MELPOMENE: OR, THE MUSES DELIGHT. Being New POEMS AND SONGS.  
Written by several of the great Wits of our present Age, as I.D. T.F. S.W. T.S. C.O. I.B. etc. Collected together, and now Printed.  
LONDON, Printed for H. Rogers at the Bible in Westminster-Hall, against the Court of Common Pleas, 1678.   

A TABLE OF All the SONGS and POEMS contained in this Book.  

TO his dead Mistress, at her Tomb. Page 1  
To the former loving Mourner. 8  
SONG. I grant your eyes are much more bright. 13  
SONG. Cloris, 'twill be for either's rest. 14  
SONG. I grant, a thousand oaths I swore. 16  
Against Chastity. 18  
SONG. Cloris, if I forsake you now. 21  
The Imperfect Enjoyment 23  
SONG. Reproach me not, though heretofore. 26  
The Voyage. 28  
SONG. Blind Boy, farewell; I laugh at now. 41  
Love's Contentment. 43  
To a Coy Lady. 45  
SONG. Cloris, believe this truth, you cannot move me. 46  
The Review. To his worthy friend, Dr William Sandcroft, Dean of S. Paul's. 47  
The Schismatic. 59  
SONG. Prithee, little Boy, refrain. 62  
News from Newcastle. 64  
To the Duchess of Cleveland 71  
To a foolish Fair one 75  
Fading Beauty. 76  
To a fullgrown Beauty. 77  
The Enjoyment. 79  
A Land-voyage in Ireland. 91  
To a fair Mistress 97  
Against Women. 99  
Answer, in defence of Women. 103  
Foolish Nicety 107  
On the Victory over the Spaniards in the Bay of Sancta Crux, in the Island of Tenariff. 109  
Upon the sight of a fair Lady's breech, discovered at her being turned over in a Coach. Translated out of French. 117  
Upon the Intolerable Heat in the later end of May, and the beginning of June, 1665. 121    

New Poems AND SONGS.  

To his Dead Mistress at her Tomb.  

WIth bowed thoughts, low as this hollow Cell,  
Where thy warm youth eternally must dwell:  
With Eyes outvying this curled Marbles sweat,  
(My treasures proud usurping Cabinet)  
With the poor heart, which once thou gav'st relief,  
And that poor heart fired with all zealous grief,  
I come to parley with thy Sacred Clay,  
And with thy Ghost hold mournful Holiday;  
To offer on this place where thou'rt enshrined  
This sigh, more churlish than the Southern wind,  
Whose presume shall mount heaven, and there control  
The swift departure of thy winged Soul.   

Pale Maid, far whiter than the milky way  
Which now thou treadest; or if I all may say,  
Fair as thou living wert; What erring hand  
Hath carried thee into this silent Land?  
Who cropped the Rose and Lily from thy face,  
To plant in this same dull and barren place,  
Where nothing, like thyself, can ever rise,  
Although I daily watered with mine Eyes?  
Say, (thou who didst of late to me appear  
Brighter than Titan in our Hemisphere)  
What sullen change hath thus Eclipsed thee,  
And cast this Earth betwixt thine Eyes and me?  
Adulterous Fever, worse than Tarquin's brood,  
Who mixed thy lustful heat with her warm blood?  
Who sent, who fanned the flames to such a height  
Within her veins, as did burn out her light?  
'Twas not thy work, great Love, thy active darts  
Convey no burning Fevers to our hearts;  
But move in bloodwarm fires, whose livelihood  
By calm degrees ripens the tender bud  
Of pure affections. If the Rule be sure,  
That Souls do follow body's temperature,  
Then by her purer Soul I may conclude  
That not the least distemper durst intrude  
Upon her body, no Crisis could be,  
For that there was such perfect harmony  
In her blessed Fabric, as if Nature had  
Weighed out the sweet materials ere she clad  
Her in her fleshly Robe. I oft have read  
Gods have their heavenly Thrones abandoned,  
And feigned mortality, to compass so  
Our brighter shining heavens here below,  
womans. Sure it was so; some higher power  
Looking from off his all-commanding Tower,  
First on our constant Love, then on thy Face,  
Grew proud to Rival me, envied my place,  
Came clothed all in flames, and Courted thee,  
As erst the Thunderer did Semele:  
Laying her fate on thee to die i'th' place,  
And be consumed in the hot embrace:  
Whilst I that once enjoyed a liberty  
Kings could not claim, to love and honour thee,  
And knew myself to be above the strain  
Of our best Monarches to be loved again,  
Now ' rest of all, can unto nought aspire  
But these sad Relics of my former fire:  
These ashes in this leaden sheet enroled  
Cold as my bitter hopes, oh! bitter cold!   

Pretty Corruption! that I sighing could  
Breath life in thee, or weeping shower warm blood  
Into thy veins! for I do envy thee  
Thy Crown of Bliss, now thou art taken from me.  
My griefs run high, and my distracted brain  
Like the winged billows of the angry Main,  
When it attempts to fly into the Air,  
Falls into thousand drops of moist despair.  
'Tis true, thou living wert as gently calm  
As Lovers whispers, or a Sea of balm:  
Yet, when I think that all this now is dust,  
The fancy breaks upon me, like the gust  
Of a high-going Sea, whose fury threats  
More than my reason well can brook, and beats  
Her wounded Ribs; this must a Wrack portend,  
Or sure some proneness to a desperate end!  
It calls me Coward, and to that does add,  
Falsehearted lover, that at least ne'er had  
Spark of a Turtles fire; whose patience  
Can brook the World, now thou art taken from hence.  
It wrongs my breast, gives my true heart the lie,  
And says I never loved, I dare not die.  
And yet I dare!— I dare an inroad make  
Upon the tedious breath which now I take:  
I could out-work Time's Sickle; I could mow  
My blooming youth down even at one blow;  
Which he hath laboured at, but yet not done  
So many births of the renewing Sun.  
I have keen steel, and a resolved Arm  
Backed by despair, and grief to any harm.  
But should I strike, Dear, thou wouldst veil thy Face  
With thy white Robe, and blush me to a place  
Where nought was ever heard but shrieks and howls  
Of the condemned, and tormented Souls.  
No, when my eyes glance here, and view how still  
This sprightly Peer now lies, the sight does i'll  
My desperate fury, and a Christian fear  
Commands me quench this wildfire with a tear.  
This very touch of thy cold hand does suage  
My hot design and irreligious rage.   

But, 'tis not manners thus to keep thee from  
The silent quiet of Elysium.  
I will but add a word or two, and then  
Cast thee into thy long dead-sleep again.   

Your favour, holy linen, happy ,  
(For I must draw away this snowy cloud  
From off her whiter face) and witness now  
Ye Gods, unto an Orphan Lovers vow.   

By these blind Cupids, these two Springs of light  
Now hoodwinked in the endless mask of night:  
By this well-shapen promont, whose smooth end  
Like to a mount of Ivory doth bend  
Toward this Red-sea, upon whose Corral-shore  
I had rich Traffic once, but never more  
Must deal in: By thyself, and if there were  
A better thing for me, by that I'd swear,  
That thou shalt not, (like others,) lie and rot  
With thy fair name, fair as thyself, forgot;  
But thy Idea shall inform my brains  
Like the Intelligence that holds the reins  
Of both the Orbs; I will not know the day,  
But as it hath a lustre like the ray  
Of thy bright Eye; and when the Night is come,  
'Tis like the quiet of thy silent Tomb.   

Last, I will only live to grief, and be  
Thy Epitaph unto Posterity;  
That whoso sees me, reads, Yonder she lies,  
For whom this widowed Lover ever dies.   

And witness Heaven, now I this Oath have took,  
I kiss, and shut, the Alabaster-Book.    

To the former loving Mourner.  

THou dost invite me by thy solemn Knell  
Of Love and Sorrow, to Ring out my Bell,  
Which is so out of Tune this doleful way,  
Hang me i'th' Rope, if I know what to say.  
Can want of knowledge,— in a various sense  
On my part,— wait on her departure hence,  
Or gush a Torrent full of grief,— like thine,  
No Muse might urge a juster plea than mine.  
For,— she's abstracted ignorance,— poor thing!  
Both what she should,— and how she ought to sing:  
Nor is she one of that through pacing-Tribe,  
As will be spurred to sob, or howl for Bribe,  
Or Custom,— like the Irish at a Grave,  
Or peevish Wives,— if curbed of what they crave:  
My eyes,— too costive to bedew a Hearse,  
Wring out their tears, as hard as they do Verse;  
And this is it, that makes me seem so fine,  
And so abstemious of the Sad-Grave's Wine.   

Besides this Sacred Text,— thou dost retrieve,  
And handles,— Dead so well,— how e'er alive,  
That by the Dirge thou singest,— And that kind vow  
Thou makest t' Eternize her,— we must allow  
Her Excellence such a sublime degree,  
As her offended Eye displeased would be  
To read another's Line, besides thine own  
Unto her memory,— or on the Stone.   

And what am I,— alas!— that I should dare  
To write,— where equal such perfections are?  
No,— no,— I know my verge,— I ken how far  
Rules the poor feeble influence of my Star.  
Which,— like some Meteor,— might a while resent  
The common-gazer,— but is now quite spent.  
Some honest Countrey-Girl,— perhaps— whose face  
Chooses the next clear Current for her Glass,  
And simpering dies a Maid,— or very ne'er,  
(As in an Age some Miracles appear:)  
Or some Retailers' issue of the Town,  
Who sinks for envy at the next new Gown  
She sees, and cannot reach; may me prefer  
To be her sad Fates doughty Chronicler,  
Or so; these dead asleep, may keep awake  
My Muse, or else the wanton does partake  
Much of our Peasant's humour here, who say  
When bid to work it's some strange Holiday.   

Yet, I am none of that ungracious H●rd,  
That at another's loss, sit down unstired,  
Or else alarmed with such glad scorn, can be  
Drunk with the tears of others misery;  
When at some petty loss themselves sustain,  
You'd think the Deluge were on float again.  
A loving sympathy within me dwells,  
And, like thy Mistress, though thy grief excels  
All tribute else, which all thy Friends can pay,  
My little Rivulet attends thy Sea:  
Though like small Brooks, much shallow noise it keep,  
When Rivers are most silent, are most deep.   

Who would not hazard Credit, Life and all,  
To second such a Loyal Principal,  
As here thou provest, since a small time discovers  
How full of Changes are the most of Lovers?  
Whilst thine eternal Love goes on, and ends  
Not with her end, but time's last wings ascends!  
How will the Beauties, that of this shall hear,  
Trick up themselves, and strive to be thy dear?  
And such as dealt in Rivalship, before,  
Will seem, at least, this passage to deplore!  
To lose a Mistress in her prime, and one  
So qualified as thine! it would force a groan  
From the rough quarry of rebellious hearts,  
And his, with pity that as seldom parts,  
As with the rights of others, though he tread  
Strange paths, if once possession he can plead.   

