he lay,  
And in dread Neptune's kingdom while he sleeps  
Fair Thetis eclipse him in the watery deeps;  
There Mairmaids and the Tritons of the west,  
Straining their voices to make Titan rest:  
The while the black night with her pithy hand  
Took just possession of the swarthy land,  
He spent the darksome hours in this delight,  
Giving his power up to the gladsome night;  
For ne'er before he was so truly blest  
To take an hour, or one poor minutes rest.  
But now the burning God this pleasure feels  
By reason of his newly crazed wheels;  
There must she stay until lame Vulcan send  
The fiery wheels which he had took to mend;  
Now all the night the smith so hard had wrought,  
That ere the Sun could wake his wheels were brought;  
Titan being pleased with rest and not to rise,  
And loath to open yet his slumbering eyes;  
And yet perceiving how the longing sight  
Of mortals waited for his glittering light,  
He sent Aurora from him to the sky  
To give a glimpsing to each mortal eye.  
Aurora much ashamed of that same place  
That great Apollo's light was wont to grace,  
Finding no place to hid her shameful head  
Painted her chaste cheeks with a blushing red;  
Which ever since remained upon her face  
In token of her new received disgrace:  
Therefore she not so white as she had been  
Loathing of every Mortal to be seen;  
No sooner can the rosy fingered morn  
Kiss every flower that by her dew is borne;  
But from the golden window she doth peep  
When the most part of earthly creatures sleep.  
By this bright Titan opened had his eyes.  
And began to jerk his horses through the skies,  
And taking in his hand his fiery whip  
He made Aeous and swift Aethon skip  
So fast, that strait he dazzled had the sight  
Of fair Aurora glad to see his light;  
And now the Sun in all his fiery haste  
Did call to mind his promise lately passed,  
And all the vows and oaths that he did pass  
Unto fair Salmacis the beauteous lass:  
For he had promised her she should enjoy  
So lovely, fair, and such a well-shapt boy,  
As ne'er before his own allseeing eye  
Saw from his bright seat in the starry sky;  
Remembering this he sent the boy that way  
Where the clear fountain of the fair Nymph lay;  
There was he come to seek some pleasing brook,  
No sooner came he but the Nymph was struck,  
And though she longed to embrace the boy,  
Yet did the Nymph a while defer her joy,  
Till she had bound up her lose flagging hair,  
And well ordered the garments she did wear,  
Feigning her countenance with a lover's care,  
And did deserve to be accounted fair;  
When thus much spoke she while the boy abode,  
O boy! more worthy to be thought a god;  
Thou mayest inhabit in the glorious place  
Of Gods, or mayst proceed from humane race;  
Thou mayest be Cupid, or the god of wine,  
That lately wooed me with the swelling Vine:  
But whosoever thou art, O happy he  
That was so blest to be a sire to thee!  
Thy happy mother is most blessed of many,  
Blessed thy sisters if her womb bore any;  
Both fortunate, O and thrice happy she,  
Whose too much blessed breasts gave suck to thee:  
If any's wish with thy sweet bed be blest,  
O she is far more happy than the rest!  
If thou hast any, let her name be known,  
Or else let me be she, if thou hast none.  
Here did she pause a while, and then she said,  
Be not obdurate to a silly maid;  
A flinty heart within a snowy breast  
Is like base mould locked in a golden chest.  
They say the eye's the Index of the heart,  
And shows th' affection of each inward part:  
Then love plays lively there, the little god  
Hath a clear crystal palace of abode;  
O bar him not from playing in thy heart,  
That sports himself upon each outward part.  
Thus much she spoke, and then her tongue was hushed;  
At her loof speeches Hermaphroditus blushed;  
He knew not what love was yet love did shame him,  
Making him blush, and yet his blush became him.  
Then might a man his lively colour see,  
Like the ripe apple on a sunny tree,  
Or Ivory died o'er with a pleasing red,  
Or like the pale morn being shadowed.  
By this the Nymph recovered had her tongue,  
That to her thinking lay in silence long,  
And said, thy cheek is mild, O be thou so,  
Thy cheek saith I, then do not answer no;  
Thy cheek doth shame, then do thou shame she said,  
It is a man's shame to deny a maid:  
Thou look'st to sport with Venus in her tower,  
And be beloved of every heavenly power;  
Men are but mortals, so are women too,  
Why should your thoughts aspire more than ours do;  
For sure they do aspire; else could a youth,  
Whose countenance is full or spotless truth,  
Be so relentless to a virgin's tongue?  
Let me be wooed by thee but half so long;  
With half those terms, do but my love require,  
And I will easily grant thee thy desire;  
Ages are bad when men become so slow,  
That poor unskilful maids are forced to woo.  
Her radiant beauty, and her subtle art,  
So deeply struck Hermaphroditus heart,  
That she had won his love, but that the light  
Of her translucent eye did shine too bright,  
For long he looked upon the lovely maid,  
And at the last Hermaphroditus said,  
How should I love thee, when I do espy  
A far more beauteous Nymph hid in thy eye;  
When thou dost love let not that Nymph be nigh thee,  
Nor when thou wooest let that same Nymph be by thee:  
Or quite obscure her from thy lover's face,  
Or hid her beauty in a darker place;  
By this the Nymph perceived he did espy  
None but himself reflected in her eye.  
And for himself no more she meant to show him,  
She shut her eyes, and blindfold thus did woo him:  
Fair boy, think not thy beauty can dispense  
With any pain due to a bad offence;  
Remember how the gods punished that boy,  
That scorned to let a beauteous Nymph enjoy  
Her long wished pleasure, for the peevish else  
Loved of all others, needs would love himself:  
So mayest thou love perhaps; thou mayest be blest  
By granting to a luckless Nymphs request,  
Then rest a while with me amidst these weeds,  
The Sun that sees all winks at lovers deeds.  
Phoebus is blind when love sports are begun,  
And never sees until their sports be done;  
Believe me boy, thy blood is very stayed,  
That art so loath to kiss a youthful maid:  
Wert thou a maid and I a man, I'll show thee  
With what a manly boldness I could woo thee:  
Fairer than love's Queen (thus I would begin)  
Might not my overboldness be a sin,  
I would entreat this favour if I could  
Thy roseate cheeks a little to behold;  
Then would I beg a touch, and then a kiss,  
And then a lower, yet a higher bliss;  
Then would I ask what Jove and Leda did,  
When like a Swan the crafty god was hid;  
What came he for? why did he there abide?  
Surely I think he did not come to chide;  
He came to see her face, to talk, and chat,  
To touch, to kiss, came he for nought but that?  
Yes something else, what was it he would have?  
That which all men of maidens ought to crave.  
This said, her eyelids wide she did display,  
But in this space the boy was run away:  
The wanton speeches of the lovely lass  
Forced him for shame to hid him in the grass;  
When she perceived she could not see him near her,  
When she had called, and yet he would not hear her,  
Look how when Autumn comes, a little space  
Paleth the red blush of the summer's face,  
Tearing the leaves, the summer's coveting,  
Three months in weaving by the curious spring,  
Making the grass his green locks go to wrack,  
Tearing each ornament from off his back;  
So did she spoil the garments she did wear,  
Tearing whole ounces of her golden hair;  
She thus deluded of her longed bliss,  
With much ado at last she uttered this:  
Why wert so bashful boy? Thou hast no part  
Shows thee to be of such a female heart:  
His eye is grey, so is the morning's eye,  
That blusheth always when the day is nigh.  
Then is grey eyes the cause? that cannot be,  
The grey eyed morn is far more bold than he,  
For with a gentle dew from heavens bright tower,  
It gets the maidenhead of every flower,  
I would to god he were the roseate morn,  
And I a flower from out the earth new born.  
His face was smooth, Narcissus face was so,  
And he was careless of a sad Nymphs woe.  
Then that's the cause, and yet that cannot be,  
Youthful Narcissus was more bold than he;  
Because he died for love, though of his shade,  
This boy nor loves himself, nor yet a maid;  
Besides, his glorious eye is wondrous bright,  
So is the fiery and allseeing light  
Of Phoebus, who at every morning's birth  
Blusheth for shame upon the sullen earth;  
Then that's the cause, and yet that cannot be,  
The fiery Sun is far more bold than he;  
He nightly kisseth Thetis in the sea,  
All know the story of Leucothoe.  
His cheek is red, so is the fragrant rose,  
Whose ruddy cheek with over-blushing glows;  
Then that's the cause, and yet that cannot be,  
Each blushing rose is far more bold than he:  
Whose boldness may be plainly seen in this,  
The ruddy rose is not ashamed to kiss;  
For always when the day is new begun,  
The spreading rose will kiss the morning sun.  
This said, hid in the grass she did espy him,  
And stumbling with her will she fell down by him,  
And with her wanton talk, because he wooed not,  
Begged that which he, poor novice, understood not.  
And (for she could not get a greater bliss)  
She did entreat at least a sister's kiss;  
But still the more she did the boy beseech,  
The more he pouted at her wanton speech.  
At last the Nymph began to touch his skin,  
Whiter than Mountain snow hath ever been,  
And did in pureness that clear spring surpass,  
Wherein Actaeon saw th' Arcadian lass.  
Thus did she dally long, till at the last  
In her white Palm she locked his white hand fast;  
Then in her hands his wrist she began to close,  
When through his pulses strait his warm blood glows,  
Whose youthful Music feigning Cupid's fire,  
In her warm breast kindled a fresh desire;  
Then did she lift her hand unto his breast,  
A part as white and youthful as the rest,  
Where as his flowery breath still comes and goes,  
She felt his gentle heart pant through his ;  
At last she took her hand from off that part,  
And said it panted like another heart,  
Why should it be more feeble, and less bold?  
Why should the blood about it be more cold?  
Nay sure that yields, only thy tongue denies,  
And the true fancy of thy heart belies.  
Then did she lift her hand unto his chin,  
And praised the pretty dimpling of his skin.  
But strait his chin she began to overslip  
When she beheld the redness of his lip;  
And said, thy lips are soft, press them to mine,  
And thou shalt see they are as soft as thine  
Than would she feign have gone unto his eye,  
But still his ruddy lip standing so nigh  
Drew her hand back, therefore his eye she missed,  
‛ beginning to clasp his neck, and would have kissed:  
But then the boy did struggle to be gone,  
Vowing to leave her in that place alone;  
But the bright Salmacis began to fear,  
And said fair stranger I will leave thee here,  
And these pleasant places all alone,  
So turning back she feigned to be gone:  
But from his sight she had no power to pass,  
Therefore she turned and hid her in the grass,  
When to the ground bending her snowwhite knee,  
The glad earth gave new coats to every tree.  
He then supposing he was all alone,  
Like a young boy that is espied of none,  
Runs here and there, then on the banks doth look,  
Then on the Crystal current of the brook,  
Then with his feet he touched the silver streams,  
Whose drowsy waves made music in their dreams;  
And, for he was not wholly in, did weep,  
Talking aloud, and babbling in their sleep,  
Whose pleasant coolness when the boy did feel,  
He thrust his foot down lower to the heel,  
O'ercome with whose sweet noise he did begin  
To strip his soft  from his tender skin,  
When straight the scorching Sun wept tears of brine,  
(Because he durst not touch him with his shine)  
For fear of spoiling that same Ivory skin  
Whose whiteness he so much delighted in;  
And then the Moon mother of mortal ease  
Would feign have come from the Antipodes  
To have beheld him naked as he stood  
Ready to leap into the silver flood,  
But might not, for the laws of heaven deny  
To show men's secrets to a woman's eye,  
And therefore was her sad and gloomy light  
Confined unto the secret keeping night.  
When beauteous Salmacis a while had gazed  
Upon his naked corpse, she stood amazed,  
And both her sparkling eyes burnt in her face  
Like the bright Sun reflected in a glass;  
Scarce can she stay from running to the Boy,  
Scarce can she now defer her hoped joy:  
So fast her youthful blood plays in her veins,  
That almost mad, she scarce herself contains;  
When young Hermaphroditus as he stands  
Clapping his white side with his hollow hands,  
Leapt lively from the land whereon he stood  
Into the main part of the Crystal flood;  
Like Ivory then his snowy body was,  
Or a white Lily in a Crystal glass;  
Then risen the Water-Nymph from where she lay,  
As having won the glory of the day,  
And her light garments cast from off her skin,  
He's mine she cried, and so leapt sprightly in;  
The flattering Ivy who did ever see  
Inclasped the huge trunk of an aged tree,  
Let him behold the young boy as he stands  
Inclaspt in wanton Salmacis pure hands;  
Betwixt those Ivory arms she locked him fast,  
Striving to get away, till at the last,  
Fondling she said, why strivest thou to be gone?  
Why shouldst thou so desire to be alone?  
Thy cheek is never fair when none is by,  
For what is red and white but to the eye;  
And for that cause the heavens are dark at night,  
Because all creatures close their weary sight:  
For there's no mortal can so early rise  
But still the morning waits upon his eyes;  
The early rising and soon singing Lark  
Can never chant her sweet notes in the dark,  
For sleep she ne'er so little or so long  
Yet still the morning will attend her song.  
All creatures that beneath bright Cynthia be  
Have appetite unto society;  
The overflowing waves would have a bound  
Within the confines of the spacious ground,  
And all their shady currents would be placed  
In hollow of the solitary :  
But that they loathe to let their soft streams sing  
Where none can hear their gentle murmuring;  
Yet still the boy regardless what she said,  
Struggled apace to overswim the maid,  
Which when the Nymph perceived she began to say,  
Struggle thou mayest, but never get away;  
So grant, just gods, that never day may see  
The separation 'twixt this boy and me.  
The gods did hear her prayer, and feel her woe,  
And in one body they began to grow:  
She felt his youthful blood in every vein,  
And he felt hers warm his cold breast again;  
And ever since was woman's love so blest,  
That it will draw blood from the strongest breast.  
Nor man, nor maid, now could they be esteemed,  
Neither and either might they well be deemed;  
When the young boy Hermaphroditus said  
With the set voice of neither man nor maid,  
Swift Mercury, thou Author of my life,  
And thou my mother, Vulcan's lovely wife,  
Let your poor offsprings latest breath be blest  
In but obtaining this his last request:  
Grant that whoever, heated by Phoebus' beams,  
Shall come to cool him in these silver streams,  
May never more a manly shape retain,  
But half a virgin may return again.  
His parents hearkened to his last request,  
And with that great power they the fountain blest;  
And since that time who in that fountain swims  
A maiden smoothness seizeth half his limbs.   