But, oh the grief! to see a Virgin laid  
Like wax dissolved, yet no impression made!  
Her flowery blossom, such a Frost to meet,  
And for a Bridal, find a Winding-sheet!  
Can youth,— and beauty,— no exemption have,  
Ye destinies,— from an untimely Grave?  
Take old ones,- let them march,- what make they here?  
But to raise Taxes,— and make Victuals dear:  
To scold at all,— but what themselves have seen  
In such a year of James,— Or th' Maiden Queen;  
Find fault with Patches, and Black-bags in scorn,  
And cry,— 'Twas a good time when Ruffs were worn,  
And Plackets slit before,— not this new way,  
As if they fancied Italy's foul Play.  
Away with these,— for Pity spare the rest;  
These are, as good for Wormsmeat, as the best.   

A real Sadness,— I do now put on,  
When I but think on thee,— and who is gone.  
For thou hast thrown thyself before her Tomb  
So moist a Sacrifice,— and art become  
Such a surviving Monument— as we  
Find fewer sighs to spend on Her,— than thou.    

SONG.  

I.  
I Grant your Eyes are much more bright  
Than ever was unclouded light:  
And that love in your charming voice  
As much of Reason finds for choice.  
Yet if you hate when I adore,  
To do the like I find much more.   

II.  
A voice would move all but a stone,  
Without kind love shall find me one:  
And Eyes the brightest ever shined  
On me have power, but as their kind:  
You must to throw down all defence,  
As much my Reason please as Sense.   

III.  
I clearly know, say what you will,  
To read my heart you want the skill:  
And of this 'tis a pregnant sign,  
Since you see not these truths of mine;  
Which if you did, you would despair  
Without your Love to form one there.    

SONG.  

I.  
CLoris, 'twill be for either's rest,  
Truly to know each others breast:  
I'll make th' obscurest part of mine  
Transparent as I would have thine.  
If you will deal but so with me,  
We soon shall part, or soon agree.   

II.  
Know then, though you were twice as fair,  
If it could be, as now you are;  
And though the Graces of your Mind  
With a resembling lustre shined:  
Yet if you love me not, you'll see  
I'll value those as you do me.   

III.  
Though I a thousand times had sworn  
My passion should transcend your scorn,  
And that your bright triumphant eyes  
Create a Flame that never dies;  
Yet if to me you proved untrue,  
Those Oaths should turn as false to you.   

iv  
If I vowed to pay Love for Hate,  
'Twas, I confess, a mere deceit;  
Or that my Flame should deathless prove,  
'Twas but to render so your Love:  
I bragged as Cowards use to do  
Of dangers they'll ne'er run into.   

V  
And now my Tenants I have showed,  
If thou think them too great a Load;  
T'attempt your change, were but in vain,  
The Conquest not being worth the pain.  
With them I'll other Nymphs subdue;  
'Tis too much to lose time, and you.    

SONG.  

I.  
I Grant, a thousand oaths I swore  
I none would love but you:  
But not to change would wrong me more  
Than breaking them can do.  
Yet you thereby a truth will learn,  
Of much more worth than I;  
Which is, That Lovers which do swear,  
Do also use to lie.   

II.  
Cloris does now possess that heart  
Which to you did belong:  
But, though thereof she brags a while,  
She shall not do so long.  
She thinks by being fair and kind,  
To hinder my remove,  
And ne'er so much as dreams that Change  
Above both those, I love.   

III.  
Then grieve not any more, nor think  
My change is a disgrace:  
For though it robs you of one Slave,  
It leaves another's place:  
Which your bright eyes will soon subdue  
With him does them first see:  
For if they could not conquer more,  
They ne'er had conquered me.    

Against CHASTITY.  

Could Chasteness, should I praise thee, when thou art  
Nature's great'st error, and canst claim no part  
In her intentions, which doth still produce  
Creatures for propagation, and for use?  
All other Prodigies which here are seen,  
Partake some essence which is ranged between  
Two divers kinds, or join two kinds in one:  
But this is such a Monster as hath none.  
Nor doth this Rule deceive us, or misled,  
Applied to Minds, although some intercede  
'Twixt two Opinions, others them confound  
To some new Paradox: yet none is found  
So grossly stupid, wholly to exclude  
All sort of sense. Do then no more delude  
With vain appearances, when thou within  
Art rebel unto Nature, and dost sin  
Against thy own Creation, and contend,  
All that thou canst, the World by thee should end.  
So that in vain heavens light should shine or heat;  
In vain the Horse should neigh, the Ram should bleat;  
In vain the Stag should bray, the Bird should sing;  
In vain the Grass should grow, the Herb should spring,  
When their kinds grew unnatural and wild,  
And Procreation were from Earth exiled.   

I damn not yet, a Chasteness which doth rise  
From such a constant Love as makes one prize  
Some persons more than others: these effects  
Are Love's prerogatives, which so connects  
Two hearts, as they appropriate a right  
Else common unto all: let such delight  
In one another still; only that heart  
Which cannot find a reason to impart  
Itself to any, doth to me appear  
So much enormous, I may justly fear  
To be a greater Criminal than those  
Who rob and kill: for though by them men lose;  
Their lives remainder, what they had, or did,  
Yet still is theirs: But Chasteness doth forbid  
All life at once. Besides, Thiefs often win  
By acting mischief: But this Monster-sin  
Getting nought, but a false pretext to strike  
Even at Life's root, causeless supplants alike  
Both good and bad. Again, the Murderer can  
Repair his loss, and get another man:  
But Chasteness labours even to hid the Mould  
In which he should be framed, and gladly would  
(thorough a subverting of all humane state)  
At once leave Earth and Heaven desolate.   

Now, if this be the most destructive ill  
In either Sex, since they are thought to kill  
Who may and will not save; 'tis greatest sure  
In those are fair: we easier can endure  
This fault in any else, and better taste  
The Foul and Wanton, than the Fair and Chaste.  
For who thinks Rich and Miserable suit?  
Who cares for Orators when they are mute?  
What doth avail a Balm which none applies?  
And who esteems a Beauty that denies?  
Let Chasteness, then, in the unsound and old,  
The Pregnant, Married, Vowed, ill-favoured Scold,  
Not be disliked: But, in the fair and free,  
Let it be thought the greatest Crime can be;   

Since being 'gainst Natures chief end opposed,  
It seems, in it, all other Vice is closed.    

SONG.  

I.  
CLoris, if I forsake you now,  
And to some meaner Empire bow;  
Think not your Beauty I despise,  
Or slight the splendour of your Eyes:  
All the exceptions I can find  
Is, That you are more fair than kind.   

II.  
What though your Beauty do transcend,  
All Lovesick Poets so commend?  
Yet foul and willing have more taste  
Than very fair, and over-chaste.  
And who'd not stoop to common fare,  
Rather than feed too long on Air?   

III.  
Should I in vain still thus pursue,  
'Twere only to lose time and you:  
And a small fort I'd rather get,  
Than only to besiege a great:  
Long time too much of youth would waste;  
How should I man it well at last?   

iv  
Beauty does joy to th'eye dispense,  
But Kindness ravishes each Sense:  
'Tis dull to have one sense invited  
Alone, where all should be delighted.  
Enjoyment feasteth every one:  
I must, I must feed all, or none.    

The IMPERFECT ENJOYMENT.  
FRuition was the Question in debate,  
Which like so hot a Casuist I did state,  
That she with freedom urged as my offence,  
To teach my Reason to subdue my Sense.  
But yet this angry Cloud which did proclaim  
Volleys of Thunder, melted into Rain;  
And this adulterate Stamp of seeming nice,  
Made feigned Virtue but a Bawd to Vice.  
For by a Compliment that's seldom known,  
She thrusts me out, and yet invites me home:  
And those delays do but advance delight,  
As Prohibition sharpens Appetite.  
For the kind Curtain raised my esteem  
To wonder at the opening of the Scene,  
When of her breasts her hands the Guardians were,  
Yet I salute each sullen Officer,  
Though like the flaming Sword before mine eyes,  
They block the passage to my Paradise.  
Nor could those Tyrant-hands so guard the Coin,  
But Love, where't cannot purchase, may purloyn.  
For though her breasts be hid, her lips are prize,  
To make me rich beyond my avarice;  
Yet my ambition my affection fed  
To conquer both the White Rose and the Red.  
Th'event proved true: for on the Bed she sat,  
And seemed to covet, what she seemed to hate:  
Heat of resistance hath increased her fire,  
And weak defence is turned to strong desire.  
What unkind influence could interpose,  
When two such Stars did in Conjunction close?  
Only too hasty zeal my hopes did foil;  
Pressing to feed her Lamp, I spilt my Oil:  
And, that (which most reproach upon me hurled)  
Was dead to her, gives life to all the world:  
Natures chief Prop, and Motions primest Source,  
In me both lost their figure, and their force.  
Sad Conquest! when it is the Victor's fate  
To die at th'entrance of the opening gate!  
Like prudent Corporations, had we laid  
A Common Stock by, we'd improved our Trade:  
But as a Prodigal Heir, I spent by th' by,  
What home directed would serve her and I.  
When next on such assaults I chance to be,  
Give me less vigour, more activity:  
For Love turns impotent when strained too high;  
His very Cordials make him sooner die:  
Evaporates in Fume the fire too great:  
Loves Chemistry thrives best in equal heat.   

SONG.  

I.  
REproach me not, though heretofore  
I only Freedom did adore;  
And brag that none, though kind as fair,  
The loss of it could half repair:  
Since now I willingly do yield  
To Cloris beauty all the field.   

II.  
With greater joys I do resign  
My freedom, than thou ere keptst thine;  
And am resolved constant to prove,  
Should her neglect transcend my love.  
Strange Charms they are that make me burn,  
Without the hopes of a return.   

III.  
To see, and not to be in love,  
A wonder like herself would prove;  
Whose Charms by Nature and by Art  
Do each of them deserve a heart.  
For which my sorrows are but small,  
I have but one to pay them all.   

iv  
I must confess, a while I strove  
With Reason to resist my Love.  
The Saints sometimes 'gainst death do pray,  
Though it be to Heaven their only way.  
'Tis only Cloris hath the skill  
To make me blest against my will.   

V  
Nor will I so much as endure  
To think Inconstancy a Cure:  
For were I to that sin so bend,  
It sure would prove my Punishment.  
For to adore, I must confess,  
Is better than elsewhere success.    

The VOYAGE.  

I.  
AS one that's from a tedious Voyage come,  
And safe thorough thousand storms arrived at home,  
Resolves to put to Sea no more,  
Or boldly tempt the flattering Main,  
How smooth soe'er it lie, or plain;  
But having drawn his broken Hull on shore,  
To some kind Saint hangs up his consecrated Oar:  
I, who a greater Sea had passed,  
The Ocean of rough Poesy,  
Where there so many shipwrackt be,  
Or on the Rocks, or on the Quicksands cast;  
Recounting what myself had seen,  
And in how many deaths I had been,  
Where scarce an empty wish or hope could come between.  
With almost as confirmed a Vow,  
Resolved no less to consecrate  
Some Votive Table, which might show  
The Labours I did undergo;  
And at a far more easy rate,  
Give others the delight to view on Land my dangerous Fate.   