THE REMEDY OF LOVE.  
WHen Cupid read this Title, strait he said,  
Wars, I perceive, against me will be made:  
But spare (oh Love) to tax thy Poet so,  
Who oft hath born thy Ensign 'gainst thy so;  
I am not he by whom thy Mother bled,  
When she to heaven on Mars his horses fled.  
I oft, like other Youths, thy flame did prove,  
And if thou ask, what I do still; I Love.  
Nay I have taught by Art to keep loves course,  
And made that reason which before was force.  
I seek not to betray thee pretty boy,  
Nor what I once have written to destroy.  
If any love, and find his Mistress kind,  
Let him go on and sail with his own wind;  
But he that by his Love is discontented,  
To save his life my Verses were invented;  
Why should a Lover kill himself? or why  
Should any, with his own grief wounded, die?  
Thou art a boy, to play becomes thee still,  
Thy reign is soft, play then, and do not kill;  
Or if thou'lt needs be vexing, then do this,  
Make Lovers meet by stealth, and steal a kiss:  
Make them to fear, lest any over-watch them,  
And tremble when they think some come to catch them:  
And with those tears that Lovers shed all night  
Be thou content, but do not kill outright.  
Love heard, and up his silver wings did heave,  
And said. Writ on, I freely give thee leave.  
Come then all ye despised that Love endure,  
I that have felt the wounds your Love will cure;  
But come at first, for if you make delay  
Your sickness will grow mortal by your stay;  
The Tree, which by delay is grown so big,  
In the beginning was a tender twig.  
That which at first was but a span in length,  
Will, by delay, be rooted past man's strength.  
Resist beginnings, medicines bring no curing  
Where sickness is grown strong by long enduring.  
When first thou seest a Lass that likes thine eye,  
bend all thy present powers to descry  
Whether her eye or carriage first would show  
If she be fit for Love's delights, or no;  
Some will be easy, such an one elect;  
But she that bears too grave and stern aspect  
Take heed of her, and make her not thy Jewel,  
Either she cannot Love, or will be cruel.  
If love assail thee there, betime take heed,  
Those wounds are dangerous that inward bleed;  
He that to day cannot shake off Love's sorrow,  
Will certainly be more unapt to morrow.  
Love hath so eloquent and quick a tongue  
That he will lead thee all thy life along;  
And on a sudden clasp thee in a yoke  
Where thou must either draw, or striving choke.  
Strive then betimes, for at the first one hand  
May stop a water drill that wears the sand,  
But, if delayed, it breaks into a flood,  
Mountains will hardly make the passage good;  
But I am out: for now I do begin  
To keep them off, not heal those that are in.  
First therefore (Lovers) I intent to show  
How love came to you, than how he may go.  
You that would not know what Loves passions be,  
Never be idle, learn that rule of me.  
Ease makes you love, as that o'ercomes your wills,  
Ease is the food and cause of all your ills.  
Turn ease and idleness but out of door,  
Loves darts are broke, his flame can burn no more.  
As reeds and Willows loves the Water's side,  
So Love loves with the idle to abide.  
If then at liberty you feign would be,  
Love yields to labour, Labour and be free.  
Long sleeps, soft beds, rich vintage, and high feeding,  
Nothing to do, and pleasure of exceeding  
Dulls all our senses, makes our virtue stupid,  
And then creeps in that crafty villain Cupid.  
That boy loves ease alive, hates such as stir,  
Therefore thy mind to better things prefer.  
Behold thy Country's enemies in Arms,  
At home love gripes thy heart in his sly charms,  
Then rise and put on armour, cast off sloth,  
Thy labour may at once o'ercome them both.  
If this seem hard, and too unpleasant, then  
Behold the Law set forth by God and men,  
Sat down and study that, that thou mayest know  
The way to guide thyself, and others show.  
Or if thou lov'st not to be shut up so,  
Learn to assail the Dear with trusty bow,  
That through the Woods thy well-mouthed hounds may ring,  
Whose Echo better joys, than Love, will sing.  
There mayest thou chance to bring thy love to end,  
Diana unto Venus is no friend.  
The Country will afford thee means enough;  
Sometimes disdain not to direct the Plough;  
To follow through the fields the bleating Lamb,  
That mourns to miss the comfort of his Dam.  
Assist the harvest, help to prune the Trees;  
Graft, plant, and sow, no kind of labour lose.  
Set nets for birds, with hooked lines bait for fish,  
Which will employ thy mind and fill thy dish;  
That being weary with these pains, at night  
Sound sleeps may put the thoughts of Love to flight.  
With such delights, or labours; as are these,  
Forget to love, and learn thyself to please.  
But chief learn this lesson for my sake,  
Fly from her far, some journey undertake,  
I know thou'lt grieve, and that her name once told  
Will be enough thy journey to withhold:  
But when thou findest thyself most bend to stay,  
Compel thy feet to run with thee away.  
Nor do thou wish that rain or stormy weather  
May stay your steps, and bring you back together;  
Count not the miles you pass, nor doubt the way,  
Lest those respects should turn you back to stay.  
Tell not the clock, nor look not once behind,  
But fly like Lightning, or the Northern wind;  
For where we are too much o'rematcht in might,  
There is no way for safeguard, but by flight.  
But some will count my Lines too hard and bitter,  
I must confess them hard; but yet 'tis better  
To fast a while that health may be provoked,  
Than feed at plenteous tables and be choked.  
To cure the wretched body, I am sure,  
Both Fire and Steel thou gladly wilt endure:  
Wilt thou not then take pains by any Art  
To cure thy Mind, which is thy better part?  
The hardness is at first, and that once past,  
Pleasant and easy ways will come at last.  
I do not bid thee strive with Witches Charms,  
Or such unholy acts, to cease thy harms:  
Ceres herself, who all these things did know,  
Had never power to cure her own Love so:  
No, take this Medicine (which of all is sure,)  
Labour and Absence is the only Cure.  
But if the Fates compel thee, in such fashion,  
That thou must needs live near her habitation,  
And canst not fly her fight, learn here of me,  
That thou wouldst feign, and canst not yet be free.  
Set all thy Mistress faults before thine eyes,  
And all thy own disgraces well advise;  
Say to thyself, that she is covetous,  
Hath ta'en my gifts, and used me thus, and thus;  
Thus hath she sworn to me, and thus deceived;  
Thus have I hope, and thus have been bereft.  
With love she feeds my Rival, while I starve,  
And pours on him kisses, which I deserve:  
She follows him with smiles, and gives to me  
Sad looks, no Lovers, but a strangers fee.  
All those embraces I so oft desired,  
To him she offers daily unrequired;  
Whose whole desert, and half mine weighed together,  
Would make mine Lead, and his seem Cork and Feather,  
Then let her go, and since she proves so hard,  
Regard thyself, and give her no regard.  
Thus must thou school thyself, and I could wish  
Thee to thyself most eloquent in this.  
But put on grief enough and do not fear,  
Grief will enforce thy eloquence t' appear.  
Thus I myself the love did once expel  
Of one whose Coyness vexed my soul like hell.  
I must confess she touched me to the quick,  
And I, that am Physician, than was sick.  
But this I found to profit, I did still  
Ruinated what I thought in her was ill;  
And, for to cure myself, I found a way,  
Some honest slanders on her for to lay:  
Quoth I, how lamely doth my Mistress go!  
(Although, I must confess, it was not so;)  
I said, her arms were crooked, fingers bend,  
Her shoulders bowed, her legs consumed and spent:  
Her colour sad, her neck as dark as night,  
(When Venus might in all have ta'en delight,)  
But yet because I would no more come nigh her,  
Myself unto myself did thus belie her.  
Do thou the like, and though she fair appear,  
Think, vice to virtue often comes too near;  
And in that error (though it be an error)  
Preserve thyself from further terror.  
If she be round and plump, say she's too fat;  
If brown, say black, and think who cares for that;  
If she be slender, swear she is too lean,  
That such a Wench will wear a man out clean;  
If she be red, say, she's too full of blood;  
If pale, her body nor her mind is good;  
If wanton, say, she seeks thee to devour;  
If grave, neglect her, say, she looks too sour.  
Nay, if she have a fault, and thou dost know it,  
Praise it, that in thy presence she may show it:  
As if her voice be bad, cracked in the ring,  
Never give over till thou make her sing.  
If she have any blemish in her foot,  
Commend her dancing still and put her to't.  
If she be rude in speech incite her talk;  
If halting lame, provoke her much to walk.  
Or if on Instruments she have small skill,  
Reach down a Vial, urge her to that still.  
Take any way to ease thy own distress,  
And think those faults be, which are nothing less;  
Then meditate besides, what thing it is  
That makes thee still in Love to go amiss.  
Advise thee well, for as the World now goes  
Men are not caught with substance, but with shows;  
Women are in their bodies turned to French  
That face and bodies lest part of a Wench.  
I know a Woman hath in Love been troubled  
For that which Tailors make, a fine neat Doublet.  
And men are even as mad in their desiring,  
That oftentimes love Women for their tiring;  
He that doth so, let him take this advice,  
Let him rise early, and not being nice,  
Up to his Mistress chamber let him high,  
 she arise, and there he shall espy  
Such a confusion of disordered things,  
In Bodies, Jewels, Tires, Wires, Lawns, and Rings,  
That sure it cannot choose but much abhor him,  
To see her lie in pieces thus before him;  
And find those things shut in a painted box  
For which he loves her, and endures her mocks.  
Once I myself had a great mind to see  
What kind of things Women undressed be,  
And found my Sweetheart, just when I came at her,  
Screwing in teeth, and dipping rags in water.  
She missed her Periwig, and durst not stay,  
But put it on in haste the backward way;  
That had I not on th' sudden changed my mind,  
I had mistook and kissed my Love behind.  
So, if thou wish her faults should rid thy cares,  
Watch out thy time, and take her unawares:  
Or rather put the better way in proof,  
Come thou not near, but keep thyself aloof.  
If all this serve not, use one medicine more,  
Seek out another Love, and her adore;  
But choose out one, in whom thou well mayest see  
A heart inclined to love and cherish thee.  
For as a River parted slower goes,  
So, Love thus parted still more evenly flows.  
One Anchor will not serve a Vessel tall,  
Nor is one hook enough to fish withal,  
He that can solace him, and sport with two,  
May in the end triumph as others do.  
Thou that to one haste showed thyself too kind,  
Mayest in a second much more comfort find:  
If one Love entertain thee with despite,  
The other will embrace thee with delight:  
When by the former thou art made accursed,  
The second will contend t' excel the first,  
And strive, with love, to drive her from thy breast:  
(" That first to second yields, women know best.)  
Or if to yield to either thou art loath,  
This may perhaps acquit them of them both.  
For what one Love makes odd, two shall make even,  
Thus blows with blows, and fire by fire's out driven.  
Perchance this course will turn thy first Love's heart,  
And when thine is at ease cause hers to smart.  
If thy Love's Rival stick so near thy side,  
Think, women can Copartners worse abide.  
For though thy Mistress never mean to love thee,  
Yet from the others love she'll strive to move thee:  
But let her strive, she oft hath vexed thy heart,  
Suffer her now to bear herself a part.  
And though thy bowels burn like Aetna's fire,  
Seem colder far than Ice, or her desire;  
Feign thyself free, and sigh not overmuch,  
But laugh when grief thy heart doth touch.  
I do not bid thee break through fire and flame,  
Such violence in love is much too blame;  
But I advise, that thou dissemble deep,  
And all thy passions in thine own breast keep.  
Feign thyself well, and thou at last shalt see  
Thyself as well as thou didst feign to be.  
So have I often, when I would not drink,  
Sat down as one asleep and feigned to wink,  
Till, as I nodding sat, and took no heed,  
I have at last fall'n fast asleep indeed.  
So have I oft been angry, feigning spite,  
And counterfeiting smiles have laughed outright.  
So Love, by use, doth come, by use doth go,  
And he that feigns well shall at length be so.  
If e'er thy Mistress promised to receive thee  
Into her bosom and did then deceive thee,  
Locking thy Rival in, thee out of door,  
Be not dejected, seem not to deplore,  
Nor when thou seest her next take notice of it,  
But pass it over, it shall turn to profit:  
For if she sees such tricks as these perplex thee,  
She will be proud, and take delight to vex thee.  
But if she prove thee constant in this kind,  
She will begin at length some sleights to find,  
How she may draw thee back, and keep thee still  
A servile Captive to her fickle wil  
But now take heed here comes the proof of men,  
Be thou as constant as thou seemest then:  
Receive no Messages, regard no Lines,  
They are but snares to catch thee in her twines.  
Receive no gifts, think all that praise her flatter;  
whate'er she writes believe not half the matter,  
Converse not with her servant, nor her maid,  
Scarce bid good morrow lest thou be betrayed.  
When thou go'st by her door never look back,  
And though she call do not thy journey s●ack;  
If she should send her friends to talk with thee,  
Suffer them not too long to walk with thee.  
Do not believe one word they say is sooth,  
Nor do not ask so much as how she doth;  
Yea, though thy very heart should burn to know,  
Bridle thy tongue, and make thereof no show;  
Thy careless silence shall perplex her more  
Than can a thousand sighs sighed o'er and o'er;  
By saying, thou lovest not thy loving prove not,  
For he's far gone in Love that says I love not:  
Then hold thy peace and shortly Love will die,  
That wound heals best that cures not by and by.  
But some will say, alas, this rule is hard,  
Must we not love where we find reward?  
How should a tender Woman bear this scorn  
That cannot, without art, by men be borne?  
Mistake me not; I do not wish you show  
Such a contempt to them whose love you know:  
But where a scornful Lass makes you endure  
Her slight regarding, there I lay my cure.  
Nor think in leaving Love you wrong your Lass,  
Who one to her content already has;  
While she doth joy in him, joy thou in any,  
Thou hast, as well as she, the choice of many.  
Then, for thy own contempt, defer not long,  
But cure thyself and she shall have no wrong.  
Among all cures I chief did commend  
Absence in this to be the only friend.  
And so it is, but I would have ye learn  
The perfect use of Absence to discern.  
First then, When thou art absent to her sight  
In solitariness do not delight:  
Be seldom left alone, for than I know  
A thousand vexing thoughts will come and go.  
Fly lovely walks, and uncouth places sad,  
They are the Nurse of thoughts that make men mad.  
Walk not too much where thy fond-eye may see  
The place where she did give loves rights to thee:  
For even the place will tell thee of those joys,  
And turn thy kisses into sad annoys.  
Frequent not Woods and Groves, nor sit and muse  
With arms across, as foolish lovers use:  
For as thou sittest alone thou soon shalt find  
Thy Mistress face presented to thy mind,  
As plainly to thy troubled fantasy  
As if she were in presence, and stood by.  
This to eschew open thy doors all day,  
Eat no man's speech that comes into thy way.  
Admit all companies, and when there's none  
Then walk thou forth thyself, and seek out one,  
When he is found seek more, laugh, drink, and sing;  
Rather than be alone do any thing.  
Or if thou be constrained to be alone,  
Have not her Picture for to gaze upon:  
For that's the way when thou art eased of pain,  
To wound anew, and make thee sick again.  
Or if thou hast it, think the painter's skill  
Flattered her face, and that she looks more ill;  
And think, as thou dost musing on it sit,  
That she herself is counterfeit like it.  
Or rather fly all things that are inclined  
To bring one thought of her into thy mind.  
View not her tokens, nor think on her words.  
But take some book, whose learned womb affords  
Physic for souls, there search for some relief  
To guile the time and rid away thy grief.  
But if thy thoughts on her must needs be bend,  
Think what a deal of precious time was spent  
In quest of her; and that thy best of youth  
Languished and died while she was void of truth.  
Think but how ill she did deserve affection,  
And yet how long she held thee in subjection.  
Think how she changed, how ill it did become her,  
And thinking so, leave love, and fly far from her.  
He that from all infection would be free,  
Must fly the place where the infected be.  
And he that would from love's affection fly,  
Must leave his Mistress walks and not come nigh.  
" Sore eyes are got by looking on sore eyes,  
" And wounds do soon from new-healed scars arise.  
As embers touched with sulphurs do renew,  
So will her sight kindle fresh flames in you.  
If then thou meetest her suffer her go by thee,  
And be afraid to let her come too nigh thee:  
For her aspect will raise desire in thee,  
And hungry men scarce hold from meat they see.  
If e'er she sent thee Letters, that lie by,  
Peruse them not, they'll captivate thy eye:  
But lap them up and cast them in the fire,  
And wish, as they waste so may thy desire.  
If e'er thou sentest her token, gift, or letter,  
Go not to fetch them back, for it is better  
That she detain a little paltry pelf,  
Than thou shouldst seek for them and lose thyself.  
For why? her sight will so enchant thy heart  
That thou wilt lose thy labour, I my Art.  
But if by chance there fortune such a case  
Thou needs must come where she shall be in place,  
Then call to mind all parts of this discourse,  
For sure thou shalt have need of all thy force:  
Against thou goest curl not thy head and hair,  
Nor care whether thy band be foul or fair;  
Nor be not in so neat and spruce array  
As if thou meanest to make it holiday;  
Neglect thyself for once, that she may see  
Her love hath now no power to work on thee.  
And if thy Rival be in presence too,  
Seem not to mark, but do as others do;  
Salute him friendly, give him gentle words,  
Return all courtesies that he affords:  
Drink to him, carve him, give him compliment,  
This shall thy Mistress, more than thee, torment:  
For she will think by this thy careless show  
Thou carest not now whether she love or no.  
But if thou canst persuade thyself indeed  
She hath no Lover, but of thee hath need;  
That no man loves her but thyself alone,  
And that she shall be lost when thou art gone;  
Thus sooth thyself, and thou shalt seem to be  
In far more happy taking than is she.  
For if thou thinkest she's loved, and loves again,  
Hell fire will seem more easy than thy pain:  
But chief when in presence thou shalt spy  
The man she most affecteth standing by,  
And see him grasp her by the tender hand,  
And whispering close, or almost kissing stand;  
When thou shalt doubt whether they laugh at thee,  
Or whether on some meeting they agree;  
If now thou canst hold out thou art a man,  
And canst perform more than thy teacher can:  
If then thy heart can be at ease and free,  
I will give o'er to teach and learn of thee.  
But this way I would take among them all,  
I would pick out some Lass to talk withal,  
Whose quick inventions, and whose nimble wit  
Should busy mine, and keep me from my fit:  
My eye with all my art should be a wooing,  
No matter what I said so I were doing;  
For all that while my Love should think at least  
That I, as well as she, on Love did feast.  
And though my heart were thinking of her face,  
Or her unkindness, and my own disgrace,  
Of all my present pains by her neglect,  
Yet would I laugh, and seem without respect.  
Perchance, in envy thou shouldst sport with any,  
Her beck will single thee from forth of many:  
But, if thou canst, of all that present are,  
Her conference alone thou shouldst forbear;  
For if her looks so much thy mind do trouble,  
Her honeyed speeches will distract thee double.  
If she begin once to confer with thee,  
Then do as I would do, be ruled by me:  
When she gins to talk imagine strait,  
That now to catch thee up she lies in wait;  
Then call to mind some business or affair,  
Whose doubtful issue takes up all thy care;  
That while such talk thy troubled fancies stirs,  
Thy mind may work, and give no heed to hers.  
Alas, I know men's hearts, and that full soon,  
By women's gentle words we are undone.  
If women sigh or weep our souls are grieved,  
Or if they swear they love they are believed;  
But trust not thou to oaths if she should swear,  
Nor hearty sighs, believe they dwell not there.  
If she should grieve in earnest, or in jest,  
Or force her arguments with sad protest,  
As if true sorrow in her eyelid sat;  
Nay, if she come to weeping, trust not that,  
For know that women can both weep and smile  
With much more danger than the Crocodile.  
Think all she doth is but to breed thy pain,  
And get the power to tyrannize again.  
And she will beat thy heart with trouble more  
Than rocks are beat with waves upon the shore.  
Do not complain to her then of thy wrong,  
But lock thy thoughts within thy silent tongue.  
Tell her not why thou leav'st her, nor declare  
(Although she ask thee) what thy torments are.  
Wring not her fingers, gaze not on her eye,  
From thence a thousand snares and arrows fly.  
No, let her not perceive by sighs or signs  
How at her deeds thy inward soul repines.  
Seem careless of her speech, and do not hark,  
Answer by chance as though thou didst not mark.  
And if she bid thee home strait promise not.  
Or break thy word as if thou hadst forgot.  
Seem not to care whether thou come or no,  
And if she be not earnest do not go.  
Feign thou hast business, and defer the meeting,  
As one that greatly cared not for her greeting.  
And as she talks cast thou thine eyes elsewhere,  
And look among the Lasses that are there.  
Compare their several beauties to her face,  
Some one or other will her form disgrace;  
On both their faces carry still thy view,  
Balance them equally in judgement true:  
And when thou findest the other doth excel  
(Yet that thou canst not love it half so well)  
Blush that thy passions make thee dote on her  
More than on those thy judgement doth prefer;  
When thou hast let her speak all that she would  
Seem as thou hast not one word understood:  
And when to part with thee thou seest her bent,  
Give her some ordinary compliment,  
Such as may seem of courtesy, not love,  
And so to other company remove.  
This carelessness in which thou seem'st to be,  
(Howe'er in her) will work this change in thee,  
That thou shalt think for using her so slight  
She cannot choose but turn her love to spite:  
And if thou art persuaded once she hates,  
Thou wilt beware and not come near her baits;  
But though I wish thee constantly believe  
She hates thy sight thy passions to deceive;  
Yet be not thou so base to hate her too,  
That which seems ill in her do not thou do;  
'Twill indiscretion seem, and want of wit,  
Where thou didst love, to hate instead of it;  
And thou mayest shame ever to be so mated,  
And joined in love with one that should be hated:  
Such kind of love is fit for Clowns and Hinds,  
And not for debonair and gentle minds;  
For can there be in man a madness more  
Than hate those lips he wished to kiss before?  
Or loath to see those eyes, or hear that voice  
Whose very sound hath made his heart rejoice?  
Such acts as these much indiscretion shows,  
When men from kissing turn to wish for blows:  
And this their own example, shows so naught,  
That when they should direct they must be taught:  
But thou wilt say, for all the love I bear her,  
And all the service, I am ne'er the nearer;  
And which thee most of all doth vex like hell,  
She loves a man ne'er loved her half so well:  
Him she adores, but I must not come at her,  
Have I not then good reason for to hate her?  
I answer no, for make the case thine own,  
And in thy glass her actions shall be shown:  
When thou thyself in love wert so far gone,  
Say, couldst thou love any but her alone?  
I know thou couldst not, though with tears and cries  
These had made deaf thine ears, and dim thine eyes:  
Wouldst thou for this that they hate thee again,  
If so thou wouldst then hate thy love again:  
Your faults are both alike; thou lovest her,  
And she, in love, thy Rival doth prefer:  
If then her love to him thy hate procure,  
Thou shouldst for loving her like hate endure:  
Then do not hate, for all the lines I writ  
Are not addressed to turn thy love to spite,  
But writ to draw thy doting mind from love,  
That in the golden mean thy thoughts may move;  
In which, when once thou findest thyself at quiet,  
Learn to preserve thyself with this good diet.  

The Conclusion.  
SLeep not too much, nor longer than asleep  
Within thy bed thy lazy body keep;  
For when thou warm awake shalt feel it soft  
Fond cogitations will assail thee oft:  
Then start up early, study, work, or write,  
Let labour (others toil) be thy delight.  
Eat not too much, for if thou much dost eat  
Let it not be dainty or stirring meat:  
Abstain from Wine although thou think it good,  
It sets thy meat on fire, and stirs thy blood;  
Use thyself much to bathe thy wanton limbs,  
In coolest streams, which o'er the gravel swims:  
Be still in gravest company, and fly  
The wanton rabble of the younger fry,  
Whose lustful tricks will lead thee to delight,  
To think on love, where thou shalt perish quit;  
Come not at all where many women are,  
But like a Bird that lately scaped the snare,  
Avoid their garish beauty fly with speed,  
And learn by her that lately made thee bleed;  
Be not too much alone, but if alone  
Get thee some modest book to look upon;  
But do not read the lines of wanton men,  
Poetry sets thy mind on fire again:  
Abstain from Songs and Verses, and take heed  
That not a line of love thou ever read.    

An Elegy on the Lady MARKHAM.  

AS unthrifts groan in straw for their pawned beds:  
As women weep for their lost Maidenheads;  
When both are without hope or remedy,  
Such an untimely grief I have for thee.   

I never saw thy face, nor did my heart  
Urge forth mine eyes unto it whilst thou wert,  
But being lifted hence, that which to thee  
Was deaths sad dart, proved Cupid's shaft to me.   

Whoever thinks me foolish that the force  
Of a report can make me love a Coarse,  
Know he, that when with this I do compare  
The love I do a living woman bear,  
I find myself most happy: now I know  
Where I can find my Mistress, and can go  
Unto her trimmed bed, and can lift away  
Her grass-green Mantle, and her sheet display,  
And touch her naked; and though th' envious mould  
In which she lies uncovered, moist and cold,  
Strive to corrupt her, she will not abide  
With any Art her blemishes to hid,  
As many living do, and know their need,  
Yet cannot they in sweetness her exceed;  
But make a stink with all their art and skill,  
Which their Physicians warrant with a bill;  
Nor at her door doth heaps of Coaches stay,  
Footmen and Midwives to bar up my way:  
Nor needs she any Maid or Page to keep,  
To knock me early from my golden sleep,  
With letters that her honour all is gone,  
If I not right her cause on such a one.  
Her heart is not so hard to make me pay  
For every kiss a supper and a play:  
Nor will she ever open her pure lips  
To utter oaths enough to drown our Ships,  
To bring a plague, a famine, or the sword,  
Upon the land, though she should keep her word;  
Yet  an hour be passed in some new vain  
Break them, and swear them double o'er again.  
Pardon me that with thy blessed memory  
I mingle mine own former misery:  
Yet dare I not excuse the fate that brought  
These crosses on me, for then every thought  
That tended to thy love was black and foul,  
Now all as pure as a new-baptized soul:  
For I protest, for all that I can see,  
I would not lie one night in bed with thee;  
Nor am I jealous, but could well abide  
My foe to lie in quiet by thy side.   

You Worms (my Rivals) whilst she was alive,  
How many thousands were there that did strive  
To have your freedom? for their sake forbear  
Unseemly holes in her soft skin to wear:  
But if you must (as what Worms can abstain  
To taste her tender body?) yet refrain  
With your disordered eatings to deface her,  
But feed yourselves so as you most may grace her.  
First, through her ear-tips see you make a pair  
Of holes, which, as the moist enclosed air  
Turns into water, may the clean drops take,  
And in her ears a pair of jewels make.  
Have ye not yet enough of that white skin,  
The touch whereof, in times past, would have been  
Enough ' have ransomed many a thousand soul  
Captive to Love? If not, then upward roll  
Your little bodies, where I would you have  
This Epitaph upon her forehead grave.   

Living, she was young, fair, and full of wit;  
Dead, all her faults are in her forehead writ.    

AN ELEGY.  
CAn my poor lines no better office have,  
But like Scriech-owls still dwell about the grave?  
When shall I take some pleasure for my pain,  
By praising them that can yield praise again?  
When shall my Muse in Love sick lines recite  
Some Lady's worth? which she of whom I writ,  
With thankful smiles, may read in her own days;  
Or, when shall I a breathing woman praise?  
Never; I am ambitious in my strings,  
They never sound but of eternal things,  
Such as freed souls: but had I thought it fit  
To praise a soul unto a body knit,  
I would confess, I spent my time amiss  
When I was slow to give due praise to this.  
Thus when all sleep my time is come to sing,  
And from her ashes must my Poem's spring;  
Though in the race I see some swiftly run,  
I will not crown them till the Goal be won.  
They that have fought, not they that are to fight,  
May claim the glorious Garland as their right.   

A Charm.  

SLeep old man, let silence charm thee,  
Dreaming slumbers overtake thee,  
Quiet thoughts and darkness arm thee,  
That no creaking do awake thee.   

Phoebe hath put out her light,  
All her shadows closing;  
Phoebe lend her horns to night  
To thy heads disposing.   

Let no fatal Bell nor Clock  
Pierce the hollow of thy ear:  
Tongulesse be the early Cock,  
Or what else may add a fear.   

Let no Rat, nor silly Mouse,  
Move the senseless Rushes,  
Nor a cough disturb this house  
Till Aurora blushes.   

Come my sweet Corrinna, come;  
Laugh, and leave thy late deploring:  
Sable Midnight makes all dumb,  
But thy jealous Husband's snoring.   

And with thy sweet perfumed kisses  
Entertain a stranger:  
Loves delight, and sweetest bliss, is  
Got with greatest danger.    

On the Marriage of a Beauteous young Gentlewoman with an Ancient Man.  
FOndly, too curious Nature, to adorn  
Aurora with the blushes of the Morn:  
Why do her rosy lips, breath, Gums, and Spice,  
Unto the East, and sweet to Paradise?  
Why do her eyes open the day? her hand,  
And voice entrance the Panther, and command  
Incensed winds: her Breasts, the tents of Love,  
Smooth as the godded Swan, or Venus' Dove;  
Soft as the balmy dew, whose every touch  
Is pregnant; but why those rich spoils, when such  
Wonder and perfection must be led  
A Bridal Captive unto Tithon's bed?  
Aged, and deformed Tithon! must thy twine  
Circle and blast at once what care and time  
Had made for wonder? must pure beauty have  
No other soil but ruin and a grave?  
So have I seen the pride of Nature's store,  
The Orient Pearl, chained to the sooty Moor.  
So hath the Diamonds bright ray been set  
In night, and wed ded to the Negro-Jet.  
See, see, how thick those flowers of Pearl do fall  
To weep her ransom, or her funeral,  
Whose every treasured drop, congealed, might bring  
Freedom and Ransom to a fett'red King,  
While tyrant wealth stands by, and laughs to see  
How he can wed, love, and Antipathy:  
Hymen, thy pine burns with adulterate fire;  
Thou and thy quivered boy did once conspire  
To mingle equal flames, and then no shine  
Of Gold, but beauty, dressed the Paphian Shrine,  
Roses and Lilies kissed; the Amorous Vine,  
Did with the fair and strait limbed Elm entwine.   

The Glance.  

Could virtue guard me, or I shall endure  
From the next Glance a double Calenture  
Of fire and lust; two flames, two Semeleiss  
Dwell in those eyes, whose loser glowing rays  
Would thaw the frozen Russian into lust,  
And parch the Negro's hotter blood to dust.   

Dart not your Balls of Wildfire here, go throw  
Those flakes upon the Eunuches colder Snow,  
Till he in active blood do boil as high  
As he that made him so in Jealousy.   

When the lose Queen of Love did dress her eyes  
In the most taking flame to win the prize  
At Ida; that faint glare to this desire  
Burnt like a Taper to the Zone of fire:  
And could she then the lustful youth have crowned  
With thee, his Helen, Troy had never found  
Her fate in Sinon's fire, thy hotter eyes  
Had made it burn a quicker Sacrifice  
To lust, whilst every glance in subtle wiles  
Had shot itself like lightning through the piles.   

Go blow upon some equal blood, and let  
Earth's hotter ray engender and beget  
New flames to dress the aged Paphians Choir,  
And lend the world new Cupid's borne on fire.  
Dart no more here those flames, nor strive to throw  
Your fire on him who is immured in Snow:  
Those Glances work on me like the weak shine  
The frosty Sun throws on the Apennine,  
When the hills active coldness doth go near  
To freeze the glimmering Taper to his Sphere:  
Each ray is lost on me like the faint light  
The Glow-worm shoots at the cold breast of night.  
Thus Virtue can secure, but for that Name  
I had been now sins Martyr, and your flame.    

A Sonnet.  

FLattering hope away and leave me,  
She'll not come, thou dost deceive me;  
Hark the Cock crows, th' envious light  
Chides away the silent night;  
Yet she comes not, oh how I tire  
Betwixt cold fear and hot desire.   

Here alone enforced to tarry  
While the tedious Minutes marry,  
And get hours; those days and years  
Which I count with sighs and fears:  
Yet she comes not, oh how I tire  
Betwixt cold fear and hot desire.   

Restless thoughts a while remove  
Unto the bosom of my Love,  
Let her languish in my pain,  
Fear, and hope, and fear again;  
Then let her tell me in love's fire,  
What torment's like unto desire.   

Endless wishing, tedious longing,  
Hopes and fears together thronging;  
Rich in dreams, yet poor in waking,  
Let her be in such a taking;  
Then let her tell me in love's fire,  
What torment's like unto desire.   

Come then Love prevent days eyeing,  
My desire would feign be dying:  
Smother me with breathless kisses,  
Let me dream no more of blisses;  
But tell me which is in Love's fire,  
Best to enjoy, or to desire.    

True Beauty.  

MAy I find a woman fair,  
And her mind as clear as Air,  
If her beauty go alone,  
'Tis to me as if't were none.   

May I find a woman rich,  
And not of too high a pitch:  
If that pride should cause disdain,  
Tell me; Lover, where's thy gain?   

May I find a woman wise,  
And her falsehood not disguise;  
Hath she wit as she hath will,  
Double armed she is to ill.   

May I find a woman kind,  
And not wavering like the wind:  
How should I call that love mine,  
When 'tis his, and his, and thine?   

May I find a woman true,  
There is Beauties faired hue;  
There is Beauty, Love, and Wit,  
Happy he can compass it.    

The Indifferent.  

NEver more will I protest  
To love a woman but in jest:  
For as they cannot be true,  
So to give each man his due,  
When the wooing fit is past,  
Their affection cannot last.   

Therefore if I chance to meet  
With a Mistress fair and sweet,  
She my service shall obtain,  
Loving her for Love again:  
Thus much liberty I crave,  
Not to be a constant slave.   

But when we have tried each other,  
If she better like another,  
Let her quickly change for me,  
Then to change am I as free.  
He or she that loves too long  
Sell their freedom for a song.    

LOVES Freedom.  

Why should man be only tied  
To a foolish Female thing,  
When all Creatures else beside,  
Birds and Beasts, change every Spring?  
Who would then to one be bound,  
When so many may be found?   

Why should I myself confine  
To the limits of one place,  
When I have all Europe mine,  
Where I list to run my race.  
Who would then to one be bound,  
When so many may be found?   

Would you think him wise that now  
Still one sort of meat doth eat,  
When both Sea and Land allow  
Sundry sorts of other meat?  
Who would then to one be bound,  
When so many may be found?   

 old Saturn changed his Throne,  
Freedom reigned and banished strife,  
Where was he that knew his own,  
Or who called a woman wife?  
Who would then to one be bound,  
When so many may be found?   

Ten times happier are those men  
That enjoyed those Golden days:  
Until time redresseed again  
I will never Hymen praise.  
Who would then to one be bound,  
When so many may be found?    

On the Life Man.  
LIke to the falling of a Star,  
Or as the flights of Eagles are,  
Or like the fresh Springs gaudy hue,  
Or Silver drops of Morning dew,  
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,  
Or Bubbles which on water stood:  
Even such is Man, whose borrowed light  
Is strait called in and paid to night:  
The wind blows out, the Bubble dies,  
The Spring entombed in Autumn lies:  
The dew's dried up, the Star is shot,  
The flight is past, and man forgot.   

An Epitaph.  
HEre she lies, whose spotless fame,  
Invites a Stone to learn her Name:  
The rigid Spartan that denied  
An Epitaph to all that died,  
Unless for war, on charity  
Would here vouchsafe an Elegy:  
She died a Wife, but yet her mind  
Beyond Virginity refined.  
From lawless fire remained as free,  
As now from heat her ashes be:  
Her husband, yet without a sin,  
Was not a stranger, but her kin,  
That her chaste Love might seem no other  
To her husband than a Brother.  
Keep well this pawn, thou Marble Chest,  
Till it be called for let it rest;  
For while this Jewel here is set,  
The grave is like a Cabinet.   

A Sonnet.  

LIke a Ring without a Finger,  
Or a Bell without a Ringer;  
Like a horse was never ridden,  
Or a Feast and no Guest bidden;  
Like a well without a Bucket,  
Or a Rose if no man pluck it:  
Just such as these may she be said  
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a Maid.   

The Ring, if worn, the Finger decks,  
The Bell pulled by the Ringer speaks:  
The horse doth ease if he be ridden,  
The feast doth please if Guest be bidden;  
The Bucket draws the water forth,  
The Rose when plucked is still most worth.  
Such is the Virgin, in my eyes.  
That lives, loves, marries,  she dies.   

Like to a Stock not grafted on,  
Or like a Lute not played upon;  
Like a Jack without a weight,  
Or a Bark without a freight;  
Like a Lock without a Key,  
Or a Candle in the day:  
Just such as these may she be said  
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a Maid.   

The graffed Stock doth bear best fruit,  
There's music in the fingered Lute:  
The weight doth make the Jack go ready,  
The fraught doth make the Bark go steady;  
The Key the Lock doth open right,  
The Candle's useful in the night.  
Such is the Virgin, in my eyes,  
That lives, loves, marries,  she dies.   

Like a Call without Anon sir,  
Or a Question and no answer:  
Like a Ship was never rigged,  
Or a Mine was never digged;  
Like a wound without a Tent.  
Or Sivet box without a scent:  
Just; such as these may she be said  
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid,   

Th' Anon sir doth obey the Call,  
The Question answered pleaseth all;  
Who riggs a Ship sails with the Wind,  
Who digs a Mine doth treasure find;  
The wound by wholesome Tent hath ease,  
The box perfumed the Senses please:  
Such is the Virgin in my eyes  
That lives, loves, marries,  she dies.   

Like Marrow bone was never broken,  
Or Commendations and no Token;  
Like a Fort and none to win it,  
Or like the Moon and no man in it;  
Like a School without a Teacher,  
Or like a Pulpit and no Preacher:  
Just such as these may she be said  
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a Maid.   

The broken Marrow bone is sweet,  
The token doth adorn the greet;  
There's triumph in the Fort, being won,  
The man tides glorious in the Moon;  
The School is by the Teacher stilled,  
The Pulpit by the Preacher filled:  
Such is the Virgin, in my eyes,  
That lives, loves, marries,  she dies.   

Like a Cage without a Bird,  
Or a thing too long deferred;  
Like the Gold was never tried,  
Or the ground unoccupied;  
Like a House that's not possessed,  
Or the Book was never pressed:  
Just such as these may she be said  
That lives, ne'er loves, but dies a maid.   

The Bird in Cage doth sweetly sing,  
Due Season prefers every thing;  
The Gold that's tried from dross is pured,  
There's profit in the ground mannured;  
The House is by possession graced,  
The Book when pressed is then embraced:  
Such is the Virgin in my eyes  
That lives, loves, marries,  she dies.    

A Description of Love.  

LOve is a Region full of fires,  
And burning with extreme desires;  
An Object seeks, of which possessed,  
The wheels are fixed, the motions rest,  
The flames in Ashes lie oppressed;  
This Meteor striving high to rise,  
The fuel spent, falls down and dies.   

Much sweeter, and more pure delights  
Are drawn from fair alluring sights,  
When ravished minds attempt to praise  
Commanding Eyes like heavenly rays,  
Whose force the gentle heart obeys;  
Then where the end of this pretence  
Descends to base inferior sense.   

Why then should Lovers (most will say)  
Expect so much th' enjoying day;  
Love is like youth, he thirsts for age,  
He scorns to be his mother's Page;  
But when proceeding times assuage  
The former heat, he will complain,  
And wish those pleasant hours again.   

We know that hope and love are twins,  
Hope gone, fruition now gins;  
But what is this unconstant frail,  
In nothing sure, but sure to fail?  
Which if we lose it we bewail,  
And when we have it still we bear  
The worst of passions, daily fear.   

When Love thus in his Centre ends,  
Desire and Hope, his inward friends  
Are shaken off, while doubt and grief,  
The weakest givers of relief,  
Stand in his Council as the Chief;  
And now he to his period brought,  
From Love becomes some other thought.   

These Lines I writ not to remove  
United souls from serious love,  
The best attempts by Mortals made  
Reflect on things which quickly fade;  
Yet never will I men persuade  
To leave affections where may shine  
Impressions of the love Divine.    

The Shepherdess.  
A Shepherdess who long had kept her Flocks  
On stony Charnwoods, dry and barren Rocks,  
In heat of Summer to the Vales declined  
To seek fresh pasture for her Lambs half pined;  
She (while her charge was feeding) spent the hours  
To gaze on sliding Brooks, and smiling flowers.   

A Funeral Elegy on the Death of the Lady Penelope Clifton.  
SInce thou art dead (Clifton) the world may see  
A certain end of flesh and blood in thee;  
Till then a way was left for man to cry,  
Flesh may be made so pure, it cannot die:  
But now, thy unexpected death doth strike  
With grief the better and the worse alike;  
The good are sad they are not with thee there,  
The bad have found they must not tarry here.  
Death, I confess, 'tis just in thee to try  
Thy power on us, for thou thyself must die;  
Thou payest but Wages, Death, yet I would know  
What strange delight thou tak'st to pay them so;  
When thou comest face to face thou strik'st us mute,  
And all our liberty is to dispute  
With thee behind thy back, which I will use;  
If thou hadst bravery in thee thou wouldst choose  
(Since thou art absolute, and canst control  
All things beneath a reasonable soul,)  
Some look for way of killing; if her day  
Had ended in a fire, a sword, or sea,  
Or hadst thou come hid in a hundred years  
To make an end of all her hopes and fears,  
Or any other way direct to thee  
Which Nature might esteem an Enemy,  
Who would have chid thee? now it shows thy hand  
Desires to cousin where it might command:  
Thou art not prone to kill, but where th'intent  
Of those that suffer is their nourishment;  
If thou canst steal into a dish, and creep,  
When all is still as though into a sleep,  
And cover thy dry body with a draught,  
Whereby some innocent Lady may be caught,  
And cheated of her life, than thou wilt come  
And stretch thyself upon her early Tomb,  
And laugh, as pleased, to show thou canst devour  
Mortality as well by wit as power.  
I would thou hadst had eyes, or not a Dart,  
That yet at least, the clothing of that heart  
Thou strook'st so spitefully, might have appeared  
To thee, and with a Reverence have been feared.  
But since thou art so blind, receive from me  
Who 'twas on whom thou wroughtst this Tragedy;  
She was a Lady, who for public Fame,  
Never (since she in thy protection came,  
Who sett'st all living tongues at large) received  
A blemish; with her beauty she deceived  
No man, when taken with it▪ they agree  
'Twas Nature's fault, when from 'em 'twas in thee.  
And such her virtue was, that although she  
Receive as much joy, having passed through thee,  
As ever any did; yet hath thy hate  
Made her as little better in her state,  
As ever it did any being here,  
She lived with us as if she had been there.  
Such Ladies thou canst kill no more, but so  
I give thee warning here to kill no moe;  
For if thou dost, my pen shall make the rest  
Of those that live, especially the best,  
Whom thou most thirstest for, t' abandon all  
Those fruitless things, which thou wouldst have us call  
Preservatives, keeping their diet so,  
As the long-living poor their neighbours do:  
Then shall we have them long, and they at last  
Shall pass from thee to hear, but not so fast.  
F. B.   

The examination of his Mistress Perfections.  

STand still my happiness, and swelling heart  
No more, till I consider what thou art.  
Desire of knowledge was man's fatal vice,  
For when our Parents were in Paradise  
(Though they themselves, and all they saw was good)  
They thought it nothing if not understood.  
And I (part of their seed struck with their sin)  
Though by their bounteous favour I be in  
A Paradise, where I may freely taste  
Of all the virtuous pleasures which thou hast.  
Wanting that knowledge, must in all my bliss  
Err with my Parents, and ask what it is.   

My Faith saith 'tis not heaven, and I dare swear  
If it be hell no pain of sense is there;  
Sure 'tis some pleasant place, where I may stay  
As I to heaven go in the middle way.  
Wert thou but fair and no whit virtuous,  
Thou wert not more to me but a fair house  
Haunted with Spirits, from which men do them bless,  
And no man will half furnish to possess:  
Or hadst thou worth wrapped in a riveled skin,  
'Twere inaccessible; who durst go in  
To find it out? far sooner would I go  
To find a Pearl covered with hills of snow;  
'Twere buried virtue, and thou might'st me move  
To reverence the Tomb, but not to love,  
No more than dotingly to cast mine eye  
Upon the Urn where Lucrece ashes lie.   

But thou art fair, and sweet, and every good  
That ever yet durst mix with flesh and blood:  
The Devil ne'er saw in his fallen state  
An Object whereupon to ground his hate  
So fit as thee; all living things but he  
Love thee; how happy then must that man be  
When from amongst all creatures thou dost take?  
Is there a hope beyond it? Can he make  
A wish to change thee for? This is my bliss,  
Let it run on now, I know what it is.  
Fran. Beaumond.    

The Hermaphrodite made after M. Beaumont's Death by Thomas Randolph M. A. Sometime Fellow of Trinity College in Cambridge.  
SIr, or Madam, choose you whether,  
Nature twists you both together;  
And makes thy soul to each confess,  
Both Petticoat and Breeches dress.  
Thus we chastise the god of Wine  
With water that is Feminine,  
Till the cooler Nymph abate  
This wrath, and so incorporate.  
Adam till his Rib was lost  
Had the Sexes thus engrossed;  
When providence, our Sire, did cleave,  
And out of Adam carved Eve,  
Then did man 'bout Wedlock treat,  
To make his Body up complete;  
Thus Matrimony speaks but thee  
In a grave solemnity;  
For man and wife make but one right  
Cannonicall Hermaphrodite.  
Revel thy body, and I find  
In every limb a double kind;  
Who would not think that head a pair  
That breeds such Factions in the hair?  
One halfe's so churlish in the touch,  
That rather than endure so much  
I would my tender Limbs apparel  
With Regulus his nailed Barrel:  
And the other half so small,  
And so Amorous withal,  
That Cupid thinks each hair to grow  
A string for his invisible bow.  
When I look babies in thine eyes,  
Here Venus, there Adonis lies.  
And though thy Beauty be high noon,  
Thy Orbs contain both Sun and Moon.  
How many melting kisses skip  
Betwixt thy Male and Female lip,  
Betwixt thy upper brush of hair,  
And thy nether boards despair?  
When thou speakest (I would not wrong  
Thy sweetness with a double tongue)  
But in every simple sound  
A perfect Dialogue is found.  
Thy Breasts distinguish one another,  
This is the Sister, that the Brother,  
When thou joyn'st hands, my ears struck fancies,  
The Nuptial sound, I John take Francis.  
Feel but the difference soft and rough,  
This is a Gauntlet, that a Muff.  
Had sly Ulysses at the sack  
Of Troy brought thee his Pedlar's pack,  
And weapon too to know Achilles  
From King Nicomedes Phillis,  
His plot had failed; this hand would feel  
The Needle, that the warlike steel,  
When Music doth thy pace advance  
Thy right leg takes thy left to dance;  
Nor is't a Galliard danced by one,  
But a mixed dance although alone.  
Thus every Heteroclite part  
Changes gender but the heart.  
And those which modesty can mean  
(And dare not speak, are Epicene;  
That Gamester needs must overcome  
That can play both Tib and Tom.  
Thus did Nature's Mintage vary,  
Coining thee both Philip and Mary.   

Upon the Hermaphrodite, written since by Mr J. Cleaveland.  