II.  
Already was the sacred Plank designed,  
And in it how I first assayed the Deep,  
When thinking only near the Shores to keep,  
There risen a sudden and tempestuous wind,  
Which made me leave the unsaluted Land behind.  
The Sea before was calm, and still,  
And gentle Airs did with my Streamers play,  
Scarce strong enough my half-struck Sail to fill,  
And thorough the yielding Crystal force my way.  
Close by did many a Vessel ride,  
Whose Pilots all with Bays were gaily crowned,  
And to the murmurs of the Tide,  
Voices and Mirth were heard around,  
Myself made there Anacreon's Lute resound; 
Turned Anacreon into English Verse.   
Which sprightly seemed, & wondrous brave,  
And its old kill Notes to have;  
But from the waters more than those rough touches which I gave.  
'Twould still of nothing sound but Love,  
Though I the various Stops did often prove:  
Wherefore new Loves I did begin, 
Made several Love-verses to Cletia & al.   
And intermixed (as parts) my own;  
Which took fresh vigour from the String,  
And o'er the dancing Floods were quickly blown.  
I Venus sang, and stolen joys, 
Translated 4 Book Virg   
And of his Flames who scaped at Troy's.  
And as the Thracian Orpheus by his skill  
To ransom his Eurydice is said, 
Claudians Rapt. Pros   
And from the Shades brought back the dead;  
My Song a greater Miracle did tell,  
And thither chained in Verse alive Proserpina did lead.   

III.  
Such was my Song: but when the Storm arose,  
Voices and mirth were heard no more,  
But every man fell stoutly to his Oar,  
And to the floods did all their strength oppose,  
Hoping to reach some Harbour, but in vain;  
They were with greater fury hurried back into the Main.  
Then might one hear in stead of these,  
The dying shrieks of such as shipwrackt were;  
And those proud Galleys, which before at ease  
Ploughed up the Deep, no longer did appear;  
But to the waves became a Prey:  
Some downright sank, some broken lay,  
And by the billows were in triumph born away.  
My Keel so many Leaks did spring,  
That all the Hold with water was flowed over;  
And a Sea no less dangerous raged within,  
Than that which strove abroad the tempest to outroar. 
Having had so many Crosses, or, which is truer, seeing the little profit, I resolved to make no more Verse, except the argument were Divine or Moral; and so resumed my old design of Paraphrasing the Psalms▪ Which I began anew, Jan. 31. 1662. and finished the 3 of June 1665.   
So overboard my lading strait I cast,  
With some faint hopes my Bark to save;  
But on the wind away they quickly passed,  
And my best safety was no hope to have.  
Yet by me still the great Jessean Lyre I kept,  
Which from my Couch I down did take,  
Where it neglected long enough had slept,  
And all its numerous Chords I did awake;  
Thinking, since I the waves must try,  
Them and the Sea-gods with a Song to pacify.   

iv  
I played, and boldly then plunged down,  
Holding my Harp still in my hand,  
My dear Companion through those paths unknown;  
But hopeless with it ere to reach the Land,  
When lo, the chaste jarma, with a throng  
Of Nymphs and Tritons waited on,  
As she by chance there passed along,  
Drove up her Chariot by my side,  
And in requital for my humble Song,  
Invited me with her to ride,  
And fearless of the way, with them my course to guide.  
And down she reached her Snowy hand,  
And from the floods me gently raised,  
Whilst all the Sea-gods on me gazed,  
And waited, ere they further went, some new Command.  
Which strait she gave, and at her word the wind  
Backward did scour: before, as smooth and plain  
The Ocean lay; storms only raged behind:  
So to my Harp I turned again,  
And all its silent fetters did unbind.  
No longer was I of the Deep afraid,  
But bolder grown, more Anthems played,  
And on them put my Chains, who theirs upon the waves had laid.  
Till having many a Country past,  
And coasting the whole earth around,  
The Northwest passage navigable found,  
I on my native shore was cast,  
And safely touched the British Isle at last.   

V  
This Table as in Colours 'twas expressed,  
And which Belisa's curious Pencil wrought, 
Mistress Mary Beal.   
With Ivy Garlands and with Bays I dressed,  
And to my Muses sacred Temple brought;  
Hoping it would accepted be,  
And surely gain my liberty  
From future service, and declare me free.  
But as I waiting in the Court did stand,  
Into a sudden ecstasy I fell;  
And led by an Immortal hand,  
Which entrance for me did command,  
Approached the Fanes most private Cell  
By none ere seen before, where awful dread and reverence dwell.  
'Twas not like those strait lodges here,  
Which by that name we call,  
But a magnificent and spacious Hall,  
The Roof with Paintings garnished all;  
And where in Niches on the wall,  
There did the lively forms appear  
Of such who for their Verse the Laurel Sert did wear.  
Greece and old Rome possessed the chiefest place,  
And all the upper end their quarter was:  
The sides were into several Coasts designed,  
And by their Countries you each name might find;  
Th' Italian, French, or Spanish Band,  
As they around did with their Titles stand:  
Britain as fair a space as any had;  
And no less honours were to her, than Rome or Athens paid.   

VI  
Thither I turned my eye, and in the throng  
Of Crowned heads translated there,  
Whose very Names to count would be too long,  
The bright Orinda did appear; 
Mistress Kath. Philip's died June 64.   
And though come thither last of all,  
Made the most beauteous Figure on the sacred wall.  
Aside her several Niches were prepared  
For those who shall hereafter come,  
And with her there obtain a room,  
As with her in the Muse's service they had shared.  
Already were some names enrolled,  
And in fair characters inchas'd;  
But who they were, must ne'er be told,  
Till they the fatal stream have past,  
And after death have here their living Statues placed.  
My Muse alone these Worthies could outshine,  
As she approached me there in shape divine:  
Her golden hair was all unbound  
With careless art, and wantonly did play,  
Moved by her strings Melodious sound,  
As on her shoulders the lose tresses lay.  
A wondrous Mantle o'er her back was thrown,  
And her gay mystic Vest below  
In Royal state trailed all adown;  
A Lute was in her hand, and on her head a Crown.   

VII.  
Amazed, I at her feet did fall,  
And prostrate lay, till up she bid me stand,  
Saying, For this I thee did never call,  
But boldly to receive my great Command.  
Arise, for lo, a better fate  
Does on thy tuneful Numbers wait,  
Than what thou in the Deep hast tried of late.  
Not but that all thy labours there,  
To thine own wish shall amply be repaid.  
For I by whom enroled they are,  
Second to none but Heaven in that great care  
Which of thy Verse and thee I always had,  
Will look such large allowance for them shall be made,  
That all the damage which thou didst sustain,  
Shall not compare with thy immortal gain.   

VIII.  
Witness thy Votive Table, which I h●re accept  
Within my Archives a fair room to have,  
(Worthy for th' hand that did it to be kept)  
And thy mean Name from dark oblivion save,  
Till to another Temple, that's above,  
Reserved for those, who sacred Numbers prove,  
And there at last conclude their love.  
Thy souls bright Image I hereafter shall remove,  
Where several whom thou here dost know  
(Ambitious at their very Shrines to bow)  
Leaving their wanton Lays behind,  
Like thee, and from all base Alloy refined,  
More to resemble the Eternal mind;  
With several who were never here,  
So Godlike all their Measures were,  
(As Jesse's son, whose Harp thou erst didst bear)  
In glory with the first great Maker shine,  
And have for Mortal Bays, a Ray Divine.   

IX.  
But first, my Silvius, thou again to Sea must go,  
And many Towns, and Men, and Countries know,  
In the New-world of Christian Poesy, 
To write of the Creation never attempted by any Englishman except in Version.   
Part of which long since was designed to be  
The happy fruits of thy discovery;  
Where none of all thy Nation has been yet,  
The way so dangerous, and the task so great.  
Nor doubt but it shall recompense thy cost;  
And were it more, that age, they cry, thoust lost,  
When to serve me, thou didst the Bar forsake, 
The study of the Law.   
And for th' Long Robe, the Ivy Garland take,  
As that which would thy Name immortal make.  
For I have Honours to bestow,  
And Regal Treasures, though I rarely show  
The happy Country where they grow.  
And though some wretch the Plague endure  
Of miserable Poverty,  
The fault's his own, and not in me;  
Not that he is my Votary,  
But under that disguise an Enemy:  
Not I, but they alone who count me so, are poor.   

X.  
Try me, this once, and once more tempt the Main;  
Thou shalt not unattended go:  
For when thou next putst out to Sea again,  
I'll be thy Pilot, and the passage show.  
Nay wonder not, for 'tis no more  
Than what I several times have done before,  
When I my Tasso through those straits did guide,  
And made my Bartas o'er the Surges ride;  
Those mighty Admirals which did extend  
Their Country-bounds beyond the world's wide end:  
'Twas I conducted them those Lands to find,  
Where each did plant their Nations Colonies;  
Both spreading less their Sails than Victories.  
And there are yet more Lands for thee behind;  
And all the way, like them, thou shalt rehearse  
The Birth of things, how they from nothing risen,  
By that Almighty Word which shall inspire thy Verse,  
And help thee all its Wonders to disclose.  
No Storm upon thy Mast shall rest,  
Or any Gales but Vernal blow;  
The Sea itself, to my great service pressed,  
In plains of liquid Glass shall lie below,  
And its obedience to my Rule in dancing billows only show.  
And when thou home returned shalt be,  
And of thy native earth once more take hold,  
Myself thy Bark will consecrated see;  
And for this new World thus found out by thee,  
Make it an heavenly Sign, near that which saved the old.  
S.    

SONG.  

I.  
Blind Boy, farewell; I laugh at now  
That power to which I once did bow:  
For Reason hath the Throne regained,  
Where Passion that Usurper reigned.  
An Idol thou'rt, and so men use thee;  
Fools do adore, the Wise abuse thee.  
Beauty alone, which conquers many,  
On me hath little power, if any.  
My fault would be great as thy Blindness,  
Should I love Beauty without Kindness.   

II.  
Tyrant, who never yet wert known  
To torture any but thy own;  
To resist thee needs little skill:  
For he hath power, that hath but will.  
He that hath been mad, or a Lover,  
Believes neither, if he recover:  
Whilst we ourselves are, we defy thee;  
None which are so, are conquered by thee:  
Thy art is all in taking season,  
When we believe Sense, more than Reason.    

Love's Contentment.  

I.  
COme, my Olympia, we'll consume  
Our Joys no more at this low rate;  
More glorious Titles let's assume,  
And love according to our state.   

II.  
For if Contentment be a Crown  
Which never Tyrant could assail;  
How many Monarches put me down  
In their Utopian Commonweal?   

III.  
As Princes rain down golden showers  
On those in whom they take delight:  
So in this happier state of ours,  
Each is the others Favourite.   

iv  
Our privacy no eye dwells near,  
But unsuspected we'll embrace;  
And no slick Courtier's Pen is there,  
To set down either time or place.   

V  
We'll fear no Enemies invasion,  
But being wise and politic,  
With timely force, if not persuasion,  
We'll cool the homebred Schismatique.   

VI  
No jealous fears shall thwart our bliss,  
Unless a golden dream awake us:  
For Care, we'll not know what it is,  
Unless to please doth careful make us.   

VII.  
All discontent thus to remove,  
What Monarch boasts, but thou and I?  
In this content we'll live and love,  
And in this love resolve to die.    

To A Coy LADY.  

WHy so Fair, and yet so Cruel?  
What is Beauty, but Love's fuel?  
What's, without a Stone, a Jewel?  
Sure that Falcon needs must Mew ill,  
That not open keeps her Tuil.  
Do not think that I pursue ill,  
Or, in saying so, think you ill.  
Why so fair, and yet so Cruel?    

SONG.  

I.  
CLoris, believe this truth, you cannot move me,  
Though I deny not you are charming fair:  
No, you must love me,  
Or you must despair  
A heart under your Empire for to bring,  
Where Reason's King.   

II.  
And yet I do confess that never any  
Was in your flames so apt to burn as I;  
That you have many  
Charms can make me die:  
But all those lose their power, until I see  
You burn with me.    

The Review. To his worthy Friend Dr. WILL. SANDCROFT, Dean of St. Paul's.  

WHen first I stepped into th'alluring Maze,  
To tread this World's mysterious ways,  
Alas! I had no guide nor clue;  
No Ariadne lent her hand;  
Not one of Virtues Guards did bid me stand,  
Or asked me, what I meant to do?  
Or, whither I would go?  
The Labyrinth so pleasant did appear,  
I lost myself with much content,  
Infinite hazards underwent;  
Outstragled Homer's crafty Wanderer,  
And ten years more than he in fruitless travel spent.  
The one half of my life is gone,  
The shadow the Meridian past;  
Death's dismal evening drawing on,  
Which will with mists and damps be overcast:  
An evening which will surely come:  
'Tis time, high time to give myself the welcome home.   

II.  
Had I but hearty believed  
All that the Royal Preacher said was true,  
When first I entered on the Stage,  
And Vanity so hotly did pursue;  
Convinced by his experience, not my age,  
I had myself long since retrieved:  
I should have let the Curtain down  
Before the Fool's part had begun.  
But I, throughout the tedious Play have been  
Concerned in every Scene:  
Too too inquisitive, I tried  
Now this, anon another face,  
And then a third more odd took place;  
Was every thing, but what I was.  
This was my Protean Folly, this my pride,  
Befooled through all the Tragicomedy,  
Where others meet with hissing, to expect a Plaudite.   

III.  
I had a mind the Pastoral to prove,  
Searching for happiness in Love;  
And finding Venus painted with a Dove,  
A little naked Boy hard by;  
The Dove which has no gall,  
The Boy no dangerous Arms at all:  
They do thee, great Love, said I,  
Much wrong. Great Love scarce had I spoke,  
Ere into my unwary bosom came  
An unextinguishable flame;  
From my Amyra's eyes the Lightning came,  
Which left me more than Thunderstruck;  
She carries Tempest in that lovely name.  
Love's mighty and tumultuous pain,  
Disorders Nature like a Hurricane:  
Yet could not believe such storms could be  
When I launched forth to Sea;  
Promised myself a calm and easy way,  
Though I had seen before  
Piteous ruins on the shore;  
And on the naked Beach Leander shipwrackt lay.   

iv  
To extricate myself from love,  
Which I could ill obey, but worse command,  
I took my Pencils in my hand;  
With that Artillery for Conquest strove:  
Like wise Pigmaleon then did I  
Myself design my Deity;  
Made my own Saint, made my own Shrine;  
If she did frown, one dash would make her smile▪  
All bicker one easy stroke would reconcile:  
Plato feign'd no Idea so divine.  
Thus did I quiet many froward day,  
While in my eyes my soul did play:  
Thus did the time, and thus myself beguile;  
Till on a time, and then I knew not why,  
A tear fallen from my eye  
Washed out my Saint, my Shrine, my Deity.  
Prophetic chance! the lines are gone,  
And now I mourn o'er what I doted on:  
I find even Gioto's Circle has not all perfection:   

V.  
To Poetry I then inclined,  
Verse that emancipates the mind,  
Verse that unbinds the Soul,  
That amulet of sickly fame;  
Verse that articulates Name;  
Verse for both fortunes, apt to smile and to condole.  
Ere I had long the trial made,  
A serious thought made me afraid;  
For I had heard Parnassus sacred Hill.  
Was so prodigiously high,  
It's barren top so near the sky;  
The Aether there  
So very pure, so subtle, and so rare,  
'Twould a Cameleon kill,  
The Beast that is all lungs, and feeds on air.  
Poets the higher up the hill they go,  
Like Pilgrims share the less of what's below.  
Hence 'tis they go repining on,  
And murmur more than their own Helicon.  
I heard them curse their Stars in ponderous Rhimes,  
And in grave Numbers grumble at the Times:  
Yet where th' Illustrious Cow led the way,  
I thought it great discretion there to go astray.   

VI  
From Liberal Arts to the litigious Law,  
Obedience, not Ambition did me draw:  
I looked at awful Coyf and Scarlet-Gown  
Through others Optics, not my own.  
Untie the Gordian-knot who will,  
I found no Rhetoric at all  
In them that learnedly could brawl,  
And fill with Mercenary breath the spacious Hall.  
Let me be peaceable, let me be still:  
The solitary Thisbite heard the wind  
With strength and violence combined,  
That rend the Mountains, and did make  
The solid earth's foundation shake:  
He saw the dreadful fire, and heard the horrid noise,  
But found whom he expected in the small still voice.   

VII.  
Nor here did my unbridled Fancy rest,  
But must try  
A pitch more high,  
To read the Starry language of the East,  
And with Chaldean Curiosity  
Presumed to solve the Riddle of the Sky;  
Impatient till I knew my doom,  
Dejected till the good direction come;  
I ripped up Fates forbidden womb.  
Nor would I stay till it brought forth  
An easy and a natural birth;  
But was solicitous to know  
The yet misshapen Embryo.  
Preposterous Crime!  
Without the formal midwifery of time,  
Fond man, as if too little grief were given  
On Earth, draws down inquietudes from Heaven;  
Permits himself with fear to be unmanned,  
Balshazzar-like grown wan and pale,  
His very heart gins to fail,  
Is frighted at the writing of the hand,  
Which yet nor we, nor all our learned Magicians understand.   

VIII.  
And now at length, what's the result of all,  
Should the strict Audit come,  
And for th'Account too early call?  
A numerous heap of Ciphers would be found the total Sum.  
When incompassionate age shall plough  
The delicate Amyra's brow,  
And draw his furrows deep and long;  
What hardy youth is he,  
Will after that a Reaper be,  
Or sing the Harvest-song?  
And what is Verse, but an effeminate vent  
Either of Lust or Discontent?  
Colours must starve, and all their glories die;  
Invented only to deceive the eye:  
And he that wily Law does love,  
Much more of Serpent has than Dove.  
there's nothing in Astrology  
But Delphic ambiguity.  
We are misguided in the dark, and thus  
Each Star becomes an Ignis fatuus.  
Yet pardon me, ye glorious Lamps of light;  
'Twas one of you that led the way,  
Dispelled the gloomy night,  
Became a Phosphor to th'Immortal day,  
And showed the Magis where th'Almighty Infant lay.   

IX.  
At length the doubtful Victory's won;  
It was a cunning Ambuscade  
The World for my felicities had laid:  
Yet now at length the day's our own;  
Now Conqueror, let us new Laws set down;  
Henceforth shall all our love Seraphic turn:  
The sprightly and the vigorous flame  
On th' Altar shall for ever burn,  
And sacrifice its ancient name.  
A Tablet on my heart next I'll prepare,  
Where I will draw the holy Sepulchre;  
Behind it a fair Landscape I will lay  
Of melancholy Golgotha:  
On th' Altar I will all my Spoils lay down,  
And (if I had one) there I'd hang my Laurel Crown.  
Give me the Pandects of the Law divine,  
Such 'twas made Moses face to shine.  
Thus beyond Saturn's heavy Orb I'll tower,  
And laugh at his malicious power.  
Raptur'd in Contemplation thus I'll go,  
Above unactive earth, and leave the Stars below.   

X.  
Tossed on the wings of every wind,  
After these hov'rings to and fro,  
And still the waters higher grow;  
Not knowing where, a resting place to find,  
Wither for Sanctuary should I go,  
But, Revered Sir, to you?  
You that have triumphed o'er th'impetuous flood,  
And Noah-like, in bad times durst be good,  
And the stiff torrent manfully withstood,  
Can save me too,  
One that have long in fear of drowning been,  
Surrounded by a Cataclysme of sin:  
Do you but reach out a propitious hand,  
And charitably take me in,  
I will not yet despair to see dry land.  
'Tis done, and I no longer fluctuate,  
I've made the Church my Ark, and Sion's Hill my Ararat.    

THE SCHISMATIC.  

I.  
THough now th'Episcoparian powers  
Have raised again this Church of ours,  
And wilful opposites do bring  
I'th', circle of the Wedding-ring;  
Yet my Clarina, I've a trick  
To play loves various Schismatic.   

II.  
Nor will I constantly respect  
This Novelty, or that old Sect;  
But take the freedom still to range,  
And be a Proteus in my change:  
I'll turn to all the Sects that be,  
Yet never turn, my Love, from thee.   

III.  
A Papist I will first begin:  
For Love is but a Venial sin.  
His Holiness i'th' Porphyry Chair  
Gets Niece or Nephew for his Heir:  
Who calls it Vice, does it miscall;  
For 'tis a Virtue Cardinal.   

iv  
Next, though, indeed, I know there be  
No Penance like Presbytery,  
Whose rigid and imperious Sway  
Would force the Monarch to obey:  
Thy Faith shall make, when close we meet,  
My Works do Penance in a sheet.   

V  
An Independent I'll appear  
To any Love but thine, my Dear:  
Our winged affection we'll advance  
Above all Forms and Ordinance;  
Nor outward Rites affect I can,  
But thou shalt feel the inward man.   

VI  
The Ranter I will smartly play,  
To fright all Rivals else away.  
An Adamite I needs must prove  
With thee, my Family of Love;  
Where freely we, to move delights,  
Will use a thousand pretty slights.   

VII.  
A Seeker pleases next my mind,  
'Cause what I seek I'm sure to find.  
Like Anabaptist, who'd not strip  
In such a pleasant Bath to dip,  
Till we locked in embracing Charms,  
Turn Quakers in each others Arms?    

SONG.  

I.  
Prithee, little Boy, refrain,  
'Tis in vain  
That thou at my heart dost aim:  
For kind Bacchus does so charm it,  
Nought but Wine,  
Nought but Wine can ever warm it.   

II.  
Tell me not of Lady's eyes;  
I despise  
All flames which from thence arise:  
The highest loves ere yet created,  
Are by Wine,  
Are by Wine, quenched or abated.   