Problem of Sexes; must thou likewise be  
As disputable in thy Pedigree?  
Thou twins-in-one, in whom Dame Nature tries  
To throw less than Aums-ace upon two Dice:  
Wert thou served up two in one dish, the rather  
To split thy Sire into a double Father?  
True, the World's scales are even: what the main  
In one place gets, another quits again.  
Nature lost one by thee, and therefore must  
Slice one in two to keep her number just:  
Plurality of Live is thy state,  
And therefore mine must be impropriate.  
For since the child is mine, and yet the claim  
Is intercepted by another's Name.  
Never did steeple carry double truer,  
His is the Donative, and mine the Cure.  
Then say my Muse (and without more dispute)  
Who is't that Fame doth superinstitute?  
The Theban Wittol, when he once descries  
Jove is his Rival, falls to sacrifice:  
That Name hath tipped his horns: see on his knees  
A health to Hansen, Kelder, Hercules:  
Nay, sublunary Cuckolds are content  
To entertain their Fate with compliment:  
And shall not he be proud whom Randolph deigns  
To quarter with his Muse, both Arms and Brains?  
Gramercy Gossip, I rejoice to see,  
She hath got a leap of such a Barbary.  
Talk not of horns, horns are the Poet's Crest;  
For since the Muses left their former nest,  
To found a Nunnery in Randolph's quill,  
Cuckold Parnassus is a forked hill.   

But stay, I've waked his dust, his Marble stirs,  
And brings the worms for his Compurgators.  
Can Ghost have natural sons? say Ogg it's meet?  
Penance bear date after the winding sheet?  
Were it a Phoenix (as the double kind  
May seem to prove, being there's two combined)  
It would disclaim my right, and that it were  
The lawful issue of his ashes, swear.  
But was she dead? did not his soul translate  
Herself, into a shop of lesser rate?  
Or break up house, like an expensive Lord,  
That gives his purse a fob, and lives at board?  
Let old Pythagoras but play the pimp,  
And still there's hopes it may prove his bastard Mip:  
But I'm profane; for grant the world had one  
With whom he might contract an Union,  
They two were one, yet like an Eagle spread,  
I'th' Body joined, but parted in the head.   

For you my brat, that pose the porphyry Chair,  
Pope John or Joan, or whatsoever you are,  
You are a Nephew, grieve not at your state,  
For all the world is illegitimate;  
Man cannot get a man, unless the Sun  
Club to the Act of Generation.  
The Sun and Man get Man, thus Tom and I  
Are the joint Fathers of thy Poetry.  
For since (blest shade) this Verse is Male, but mine  
O'th' weaker sex, a fancy feminine.  
we'll part the Child, and yet commit no slaughter;  
So shall it be thy son, and yet my daughter.    

To the Mutable Fair.  

HEre Celia, for thy sake I part  
With all that grew so near my heart;  
The passion that I had for thee,  
The Faith, the Love, the Constancy;  
And that I may successful prove,  
Transform myself to what you love.   

Fool that I was, so much to prise  
Those simple virtues you despise?  
Fool, that which such dull arrows strove,  
Or hoped to reach a flying Dove;  
For you that are in motion still  
Decline our force, and mock our skill;  
Who, like Don Quixote, do advance  
Against a Windmill our vain Lance.   

Now will I wander through the air,  
Mount, make a stoop at every fair,  
And with a fancy unconfined  
(As lawless as the Sea, or Wind)  
Pursue you wheresoever you fly,  
And with your various thoughts comply.  
The formal stars do travel so  
As we their Names and Courses know;  
And he that on their Changes looks,  
Would think them governed by our books;  
But never were the Clouds reduced  
To any Art the motion used.  
By those free vapours are so light,  
So frequent, that the conquered sight  
Despairs to find the rules that guide  
Those gilded shadows as they slide;  
And therefore of the spacious air  
Jove's Royal Consort had the care,  
And by that power did once escape  
Declining bold Ixion's rape;  
She with her own resemblance graced  
A shining cloud, which he embraced.   

Such was that Image, so it smiled  
With seeming kindness, which beguiled  
Your Thirsis lately, when he thought  
He had his fleeting Celia caught;  
'Twas shaped like her, but for the fair  
He filled his Arms with yielding air,  
A Fate for which he grieves the less  
Because the gods had like success:  
For in their Story one (we see)  
Pursues a Nymph, and takes a Tree;  
A second with a Lovers haste  
Soon overtakes what he had chaste;  
But she that did a Virgin seem,  
Possessed, appears a wand'ring stream.  
For his supposed Love a third  
Lays greedy hold upon a Bird;  
And stands amazed to see his Dear  
A wild Inhabitant of the Air.   

To such old tales such Nymphs as you  
Give credit, and still make them new;  
The Amorous now like wonders find  
In the swift changes of your mind.   

But Celia if you apprehend  
The Muse of your incensed friend:  
Nor would that he record your blame,  
And make it live, repeat the same;  
Again deceive him, and again,  
And then he swears he'll not complain;  
For still to be deluded so  
Is all the pleasures Lovers know,  
Who like good Falconers take delight  
Not in the Quarry, but the flight.    

Of Loving at first sight.  

NOt caring to observe the wind,  
Or the new sea explore,  
Snatched from thyself, how far behind  
Already I behold the shore.   

May not a thousand dangers sleep  
In the smooth bosom of this deep:  
No, 'tis so rocklesse, and so clear,  
That the rich Bottom does appear  
Paved all with precious things, not torn  
From shipwrackt vessels, but there borne;   

Sweetness, truth, and every grace  
Which time and use are wont to teach,  
The eye may in a moment reach,  
And read distinctly in her face.   

Some other Nymph with colour faint,  
And Pencil slow may Cupid paint,  
And a weak heart in time destroy,  
She has a stamp and prints the Boy,  
Can with a single look inflame  
The coldest Breast, the Rudest tame.  
Tho. Batt.    

The Antiplatonick.  

FOr shame thou everlasting wooer,  
Still saying grace, and never falling to her.  
Love that's in contemplation placed,  
Is Venus drawn but to the waste?  
Unless your flame confess its gender,  
And your Parley cause surrender;  
YE are Salamanders of a cold desire,  
That live untouched amid the hottest fire.   

What though she be a Dame of stone,  
The Widow of Pygmalion;  
As hard and unrelenting she  
As the new crusted Niobe;  
Or what doth more of statue carry,  
A Nun of the Platonic Quarry?  
Love melts the Rigour which the Rocks have bred,  
A Flint will break upon a feather bed.   

For shame you pretty female Elves,  
Cease for to candy up yourselves:  
No more, you Sectaries of the Game,  
No more of your calcining flame.  
Women commence by Cupid's Dart,  
As a King hunting dubs a Hart;  
Loves Votaries inthrale each others soul,  
Till both of them live but upon Parole.   

virtue's not more in Women kind,  
But the greensickness of the mind.  
Philosophy their new delight,  
A kind of Charcoal appetite.  
There's no Sophistry prevails  
Where all-convincing Love assails;  
But the disputing petticoat will warp,  
As skilful Gamesters are to seek at sharp.   

The Soldier, that man of Iron,  
Whom ribs of Horror all environ;  
That's strung with wire instead of veins,  
In whose embraces you're in Chains;  
Let a Magnetic girl appear,  
Strait he turns Cupid's Cuiraseer.  
Love storms his lips, and takes the Fortress in,  
For all the bristled Turn-pikes of his Chin.   

Since Love's Artillery then checks  
The breast-works of the firmest Sex,  
Come let's in affections riot,  
theyare sickly pleasures keep a Diet.  
Give me a Lover bold and free,  
Not Eunucht with formality:  
Like an Ambassador that bed's a Queen,  
With the nice Caution of a Sword between.    

Song.  

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

In Heaven itself thou sure wert dressed  
With that Angellike disguise:  
Thus deluded am I blest,  
And see my joy with closed eyes.   

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

Fair Dream, if thou intend'st me grace,  
Change this heavenly form of thine;  
Paint despised love in thy face,  
And make it to appear like mine.   

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

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

Perhaps from greatness, state and pride,  
Thus surprised she may fall;  
Sleep does disproportion hid,  
And death resembling equals all.    

Song II.  

BEhold the brand of Beauty tossed;  
See how the motion does dilate the flame,  
Delighted Love his spoils does boast,  
And triumph in this game:  
Fire to no place confined,  
Is both our wonder, and our fear,  
Moving the Mind  
Like lightning hurled through the air.   

High heaven, the glory doth increase  
Of all her shining Lamps this Artful way;  
The Sun in figures such as these  
Joys with the Moon to play;  
To these sweet strains they advance,  
Which do result from their own spheres,  
As this Nymphs dance  
Moves with the Numbers which she hears.    

An Elegy.  
HEaven knows my love to thee▪ fed on desires  
So hallowed▪ and unmixed with vulgar fires,  
As are the purest Beams shot from the Sun  
At his full height, and the devotion  
Of dying Martyrs could not burn more clear,  
Nor Innocence in her first Robes appear  
Whiter than our affections; they did show  
Like frost forced out of flames, and fire from snow.  
So pure the Phoenix, when she did refine  
Her Age to Youth, borrowed no flames but mine.  
But now my day's so'recast, for I have now  
Drawn Anger, like a Tempest, o'er the brow  
Of my fair Mistress; those your glorious eyes  
Whence I was wont to see my day star rise  
Thereat, like revengeful Meteors; and I feel  
My Torment, my gilt double, my hell;  
'Twas a mistake, and might have venial been,  
Done to another, but it was made sin,  
And justly mortal too, by troubling thee,  
'Slight wrongs are Treasons done to Majesty.  
O all ye blessed Ghosts of deceased Loves,  
That now lie sainted in the Eclesian Groves,  
Mediate for mercy for me; at her shrine  
Meet with full Choir, and join your prayers with mine:  
Conjure her by the merits of your kisses,  
By your past sufferings, and your present blisses.  
Conjure her by your mutual hopes and fears,  
By all your intermixed sighs and Tears,  
To plead my pardon: go to her and tell  
That you will walk the Guardian Sentinel,  
My souls safe Genii, that she need not fear  
A mutinous thought, or one close Rebel there;  
But what needs that, when she alone sits there  
Sole Angel of that Orb? in her own sphere  
Alone she sits, and can secure it free  
From all irregular motions; only she  
Can give the Balsam that must cure this sore,  
And the sweet Antidote to sin no more.   

Upon Mr Charles Beaumond, Who died of a Consumption.  
While others drop their tears upon thy hearse,  
Sweet Charles, and sigh t' increase the wind my Verse,  
Pious in naming thee, cannot complain  
Of Death, or Fate, for they were lately slain  
By thy own conflict; and since good men know  
What Heaven to such a virgin Saint doth owe;  
Though some will say they saw thee dead, yet I  
Congratulate thy life and victory:  
Thy flesh an upper garment, that it might  
Aid thy eternal progress, first grew light;  
Nothing but Angel now, which thou wert near,  
Almost reduced to thy first spirit here:  
But fly fair soul, while our Complaints are just,  
That cannot follow for our Chains of dust.   

Fie on Love.  
NOw fie on foolish Love, it not befits  
Or Man or Woman know it.  
Love was not meant for people in their wits,  
And they that fond show it  
Betray the straw, and Feathers in their brain,  
And shall have Bedlam for their pain:  
If single love be such a curse,  
To marry is to make it ten times worse.   

A Song.  
GO and catch a falling star,  
Get with child a Mandrake root,  
Tell me where all past years are,  
Or who cloven the devil's foot;  
Teach me to hear Mermaids singing,  
Or to keep off envies stinging,  
And find  
What wind  
Serves to advance an honest mind.  
If thou be●st borne to strange sights,  
Things invisible to see,  
Ride ten thousand days and nights,  
Till Age snow white hairs on thee;  
Thou, when thou returnest, wilt tell me  
All strange wonders that befell thee,  
And swear,  
No where  
Lives a Woman true and fair.   

Secrecy protested.  
Fear not (dear Love) that I'll reveal  
Those hours of pleasure we two steal;  
No eye shall see, nor yet the Sun  
Descry, what thou and I have done;  
No ear shall hear our love, but we  
Silent as the night will be;  
The God of Love himself (whose dart  
Did first wound mine, and then thy heart)  
Shall never know that we can tell  
What sweets in stolen embraces dwell:  
This only means may find it out,  
If when I die Physicians doubt  
What caused my death, and there to view  
Of all their judgements which was true,  
Rip up my heart, O then I fear  
The world will see thy picture there.   

Eternity of Love protested.  

HOw ill doth He deserve a Lover's name,  
Whose pale weak flame  
Cannot retain  
His heat in spite of absence or disdain;  
But doth at once like paper set on fire,  
Burn and expire.   

True love can never change his seat,  
Nor did he ever love that could retreat;  
That noble flame which my breast keeps alive  
Shall still survive,  
When my soul's fled;  
Nor shall my love die when my body's dead,  
That shall wait on me to the lower shade,  
And never fade.   

My very Ashes in their Urn  
Shall, like a hallowed Lamp, for ever burn.    

The willing Prisoner to his MISTRESS.  

LEt Fools great Cupid's yoke disdain,  
Loving their own wild freedom better,  
Whilst proud of my triumphant Chain  
I sit, and court my beauteous fetter.   

Her murdering glances, snaring hairs,  
And her bewitching smiles, so please me,  
As he brings ruin that repairs  
The sweet afflictions that displease me.   

Hid not those panting balls of snow  
With envious veils from my beholding;  
Unlock those lips their pearly row  
In a sweet smile of love unfolding.   

And let those eyes whose motion wheels  
The restless fate of every Lover.  
Survey the pains my sick heart feels,  
And wounds themselves have made discover.    

A Mask of the Gentlemen of Gray Inn, and the Inner Temple, by Mr Francis Beaumond.  Enter Iris Running, Mercury following and Catching hold of her. Mercury. 
STay lightfoot Iris, for thou strivest in vain,  
My Wings are nimbler than thy feet;  
Iris away,  
Dissembling Mercury my Messages  
Ask honest haste, not like those wanton ones  
Your thundering Father sends.  Mer. 
Stay foolish Maid,  
Or I will take my rise upon a hill  
When I perceive thee seated in a Cloud  
In all the Painted Glory that thou hast,  
And never cease to clap my willing wing,  
Till I catch hold on thy discoloured bow,  
And shiver it beyond the Angry power  
Of your mad Mistress to make up again.  Iris. 
Hermes forbear, Juno will chide and strike;  
Is great Jove jealous that I am employed?  
Or her love Errands she did never yet  
Clasp weak Mortality in her white Arms  
As he hath often done; I only come  
To celebrate the long-wished nuptials  
Here in Olympia, which are now performed  
Betwixt two goodly Rivers that have mixed  
Their gentle winding waves, and are to grow  
Into a thousand streams, great as themselves:  
I need not name them, for the sound is loud  
In Heaven and Earth, and I am sent from her,  
The Queen of marriage, that was present here,  
And smiled to see them join, and hath not chid  
Since it was done; God Hermes let me go.  Mer. 
Nay you must stay, Jove's Message is the same,  
Whose eyes are Lightning, and whose voice is Thunder,  
Whose breath is Airy wind, he will, who knows  
How to be first in Earth as well as Heaven.  Iris. 
But what hath he to do with Nuptial rites?  
Let him sit pleased upon his starry Throne,  
And fright poor Mortals with his Thunderbolts,  
Leaving to us the mutual darts of Eyes.  Mer. 
Alas, when ever offered he t' abridge  
Your Lady's power, but only now in these,  
Whose match concerns the general Government:  
Hath not each God a part in these high joys?  
And shall not he the King of gods presume  
Without proud Juno's Licence? let her know,  
That when enamoured Jove first gave her power  
To link soft hearts in undissolving bands,  
He then foresaw, and to himself reserved  
The honour of this Marriage; thou shalt stand  
Still as a Rock, while I to bless this Feast,  
Will summon up with my all-charming Rod  
The Nymphs of Fountains, from whose watery locks  
(Hung with the dew of blessing and increase)  
The greedy Rivers take their nourishment.  
Yea Nymphs who bathing in your loved springs,  
Behold these Rivers in their infancy,  
And joyed to see them when their circled heads  
Refreshed the Air, and spread the ground with flowers;  
Rise from the wells, and with your nimble feet  
Perform that office to this happy pair  
Which in these Plains you to Alpheus did,  
When, passing hence through many seas unmixed,  
He gained the favour of his Aretheuse.  The Nymphs rise and dance a little and then make a stand. Iris. 
Is Hermes grown a Lover? by what power  
Unknown to us calls he the maids?  Mer. 
Presuptuous Iris, I could make thee dance,  
Till thou forgettest thy Lady's messages,  
And runnest back crying to her: thou shalt know  
My power is more, only my breath and this  
Shall move fixed stars, and force the firmament  
To yield the Hyadeses, who govern showers,  
And dewy Clouds, in whose dispersed drops  
Thou form'st the shape of thy deceitful bow;  
Ye maids, who yearly at appointed times  
Advance with kindly tears the gentle floods,  
Descend and pour your blessing on these streams,  
Which rolling down from Heaven, aspiring hills,  
And now united in the fruitful Vales,  
Bear all before them, ravish with their joy,  
And swell in glory till they know no bounds.  The Cloud descends with the Hyadeses, at which the maids seem to be rejoiced, they all dance a while together, then make another stand as if they wanted something. Iris. 
Great wit and power hath Hermes to contrive  
A lively Dance which of one Sex consists.  Mer. 
Alas poor Iris, Venus hath in store  
A secret Ambush of her winged boys,  
Who lurking long within these pleasant Groves,  
First stuck these flowers with their equal Darts;  
Those Cupids shall come forth and join with these,  
To honour that which they themselves began.  The Cupids come forth and dance, they are weary with their blind pursuing the Nymphs, and the Nymphs weary with flying them. Iris. 
Behold the statues which wise Vulcan placed  
Under the Altar of Olympian Jove,  
And gave to them an Artificial life;  
See how they move, drawn by this heavenly joy,  
Like the wild Trees which followed Orphaeus harp.  The Statues come down, and they all dance till the Nymphs outrun them and lose them, than the Cupids go off, and last the Statues. Mer. 
And what will Juno's Iris do for her?  Iris. 
Just match this show or mine inventions fail;  
Had it been worthier, I would have invoked  
The blazing Comets, Clouds, and falling stars,  
And all my Kindred, Meteors of the air,  
To have excelled it, but I now must strive  
To imitate confusion; therefore thou  
Delightful Flora, if thou ever feltst  
Increase of sweetness in those blooming plants  
On which the horns of my fair Bow decline,  
Send hither all that rural company  
Which deck the maygames with their clownish sports,  
Juno will have it so.  The second Antimasque rusheth in, they dance their measure, and as rudely departed. Mer. 
Iris we strive  
Like winds at liberty, who should do worst  
 we return if Juno be the Queen  
Of marriages, let her give happy way  
To what is done in honour of the State  
She governs.  Iris. 
Hermes so it may be done  
Merely in honour of the State, and those  
That now have proved it; not to satisfy  
The Lust of Jupiter in having thanks  
More than his Juno, if thy snaky rod  
Have power to search the heaven, or sound the sea,  
Or call together all the buds of earth,  
To bring thee any thing that may do grace  
To us, and these, do it we shall be pleased;  
They know that from the mouth of Jove himself,  
Whose words have winks, and need not to be borne,  
I took a Message, and I bore it through  
A thousand yielding Clouds, and never stayed  
Till his high will was done. The Olympian games  
Which long had slept at these wished Nuptials  
He pleased to have renewed, and all his Knights  
Are gathered hither, who within their Tents  
Rest on this hill, upon whose rising head  The Altar is discovered, with the Priests about it, and the Statues under it, and the Knights lying in their Tents on each side near the top of the hill. 
Behold Jove's Altar and his blessed Priests  
Moving about it; come you holy men,  
And with your voices draw these youths along,  
That till Jove's music call them to their games,  
Their Active sports may give a blessed content  
To those for whom they are again begun.  

The first Song when the Priests descend, and the Knights follow them.  
SHake off your heavy trance  
And leap into a Dance,  
Such as no Mortals use to tread,  
Fit only for Apollo  
To play to, for the Moon to lead,  
And all the stars to follow.   

The second Song at the end of the first Dance.  
ON blessed Youths, for Jove doth pause,  
Laying aside his graver Laws  
For this device:  
And at the wedding such a pair  
Each Dance is taken for a prayer,  
Each Song a Sacrifice.   

The third Song after their many Dances, when they are to take the Ladies single.  

MOre pleasing were these sweet delights,  
If Ladies moved as well as Knights;  
Run every one of you and catch  
A Nymph in honour of this match,  
And whisper boldly in her ear,  
Jove will but laugh if you forswear.   

All.  
And this day's sins he doth resolve,  
That we his Priests should all absolve.    

The fourth Song when they have parted with the Ladies, a shrill Music sounds, supposed to be that which calls them to the Olympian Games, at which they all make a seeming preparation to departed.  
YOu should stay longer, if we durst,  
Away, alas, that he that first  
Gave time wild Wings to fly away,  
Has now no power to make him stay;  
And though these games must needs be played,  
I would these pair when they are laid,  
And not a Creature nigh 'em,  
Might catch his sigh as he doth pass,  
And clip his wings, and break his glass,  
And keep 'em ever by 'em.   

The fifth Song when all is done as they ascend.  
PEace and silence be the guide  
To the Man, and to the Bride:  
If there be a joy yet new  
In marriage, let it fall on you,  
That all the world may wonder:  
If we should stay we should do worse,  
And turn our blessings to a Curse,  
By keeping you asunder.    