III.  
I should Women Tyrants find,  
If I whined  
When to me they prove unkind:  
The first coldness I discover,  
I cure one,  
I cure one heat by another.   

iv  
After I my flame relate,  
If she hate,  
I use her too at that rate:  
For 'tis always my desire  
To do like,  
To do like her I admire.   

V  
Therefore though you were more fair  
Than you are,  
If unkind, I would not care.  
Nothing more or less can move me  
To love you,  
To love you, than you to love me.    

News from Newcastle.  

ENgland's a perfect World, has Indies too;  
Correct your Maps, Newcastle is Peru:  
Let haughty Spaniards triumph till 'tis cold;  
Our sooty Minerals purify his Gold.  
This will sublime and hatch th'abortive Oar,  
When the Sun tires, and Stars can do no more.  
No Mines are currant, unrefined and gross;  
Coals make the Sterling, Nature but the Dross.  
For Metals, Bacchus-like, two births approve,  
Heaven's heats the Semele, and ours the Jove.  
Thus Art does polish Nature, 'tis the trade;  
So every Madam has a Chambermaid.  
Who'd dote on Gold, a thing so strange and odd?  
'Tis most contemptible when made a God.  
All sin and mischiefs it does raise and swell;  
One India more would make another Hell.  
Our Mines are innocent, nor will the North  
Tempt frail mortality with too much worth.  
Their Art so precious, rich enough to fire  
A Lover, yet make no Idolater.  
The moderate value of our guiltless Ore,  
Makes no man Atheist, nor no woman Whore.  
Yea, why should hallowed Vestals sacred Shrine  
Deserve more honour than a flaming Mine?  
These pregnant Wombs of heat would fit be,  
Than a few Embers for a Deity.  
Had he our Pits, the Persian would admire  
No Sun, but warms devotion at our fire:  
He'd leave the rambling Traveller, and prefer  
Our profound Vulcan above Phoebus Car.  
For, wants he Heat, or Light, or would have store  
Of both? 'tis here: and what can th'Sun give more?  
Nay, what's the Sun, but in a different Name,  
A nobler Coal-pit, or a Mine of Flame?  
Then let this truth reciprocally run.  
The Sun's Heaven's Coalery, and Coals our Sun:  
A Sun that scorcheth not, locked up i'th' deep;  
The Lion's chained, the Bandog is asleep.  
That Tyrant-fire which uncontrolled does rage,  
Is here confined, like Bajazeth in's Cage:  
For in each Coal pit there does couchant dwell  
A muzzled Aetna, or an innocent Hell;  
That Cloud but kindled, light you'll soon descry,  
Then will a Day break from the gloomy Sky;  
Then you'll unbutton, though December blow,  
And sweat i'th' midst of Icicles and Snow:  
The Dog-days then at Christmas; thus is all  
The year made June and Aequinoctial.   

If heat offend, our Pits afford you shade;  
The Summer's Winter, Winter's Summer made.  
A Coal-pit's both a Ventiduct and Stove;  
What need we Baths? we need no Bower nor Grove.  
Such Pits and Caves were Palaces of old,  
Poor Inns, God wots, yet in an age of Gold;  
And what would now be thought a strange design,  
To build a House, was then to undermine.  
People lived under ground, and happy dwellers  
Whose loftiest habitations were all Cellars:  
Those Primitive times were innocent, for then  
Man, who turned after Fox, but made his Den.   

But, see a sail of— trim and fine,  
To court the rich Infanta of the Mine;  
Hundreds of bold Leander's do confront,  
For this loved Hero, the rough Hellespont,  
'Tis an Armado Royal does engage  
For some new Helen with this equipage;  
Prepared too, should we their Addresses bar,  
To force their Mistress, with a ten years' War:  
But that our Mine's a common good, a joy  
Made not to mine, but every our Troy.  
But oh! these bring it with, 'em and conspire  
To pawn that Idol for our Smoke and Fire.  
Silver's but Ballast, this they bring on shore,  
That they may treasure up our better Ore.  
For this they venture Rocks and Storms, defy  
All the extremity of Sea and Sky.  
For the glad purchase of this precious Mould,  
Cowards dare Pirates, Miser's part with Gold.  
Hence is it, when the doubtful Ship sets forth,  
The Naving-needle still directs her North:  
And Nature's secret wonder to attest  
Our India's worth, discards both East and West  
For Tyne; nor only Fire commends this Spring,  
A Coal-pit is a Mine of every thing.  
We sink a Jacks-of-all-trade shop, and sound  
An Inverse Burse, an Exchange under ground.  
This Proteus-earth converts to what you'll have't,  
Now you may wear't to Silk, now turned to Plate:  
And, what's a Metamorphosis more dear,  
Dissolve it, and 'twill turn to London-Beer.  
And whatsoever that gaudy City boasts,  
Each Month does drive to our attractive Coasts;  
We shall exhaust their Chamber, and devour  
Their Treasures at Guild-ball, and Mint i'th' Tower.  
Our Stayth's their Mortgaged Streets will soon divide,  
Blazon their Cornhil-stella, share Cheapside.  
Thus shall our Coal-pits charity and pity,  
At distance undermine and fire the City.  
Should we exact, they'd pawn their Wives, and treat  
To swoop those Coolers for our sovereign heat.  
'Bove kisses and embraces fire controls;  
No Venus heightens like a peck of Coals.  
Medea was the Drug of some old Sire;  
And Aesons Bath a lusty Sea-coal-fire.  
Chimneys are old men's Mistresses, their sins  
A modern dalliance with their meazled shins.  
To all Defects a Coal-pit gives a Cure;  
Gives Youth to Age, and Raiment to the Poor.  
Pride first wore , Nature disdains Attire;  
She made us Naked, 'cause she gave us Fire.  
Full Wharffs are Wardrobes, and the Tailor's charm  
Belongs to th'Collier, he must keep us warm.  
The quilted Alderman in all's Array,  
Finds but cold comfort in a Summers-day;  
Girt, wrapped, and muffled, yet with all this stir  
Scarce warm, when smothered in his drowsy Fur;  
Nor proof against keen Winter's batteries,  
Should he himself wear all's own Liveries;  
But Chil-blains under Silver-spurs bewails,  
And in embroidered buskins blows his nails.  
Rich Meadows and full Crops are elsewhere found;  
We can reap Harvests from our barren ground.  
The bald parched Hills that circumscribe our Tyne,  
Are no less pregnant in our happy Mine.  
Their unfledged tops so well content our palates,  
We envy none their Nosegays and their Salads.  
A gay rank Soil, like a young Gallant goes,  
And spends itself, that it may wear fine Clothes;  
Whilst all its worth is to its back confined,  
Ours wears plain outside, but is richly lined.  
Winter's above, 'tis Summer underneath,  
A trusty Morglay in a rusty sheath.  
As precious Sables sometimes enterlace  
A wretched Serge, or Grograin Cassock case:  
Rocks own no Spring, are pregnant with no Showers,  
Cristals and Gems are there instead of Flowers.  
Instead of Roses, Beds of Rubies set,  
And Emeralds recompense the Violet.  
Dame Nature, not like other Madams, wears,  
Though she is bare, Pearls in her Eyes and Ears.  
What though our Fields present a naked sight?  
A Paradise should be an Adamite.  
The Northern Lad his bonny Lass throws down,  
And gives her a black Bag for a green Gown.    

TO THE DUCHESS OF CLEAVELAND.  

AS Seamen shipwrackt on some happy shore,  
Discover Wealth in Lands unknown before;  
And what their Art had laboured for in vain,  
By their misfortunes happily obtain:  
So my much-envyed Muse by Storms long tossed,  
Is cast upon your Hospitable Coast;  
And finds more favour by her ill success,  
Than she could hope for by her happiness.  
Once Cato's Virtues did the Gods oppose,  
When they the Victor, he the Vanquished chose:  
But you have done what Cato could not do,  
To choose the Vanquished, and restore him too.  
Let others still triumph, and gain their cause  
By their deserts, or by the World's applause;  
Let Merit Crowns, and Justice Laurels give,  
But let me Happy by your Pity live.  
True Poets empty Praise and Fame despise;  
Fame is the Trumpet, but your Smiles the Prize.  
You sit above, and see vain men below  
Contend for what you only can bestow:  
But those great Actions others do by chance,  
Are, like your Beauty, your Inheritance.  
So great a Soul, such sweetness joined in One,  
Can only spring from Noble Grandison;  
You, like the Stars, not by reflection bright,  
Are born to your own Heaven, and your own Light:  
Like them are good, but from a Nobler Cause,  
From your own Knowledge, not from Nature's Laws.  
Your power you use but for your own defence,  
To guard your own, or others Innocence.  
Your Foes are such as they, not you, have made;  
And Virtue may repel, though not invade.  
Such courage did the Ancient Hero's show,  
Who, when they might prevent, did wait the blow;  
With that assurance, as they meant to say,  
We will o'ercome, but scorn the safest way.   

Well may I rest secure in your great Fate,  
And dare my Stars to be unfortunate.  
What further fear of danger can there be?  
Beauty, that castives all things, sets me free.  
Posterity would judge by my success,  
I had the Grecian Poets happiness,  
Who waving Plots, found out a better way;  
Some God descended and preserved the Play.   

When first the Triumphs of your Sex were sung  
By those old Poets, Beauty was but young;  
And few admired her native red and white,  
Till Poets dressed her up to charm the sight.  
So Beauty took on trust, and did engage  
For sums of praises, till she came of age:  
But this vast growing Debt of Poesy,  
You, Madam, justly have discharged to me,  
When your applause and favour did infuse  
New life to my condemned and dying Muse;  
Which, that the World as well as you may see,  
Let these rude Verses your Acquittance be.   

Received in full this present day and year,  
One sovereign smile from Beauties general Heir.    

To a Foolish Fair One.  
'TIs true, we all confess you fair,  
The red and white well placed;  
You have an eye beyond compare,  
A delicate small waste;  
That leads to such delight as is  
Unspeakable, like after-bliss.  
A skin so pure, as new-fallen snow  
For sorrow melts away,  
Because subdued in whiteness so;  
And soft as— what to say  
Comparison limps far behind  
Your matchless body in my mind.  
But what's all this to purpose said?  
As much as nothing yet;  
Show me the Jewel here that's laid  
Up in this Cabinet.  
I'm for the kernel; and the shell,  
Though ne'er so smooth, take he that will.  
If peevishness, or proud disdain  
Become a Noble Breast,  
Ask any of Diana's Train,  
Or Abbess of the rest:  
And she'll resolve you, foolish Pride  
ne'er dwelled where Wisdom does abide.   

Fading BEAUTY.  
TAke Time, my Dear,  Time takes wing;  
Beauty knows no second Spring:  
Marble Pillars, Tombs of Brass,  
Time breaks down, much more this Glass;  
Then  that Tyrant Time bespeak it,  
Let's drink healths in't first, then break it.  
At Twenty five in women's eyes  
Beauty does fade, at Thirty dyes.   

To A Full Grown BEAUTY.  

I.  
O Tarry, let me banquet on  
Those Cherries dropping-ripe on thee;  
Too soon, alas, they will be gone,  
And a cold Palsy shake the Tree.   

II.  
No Fawn, nor yet out-lying Deer,  
Grazes within this Ivory Pale;  
Yet what now likes, will loathe the ear,  
And run into an old Wives Tale.   

III.  
Those Arms of York and Lancaster  
United in thy beauteous Cheek,  
 long will fall again to War;  
For Roses then, where shall we seek?   

iv  
Those heavenly Lights which shine so clear,  
As makes the days bright Eye to wink,  
Must suffer strange Eclipses here,  
And in their sockets faintly sink.   

V  
Those pretty Balls of Panting snow,  
That circle in the Milky way,  
Shall two lose hanging Udders grow,  
And all your glories thus decay.   

VI  
Then be not fond nice to spare  
What unthrift time will lewdly spend;  
Keep open house, and let me share;  
What freely came, as freely lend.   

VII.  
 Beauty breaks up house, and heart,  
Prove hospitably kind, impart.  
What Fools are they that lead their life in care,  
To leave rich surfeits for a thankless Heir!    

The ENJOYMENT.  

I.  
FAr from the stately Edifice,  
Where Princes dwell, and Lords resort;  
Weary of seeing in the Court  
So much constraint and Artifice,  
At home I lived in liberty,  
Though my Heart did imprisoned lie  
Within my dearest Silvia's Breast:  
Nor fearing in her Love th'inconstancy of Fate,  
I led the sweetest life for rest,  
That ever scaped the Snares of Envy, Grief, or Hate.   

II.  
My Senses kept intelligence  
With my Desires in equal measures,  
And sought me out a thousand pleasures  
With a most faithful diligence.  
Each one my Fortune did admire,  
To bless me Heaven did conspire;  
To make me happy, every Star  
Cast down so mild an influence on all my actions,  
No opposition e'er did bar  
Me from enjoying to the full all my affections.   

III.  
Thus was my state incomparable,  
So was my Mistress, and my Love;  
All others joys I soared above  
So high, that they seemed miserable.  
I was a Lover much beloved,  
And 'midst the frequent joy I proved  
No bitterness was intermixed;  
But whilst thereon I fed, the more that I enjoyed,  
The more my appetite was fixed  
To taste again, and yet my sense was never cloyed.   

iv  
Under our Climate Nature shows  
Her Beauties naked to each eye,  
Glutting the Light enchantingly  
With the choice Objects she bestows.  
Upon the Flowers we glittering spy  
Tears, or rather Pearls to lie,  
Dropped from the Cheeks of fair Auror ';  
Wherewith she to whom Zephyrus makes Vows and Prayers,  
And whom the blithe Spring does adore,  
Does beautify each Morn her Neck and Curled hair.   

V  
There 'mongst the Smiles and the Caresses,  
The little frolic God inspired,  
Danced on th'enamel Grass till tired  
With his sweet Mistresses, the Graces.  
And still when he desired to Kiss,  
He came to rest himself, Oh Bliss!  
Betwixt my Silvia's snowy Breasts;  
Whence he created thousand new and fresh delights,  
Whose Charms no Language can express;  
For every moment Life or Death was in their mights.   

VI  
Sometimes we saw a satire come,  
Who sitting in an Oaks fresh shade,  
Upon his Pipe complaints then made  
Of Love, and its sweet Martyrdom.  
Then walked we to a Grove apart,  
Wherein the Sun no beam could dart,  
To find out Solitariness.  
And finding peaceful Rest, with solitude there sporting,  
We banished all unquietness,  
Lest that might have disturbed our pretty harmless courting.   

VII.  
There under a strait Myrtle-tree,  
(Which Lovers holy do esteem)  
Where graved by Venus' hand had been  
Her Trophies, and Love's Mystery:  
Most solemn Vows betwixt us past,  
That our bright Flame should ever last;  
Nor should its Ardour weaker grow.  
Then offering up those Oaths to our Victorious King,  
We wrote them on the Bark below;  
But they were deeper printed on our heart within.   

VIII.  
Sometimes a little doubt I feigned,  
And in her Ear thus whispered I,  
(Only to sound her constancy)  
Is your Love free, or else constrained?  
Then keeping silence for a space,  
I sighed, and with a mournful face  
Proceeded thus with Lover's Art:  
Shall I e'er dare to hope? Oh heavenly Miracle!  
To be as truly in your Heart  
As in your Eyes, where I behold myself so well.   

IX.  
She moved with this, would answer me,  
(Accusing first my want of Faith)  
Lysis, a place thy Image hath  
Deeper than in my Eye can be:  
I'll take thyself to judge it here,  
You know it cannot be so near,  
Since it appears so little,— Well,  
Believe then, by reflected Lines thou dost it see  
Graved on my heart, where it does dwell,  
Thorough my eyes, as under Crystals pictures be.   

X.  
At this reply, my ravished spirits  
Being rapt into a huge content,  
I did implore her quick consent  
Unto more amorous delights.  
And thus to make our contest short,  
I tempted her to that sweet sport  
Wherewith a Woman's seldom cloyed:  
Clasping her in the heat, that great desire provokes  
(She yielding then to be enjoyed)  
Closer then amorous Vines embrace the sturdy Oaks.   

XI.  
Then on her melting Lips half closed  
I tippled, kissing night and day  
A health unto our Love always,  
Sipping that Cup whose brim was Roasted:  
My Shepherdess, as free as I,  
Pledging those healths most greedily,  
Was o'ercome with the same excess;  
When having lavishly thus spent our Amorous store,  
Our drooping Countenance did express,  
Thorough our languished looks, that we could do no more.   

XII.  
Yet our desires resuming courage,  
When our endeavours weakest grew,  
Exercised many ways anew  
Loves Game, for which each sense did forage;  
That sweet bewitching passion  
Led us with so much ardour on,  
And all our motions were so hurled,  
That who at that same time in Cypria Grove had seen us,  
Would sure have judged, that all the World  
Had been the Wager of so fierce a Fight between us.   

XIII.  
In this enjoyment nevertheless  
We scorned the World, and did content us  
With those only Joys Love lent us,  
Whilst my stretched Body hers did press.  
A thousand times of this more glad,  
Then if both Indies we had had;  
We wanted nothing those short hours:  
'Twas not our wish, a Crown or Kingdom for to have;  
We envied not Riches or Powers;  
T'enjoy those Pleasures still, was all that we did crave.   

XIV.  
But oh! what Pen's enough lascivious,  
Were it plucked from a Sparrows wing,  
For to describe so sweet a thing  
As these so oft enjoyments with us?  
Never (though with  unlaced,  
Venus her dear Love embraced)  
Were such various Sports invented:  
Nor ere did Love, and's Psyche fair with him,  
Taste such delights, were so contented  
As were our ravished Souls, with this enticing Sin.   

XV.  
The Tongue being o'th' party too,  
When a close Kiss besieged it, strait  
On the Lips borders it would wait,  
And sometimes forth in sallies go:  
The Enemy when its strokes did come,  
Found it so sweet a Martyrdom,  
That it did welcome each attaint;  
Whilst thousand Smacks and Sighs at the same time served there  
For Songs of Victory; without plaints  
Both vanquished and the Victor equally contented were.   

XVI.  
One day close by a murmuring Spring  
Of liquid Silver purified,  
Whose wand'ring winding Stream did glide  
Towards the Sea, and ran therein;  
My Lute did speak the softest strain  
Fingers could make, to entertain  
My Fancy with; but then anon  
I made the Strings break forth in a more vigorous sound,  
Which moved the very Rocks whereon  
The lusty sprightly Goats did often skip and bond.   

XVII.  
Birds by the Music drawn in numbers,  
Stretched forth their pretty necks to hear,  
Panting as if they ravished were,  
Alike o'ercome with joy and wonder.  
The Beasts we every where did see  
Gazing at us on bended knee;  
Charmed into silence all things were,  
Whilst from an aged Oak, inspired with our content,  
These words distinctly we did hear,  
Which in a pleasing tone to us were sent.   

XVIII.  
Orpheus from Rhadamanthe's sight,  
Hath now redeemed from Hell again  
(Spite of its Flames, and Fates strong Chain)  
Eurydice to heavenly Light.  
That most unparallelled Pair in Love,  
Are once more now rejoined above;  
Twice parted against boths desires,  
His Head in which the Gods such rare Gifts have enclosed,  
Nor his so much admired Lyre,  
To the Waves mercy than it seems were not exposed.    

A Land-Voyage in Ireland.  

AFter a Breakfast, the last Sundays Eve,  
By the Sun's Rise, the Blarney we did leave;  
Who at his getting up so smiled and laughed,  
As if he'd drink the Clouds for's Mornings-draught.  
But yet, alas, we had not gone a League,  
When the false Wether turned directly Teige;  
And the Wind too unkindly turned South,  
And blew i'th' Teeth of those had some, i'th' Mouth  
Of those had none, so that Betty th'unfair,  
Spite of all wants, had suffered, if then there.  
The Rain poured down so fast, 'twas too well known  
The Clouds were then not troubled with the Stone.  
This did so greatly raise a little Brook,  
That we did fear our way we had mistake;  
For 'twas so deep, that a Ship might have then  
Floated, tho' laden with Committee-men.  
Which danger, when we found, we did begin  
To wish each Hand and Foot had been a Fin.  
At length by Land and Water we got o'er,  
And had no sooner reached the Pagan-shore,  
But a bold Teige,  I could look about,  
Swore for to wet my inside as my out.  
With that he brought a Flagon, but so greasy,  
That had my Boots been half so much, with ease I  
The Water had kept out, which I did fear  
Much less than to let in his smaller Beer:  
Beer, of which many ill things might be said,  
Were't not unfit to speak ill of the Dead.  
Yet thus much of it I dare boldly say,  
Though weak, it quickly drove us all away.  
But that, you'll say, was not much for its Fame,  
Since that the Water had near done the same.  
Having my potion drunk, I held it fit  
To pay, though drinking I had paid for it:  
Perhaps the Entertainer thought the same:  
For, when but Money only I did name,  
He took't so ill, that clearly I do think,  
Nothing could be worse taken but his Drink.   

Our Host, at length, a little satisfied,  
Yet more than we, our Beasts we did bestride,  
And switch and spur, a footpace rid away,  
Unto the place where Captain Ruddock lay:  
But wet so Cap-a-pee, that where we stood,  
We almost there did raise a second Flood;  
Which made the half-drowned Garrison desire  
That we this marching Deluge would retire;  
Nay, some of them stuck not to say aloud,  
We were not Men, but a dissolving Cloud.  
Such were our Droppings, that if they had been  
Tears of Repentance, they had Drowned our Sin.   

Our half-becalmed Steeds we then did lash on,  
Till at the length we came to Bally-Glashon;  
But some, as I thought, went with an ill will on,  
Tho' that the Quarters were of Captain Dillon.  
But there my watery Friends grew quickly merry,  
Finding their Ford there turned into a Ferry;  
Hoping that I no further would have gone,  
But ended there our Navigation.   