Prologues, Epilogues, and Songs to several Plays, written by Mr Francis Beaumond and Fletcher.  


The Prologue to the Mad Lover.  
TO please all's impossible, and to despair  
Ruines ourselves, and damps the Writers Care:  
Would we knew what to do, or say, or when  
To find the minds here equal with the men,  
But we must venture; now to sea we go,  
Fair Fortune with us, give us room and blow:  
Remember y'are all ventures; and in this play  
How many twelve pences ye have ' stowed this day;  
Remember for Return of your delight,  
We launch and plough through storms of fear and spite:  
Give us your fore winds fairly, fill our wings,  
And steer us right, and as the Sailors sing,  
Loaden with wealth on wanton Seas, so we  
Shall make our home-bound voyage cheerfully;  
And you our Noble Merchants, for your Treasure,  
Share equally the fraught, we run for pleasure.   

The Epilogue.  
HEre lies the doubt now, let our Plays be good,  
Our own care sailing equal in this Flood;  
Our preparations new, new our Attire,  
Yet here we are becalmed still, still i'th' mire;  
Here we stick fast, is there no way to clear  
This Passage of your judgement, and our fear?  
No Mitigation of that Law? Brave Friends,  
Consider we are yours, made for your ends,  
And every thing preserves itself, each will,  
If not perverse and crooked, utters still,  
The best of that it ventures in: have care  
Even for your pleasure's sake, of what you are,  
And do not ruin all; you may frown still,  
But 'tis the Nobler way to check the Will.   

First Song to the mad Lover.  
Stre. Orpheus', I am come from the deeps below  
To thee▪ fond man, the plagues of love to show.  
To thee fair Fields, where Loves eternal dwell,  
There's none that come, but first they pass through hell.  
Hark and beware, unless thou hast loved ever,  
Beloved again, thou shalt see those Joys never.  
Hark how they groan that died despairing,  
O take heed then:  
Hark how they howl for ever daring,  
All these were men:  
They that be fools and die for fame,  
They lose their name,  
And they that bleed,  
Hark how they speed.  
Now in cold Frosts, now scorching fires,  
They sit and curse their lost desires:  
Nor shall their souls be free from pains and fears,  
Till Women waft them over in their tears.   

The second Song to the Mad-Lover.  Orph. 
CHaron, O Charon,  
Thou waster of the souls to bliss or bane.  Cham 
Who calls the Ferryman of Hell?  Orph. 
Come near  
And say who lives in Joy, and whom in fear.  Cham 
Those that die well, eternal joy shall follow;  
Those that die ill, their own soul fate shall swallow.  Orph. 
Shall thy black Bark those guilty spirits stow  
That kill themselves for love.  Cham 
O no, no,  
My courage cracks when such great sins are near,  
No wind blows fair, nor I myself can steer.  Orph. 
What Lovers pass and in Elysium reign?  Cham 
Those gentle loves that are beloved again.  Orph. 
This Soldier loves, and feign would die to win,  
Shall be go on?  Cham 
No, 'tis too foul a sin,  
He must not come aboard: I dare not Row.  
Storms of despair and guilty blood will blow.  Orph. 
Shall time release him say?  Cham 
No, no, no, no,  
Nor time, nor death can alter us, nor prayer;  
My Boat is destiny, and who then dare,  
But those appointed, come aboard? Live still  
And l●ve by reason, mortal, not by will.  Orph. 
And when thy Mistress shall close up thine eyes.  Cham 
Then come aboard and pass.  Orph. 
Till when be wise.  Cham 
Till when be wise.   

The third Song to the mad Lover.  
O Fair, sweet Goddess, Queen of Loves,  
Soft and gentle as thy Doves,  
Humble eyed, and ever ruing  
Those poor hearts their loves pursuing.  
O thou mother of delights,  
Crowner of all happy nights,  
Star of Dear content and pleasure,  
Of mutual love the endless treasure,  
Accept this Sacrifice we bring;  
Thou continual youth and spring,  
Grant this Lady her desires,  
And every hour we'll crown thy fires.   

The fourth Song to the mad Lover.  
Arm, Arm, Arm, Arm, the Scouts are all come in,  
Keep your Ranks close, and now your honour win.  
Behold from yonder Hill the Foe appears,  
Bows, Bills, Glaves, Arrows, Shields, and Spears,  
Like a dark wood he comes, or tempest pouring;  
O view the wings of Horse the Meadows scouring.  
The Vanguard marches bravely, hark the Drums— Dub, Dub.  
They meet, they meet, now the battle comes;  
See how the Arrows fly,  
That darken all the sky;  
Hark how the Trumpets sound,  
Hark how the hills rebound— tara, tara, tara.  
Hark how the Horses charge in boys, in boys in,— tara, tara.  
The Battle totters, now the wounds begin,  
O how thy cry,  
O how they die.  
Room for the Valiant Memnon armed with Thunder,  
See how he breaks the Ranks asunder:  
They fly, they fly, Eumenes hath the Chase,  
And brave Politius makes good his place.  
To the plains, to the woods,  
To the rocks, to the floods,  
They fly for secure: follow, follow follow, hay, hay.—  
Hark how the Soldiers hollow;  
Brave Diocles is dead,  
And all his soldiers fled,  
The Battle's won and lost,  
That many a life hath cost.    


The Prologue to the Spanish Curate.  
TO tell ye (Gentlemen) we have a play,  
A new one too, and that 'tis launched to day,  
The name ye know, that's nothing to my story;  
To tell you 'tis familiar, void of glory,  
Of State, of Bitterness of wit you'll say,  
For that is now held wit that tends that way,  
Which we avoid to tell you too, till merry,  
And mean to make you pleasant, and not weary:  
The stream that guides ye easy to attend  
To tell you that 'tis good is to no end,  
If you believe not; nay to go thus far,  
To swear it, if you swear against it, were  
To assure you any thing, unless you see,  
And so conceive, is vanity in me;  
Therefore I leave it to itself, and pray  
Like a good Bark it may work out to day,  
And stem all doubts; 'twas built for such a proof,  
And we hope highly, if she lie aloof  
For her own vantage, to give wind at will;  
Why, let her work, only be you but still,  
And sweet opinioned, and we are bound to say,  
You are worthy Judges, and you crown the Play.   

The Epilogue.  
THe Play is done, yet our suit never ends,  
Still when you part you would still part our Friends,  
Our Noblest Friends; if ought have fall'n amiss,  
Oh let it be sufficient that it is,  
And you have pardoned it: In buildings great  
All the whole body cannot be so neat  
But something may be mended; those are fair,  
And worthy love, that may destroy, but spare.    


The Prologue to the French-Lawyer.  
TO promise much before a Play begin,  
And when 'tis done ask pardon, were a sin  
we'll not be guilty of: and to excuse  
Before we know a fault, were to abuse  
The Writers and ourselves; for I dare say  
We all are fooled if this be not a Play,  
And such a Play as shall (so should Plays do)  
Imp Times dull wings, and make you merry too;  
'Twas to that purpose writ, so we intent it,  
And we have our wished ends if you commend it.   

The Epilogue.  
Gentlemen,  
I am sent forth to inquire what you decree  
Of us and our Poets, they will be  
This night exceeding merry, so will we;  
If you approve their labours they profess,  
You are their Patrons, and we say no less;  
Resolve us then, for you can only tell  
Whether we have done idly, or done well.   

First Song to the Play called the little French Lawyer, called an Epithalamine Song, at the wedding.  

COme away, bring on the Bride,  
And place her by her Lover's side;  
You fair troop of Maids attend her,  
Pure and holy thoughts befriend her;  
Blush, and wish you Virgins all  
Many such fair nights may fall.   

Chorus.  
Hymen fill the house with joy,  
All thy sacred fires employ;  
Bless the Bed with holy love,  
Now fair Orb of beauty move.    

Second Song to the Little French Lawyer, called, Song in the Wood  
THis way, this way, come and hear,  
You that hold these pleasures dear;  
Fill your ears with our sweet sound,  
Whilst we melt the frozen ground:  
This way, come make haste, O Fair,  
Let your clear eyes gild the Air;  
Come and bless us with your sight,  
This way, this way seek delight.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Custom of the Country.  
SO free this work is (Gentlemen) from offence,  
That we are confident it needs no defence  
From us, or from the Poets, we dare look  
On any man that brings his Table book  
To write down what again he may repeat  
At some great Table, to deserve his meat;  
Let such come swelled with malice to apply  
What is mirth here, there for an injury.  
Nor Lord, nor Lady we have taxed, nor State,  
Nor any private person, their poor hate  
Will be starved here, for Envy shall not find  
One touch that may be wrested to her mind;  
And yet despair not Gentlemen, the Play  
Is Quick and Witty, so the Poets say.  
And we believe them, the Plot Neat and New,  
Fashioned by those that are approved by you;  
Only 'twill crave attention in the most,  
Because one point unmasked the whole is lost;  
Hear first then, and judge after, and be free,  
And as our cause is let our Censure be.   

The Epilogue.  
Why there should be an Epilogue to a Play,  
I know no cause, the old and usual way  
For which they were made, was to entreat the grace  
Of such as were Spectators in this place;  
And time, 'tis to no purpose, for I know  
What you resolve already to bestow  
Will not be altered, whatsoever I say  
In the behalf of us, and of the Play,  
Only to quit our doubts, if you think fit,  
You may, or cry it up, or silence it.   

Another Prologue for the same Play.  
WE wish, if it were possible, you knew  
What we would give for this nights look, if new,  
It being our Ambition to delight  
Our kind Spectators with what's good and right,  
Yet so far known, and credit me 'twas made  
By such as were held workmen in their Trade;  
At a time too, when they, as I divine,  
Were truly merry, and drank lusty Wine,  
The Nectar of the Muses; some are here,  
I dare presume, to whom it did appear  
A well-drawn piece, which gave a lawful birth  
To passionate Scenes mixed with no vulgar mirth,  
But unto such to whom 'tis known by fame  
From others, perhaps only by the name;  
I am a Suitor, that they would prepare  
Sound Palates, and then judge their bill of fare.  
It were injustice to descry this now,  
For being liked before you may allow  
Your Candour safe what's taught in the old Schools,  
All such as lived before you were not fools.   

The Epilogue.  
I Spoke much in the Prologue for the Play,  
To its desert I hope, yet you might say,  
Should I change now from that which then was meant,  
Or in a syllable grow less confident,  
I were weakhearted, I am still the same,  
In my opinion, and forbear to frame  
Qualification, or excuse, if you  
Concur with me, and hold my judgement true;  
Show it with any sign, and from this place,  
And send me off exploded, or with grace.    


The Prologue to the Play called The Noble Gentleman.  
Wit is become an Antic, and puts on  
As many shapes of variation  
To court the Time's applause, as the times dare  
Change several fashions, nothing is thought rare  
Which is not new and followed; yet we know  
That what was worn some twenty year ago,  
Comes into grace again, and we pursue  
That Custom by presenting to your view  
A Play in fashion then, not doubting now  
But 'twill appear the same if you allow  
Worth to their Noble memory, whose name,  
Beyond all power of death live in their fame.   

The Epilogue.  
THe Monuments of virtue and desert  
Appear more goodly when the gloss of Art  
Is eaten off by Time, than when at first  
They were set up, not censured at the worst;  
We have done our best, for your contents to fit,  
With new pains this old Monument of Wit.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Captain.  
TO please you with this Play we fear will be  
(So does the Author too) a mystery  
Somewhat above our Art, for all men's Eyes,  
Ears, Faith, and Judgements are not of one size;  
For to say truth and not to flatter ye,  
This is nor Comedy, nor Tragedy,  
Nor History, nor any thing that may  
(Yet in a week) be made a perfect play;  
Yet those that love to laugh, and those that think  
Twelve pence goes further this way than in drink,  
Or Damsels; If they mark the matter through,  
May stumble on a foolish toy or two,  
Will make them show their teeth: pray, for my sake,  
That likely am your first man, do not take  
A distaste before you feel it, for ye may  
When this is hist to Ashes have a play.  
And here to outhiss this be patiented then,  
(My honour done) you are welcome Gentlemen.   

The Epilogue.  
IF you mislike (as you shall ever be  
Your own free Judges) this Play utterly,  
For your own Nobleness yet do not hisse,  
But as you go by, say it was amiss,  
And we will mend, chide us, but let it be;  
Never let it be in cool blood. O' my honesty,  
If I have any, this I'll say for all,  
Our meaning was to please you still, and shall.   

First Song to the Play, called, The Captain.  

TEll me dearest what is Love?  
'Tis a lightning from above,  
'Tis an Arrow, 'tis a fire,  
'Tis a Boy they call desire.  
Both. 'Tis a Grave  
Gapes to have  
Those poor fools that long to prove.   

1 Tell me more are women true?  
2 Yes some are, and some as you;  
Some are willing, some are strange,  
Since you men first taught to Change.  
Both. And till troth  
Be in both,  
All shall love to love anew.   

1 Tell me more, yet can they grieve?  
2 Yes▪ and sicken sore, but live:  
And by wise and delay  
When you men are as wise as they;  
Both. Than I see  
Faith will be  
Never till they both believe.    

The second Song.  

A Way Delights, go seek some other dwelling,  
For I must die;  
Farewell false love thy tongue is ever telling  
Lie after Lye.  
For ever let me rest now from thy Smarts,  
Alas for pity go  
And fire their hearts  
That have been hard to thee, mine was not so,   

Never again deluding love shall know me,  
For I will die:  
And all those griefs that think to overgrow me,  
Shall be as I;  
For ever will I sleep while poor maids cry,  
Alas, for pity stay,  
And let us die,  
With thee men cannot mock us in the day.    

The third Song.  

CCome hither you that love and hear me sing  
Of Joys still growing,  
Green, fresh, and lusty, as the Pride of Spring,  
And ever blowing;  
Come hither youths that blush and dare not know  
What is desire,  
And old men worse than you, that cannot blow  
One spark of fire;  
And with the power of my enchanting Song  
Boys shall be able men, and old men young.   

Come hither you that hope, and you that cry,  
Leave off complaining,  
Youth, Strength, and beauty that shall never die,  
Are here remaining.  
Come hither fools and blush you stay so long  
From being blest,  
And Mad men worse than you, that suffer wrong,  
Yet seek no rest;  
And in an hour with my enchanting Song  
You shall be ever pleased, and young maids long.     


Songs to the Play, called, The Beggar's Bush. The first Song.  
CAst our Caps and Care away: this is Beggar's holiday,  
At the Crowning of our King thus we ever dance and sing;  
In the world look out & see, where so happy a Prince as he  
Where the Nation live so free, and so merry as do we;  
Be it peace, or be it war, here at liberty we are,  
And enjoy our ease and rest, to the Field we are not pressed:  
Nor are called into the Town to be troubled with the Gown,  
Hang all Offices we cry, and the Magistrate too by;  
When the Subsidies increased, we are not a penny ceased;  
Now will any go to law with the Beggar for a straw,  
All which happiness he brags he doth owe unto his Rags.   

The second Song.  

TAke her and tug her,  
And turn her and hug her,  
And turn again boy, again;  
Then if she mumble,  
Or if her tail tumble,  
Kiss her amain boy, amain.   

Do thy endeavour  
To take off her Fever,  
Then her disease no longer will reign,   

If nothing will serve her  
Then thus to preserve her,  
Swing her amain boy, amain.  
Give her cold Jelly  
To take up her belly.  
And once a day swing her again:  
If she stand all these pains,  
Then knock out her brains,  
Her disease no longer will reign.    

The third Song.  
BRing out your Coney-skins fair maids to me,  
And hold 'em fair that I may see,  
Grace, Black, and blue; for your smaller skins  
I'll give ye looking-glasses pins;  
And for your whole Coney, here's ready, ready money.  
Come Gentle Joan do thou begin  
With thy black, black, black Coney-skin,  
And Mary then and Jane will follow  
With their silver haired skins and their yellow;  
The white Coney-skin I will not lay by,  
For though it be faint 'tis fair to the eye;  
The Grey it is warm, but yet for my money  
Give me the bonny, bonny black Coney.  
Come away fair maids, your skins will decay,  
Come and take money maids, put your ware away.  
Coney-skins, Coney-skins, have ye any Coney-skins,  
I have fine Bracelets, and fine silver pins.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Coxcomb.  
THis Comedy long forgot, by some thought dead,  
By us preserved once more doth raise her head;  
And to your Noble censures does present  
Her outward form, and inward ornament.  
Nor let this smell of Arrogance, since 'tis known  
The makers that confessed it for their own,  
Were this way skilful, and without the Crime  
Of flatteries, I might say, did please the time;  
The work itself too, when it first came forth,  
In the opinion of men of worth,  
Was well received and favoured, though some rude  
And harsh among the Ignorant multitude,  
That relish gross food better than a dish  
(That's cooked with care, and served in to the wish  
Of curious Palates) wanting wit and strength  
Truly to judge, condemned it for the length,  
That faults reformed, and now 'tis to be tried  
Before such Judges, 'twill not be denied  
A free and Noble hearing, nor fear I  
But 'twill deserve to have free liberty,  
And give you cause (and with content) to say,  
Their care was good that did revive this Play.   

The Epilogue.  
'TIs ended, but my hopes and fear begin,  
Nor can it be imputed as a sin  
In me to wish it favour, if this night  
To the judicious it hath given light,  
I have my ends, and may such, for their grace  
Vouchsafe to this, find theirs in every place.    


The Prologue to the Tragedy, called, The false One.  
NEw Titles warrant not a Play for new,  
The Subject being old and 'tis as true;  
Fresh and neat matter may with ease be framed  
Out of their Stories, that have oft been named  
With glory on the Stage: what borrows he  
From him that wrought old Priam's Tragedy  
That writes his love to Hecuba? sure to tell  
Of Caesar's amorous heats, and how he fell  
In the Capital, can never be the same  
To the Judicious: nor will such blame  
Those that penned this forbarrennesse, when they find  
Young Cleopatra here, and her great mind  
Expressed to th' height, with us a Maid and free,  
And how he rated her Virginity:  
We treat not of what boldness she did die,  
Nor of her fatal love to Anthony;  
What we present and offer to your view  
(Upon their Faiths) the Stage yet never knew;  
Let reason than first to your wills give Laws,  
And after judge of them, and of their cause.   

The Epilogue.  
I Now should wish another had my place,  
But that I hope to come off, and with grace,  
And but express some sign that you are pleased,  
We of our doubts, they of their fears are eased;  
I would beg further (Gentlemen) and much say  
In the favour of ourselves, them, and the Play,  
Did I not rest assured? the most I see  
Hate Impudence, and cherish Modesty.   

First Song to the False One, a Tragedy.  
LOok out bright Eyes, and bless the Air,  
Even in shadows you are fair:  
Shut up, beauty is like fire  
That breaks out clearer still and higher;  
Though your body be confined,  
And lost love a prisoner bound,  
Yet the beauty of your mind,  
Neither Cheek, nor Chain hath found.  
Look out Nobly then, and dare,  
Even the Fetters that you wear.   

The second Song.  
ISis the Goddess of this Land  
Bids thee (great Caesar) understand  
And mark our Customs, and first know  
With greedy eyes, these watch the flow  
Of plenteous Nilus when he comes  
With Songs, with Dances, Timbrels, Drums,  
They entertain him, cut his way,  
And give his proud heads leave to play;  
Nilus himself shall rise and show  
His matchless wealth in overflow.   

The third Song.  
COme let us help the Reverend Nile,  
He's very old (alas the while)  
Let us dig him easy ways,  
And prepare a thousand plays  
To delight his streams, let's sing  
A loud welcome to our spring;  
This way let his curling heads  
Fall into our newmade beds;  
This way let his wanton spawns  
Friske and glide it o'er the Lawns;  
This way profit comes and gain,  
How he tumbles here amain.  
How his waters haste to fall  
In our Channel, labour all  
And let him in: let Nilus flow,  
And perpetual plenty show;  
With Incense let us bless the brim,  
And as the wanton Fishes swim,  
Let us Gums, and Garlands fling,  
And loud our Timbrels ring;  
Come, (old Father) come away,  
Our Labour is our Holiday.  
Isis. Here comes the aged River now,  
With Garlands of great Pearl his brow,  
Begirt and rounded, in his flow  
All things take life, and all things grow;  
A Thousand wealthy treasures still  
To do him service at his will,  
Fellow his rising Flood, and pour  
Perpetual blessings in our store.  
Hear him, and next there will advance  
His Sacred Heads to tread a Dance  
In honour of my Royal Guest,  
Mark them too, and you have a Feast.   

The fourth Song.  
MAke room, for my rich waters fall,  
And bless my Flood,  
Nilus come flowing to you all  
Increase and good.  
Now the Plants and Flowers shall spring,  
And the merry Ploughman sing.  
In my hidden waves I bring  
Bread, and Wine, and every thing;  
Let the Damsels sing me in,  
Sing aloud that I may rise:  
Your Holy Feasts and hours begin,  
And each man brings a Sacrifice;  
Now my wanton Pearls I show  
That to Ladies fair necks grow;  
Now my Gold  
And Treasures that can ne'er be told,  
Shall bless this Land by my rich Flow;  
And after this to crown your eyes,  
My hidden holy bed arise.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Chances.  
Aptness for mirth to all this instant night  
Thalia hath prepared for your delight;  
Her choice and curious Viands in each part,  
Seasoned with rarities of wit, as Art.  
Nor fear I to be taxed for a vain boast,  
My promise will find credit with the most,  
When they know ingenious Fletcher made it, he  
Being in himself a perfect Comedy;  
And some sit here, I doubt not, dare aver,  
Living, he made that house a Theatre  
Which he pleased to frequent; and thus much we  
Can not but play to his loud memory.  
For ourselves we do entreat that you would not  
Expect strange turns and wind in the Plot,  
Objects of State, and now and then a Rhyme  
To gall particular persons with the time;  
Or that his towering Muse hath made her flight  
Nearer your apprehension than your sight:  
But if that sweet Expression, quick Conceit,  
Familiar Language fashioned to the weight,  
Of such as speak it have the power to raise  
Your grace to us, with Trophies to his praise,  
We may profess, presuming on his skill,  
If his Chances please not you, our fortune's ill.   

The Epilogue.  
WE have not held you long,  
One brow in this selected Company  
Assuring a dislike our pains were eased,  
Can we be confident that all rise pleased,  
But such ambition soars too high: If we  
Have satisfied the best, and they agree  
In a fair Censure, we have our reward.  
And in them Armed desire no surer guard.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Loyal Subject.  
WE need not Noble Gentlemen to invite  
Attention, pre-instruct you who did write  
This worthy Story, being confident  
The Mirth joined with grave matter, and intent,  
To yield the hearers profit with delight,  
Will speak the maker, and to do him right  
Would ask a Genius like to his; the Age  
Mourning his loss, and our now widowed stage  
In vain lamenting, I could add so far,  
Behind him the most Modern writers are;  
That when they would commend him their best praise  
Ruins the buildings which they strive to raise.  
To his best memory so much a friend,  
Presumes to write secure, 'twill not offend  
The living that are modest with the rest,  
That may repine he cares not to contest:  
This Debt to Fletcher paid it is professed,  
But us the Actors we will do our best  
To send such savouring friends, as hither come  
To grace the Scene, pleased and contented home.   

The Epilogue.  
THough something well assured, few here repent,  
Three hours of precious time or money spent  
On our endeavours, yet not to rely  
Too much upon our care and industry:  
'Tis fit we should ask but a modest way  
How you approve our Action in the Play;  
If you vouchsafe to crown it with applause,  
It is your bounty, and give us cause  
Hereafter with a general consent  
To study, as becomes us, your content.   

First Song to the Play, Called, The Loyal Subject.  
BRoome, Broome, the bonny Broome,  
Come buy my Birchen Broom,  
I'th' Wars we have no more room,  
Buy all my bonny Broom.  
For a kiss take two,  
If those will not do,  
For a little, little pleasure,  
Take all my whole treasure;  
If all these will not do't,  
Take the Broom man to boot;  
Broome, Broome, the bonny Broome.   

The second Song.  
THe Wars are done and gone,  
And Soldiers now neglected Pedlars are;  
Come maidens, come along,  
For I can show you handsome, handsome ware,  
Powders for for the head,  
And drinks for your bed  
To make ye blithe and bonny:  
As well in the night we Soldiers can fight,  
And please a young wench as any.   

The third Song.  
Will ye buy any honesty? come away,  
I sell it openly by day;  
I bring no forced light, nor no Candle  
To cousin ye; come buy and handle.  
This will show the great man good,  
The Tradesman where he swears and lies,  
Each Lady of a Noble blood,  
The City Dame to rule her Eyes:  
Ye are Rich men now, come buy, and then  
I'll make ye richer, honest men.   

The fourth Song.  
HAve ye any cracked maidenheads to new leech or mend?  
Have ye any old maidenheads to sell, or to change?  
Bring 'em to me with a little pretty gin,  
I'll clout 'em, I'll mend 'em, I'll knock in a pin  
Shall make 'em as good maids again  
As ever they have been.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Lover's Progress.  
A Story, and a known one, long since writ,  
Truth must take place, and by an able wit,  
Foul-mouthed detraction daring not deny  
To give so much to Fletcher's memory;  
If so, some may object, why then do you  
Present an old Piece to us for a new?  
Or wherefore will your professed Writer be  
(Not taxed of Theft before) a Plagary?  
To this he answers in his just defence,  
And to maintain to all our innocence,  
Thus much, though he hath travelled the same way,  
Demanding, and receiving too the pay  
For a New Poem, you may find it due,  
He having neither cheated us nor you;  
He vows, and deeply, that he did not spare  
The utmost of his strength, and his best care  
In the reviving it; and though his powers  
Can not, as he desired, in three short hours  
Contract the Subject, and much less express  
The Changes, and the various Passages  
That will be looked for, you may hear this day  
Some Scenes that will confirm it is a Play,  
He being ambitious that it should be known  
What's good was Fletcher's, and what ill his own.   

The Epilogue.  
STill doubtful and perplexed too, whether he  
Hath done Fletcher right in the History;  
The Poet sits within, since he must know it,  
He with respect desires that you would show it  
By some accustomed sign; if from our Action  
Or his Endeavours you meet satisfaction,  
With ours he hath his ends, we hope the best,  
To make that certainty in you doth rest.   

First Song to the Lover's Progress.  
ADieu fond Love, farewell you wanton powers,  
I am free again;  
Thou dull disease of blood and idle hours,  
Bewitching pain.  
Fly to the Fools that sigh away their time,  
My Nobler love to heaven clime,  
And there behold beauty still young,  
That time can ne'er corrupt, nor death destroy;  
Immortal sweetness by fair Angels sung,  
And honoured by eternity and joy:  
There lives my Love, thither my hopes aspire,  
Fond love declines, this heavenly love grows higher.   

The second Song.  
'TIs late and cold, stir up the fire,  
Sat close and draw the Table nigher;  
Be merry, and drink wine that's old,  
A hearty Medicine 'gainst a cold.  
Your beds of wanton down the best:  
Where you shall tumble to your rest:  
I could wish you wenches too,  
But I am dead and cannot do;  
Call for the best, the house may ring,  
Sack White, and Claret let them bring,  
And drink apace while breath you have,  
You'll find but cold drink in the grave;  
Plover, Partridge for your dinner,  
And a Capen for the sinner,  
You shall find ready when you are up,  
And your horse shall have his sup:  
Welcome shall fly round,  
And I shall smile though under ground.    


Songs to the Play, called, The Maid in the Mill. The first Song.  
COme follow me, you Country Lasses,  
And you shall see such sport as passes:  
You shall dance, and I will sing,  
Pedro he shall rub the string:  
Each shall have a Loose-bodied Gown  
Of Greene; and laugh till you lie down.  
Come follow me, come follow, etc.   

The second Song.  
HOw long shall I pine for love?  
How long shall I sue in vain?  
How long, like the Turtle Dove,  
Shall I hearty thus complain?  
Shall the sails of my love stand still?  
Shall the grists of my hopes be unground?  
Oh fie, oh fie, oh fie,  
Let the Mill, let the Mill go round.   

The third Song.  

ON the bed I'll throw thee, throw thee down;  
Down being laid, shall we be afraid  
To try the rights that belong to love?  
No, no, there I'll woo thee with a Crown.   

Crown our desires, kindle the fires;  
When love requires we should wanton prove,  
we'll kiss, we'll sport, we'll laugh, we'll play,  
If thou comest short for thee I'll stay;  
If thou unskilful art the ground,  
I'll kindly teach, we'll have the Mill go round.    

The fourth Song.  
Think me still in my Father's Mill,  
Where I have oft been found— a  
Thrown on my back on a well filled sack  
While the Mill has still gone round— a  
Prithee Sirrah try thy skill,  
And again let the Mill go round— a.   

The fifth Song.  
THe young one, the old one, the fearful, the bold one,  
The lame one, though ne'er so unsound,  
The Jew or the Turk have leave for to work  
The whilst that the Mill goes round.    


The Prologue to the Play, called, The Passionate Madman.  
IT's grown in fashion of late in these days  
To come and beg a sufferance to our Plays;  
Faith Gentlemen our Poet ever writ  
Language so good, mixed with such sprightly wit;  
He made the Theatre so sovereign  
With his rare Scenes, he scorned this crouching vein.  
We stabbed him with keen daggers when we prayed  
Him write a Preface to a Play well made;  
He could not write these toys, 'twas easier far  
To bring a Felon to appear at th' Bar:  
So much he hated baseness, which this day  
His Scenes will best convince you of in's play.   

The Epilogue.  
OUr Poet bid us say, for his own part,  
He cannot lay too much forth of his Art;  
But fears our overacting Passions may,  
As not adorn, deface his laboured Play:  
Yet still he is resolute for what is writ  
Of nicer valour, and assumes the wit;  
But for the love Scenes which he ever meant,  
Cupid in's Petticoat should represent;  
he'll stand no shock of Censure, the Play's good,  
He says he knows it (if well understood)  
But we (blind God) beg, if thou art divine,  
Thou it shoot thy Arrows round, this Play was thine.    


Songs to the Play, called, The Nice Valour: Or, The Passionate Madman. The first Song.  
THou Deity swift winged love,  
Sometimes below, sometimes above,  
Little in shape, but great in power,  
Thou that makest a heart thy Tower,  
And thy loopholes, Ladies eyes,  
From whence thou strik'st the fond and wise.  
Did all the shafts in thy fair Quiver  
Stick fast in my ambitious Liver;  
Yet thy power would I adore,  
And Call upon thee to shoot more;  
Shoot more, shoot more.   

The second Song.  
O Turn thy bow,  
Thy power we feel and know,  
Fair Cupid turn away thy bow:  
They be those golden Arrows  
Bring Ladies all their sorrows,  
And till there be more truth in men,  
Never shoot at maids again.   

The third Song.  
HEnce all you vain delights,  
As short as are the nights  
Wherein you spend your folly;  
There's nought in this life sweet,  
If man were wise to see't,  
But only Melancholy,  
O sweetest Melancholy.  
Welcome folded arms and fixed eyes,  
A sight that piercing mortifies;  
A look that's fastened to the ground,  
A tongue chained up without a sound.  
Fountain heads, and pathless Graves,  
Places which pale Passion loves:  
Moonlight walks, when all the Fowls  
Are warmly housed save Bats and Owls.  
A midnight Bell, a parting groan,  
These are the sounds we feed upon:  
Then stretch our Bones in a still gloomy valley,  
Nothing so dainty, sweet, as lovely Melancholy.   

The fourth Song.  
A Curse upon thee for a slave;  
Art thou here and heard'st me rave?  
Fly not sparkles from mine eye  
To show mine indignation nigh;  
Am I not all foam and fire,  
With voice as hoarse as a Town Crier?  
How my back opes and shuts together  
With fury as old men's with weather;  
Couldst thou not hear my teeth gnash hither?   

The fifth Song.  
THou Nasty scurvy Mongrel Toad,  
Mischief on thee,  
Light upon thee  
All the plagues  
That can confound thee,  
Or did ever reign abroad;  
Better a thousand lives it cost  
Then have brave anger spilt or lost.   

The sixth Song.  Pas. 
OH how my Lungs do trickle? ha', ha', ha'.  Bas. 
Oh how my Lungs do trickle? oh, oh, ho, ho.  
Pas. sings.  
Set a sharp Jest  
Against my breast,  
Then how my Lungs do trickle;  
As Nightingales,  
And things in Cambric rails  
Sing best against a prickle.  
Ha', ha', ha', ha'.  Bas. 
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ha'.  Pas. 
Laugh.  Bas. 
Laugh.  Pas. 
laugh.  Bas. 
laugh.  Pas. 
Wide.  Bas. 
loud.  Pas. 
and vary.  Bas. 
A smile is for a simp'ring Novice.  Pas. 
One that ne'er tasted Caviar.  Bas. 
Nor knows the smack of dear Anchovis.  Pas. 
Ha', ha', ha', ha', ha'.  Bas. 
Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.  Pas. 
A giling waiting wench for me,  
That shows her teeth how white they be.  Bas. 
A thing not fit for gravity,  
For theirs are foul and hardly three.  Pas. 
Ha', ha', ha'.  Bas. 
Ho, ho, ho.  Pas. 
Democritus, thou ancient Fleerer,  
Now I miss thy laugh, and ha' since.  Bas. 
There you named the famous Jeerer  
That ever jeered in Rome or Athens.  Pas. 
Ha', ha', ha'.  Bas. 
Ho, ho, ho.  Pas. 
How brave lives he that keeps a fool,  
Although the rate be deeper.  Pas. 
But he that is his own fool sir  
Does live a great deal cheaper.  Pas. 
Sure I shall burst, burst, quite break, thou art so witty.  Bas. 
'Tis rare to break at Court, for that belongs to th' City.  Pas. 
Ha', ha', my spleen is almost worn to the last laughter.  Bas. 
O keep a corner for a friend, a jest may come hereafter.    


The Prologue to the Tamer Tamed.  
LAdies to you, in whose defence and right  
Fletcher's brave Muse prepared herself to fight,  
A battle without blood, 'twas well fought too,  
(The Victorie's yours, though got with much ado.)  
We do present this Comedy, in which  
A rivulet of pure wit flows, strong and rich  
In Fancy, Language, and all parts that may  
Add Grace and Ornament to a merry Play,  
Which this may prove: Yet not to go too far  
In promises from this our Female war,  
We do entreat the angry men would not  
Expect the Mazes of a subtle plot,  
Set speeches, high expressions, and what's worse,  
In a true Comedy Politic discourse.  
The end we aim at, is to make you sport;  
Yet neither gall the City, nor the Court:  
Hear and observe his Comic strain, and when  
YE are sick of Melancholy, see't again.  
'Tis no dear Physic, since 'twill quit the cost,  
Or his Intentions with our pains are lost.   

The Epilogue.  
THe Tamer's tamed, but so, as nor the men  
Can find one just cause to complain of, when  
They fitly do consider in their lives  
They should not reign as Tyrants o'er their wives;  
Nor can the woman from this precedent  
Insult or triumph: it being aptly meant  
To teach both Sex's due equality;  
And as they stand bound to love mutually.  
If this effect arising from a cause  
Well laid, and grounded, may deserve applause,  
We something more than hope, our honest ends  
Will keep the men and women too, our friends.    


The Prologue to the Martial Maid.  
STatues and Pictures challenge praise and Fame,  
If they can justly boast, and prove they came  
From Phydeas or Apelles: None deny,  
Poets and Picture Painters hold a Sympathy;  
Yet their works may decay and lose their grace,  
Receiving blemish in their Limbs or Face;  
When the Minds Art hath this Pre-eminence  
She still retaineth her first Excellence.  
Then why should not this dear piece be esteemed  
Child to the richest Fancies that e'er teemed?  
When not their meanest Offspring that came forth  
But bore the image of their Father's worth,  
Beaumont's and Fletcher's, whose desert outweighs  
The best Applause, and their least sprig of Bayes  
Is worthy Phoebus; and who comes to gather  
Their fruits of Wit, he shall not rob the Treasure;  
Nor can you ever surfeit of the plenty,  
Nor can you call them rare, though they be dainty:  
The more you take, the more you do them right,  
And we will thank you for your own delight.   

The Epilogue.  
OUr Author fears there are some Rebels hearts,  
Whose dulness doth oppose Loves piercing Darts:  
Such will be apt to say there wanted wit,  
The Language low, very few Scenes are writ  
With spirit and life; such odd things as these  
He cares not for, nor never means to please;  
For if yourselves a Mistress, or loves friends,  
Are liked with this smooth Play, he hath his ends.    

A Song to the Play, called, Wit at several Weapons.  
Feign would I wake you, Sweet, but fear  
I should invite you to worse cheer;  
In your dreams you cannot far  
Meaner than Music no compare;  
None of your slumbers are compiled  
Under the pleasure makes a Child:  
Your day-delights, so well compact,  
That what you think, turns all to Act;  
I'd wish my life no better play,  
Your dream by night, your thought by day.  
Wake gently, wake,  
Part softly from your dreams;  
The morning flies,  
To your fair eyes,  
To take her special beams.   


The Prologue to the Fair Maid of the Inn.  
Plays have their fates, not as in their true sense  
They're understood, but as the influence  
Of idle custom madly works upon  
The dross of many tongued opinion.  
A worthy story, howsoever writ  
For language, modest mirth, conceit, o● wit,  
Mercies oft times with the sweet Commendation  
Of hang't 'tis scurvy, when for approbation,  
A Jig shall be clapped at, and every Rhyme  
Praised and applauded by a clamorous chime;  
Let ignorance and laughter dwell together,  
They are beneath the Muse's petty. Hither  
Came Nobler Judgements, and to those the strain  
Of our invention is not bend in vain.  
The fair maid of the Inn to you commends  
Her hopes and welcomes, and withal intends  
In the entertains to which she doth invite ye,  
All things to please, and some things to delight ye.   

The Epilogue.  
WE would feign please ye, and as feign be pleased,  
'Tis but a little liking both are eased;  
We have your money, and you have our ware,  
And to our understanding good and fair;  
For your own wisdom's sake be not so mad  
To acknowledge ye have bought things dear and bad:  
Let not a brack i'th' stuff, or here and there,  
The fading gloss a general loss appear;  
We know ye take up worse Commodities,  
And dearer pay, yet think your bargains wise:  
We know in meat and wine, ye fling away  
More time and wealth, which is but dearer pay;  
And with the Reckoning all the pleasure lost,  
We bid you not unto repenting cost:  
The price is easy, and so light the Play,  
That ye may new digest it every day.  
Then Noble friends, as ye would choose a Mistress,  
Only to please the Eye a while and kiss,  
Till a good wife be got: So let this Play  
Hold ye a while, until a better may.    


First Song to the Tragedy of Valentinian.  

NOw the lusty spring is seen,  
Golden, yellow, gaudy blue,  
Daintily invite the view.  
Every where, on every Green,  
Roses blushing as they blow,  
And enticing men to pull,  
Lilies whiter than the snow,  
Woodbines of sweet honey full.  
All Loves Emblems, and all cry,  
Ladies, if not plucked, we die.   

Yet the lusty Spring hath stayed,  
Blushing red and purest white,  
Daintily to love invite,  
Every woman, every maid,  
Cherries kissing as they grow,  
And inviting men to taste,  
Apples even ripe below,  
Winding gently to the waste.  
All loves Emblems, and all cry,  
Ladies, if not plucked, we die.    

The second Song.  

Hear ye Ladies that despise  
What the mighty love hath done;  
Fear Examples, and be wise,  
Fear Calisto was a Nun.  
Leda sailing on the stream,  
To deceive the hopes of man,  
Love accounting but a dream,  
Doted on a silver Swan;  
Danae in a brazen Tower,  
Where no love was, looved a Flower.   

Hear ye Ladies that are coy,  
What the mighty love can do,  
Fear the fierceness of the Boy,  
The chaste Moon he makes to woo.  
Vesta kindling holy fires  
Circled round about with spies,  
Never dreaming lose desires,  
Doting at the Altar dies.  
Ilium in a short Tower higher,  
He can once more build, and once more fire.    

The third Song.  
HOnour that is ever living,  
Honour that is ever giving,  
Honour that sees all, and knows  
Both the ebbs of man and flows.  
Honour that rewards the best,  
Sends thee thy rich labours rest;  
Thou hast studied still to please her,  
Therefore now she calls thee Caesar.  
Chorus hail, hail, Caesar, hail and stand,  
And thy name outlive the Land;  
Noble Fathers to his brows  
Bind this wreath with thousand vows.   

The fourth Song.  
GOd Lizus ever young,  
Ever renowned, ever sung;  
Stained with blood of lusty Grapes,  
In a thousand lusty shapes;  
Dance upon the Mazer's brim,  
In the Crimson Liquor swim;  
From thy plenteous hand divine,  
Let a River run with Wine;  
God of youth let this day here  
Enter neither care nor fear.    

The Prologue to the Play, called, Loves Pilgrimage.  
TO this place, gentlemans, full many a day  
We have bid ye welcome; and to many a Play:  
And those whose angry souls were not displeased  
With law, or lending money, we have pleased,  
And make no doubt to do again; this night  
No mighty matter, nor no light,  
We must entreat you look for: A good tale,  
Told in two hours, we will not fail  
If we be perfect to rehearse ye: New  
I am sure it is, and handsome; but how true  
Let them dispute that writ it. Ten to one  
We please the women, and I would know that man  
Follows not their example: If ye mean  
To know the Play well, travel with the Scene,  
For it lies upon the road; if we chance tyre,  
As ye are good men leave us not i'th' mire,  
Another bait may mend us: If you grow  
A little galled or weary, cry but hoa,  
And we'll stay for ye; when our journey ends  
Every man's Pot I hope, and all part friends.    