I scorned so poor a thought, and therefore got  
A reeling Charon to a reeling Cott.  
It was a Miracle we were not sunk,  
Since that the Boat and Boat-man both were drunk.  
Had but the first as full of Liquor been  
As the last was, nought could have made it swim.  
That Axiom we did then experiment,  
That nothing's weighty in its Element;  
Else we had there miscarried without doubt,  
By Charon's wet within, and ours without.   

But of George Dillon, three Steeds I did borrow,  
Which I made bold the Water to swim thorough.  
Our Train we left there, and those three that wenton,  
Were I, my Servant Gibbs, and Maurice Fenton.  
So lean those Gennets were, that I their ribs  
Can see as plainly as I could see Gibbs:  
And, to speak true, the best Beast that we wereon,  
Was, both by Sire and Dam, a downright Garron.  
As for their mettle, you must think it rare,  
When nought about them but their hair did stare.  
Their outside, though 'twere harsh, yet sure they be  
The civilest Creatures I did ever see;  
For, without lying it might well be said,  
To every thing they bowed both knee and head;  
Chief my own, which made me strongly fear  
I then did ride on an Idolater;  
At least, if it be lawful so to say  
Of one who unto stones doth kneel and pray.  
And when he stumbled, you might then as soon  
Have hindered Fare, as him from falling down.  
But yet so wanton, that between each spit  
And stride, he ever incest would commit.  
Maurice his Steed oft put him into fright  
Of justly losing the Name of White Knight.  
The Horse too that my Man was mounted on,  
Was by his Master called Choridon.  
Which gallant Name did cost the poor Jade dear,  
It made him both Gibbs and the Cloak-bag bear;  
Which forced the proud Getulian so to puff,  
That we at first did think he took't in snuff.  
And therefore for to right him I was minded,  
Which doing, I soon found him broken-winded:  
And that he showed too in so high a form,  
I wondered, crossing Styx, he raised no storm.  
This happy truth as soon as I did find,  
I voted Gibbs still for to ride behind;  
Which though I had not, here 'tis to be noted,  
The Beast himself had done what I had voted:  
So that when Mettle did in our Steeds fail,  
That want was helped by an obliging Gale.   

But now I end, lest some might truly say,  
The Story is as tedious as the Way.  
At length, with hazard both of Life and Limb,  
By Candle-light Macroome we entered in;  
So dirty, that even as much Rain again  
Can with much difficulty make us Clean.  
Our Horses too, as those that saw them say,  
Appeared like moving Statues made of Clay;  
And though alive, did seem the selfsame Earth,  
From whence at first they did derive their Birth.   

We were no sooner lighted, but we there  
Did offer up many a Curse and Prayer:  
The first, a greater sure we could not give,  
Was, That our Horses as they were might live;  
And the last was, They might be rid by those  
Who were our Private and the Public Foes.    

To A Fair MISTRESS.  
Madam,  

TO praise you to your face, I think  
As gross a kindness as to sprinkle Ink  
Instead of those Black-patches Ladies wear  
As foils, to set their Beauties off more rare.  
Troth, I must tell you plain, to climb the Skies  
You must excuse me for a cast of Eyes;  
And having put yours out, in either's Grave  
T'inocculate a Star, 'tis wondrous brave,  
I must confess, and speaks a Giant Muse,  
Such monstrous high similitudes to use;  
They cannot choose but a rare Beauty make,  
When all the Bulls and Bears  brought to stake;  
That say her Name were Ursula, I'll wager,  
In place of Minor, she shall be the Major;  
Her Cheeks the Milkie-way, where the whole Team  
Of Deities eat Strawberries and Cream;  
And when they call for healths, young Hebe trips,  
And taps full Bowls of Nectar from her Lips:  
The very Dimple of her Chin is so,  
Cupid there hides his Quiver and his Bow:  
And, if this Dimple be so wide, I trow,  
(Hark in your Ear) What think ye that below?  
Fool that I was, 'tis easy to beguile  
The ignorant, I see; for all this while  
Until I heard her thighs white Marble were,  
I thought the man brought stones, not found them there.  
By that time to the Moon she's full compared,  
With Atoms powdered, with the Sunbeams haired,  
Toothed like an Elephant, at least like Pearl;  
Will she not seem a lusty strapping Girl?  
Her Legs, the Poles on which this Heaven stands;  
Sure she wears pretty Shoes, small Gloves on Hands.   

But let each Lover choose what he sees good,  
I love a Mistress made of flesh and blood;  
And of those mortal Beauties, to say true,  
I love none more, 'cause none more fair than you.    

Against WOMEN.  

WOman at first intended was, no doubt,  
To please and comfort man; not took to pout  
At every trifle, till in some fond passion,  
Man over-kind altered her true Creation,  
As Kings did Popes; to whom the Proverb well  
Extends, That give an inch, they'll take an ell.  
And since experience shows each Dame one,  
In state, as teeming, fain would be Pope Joan;  
So learn the garb of Pride; speaks sharp, is cruel,  
Observes no mean, no reason: Here's a Jewel  
To trust indeed! a pretty piece of Folly  
To cope with in a serious Melancholy:  
Whose Will's her Law, whose Terms allow we must,  
(And short Vacations too;) whose Love's mere Lust;  
Grant all she asks, or talks, be sure to please,  
Or else be sure to live in little ease.  
Where once her spleen's against, no Egg so ill  
Can Malice lay, but she sits brooding still;  
Her Tears as full of Treason as her Smiles,  
And both intrapping like the Crocodiles.  
Not a poor minute certain, just like one  
Plays fast and lose; now here, now presto, gone.  
Who carries Tales, brings Sweetmeats; it's no matter,  
To please her, what they sorge, or how they flatter.  
Nor cares she how she makes her Lover sad;  
But cross her in the least, she runs stark mad.  
When she's tricked up in all her gay attire,  
Less 'cause see I to love her than admire.  
Take her undressed, and all her Trinkets out,  
There's a sweet Prize to keep such coil about!  
One sets 'em well together, he that swears,  
Woomen and Dogs set all the World by th'Ears.   

O for some other way to Propagate,  
Than this accursed cause of all Debate!  
Where noble Friendship must be quite cashiered,  
If she sit down believed, or but once heard;  
And if her pets not served i'th'nick, far less  
Undecent noise makes the robbed Lioness.   

Eve by the Serpent was beguiled; my mind  
Gives me, that Serpent entered all the Kind.  
Had that first Anabaptist herd (I mean  
Those Swine that Satan washed away so clean)  
Been left, and every Female that made head,   

That's all the Sex but ten, dipped in their stead.  
(Perhaps too, those are transmigrated now,  
Since each foul grunting Quean's baptised Sow)  
O what a jolly Bonfire had the Prince  
Of Darkness made! How many Men saved since?  
Less flames by thousands Earth to Hell had sent,  
As small fires serve where the chief fuel's spent.   

But are not Women helps? yes, nought so sure,  
Helps to undo men, if they'll it endure.  
If thou sit still, and little have to say,  
She'll help thee to discourse, but her own way;  
So full of gross impertinence, at best;  
Imagine when she's froward, what's the rest?  
Hast an Estate? and wouldst improve it well?  
Leave it to her, she'll help thee pawn or sell,  
To buy this Toy, that other costly fashion,  
Or else disgrace thee with a Miser's passion.  
Art thou well stocked with strength, and health to friend it?  
She'll help thee to a pastime that shall spend it.  
If Women then such helps oft prove to be,  
Let them help who they will, pray God help me.    

ANSWER In Defence of WOMEN.  

WHat wild distemper has possessed thy brain,  
Harsh Satirist, in such uncomely strain  
To wound that heavenly Race, the joys of men,  
All at one stroke assassined by thy Pen?  
As if a general defection had  
Seized all the Sex, because a few prove bad:  
Or that on Church, 'cause some fanatics fall,  
It needs must follow weare fanatics all.  
Recant, or fly, for lo the sacred Band  
Of Wit and Valour Feminine's at hand.  
The twice-steeled Goddess claps her Armour on,  
And leads the van against thee, so that none  
Of all the Muses, or a Grace, combined  
Thus altogether, now dare stay behind.  
Who weeping sat by their own Fountain dried  
Up in this sunburnt age, born to deride  
Their sacred influence; and when they sing  
With unwashed hands, pollute the Virgin-spring.   

Led by the Grecian Hero's, they display  
For Colours the Chaste Wife of Ithaca,  
With a full Troop attending; and that Dame  
Whose costly Faith keeps fresh the breath of Fame;  
Who built her Lord a Tomb with wondrous Art,  
Yet not so rich, as that about her heart.   

The famed Lucretia, and Paulina's tried  
Endeared affection, poise the Roman side:  
On whom the Vestals wait with holy fire,  
Whose flames not burn, but only warm desire;  
With Regiments well filled of youthful years,  
That Muster pass under those Brigadeer.  
But what remoter Times and parts have known,  
We find at home contracted in our own.  
Take one for all the rest, whose worth unstained,  
Makes perfect truth what perhaps Poets feigned;  
That should false tongues lick all my hopes away,  
And in her or'e-cast Eye benight my Day;  
As who can scape those Ear-wigs, if so near  
They wriggle in, as to assault the Ear?  
(And it is easy, where they'll be so vicious,  
T'entrap an honest meaning unsuspicious)  
I'd wear her frowns for favours, and would deem  
Them marks of caution, not of disesteem.   

Go, light thy Taper at yon Lady's Eyes,  
Where Day doth seem to break, the Sun to rise   

On equal Hymen, who ne'er minds the parts,  
But gets a trick to join Estates, not Hearts;  
He that does Marry thinks not sure he takes  
An Angel into his embrace, nor makes  
A Deity of Dust, and such are we;  
If there be flesh and blood, some faults will be.  
Tho the mad Pens of Lovers Idolise,  
Yet in cold blood, tried Husbands are more wise.   

Wedlock's the Lifes grand Salad, if it's Oiled,  
Without some Vinegar the taste is spoiled.  
He that damns all but for the faults of some,  
Destroys his Orchard for a rotten Plum,  
Or Crab-tree-stock, when a discreeter Fate  
Would graft upon it, or inoculate.  
Like to the Sot, so out of love with Print,  
He burns his Book for some Erratas in't.  
'Tis a mere humour this, which spent, you then  
Cry Women up, as fast as down the Men;  
Though 'tis unnatural, because confessed  
Even by themselves, that down they're at the best.   

All that but looks like fair, great, good on Earth,  
Takes from a Female its first rise and birth.  
Talk of high thoughts, who will Ambition prise,  
Does any thing make Man like Woman rise?  
Can there be Love without her, or true Wealth?  
She's his best Mine, best Doctor for his Health,  
His all in all; in her embraces stands  
That little World, the greater which commands.  
She's such a Mint as Coins him Young again,  
And makes his Stamp pass currant amongst Men.  
Talks she at random, as you here define?  
'Tis but as wisest Men will do sometime;  
To me those sweet Diversions fresh appear,  
A running Banquet, after heavy cheer.  
Man helpless were without her help indeed;  
The World's great Spirit would be lost, and Seed.  
Then helpless let him be doth so require;  
So help me God, as I such help desire.    