The Honest Man's Fortune.  
YOu that can look through heaven, and tell the Stars,  
Observe their kind Conjunctions, and their wars;  
Find out new lights, and give them where you please,  
To these men honours, pleasures, to those ease;  
You that are Gods surveyors, and can show  
How far, and when, and why the Wind doth blow;  
Know all the charges of the dreadful Thunder,  
And when it will shoot over, or fall under:  
Tell me by all your Art, I conjure ye,  
Yes, and by truth, what shall become of me;  
Find out my star, if each one, as you say,  
Have his peculiar Angel, and his way;  
Observe my Fate, next fall into your dreams,  
Sweep clean your houses, and new line your seams,  
Then say your worst: or have I none at all?  
Or is it burned out lately, or did fall?  
Or am I poor, not able, no full flame,  
My Star, like me, unworthy of a name?  
Is it your Art can only work on those  
That deal with dangers, dignities and ?  
With love, or new opinions? you all lie,  
A Fishwife hath a Fate, and so have I,  
But far above your finding; he that gives  
Out of his providence to all that lives,  
And no man knows his treasure, no not you:  
He that made Egypt blind, from whence you grew  
Scabby and Lousy, that the world might see  
Your Calculations are as blind as ye;  
He that made all the stars you daily read,  
And from thence filch a knowledge how to feed,  
Hath hid this from you, your conjectures all  
Are drunken things, not how, but when they fall:  
Man is his own star, and the soul that can  
Render an honest and a perfect man,  
Command all light, all influence, all fate,  
Nothing to him falls early, or too late;  
Our Acts our Angels are, or good, or ill,  
Our fatal shadows that walk by us still;  
And when the stars are labouring, we believe  
It is not that they govern, but they grieve  
For stubborn ignorance; all things that are  
Made for our general uses are at war,  
Even we among ourselves, and from the strife  
Your first unlike opinions got a life.  
O man, thou Image of thy Maker's good,  
What canst thou fear when breathed into thy blood  
His Spirit is that built thee? what dull sense  
Makes thee suspect, in need, that providence?  
Who made the Morning, and who placed the light  
Guide to thy labours? who called up the night,  
And bid her fall upon thee like sweet showers  
In hollow murmurs, to lock up thy powers?  
Who gave thee knowledge, who so trusted thee  
To let thee grow so near himself, the tree?  
Must he then be disinherited? shall his frame  
Discourse with him, why thus, and thus I am?  
He made the Angels thine, thy fellows all,  
Nay even thy servants when Devotions call:  
O canst thou be so stupid then, so dim.  
To seek a saving influence, and lose him?  
Can stars protect thee? or can poverty,  
Which is the light to heaven, put out his eye?  
He is my star, in him all truth I find,  
All influence, all fate, and when my mind  
Is furnished with his fullness, my poor story  
Should outlive all their Age, and all their glory.  
The hand or Danger cannot fall amiss,  
When I know what, and in whose power it is:  
Nor want, the cause of man, shall make me groan,  
A holy Hermit is a mind alone.  
Doth not experience teach us all we can  
To work ourselves into a glorious man?  
Love's but an Exhalation to best eyes,  
The matter spent, and then the fool's fire dies;  
Were I in love, and could that bright star bring  
Increase to wealth, honour, and every thing;  
Were she as perfect good as we can aim,  
The first was so, and yet she lost the game.  
My Mistress then be knowledge, and fair truth;  
So I enjoy all beauty, and all youth:  
And though to Time her lights and Laws she lends,  
She knows no Age that to corruption bends.  
Friend's promises may lead me to believe,  
But he that is his own friend knows to live;  
Affliction when I know it is but this,  
A deep allay whereby man tougher is  
To bear the hammer, and the deeper still,  
We still arise more Image of his will;  
Sickness an humorous cloud 'twixt us and light,  
And death, at longest, but another night.  
Man is his own star, and that soul that can  
Be honest, is the only perfect man.   

Mr Francis Beaumont's Letter to Ben johnson, written before he and Mr Fletcher came to London, with two of the precedent Comedies then not finished, which deferred their merry meetings at the Mermaid.  
THe Sun which doth the greatest comfort bring  
To absent friends, because the selfsame thing  
They know they see, however absent is,  
(Here our best haymaker, forgive me this,  
It is our Country's stile) in this warm shine  
I lie and dream of your full Mermaid wine;  
O we have water mixed with Claret Lees,  
Drink apt to bring in drier heresies  
Than here, good only for the Sonnets strain,  
With Fustian Metaphors to stuff the brain;  
So mixed, that given to the thirstiest one  
'Twill not prove Alms, unless he have the stone:  
Think with one draught man's Invention fades,  
Two Cups had quite spoiled Homer's Iliads;  
'Tis Liquor that will find out Sutclifts Wit,  
Like where he will, and make him write worse yet;  
Filled with such moisture, in most grievous Qualms  
Did Robert Wisdom writ his singing Psalms:  
And so must I do this, and yet I think  
It is a potion sent us down to drink  
By special providence, keeps us from fights,  
Make us not laugh when we make legs to Knights:  
'Tis this that keeps our minds fit for our states,  
A Medicine to obey our Magistrates;  
For we do live more free than you, no hate,  
No envy at one another's happy state  
Moves us, we are all equal every whit;  
Of Land that God gives men, here is their wit  
If we consider fully for our best,  
And gravest men will with his main house jest,  
Scarce please you, we want subtlety to do  
The City Tricks, lie, hate, and flatter too;  
Here are none that can bear a painted show,  
Strike when you winch, and then lament the blow;  
Who like Mils, set the right way for to grind,  
Can make their gains alike with every wind:  
Only some fellows with the subtlest pate  
Amongst us, may perchance equivocate  
At selling of a Horse, and that the most;  
Methinks the little wit I had is lost  
Since I saw you, for a wit is like a rest,  
Held up a tennis, which men do the best  
With the best Gamesters: what things have we seen  
Done at the Mermaid? Hard words that have been  
So nimble, and so full of subtle flame,  
As it that every one from whence they came  
Had meant to put his whole wit in a Jest,  
And had resolved to live a fool the rest  
Of his dull life; then when there hath been thrown  
Wit able enough to justify the Town  
For three days past, wit that might warrant be  
For the whole City to take foolishly  
Till that were cancelled, and when that was gone  
We left an air behind us, which alone  
Was able to make the two next Companies  
Right witty, though but downright fools more wise:  
When I remember this, and see that now  
The Country Gentlemen begin t' allow  
My wit for dry bobs, than I needs must cry,  
I see my days of Ballading grow nigh;  
I can already riddle, and can sing  
Catches, sell bargains, and I fear shall bring  
Myself to speak the hardest words I find  
Over as oft as any with one wind  
That takes no medicines: but one thought of thee  
Makes me remember all these things to be  
The wit of our young men, fellows that show  
No part of good, yet utter all they know;  
Who, like trees of the guard, have growing souls,  
Only strong Destiny, which all controls,  
I hope hath left a better fate in store  
For me, thy friend, than to live ever poor.  
Banished unto this home-fate once again,  
Bring me to thee, who canst make smooth and plain  
The way of knowledge for me, and then I,  
Who have no good but in thy company,  
Protest it will my greatest comfort be  
To acknowledge all I have to flow from thee.  
Ben, when these Scenes are perfect we'll taste Wine,  
I'll drink thy Muse's health, thou shalt quaff mine.   

On Francis Beaumont's Death.  
HE that had Youth, and Friends, and so much Wit  
As would ask five good Wits to husband it:  
He that hath wrote so well, that no man dare  
Refuse it for the best, let him beware,  
Beaumond is dead, by which our Art appears,  
Wit's a disease consumes one in few years.   

An Elegy upon Mr Fran. Beaumond.  
BEaumont lies here, and where now shall we have  
A Muse, like his, to sigh upon his grave?  
Ah none to weep this with a worthy tear,  
But he that cannot, Beaumond, that lies here;  
Who now shall pay this tomb with such a verse,  
As thou that Ladies didst, fair Rudlands hearse?  
A monument that will then lasting be,  
When all her marble is more dust than she:  
In thee all's lost, a sudden dearth and want  
Hath seized on wit, good Epitaphs are scant:  
We dare not write thy Elegy, for each fears  
He ne'er shall match a copy of thy tears;  
Scarce yet in age a Poet, and yet he  
Scarce lives the third part of his age to see;  
But quickly taken off, and only known,  
Is in a minute shut as soon as blown.  
Why should weak nature tire herself in vain,  
In such a piece, and cast it strait again?  
Why should she take such work beyond her skill,  
And when she cannot perfect she must kill;  
Alas, what is't to temper slime and mire?  
Then's nature pusseled when the work's entire:  
Great brains, like bright glass, crackle strait, while those  
Of stone and wood hold out, and fear no blows;  
And we their ancient hoary heads can see,  
Whose wit was never their mortality.  
Beaumond dies young, so Sidney died before,  
There was not Poetry, he could live no more:  
He could not grow up higher, nay, I scarce know,  
If thou'rt itself unto that pitch could grow,  
Were't not in thee, who hadst arrived to th' height  
Of all that Art could reach, or nature might.  
Oh, when I read those excellent things of thine,  
Such strength, such sweetness, couched in every line;  
Such life of fancy, such high choice of brain,  
Nought of the vulgar mint, or borrowed strain;  
Such passions, such expressions, meet mine eye,  
Such wit untainted with obscenity:  
And these so unaffectedly expressed,  
But all in a pure flowing language dressed;  
So new, so fresh, so nothing trod upon,  
And all so borne within thyself, thine own:  
I grieve not now that old Meander's vein  
Is ruined, to survive in thee again:  
Such in his time was he, of the same piece,  
The smooth, even natural wit, and love of Greece;  
Whose few sententious fragments show more worth  
Than all the Poets Athens e'er brought forth:  
And I am sorry I have lost those hours  
On them, whose quickness comes far short of ours,  
And dwelled not more on thee, whose every page  
May be a pattern to their Scene and age;  
I will not yield thy worth so mean a praise,  
More pure, more chaste, more sainted than are plays:  
Nor with that dull supineness to be read,  
To pass a fire, or laugh an hour in bed:  
How do the Muses suffer every where?  
Taken in such mouths, sensured in such ears;  
That 'twixt a whiff, a line or two rehearse,  
And with their Rheum together, spawle a verse:  
'Tis all a Punies leisure after play,  
Drink and Tobacco, it may spend the day;  
Whilst even their very idleness they think,  
Is lost in these, that lose their times in drink:  
Pity their dulness; we that better know,  
Will a more serious hour on thee bestow;  
Why should not Beaumond in the morning please,  
As well as Plautus, Aristophanes?  
Who if my pen may, as my faults, be free,  
Were humble wits, and Buffoons both to thee:  
Yet those our learned of severest brow,  
Will deign to look on, and so note them too;  
That will defy our own, his English stuff,  
And th' Author is not rotten long enough:  
Alas▪ how ill are they compared to thee,  
In thy Philaster, or maid's Tragedy?  
Where's such a humour as thy Bessus? nay,  
Let them put all their treasures in one Play,  
He shall outbid them, their conceit was poor,  
All in the circle of a Bawd or Whore,  
A cozening— take the fool away,  
And not a good jest extant in a Play:  
Yet these are wits, theyare old, that's it, and now  
Being Greek, or Latin, they are learning too;  
But those their own times were content t' allow  
A thriftier fame, and thine is lowest now,  
But thou shalt live, and when thy name is grown  
Six ages elder, shalt be better known:  
When thou'rt of Chaucer's standing in thy tomb,  
Thou shalt not shame, but take up all his room.  
J. EARL.   

On William Shakespeare.  
REnowned Spencer lie a thought more nigh  
To learned Chaucer, and rare Beaumond lie  
A little nearer Spencer, to make room  
For Shakespeare in your threefold, fourfold tomb,  
To lodge all four in one bed make a shift  
Until Dooms day, for hardly will a fifth  
Betwixt this day and that by Fates be slain,  
For whom your curtains may be drawn again.  
If your precedency in death do bar  
A fourth place in your sacred sepulchre,  
Under this sacred Marble of thine own,  
Sleep rare Tragedian Shakespeare! sleep alone.  
Thy unmolested peace in an unshared Cave,  
Possess as Lord, not Tenant of thy grave;  
That unto us, and others it may be,  
Honour hereafter to be laid by thee.   

On Ben Johnson.  
HEre lies Johnson with the rest  
Of the Poets; but the best  
Reader, wouldst thou more have known?  
Ask his Story, not this Stone;  
That will speak what this can't tell  
Of his glory. So farewell.   

Another on Ben Johnson.  
THe Muses fairest light in no dark time;  
The wonder of a learned Age; the Line  
That none can pass; the most proportioned wit  
To Nature; the best Judge of what was fit:  
The deepest, plainest, highest, clearest pen;  
The voice most echoed by consenting men:  
The soul which answered best to all well said  
By others; and which most requital made:  
Tuned to the highest key of ancient Rome,  
Returning all her music with her own;  
In whom with nature, study claimed a part,  
And yet who to himself owed all his Art.  
Here lies Ben Johnson, every age will look  
With sorrow here, with wonder on his Book.   

On Mr Edm. Spencer, Famous Poet.  
AT Delphos shrine, one did a doubt propound,  
Which by th' Oracle must be released,  
Whether of Poets were the best renow'nd:  
Those that survive, or they that are deceased?  
The Gods made answer by divine suggestion,  
While Spencer is alive, it is no question.   

On Michael Drayton buried in Westminster.  
Do pious Marble, let thy Readers know,  
What they, and what their children owe  
To Drayton's sacred name, whose dust  
We recommend unto thy trust.  
Protect his memory, preserve his story,  
And a lasting Monument of his glory;  
And when thy ruins shall disclaim  
To be the Treasury of his name,  
His name which cannot fade, shall be  
An everlasting monument to thee.   

On the Tombs in Westminster.  
MOrtality, behold, and fear,  
What a change of flesh is here!  
Think how many Royal bones  
Sleep within these heap of Stones;  
Here they lie, had Realms, and Lands,  
Who now want strength to stir their hands;  
Where from their pulpits sealed with dust,  
They preach, In Greatness is no trust.  
Here's an Acre sown indeed,  
With the richest, royalest seed,  
That the earth did  suck in  
Since the first man died for sin:  
Here the bones of birth have cried,  
Though Gods they were, as men they died:  
Here are Sands, ignoble things,  
Dropped from the ruin'd sides of Kings.  
Here's a world of Pomp and State  
Buried in Dust, once dead by Fate.   

The Exaletation of ALE.  

NOt drunken, nor sober, but neighbour to both,  
I met with a friend in Alesbury Vale;  
He saw by my face, that I was in the case  
To speak no great harm of a Pot of good Ale.   

Then did he me greet, and said, since we meet,  
(And he put me in mind of the name of the Dale)  
For Alesbury's sake some pains I would take,  
And not bury the praise of a Pot of good Ale.   

The more to procure me, than he did adjure me  
If the Ale I drank last were nappy and stolen,  
To do it its right, and stir up my spirit,  
And fall to commend a etc.   

Quoth I, To commend it I dare not begin,  
Lest therein my Credit might happen to fail;  
For, many men now do count it a sin,  
But once to look toward a etc.   

Yet I care not a pin, for I see no such sin,  
Nor any thing else my courage to quail:  
For, this we do find, that take it in kind,  
Much virtue there is in a etc.   

And I mean not to taste, though thereby much graced,  
Nor the Merry-go-down without pull or hale,  
Perfuming the throat, when the stomach's afloat,  
With the fragrant sweet sent of a etc.   

Nor yet the delight that comes to the sight  
To see how it flowers and mantles in graile,  
As green as a leek, with a smile in the cheek,  
The true orient colour of a etc.   

But I mean the Mind, and the good it doth find;  
Not only the Body so feeble and frail:  
For, Body and Soul may bless the Black Bowl,  
Since both are beholden to a etc.   

For, when heaviness the mind doth oppress,  
And sorrow and grief the heart do assail.  
No remedy quicker than to take off your liquor,  
And to wash away cares with a etc.   

The Widow that buried her husband of late,  
Will soon have forgotten to weep and to wail,  
And think every day twain, till she marry again,  
If she read the contents of a etc.   

It is like a belly-blast to a cold heart,  
And warms, and engenders the spirits vitale,  
To keep them from damage, all spirits own their homage  
To the Spirit of the Buttery a etc.   

And down to the legs the virtue doth go,  
And to a bad Footman is as good as a sail;  
When it fills the veins, and makes light the brains,  
No Lackey so nimble as a etc.   

The naked complains not for want of a Coat,  
Nor on the cold weather will once turn his tail;  
All the way as he goes he cuts the wind with his nose,  
If he be but well wrapped in a etc.   

The hungry man takes no thought for his meat,  
Though his stomach would brook a tenpenny nail;  
He quite forgets hunger, thinks on it no longer,  
If he touch but the sparks of a etc.   

The Poor man will praise it, so hath he good cause,  
That all the year eats neither partridge nor quail,  
But sets up his rest, and makes up his feast  
With a crust of brown bread, and a etc.   

The Shepherd, the Sour, the Thresher, the Mower,  
The one with his Scyth, the other with his flail,  
Take them out by the poll, on the peril of my soll,  
All will hold up their hands to a etc.   

The Blacksmith, whose bellows all summer do blow,  
With the fire in his face still, without e'er a veil,  
Though his throat be full dry, he will tell you a lie,  
But where you may be sure of a etc.   

Who ever denies it, the Prisoners will praise it,  
That beg at the grate, and lie in the Goal:  
For, even in their fetters, they think themselves better,  
May they get but a twopenny black pot of Ale.   

The beggar whose portion is always his prayers,  
Not having a tatter to hang on his tail,  
Is as rich in his rags, as the churl in his bags,  
If he once but shakes hands with a etc.   

It drives his poverty clean out of mind,  
Forgetting his brown bread, his wallet, and mail;  
He walks in the house like a six-footed Louse,  
If once he be enriched with a etc.   

And he that doth dig in the ditches all day,  
And wearies himself quite at the plough-taile,  
Will speak no less things than of Queens and of Kings,  
If he touch but the top of a etc.   

'Tis like a Whetstone to a blunt wit,  
And makes a supply where Nature doth fail:  
The dullest wit soon will look quite through the Moon,  
If his temples be wet with a etc.   

Then DICK to his Darling, fall boldly dares speak,  
Though, before (silly fellow) his courage did quail,  
He gives her the smooch, with his hand on his pouch,  
If he meet by the way with a etc.   

And it makes the Carter a Courtier straightway,  
With Rhetorical terms he will tell his tale;  
With Courtesies great store, and his Cap up before,  
Being schooled but a little with a etc.   

The Old man, whose tongue wags faster than his teeth,  
(For old-age by nature doth drivel and drale)  
Will frig and will fling, like a dog in a string,  
If he warm his cold blood with a etc.   

And the good Old Clerk, whose sight waxeth dark,  
And ever he thinks the Print is to small,  
He will see every letter, and say Service better,  
If he glaze but his eyes with a etc.   

The Cheeks and the Jaws to commend it have cause;  
For where they were late but even wan and pale,  
They will get them a colour, no Crimson is fuller,  
By the true die and tincture of a etc.   

Mark her enemies, though they think themselves wise,  
How meager they look, with how low a wail,  
How their cheeks do fall, without spirits at all,  
That alien their minds from a etc.   

And now that the grains do work in my brains,  
Me thinks I were able to give by retail  
Commodities store, a dozen and more,  
That flow to Mankind from a etc.   

The MUSES would muse any should it misuse:  
For it makes them to sing like a Nightingale,  
With a lofty trim note, having washed their throat  
With the Caballine Spring of a etc.   

And the Musician of any condition,  
It will make him reach to the top of his Scale:  
It will clear his pipes, and moisten his lights,  
If he drink alternatim a etc.   

The Poet divine, that cannot reach wine,  
Because that his money doth many times fail,  
Will hit on the vein to make a good strain,  
If he be but inspired with a etc.   

For Ballads ELDERTON never had Peer,  
How went his wit in them, with how merry a gale;  
And with all the sails up, had he been at the cup,  
And washed his beard with a etc.   

And the power of it shows, no whit less in Prose,  
It will file one's phrase, and set forth his tale:  
Fill him but a bowl, it will make his tongue troll,  
For flowing speech flows from a etc.   

And Master Philosopher, if he drink his part,  
Will not trifle his time in the husk or the shalt,  
But go to the kernel by the depth of his Art,  
To be found in the bottom of a etc.   

Give a Scholar of OXFORD a pot of Sixteen,  
And put him to prove that an Ape hath no tail,  
And sixteen times better his wit will be seen,  
If you fetch him from Botley a etc.   

Thus it helps Speech and Wit: And it hurts not a whit,  
But rather doth further the Virtues Morale,  
Then think it not much if a little I touch  
The good moral parts of a etc.   

To the Church and Religion it is a good friend,  
Or else our forefathers their wisdom did fail,  
That at every mile, next to the Church stile,  
Set a consecrate house to a etc.   

But now, as they say, Beer bears it away;  
The more is the pity, if right might prevail:  
For, with this same Beer, came up Heresy here,  
The old Catholic Drink is a etc.   

The Churches much owe, as we all do know;  
For when they be drooping and ready to fall,  
By a Whitsun or Church-ale, up again they shall go,  
And own their repairing to a etc.   

Truth will do it right, it brings Truth to light,  
And many bad matters it helps to reveal:  
For, they that will drink, will speak what they think;  
TOM telltruth lies hid in a etc.   

It is Justice's friend, she will it commend,  
For, all is here served by measure and tale:  
Now, true-tale, and good measure are Justice's treasure,  
And much to the praise of a etc.   

And next I allege, it is Fortitudes edge:  
For a very Cowherd, that shrinks like a snail,  
Will swear and will swagger, and out goes his dagger,  
If he be but armed with a etc.   

Yea, ALE hath her Knights and Squires of degree,  
That never wore Corslet, nor yet shirt of mail,  
But have fought their fights all, 'twixt the pot and the wall,  
When once they were dubbed with a etc.   

And sure it will make a man suddenly wise,  
Erewhile was scarce able to tell a right tale:  
It will open his jaw, he will tell you the Law,  
As made a right Bencher of a etc.   

Or he that will make a bargain to gain,  
In buying, or setting his goods forth to sale,  
Must not plod in the mire, but sit by the fire,  
And seal up his Match with a etc.   

But for Soberness needs must I confess,  
The matter goes hard: And few do prevail  
Not to go too deep, but temper to keep,  
Such is the Attractive of a etc.   

But here's an amends, which will make all friends,  
And ever doth tend to the best avail;  
If you take it too deep it will make you but sleep;  
So comes no great harm of a etc.   

If (reeling) they happen to fall to the ground,  
The fall is not great, they may hold by the Rail:  
If into the water, they cannot be drowned,  
For that gift is given to a etc.   

If drinking about they chance to fall out,  
Fear not the Alarm, though flesh be but frail,  
It will prove but some blows, or at most a bloody nose,  
And friends again strait with a etc.   

And Physic will favour ALE as it is bound,  
And be against Beer both tooth and nail:  
They send up and down all over the Town  
To get for their Patients a &c.   

Their Aleberries, Cawdles, and Possets each one,  
And Syllabubs made at the Milking-paile,  
Although they be many, Beer comes not in any,  
But all are composed with a etc.   

And in very deed the Hop's but a weed,  
Brought o'er against Law, and here set to sale:  
Would the Law were renewed, and no more Beer brewed,  
But all good men betake them to a etc.   

The Law, that will take it under her wing:  
For, at every Law-day, or Moot of the hale,  
One is sworn to serve our Sovereign the KING,  
In the ancient Office of a CONNER of ALE.   

There's never a Lord of Manor or of Town,  
By strand or by land, by hill or by dale,  
But thinks it a Franchise, and a Flower of the CROWN,  
To hold the Assize of a etc.   

And though there lie Writs, from the Courts Paramount,  
To stay the proceed of the Courts Paravaile;  
Law favours it so, you may come, you may go,  
There lies no Prohibition to a etc.   

They talk much of State both early and late,  
But if Gascoign and Spain their Wine should but fail,  
No remedy then, with us Englishmen,  
But the State it must stand by a etc.   

And they that sit by it are good men and quiet,  
No dangerous Plotters in the Commonweal  
Of Treason and Murder: For, they never go further  
Than to call for, and pay for a etc.   

To the praise of GAMBRIVIUS that good British King  
That devised for his Nation (by the Welshman's tale)  
Seventeen hundred years before CHRIST did spring,  
The happy invention of a etc.   

The North they will praise it, and praise it with passion,  
Where every River gives name to a Dale:  
There men are yet living that are of th' old fashion,  
No Nectar they know but a etc.   

The PICTS and the SCOTS for ALE were at lots,  
So high was the skill, and so kept under seal:  
The PICTS were undone, slain each mother's son,  
For not teaching the SCOTS to make Hither Eale.   

But hither or thither, it skils not much whether:  
For Drink must be had, men live not by Keale,  
Nor by Havor-bannocks, nor by Havor-jannocks,  
The thing the SCOTS live on is a etc.   

Now, if you will say it, I will not denay it,  
That many a man it brings to his bale:  
Yet what fairer end can one wish to his friend,  
Than to die by the part of a etc.   

Yet let not the innocent bear any blame,  
It is their own do to break o'er the pale:  
And neither the Malt, nor the good wife in fault,  
If any be potted with a etc.   

They tell whom it kills, but say not a word,  
How many a man liveth both sound and hale,  
Though he drink no Beer any day in the year,  
By the Radical humour of a etc.   

But, to speak of Killing, that am I not willing;  
For that, in a manner, were but to rail:  
But Beer hath its name, 'cause it brings to the Bier●,  
Therefore welfare say I to a etc.   

Too many (I wis) with their deaths proved this,  
And therefore (if ancient Records do not fail)  
He that first brewed the Hop was rewarded with a rope,  
And found his Beer far more bitter than ALE.   

O ALE ab olendo, thou Liquor of LIFE!  
That I had but a mouth as big as a Whale!  
For mine is too little to touch the least tittle  
That belongs to the praise of a etc.   

Thus I trow) some Virtues I have marked you out,  
And never a Vice in all this long trail,  
But that after the Pot there cometh a Shot,  
And that's th' only blot of a etc.   

With that my Friend said, That Blot will I bear,  
You have done very well, it is time to strike sail,  
we'll have six pots more though I die on the score,  
To make all this good of a Pot of good ALE.    

The Good Fellow.  
When shall we meet again to have a taste  
Of that transcendent Ale we drank of last?  
What wild ingredient did the woman chose  
To make her drink withal? It made me lose  
My wit before I quenched my thirst; there came  
Such whimsies in my brain, and such a flame  
Of fiery drunkenness had singed my nose,  
My beard shrunk in for fear; there were of those  
That took me for a Comet, some afar  
Distant remote, thought me a blazing star:  
The earth methought, just as it was, it went  
Round in a wheeling course of merriment;  
My head was ever drooping, and my nose  
Offering to be a suitor to my toes;  
My pock-hole face, they say, appeared to some  
Just like a dry and burning honeycomb;  
My tongue did swim in Ale, and joyed to boast  
Itself a greater Seaman than the toast;  
My mouth was grown awry, as if it were  
Labouring to reach the whisper in mine ear;  
My guts were mines of sulphur, and my set  
Of parched teeth struck fire as they met:  
Nay, when I pissed, my Urine was so hot,  
It burned a hole quite through the chamber-pot:  
Each Brewer that I met I kissed, and made  
Suit to be bound Apprentice to the Trade:  
One did approve the motion, when he saw,  
That my own legs could my Indentures draw.  
Well Sir, I grew stark mad, as you may see  
By this adventure upon Poetry.  
You easily may guess, I am not quite  
Grown sober yet, by these weak lines I writ:  
Only I do it for this, to let you see,  
Whos 'ere paid for the Ale, I'm sure it paid me.   

The virtue of Sack.  
FEtch me Ben Johnson's scull, and filled with Sack,  
Rich as the same he drank, when the whole pack  
Of jolly sisters pledged, and did agree,  
It was no sin to be as drunk as he:  
If there be any weakness in the wine,  
There's virtue in the Cup to make it divine;  
This muddy drench of Ale does taste too much  
Of earth, the Malt retains a scurvy touch  
Of the dull hand that sows it; and I fear  
There's heresy in hops; give blockheads beer,  
And silly Ignoramus, such as think  
There's powder-treason in all Spanish drink,  
Call Sack an Idol; we will kiss the Cup,  
For fear the Conventicle be blown up  
With superstition; away with Brewhouse alms,  
Whose best mirth is six shillings beer and qualms.  
Let me rejoice in sprightly Sack, that can  
Create a brain even in an empty pan.  
Canary! it's thou that dost inspire  
And actuate the soul with heavenly fire.  
Thou that sublim'st the Genius-making wit,  
Scorn earth, and such as love, or live by it.  
Thou makest us Lords of Regions large and fair,  
Whilst our conceits build Castles in the air:  
Since fire, earth, air, thus thy inferiors be,  
Henceforth I'll know no element but thee:  
Thou precious Elixir of all Grapes,  
Welcome, by thee our Muse gins her 'scapes,  
Such is the worth of Sack; I am (me thinks)  
In the Exchequer now, hark how it chinks,  
And do esteem my venerable self  
As brave a fellow, as if all the pelf  
Were sure mine own; and I have thought a way  
Already how to spend it; I would pay  
No debts, but fairly empty every trunk,  
And change the Gold for Sack to keep me drunk;  
And so by consequence till rich Spain's wine  
Being in my crown, the Indies too were mine:  
And when my brains are once afoot (heaven bless us!)  
I think myself a better man than Croesus.  
And now I do conceit myself a Judge,  
And coughing, laugh to see my Clients trudge  
After my Lordship's Coach unto the Hall  
For Justice, and am full of law withal,  
And do become the Bench as well as he  
That fled long since for want of honesty:  
But I'll be Judge no longer, though in jest,  
For fear I should be talked with like the rest  
When I am sober; Who can choose but think  
Me wise that am so wary in my drink?  
Oh admirable Sack! here's dainty sport,  
I am come back from Westminster to Court,  
And am grown young again; my Ptisick now  
Hath left me, and my Judges graver brow  
Is smoothed; and I turned amorous as May,  
When she invites young Lovers forth to play  
Upon her flowery bosom: I could win  
A Vestal now, or tempt a Queen to sin.  
Oh for a score of Queens! you'd laugh to see  
How they would strive which first should ravish me:  
Three Goddesses were nothing: Sack has tipped  
My tongue with charms like those which Paris sipped  
From Venus, when she taught him how to kiss  
Fair Helen, and invite a fairer-blisse:  
Mine is Canary-Rhetorick, that alone  
Would turn Diana to a burning stone;  
Stone with amazement, burning with love's fire,  
Hard to the touch, but short in her desire.  
Inestimable Sack! thou makest us rich,  
Wise, amorous, any thing; I have an itch  
To t' other cup, and that perchance will make  
Me valiant too, and quarrel for thy sake.  
If I be once inflamed against thy foes  
That would preach down thy worth in small-beer prose,  
I shall do miracles as bad, or worse,  
As he that gave the King an hundred horse:  
Tother odd Cup, and I shall be prepared  
To snatch at Stars, and pluck down a reward  
With mine own hands from Jove upon their backs  
That are, or Charles his enemies, or Sacks:  
Let it be full, if I do chance to spill  
Over my Standish by the way, I will  
Dipping in this diviner ink, my pen,  
Writ myself sober, and fall to't again.   

Canto, In the praise of Sack.  

LIsten all I pray,  
To the words I have to say,  
In memory sure insert 'em:  
Rich wines do us raise  
To the honour of bays,  
Quem non fecere disertum?   

Of all the juice,  
Which the Gods produce,  
Sack shall be preferred before them;  
'Tis Sack that shall  
Create us all,  
Mars, Bacchus, Apollo, virorum.   

We abandon all Ale,  
And Beer that is stolen,  
Rosa-solis, and damnable hum:  
But we will crack  
In the praise of Sack,  
'Gainst Omne quod exit in 'em.   

This is the wine,  
Which in former time,  
Each wise one of the Magis  
Was wont to carouse  
In a frolic bouse,  
Recubans sub tegmine fagi.   

Let the hop be their bane,  
And a rope be their shame,  
Let the gout and colic pine 'em,  
That offer to shrink,  
In taking their drink,  
Seu Graecum, sive Latinum.   

Let the glass go round,  
Let the quartpot sound,  
Let each one do as he's done to:  
Avaunt ye that hug  
The abominable Jug,  
'Mongst us Heteroclita sunto.   

There's no such disease,  
As he that doth please  
His palate with Beer for to shame us:  
'Tis Sack makes us sing,  
hay down a down ding,  
Musa paulo majora canamus.   

He is either mute,  
Or doth poorly dispute,  
That drinks aught else but wine O:  
The more wine a man drinks,  
Like a subtle Sphinx  
Tantum valet ille loquendo.   

'Tis true, our souls,  
By the lousy bowls  
Of Beer that doth nought but swill us,  
Do go into swine,  
(Pythagoras 'tis thine)  
Nam vos mutastis & illos.   

When I've Sack in my brain,  
I'm in a merry vain,  
And this to me a bliss is:  
Him that is wise,  
I can justly despise:  
Mecum confertur Ulysses.   

How it cheers the brains,  
How it warms the veins,  
How against all crosses it arms us!  
How it makes him that's poor  
Courageously roar,  
Et mutatas dicere formas.   

Give me the boy,  
My delight and my joy,  
To my tantum that drinks his tale:  
By Sack that he waxes  
In our Syntaxes,  
Est verbum personale.   

Art thou weak or lame,  
Or thy wits too blame?  
Call for Sack, and thou shalt have it,  
'Twill make thee rise,  
And be very wise,  
Cui vim natura negavit.   

We have frolic rounds,  
We have merry go downs,  
Yet nothing is done at rodome;  
For when we are to pay  
We club and away,  
Id est commune notandum.   

The blades that want cash  
Have credit for crash,  
They'll have Sack whatever it cost 'em;  
They do not pay  
Till another day,  
Manet alta ment repostum.   

Who ne'er fails to drink  
All clear from the brink,  
With a smooth and even swallow,  
I'll offer at his shrine,  
And call it divine,  
Et erit mihi magnus Apollo.   

He that drinks still,  
And never hath his fill,  
Hath a passage like a Conduit,  
The Sack doth inspire  
In rapture and fire,  
Sic aether aethera fundit.   

When you merrily quaff,  
If any do off,  
And then from you needs will pass ye,  
Give their nose a twitch,  
And kick them in the britch,  
Nam componuntur ab ass.   

I have told you plain,  
And tell you again,  
Be he furious as Orlando,  
He is an ass  
That from hence doth pass,  
Nisi bibit ab ostia stando.    

The answer of Ale to the challenge of Sack.  

COme, all you brave wights,  
That are dubbed Ale-knights,  
Now set out yourselves in sight:  
And let them that crack  
In the praises of Sack   

Know Malt is of much might.  
Though Sack they define  
To holy divine,   

Yet it is but natural liquor:  
Ale hath for its part  
An addition of Art,   

To make it drink thinner or thicker.  
Sacks fiery fume  
Doth waste and consume   

Mens humidum radical;  
It scaldeth their livers,  
It breeds burning fevers,   

Proves vinum venenum real.  
But History gathers,  
From aged forefathers,   

That Ale's the true liquor of life:  
Men lived long in health,  
And preserved their wealth,   

Whilst Barley-broth only was rise.  
Sack quickly ascends,  
And suddenly ends   

What company came for at first:  
And that which yet worse is,  
It empties men's purses   

Before it half quencheth their thirst.  
Ale is not so costly,  
Although that the most lie   

Too long by the oil of Barley;  
Yet may they part late  
At a reasonable rate,   

Though they came in the morning early.  
Sack makes men from words  
Fall to drawing of swords,   

And quarrelling endeth their quaffing;  
Whilst dagger-ale barrels  
Bear off many quarrels,   

And often turn chiding to laughing.  
Sack's drink for our Masters,  
All may be Ale-tasters,   

Good things the more common the better.  
Sack's but single broth:  
Ale's meat, drink, and cloth   

Say they that know never a letter.  
But not to entangle  
Old friends till they wrangle,   

And quarrel for other men's pleasure;  
Let Ale keep his place,  
And let Sack have his grace,   

So that neither exceed the due measure.    

The Triumph of Tobacco over Sack and Ale.  

NAy, soft, by your leaves,  
Tobacco bereaves   

You both of the garland: forbear it;  
You are two to one,  
Yet Tobacco alone   

Is like both to win it, and wear it.  
Though many men crack,  
Some of Ale, some of Sack,   

And think they have reason to do it;  
Tobacco hath more,  
That will never give o'er   

The honour they do unto it.  
Tobacco engages  
Both sexes, all ages,   

The poor as well as the wealthy;  
From the court to the cottage,  
From childhood to dotage,   

Both those that are sick and the healthy.  
It plainly appears  
That in a few year's   

Tobacco more custom hath gained,  
Than Sack, or than Ale,  
Though they double the tale   

Of the times wherein they have reigned.  
And worthily too;  
For what they undo,   

Tobacco doth help to regain,  
On fairer conditions  
Than many Physicians,   

Puts an end to much grief and pain.  
It helpeth digestion,  
Of that there's no question,   

The gout, and the toothache, it easeth:  
Be it early, or late,  
'Tis never out of date,   

He may safely take it that pleaseth.  
Tobacco prevents  
Infection by scents,   

That hurt the brain, and are heady;  
An Antidote is,  
Before you're amiss,   

As well as an after remedy.  
The cold it doth heat,  
Cools them that do sweat,   

And them that are fat maketh lean:  
The hungry doth feed,  
And, if there be need,   

Spent spirits restoreth again.  
Tobacco infused  
May safely be used   

For purging, and killing of louse:  
Not so much as the ashes  
But heals cuts and slashes,   

And that out of hand in a trice.  
The Poets of old  
Many fables have told   

Of the Gods and their Symprosia:  
But Tobacco alone,  
Had they known it, had gone   

For their Nectar and Ambrosia.  
It is not the smack  
Of Ale, or of Sack,   

That can with Tobacco compare:  
For taste, and for smell,  
It bears away the bell   

From them both where ever they are.  
For all their bravado,  
It is Trinidado   

That both their noses will wipe  
Of the praises they desire,  
Unless they conspire   

To sing to the tune of his pipe.   Turpe est difficiles habere nugas.  

The praises of a Country Life.  
HAppy is he, that from all Business clear,  
As the old race of Mankind were,  
With his own Oxen tills his Sires left lands,  
And is not in the Usurer's bands:  
Nor Soldierlike started with new Alarms,  
Nor dreads the Seas enraged harms:  
But flees the Bar and Courts, with the proud boards,  
And waiting Chambers of great Lords.  
The Poplar tall, he than doth marrying twine  
With the grown issue of the Vine;  
And with his hook lops off the fruitless race,  
And sets more happy in the place:  
Or in the bending Vale beholds afar  
The lowing Herds there grazing are:  
Or the pressed honey in pure pots doth keep  
Of earth, and shears the tender sheep:  
Or when that Autumn, through the fields lifts round  
His head, with mellow Apples crowned,  
How plucking Pears, his own hand grafted had,  
And purple-matching Grapes, he's glad!  
With which, Priapus, he may thank thy hands,  
And Sylvane, thine that keptst his Lands!  
Then now beneath some ancient Oak he may  
Now in the rooted Grass him lay,  
Whilst from the higher Banks do slide the floods:  
The soft birds quarrel in the woods,  
The fountains murmur as the streams do creep,  
And all invite to easy sleep.  
Then when the thundering Jove, his Snow and showers  
Are gathering by the Wintry hours;  
Or hence, or thence, he drives with many a Hound  
Wild Boars into his toils pitched round:  
Or strains on his small fork his subtle nets  
For th' eating Thrush, or Pitfalls sets:  
And snares the fearful Hare, and new-come Crane,  
And ' counts them sweet rewards so ta'en.  
Who (amongst these delights) would not forget  
Love's cares so evil, and so great?  
But if, to boot with these, a chaste Wife meet  
For household aid, and Children sweet;  
Such as the Sabines, or a Sun-burnt-blowse,  
Some lusty quick Apulians spouse;  
To deck the hallowed Hearth with old wood fired  
Against the Husband comes home tired;  
That penning the glad Flock in Hurdles by  
Their swelling udders doth draw dry:  
And from the sweet Tub, Wine of this year takes,  
And unbought viands ready makes:  
Not Lucrine Oysters I could then more prize,  
Nor Turbot, nor bright Golden eyes,  
If with bright floods, the Winter troubled much,  
Into our Seas send any such:  
Th' Ionian God-wit, nor the Ginny Hen  
Can not go down my belly then  
More sweet than Olives, that new gathered be  
From fattest branches of the Tree:  
Or the herb Sorrell, that loves Meadows still,  
Or Mallows losing bodies ill:  
Or at the Feast of Bounds, the Lamb then slain,  
Or Kid forced from the Wolf again.  
Among these Cates how glad the sight doth come  
Of the fed Flocks approaching home!  
To view the weary Oxen draw, with bare  
And fainting necks, the turned Share!  
The wealthy shoushold swarm of bondmen met,  
And 'bout the steaming Chimney set!  
These thoughts when Usurer Alphius, now about  
To turn more farmer, had spoke out  
'Gainst th' Ideses, his moneys he gets in with pain,  
At th' Calends puts all out again.  
FINIS.