Foolish NICETY.  

I Hate a sullen Mistress, of such tumour,  
Put in a Jest, it puts her out of Humour;  
Fond mistakes each pass●●… word I say,  
Takes pet, as Tinder fire, than fools away  
Herself in Childish anger: if she speaks,  
At best, when best she's pleased, poor thing it breaks  
Into such woeful phrase, doth so disburse  
Odd ends of Gold and Silver in discourse,  
That, as I live, 'tis much against my will,  
For her own credit, she's not silent still:  
Better shut up in silence, though she go  
For Proud, than open to her overthrow.  
What's a fair Woman simply? Shall I tell ye?  
A Box of Mummy, or of warmer Jelly;  
Which for a taste, or so, may currant pass,  
But not to make a meal on: Where's that Ass  
A piece of Snout-fair ignorance would marry?  
Sooner I'd hue a Mistress from the Quarry  
Pygmalion once carved out; I'd sooner go  
On pilgrimage to Mecha, and there throw  
My Eyes on burning Bricks, till all about  
The Nerves and Sinews cracked, their Lamps leapt out,  
Than fix on such a Wife; take this from me,  
There's nought so fulsome as a Foolish She.    

On The Victory over the Spaniards in the Bay of Sancta Crux, in the Island of Teneriffe.  

NOw does Spain's Fleet her spacious wings unfold,  
Leaves the New World, and hastens to the Old;  
But though the Wind were fair, they slowly swom,  
Freighted with active guilt, and guilt to come;  
For this Rich load, of which so proud they are,  
Was raised by Tyranny, and raised for War.  
Every capacious Galleons Womb was filled  
With what the Womb of wealthy Kingdoms yield:  
The New World's wounded Entrails they had tore  
For Wealth, wherewith to wound the Old one more.  
Wealth, which all others Avarice might cloy,  
But yet in them caused as much Fear as Joy.  
For now upon the Main themselves they saw,  
That boundless Empire where we give the Law.  
Of Winds and Waters rage they fearful be,  
But much more fearful th'English Flags to see.  
Day, that to those who sail upon the Deep  
More wished for, and more welcome is then Sleep,  
They dreaded to behold, lest the Sun's Light  
With our dread Streamers should salute their sight.  
In thickest Darkness they would choose to steer,  
So that such Darkness might suppress their fear.  
At length theirs vanishes, and Fortune smiles,  
For they behold the sweet Canary-Isles;  
One of which doubtless is by Nature blest  
Above both Worlds, since 'tis above the rest.  
For lest some Gloominess might slain her Sky,  
Trees there the Duty of the Clouds supply.  
O Noble Trust, which Heaven on this Isle pours,  
Fertile to be, yet never need her showers!  
A happy People, which at once do gain  
The Benefits without the Ills of Rain!  
Both Health and Profit Fate cannot deny,  
Where still the Earth is moist, the Air still dry.  
There jarring Elements no discord know,  
Fuel and Rain together kindly grow;  
And Coolness there with Heat does never fight,  
This only Rules by Day, and that by Night.  
There the indulgent Soil the rich Grape breeds,  
Which of the Gods the fancied Drink exceeds:  
They still do yield, such is their precious mould,  
All that is good, and are not cursed with Gold,  
With fatal Gold: for where e'er it does grow,  
Neither the Soil nor People quiet know;  
Which troubles men to raise it while 'tis Ore,  
And when 'tis raised, it troubles them much more.  
Ah! why was thither brought that cause of war  
Kind Nature had from thence removed so far?  
In vain doth she those Islands free from ill,  
If Fortune can make guilty what she will.  
‛ But whilst I draw the Scene where we ere long  
‛ Again may conquer, this is left unsung.  
For Sancta Crux, the glad Fleet takes her way,  
And safely there casts Anchor in the Bay.  
Never so many with one Joyful Cry,  
That place saluted where they all must die.  
Deluded men! Fate with you did but sport;  
You scaped the Sea, to perish in the Port;  
'Twas more for England's Fame you should Die there,  
Where you had most of Strength, and least of Fear.   

The Peek's proud height the Spaniards do admire,  
Yet in their Breasts carry a Pride much higher:  
Only to this vast Hill a power is given,  
At once both to inhabit Earth and Heaven;  
But this stupendious prospect did not near  
Make them admire so much as they did fear.  
For here they met with News which did produce  
A Grief above the Cure of Grapes best Juice;  
They learned, with terror, that nor Summer's heat,  
Nor Winters storms could make our Fleet retreat.  
To fight against such Foes was vain, they knew,  
Which did the rage of Elements subdue;  
Who on the Ocean, that does horror give  
To all besides, Triumphantly do live.  
With haste they therefore all their Galleons moar,  
And flank with Cannon from the neighbouring shore;  
Forts, Lines, and Sconces, all the Bay along  
They build, and act all that can make them strong.   

Fond men! who know not whilst such Works they raise,  
They only Labour to exalt our Praise.  
Yet they by restless Toils became at length  
So proud and confident of their made strength,  
That they with joy their boasting General heard,  
Wished then for that Assault they lately feared.  
His wish he hath, for now undaunted Blake,  
With winged speed, for Sancta Crux does make;  
For our Renown his Conquering Fleet does ride  
O'er Seas as vast as is the Spaniards Pride;  
Whose Fleet and Trenches viewed, he soon did say,  
We to their strength are more obliged than they:  
Were't not for that, they from their Fate would run,  
And a third World seek out, our Arms to shun.  
Those Forts which there so high and strong appear,  
Do not so much suppress, as show their Fear.  
Of speedy Victory let no man doubt;  
Our worst work's passed, now we have found them out.  
Behold, their Navy does at Anchor lie;  
And they are ours, for now they cannot fly!   

This said, the whole Fleet gave it their applause,  
And all assumed his courage for the Cause;  
That Bay they enter, which unto them owes  
The noblest Wreaths that Victory bestows.  
Bold Stayner leads: this Fleet's designed by Fate  
To give him Laurel, as the last did Plate.   

The thundering Cannon now gins the Fight,  
And, though it be at Noon, creates a Night;  
The air was soon, after the Fight begun,  
Far more inflamed by it, than by the Sun.  
Never so burning was that Climate known;  
War turned the Temperate, to the Torrid Zone.  
Fate had those Fleets just between both worlds brought  
Who fight as if for both those worlds they fought.  
Thousands of ways, thousands of men there die;  
Some ships there sunk, some blown up in the sky.  
Nature ne'er made Cedars so high aspire  
As Oaks did there, urged by the active fire,  
Which by quick Powders force so high was sent,  
That it returned to its own element.  
Torn limbs some Leagues into the Island fly,  
Whilst others lower in the Sea do lie:  
Scarce souls from bodies so far severed are  
By death, as bodies there were by fierce War.  
Th' allseeing Sun ne'er gazed on such a sight;  
Two dreadful Navies there at Anchor fight;  
And neither have or power or will to fly;  
There one must Conquer, or there both must die.  
Far different motions yet engaged them thus;  
Necessity did them, but Choice did us:  
A Choice which did the highest worth express,  
And was attended by as high Success.  
England's resistless Genius there did reign,  
By which we Laurels reaped even on the Main.  
So prosperous Stars, though absent to the sense,  
Bless those they shine for, by their influence.  
Our Cannon now tears every Ship and Sconce,  
And o'er two Elements triumphs at once.  
Their Galleons sunk, their Wealth the Sea does fill,  
The only place where it can cause no ill.   

Ah! would those Treasures which both Indies have  
Were buried in as large and deep a Grave!  
Wars chief support with them would buried be,  
And the Land own her Peace unto the Sea.   

Ages to come our Conquering Arms will bless,  
They there destroyed what had destroyed their Peace;  
And in one War the present Age may boast,  
The certain Seeds of many Wars are lost.   

All the Foes Ships destroyed by Sea or Fire,  
Victorious Blake does from the Bay retire;  
His Siege of Spain he then again pursues,  
And there first brings of his Success the News.  
(The saddest News which e'er to Spain was brought,  
Their rich Fleet sunk, and ours with Laurel fraught.)  
" Whilst Fame in every place her Triumph blows,  
" And tells the World how much to us it owes.    

Upon the sight of a Fair Lady's Breech, discovered at her being turned over in a Coach. Translated out of French.  

I.  
I Yield, I yield, fair Phillis, now  
My Heart must to your Empire bow;  
I am your Prisoner, for I find  
 Conquered both my Will and Reason;  
But you surprised me behind,  
And is not that a kind of Treason?   

II.  
Against your Eyes I placed a Guard,  
And kept my Freedom, though 'twere hard  
Withstanding that most tempting Face;  
When finding I again drew near,  
You changed your Ambush, and did place  
Your murdering Cupids in your Rear.   

III.  
At this first fight my heart did yield;  
For every glance did pierce my Shield:  
The fairest Face it did outbid.  
Can I resist my Fate, or Stars,  
When this sly enemy lay hid  
So close, and took me unawares?   

iv  
It seized me both with love and fear,  
Seeing so many beauties there;  
And brought me, fond fool, to that pass,  
That, Persian-like, I strait did run,  
Seeing your white Breech on the grass,  
To adore that new-rising Sun.   

V  
Phoebus' was glad to veil his eyes,  
Finding that greater lustre rise;  
And thought to steal away ere night,  
Thinking his beams were useless now:  
Which he had done, but that the fight  
Stayed him, in hopes to kiss it too.   

VI  
The Satyrs much enamoured were,  
Beholding all the Graces there;  
And Zephyrus espying too  
Some other Charms, so liked them, that  
Despite of all Flora could do,  
He often kissed your You-know-what.   

VII.  
The Rose, the Flowers lovely Queen,  
Drooped, when your fresher skin was seen:  
Lilies looked pale, and shed a tear:  
Narcissus was brought to that pass,  
He left his self-lov'd-Shade, and there  
Gazed in your brighter Looking-glass.   

VIII.  
Nor is there aught on earth so fair,  
No Face that's worthy its compare:  
No Cheeks, no Lips, Eyes darting rays:  
'Mongst all those Beauties, there's no grace  
Nor Mien, but soon will lose its praise,  
When your Breech but appears i'th' place.   

IX.  
'Tis true, I fear it has some defects  
Will trouble me in these respects:  
For it is very coy and shy,  
Harder than the white Rock to break;  
Nor hath it either Ear or Eye,  
And's very rarely heard to speak.   

X.  
But so I love it, that my Verse  
Shall to the World its praise rehearse;  
Whilst daily I will make resort  
To pay my homage to this Queen,  
Who leaves behind her this report  
Of th'sweetest Beauty e'er was seen.   

XI.  
O hid it then from all but me,  
For were't unveiled still, Gods would be  
My Rivals, and descend anew;  
Who (though they sit on Stars above)  
They sit on meaner Thrones than you;  
For your Breech is the Throne of Love.    

Upon the intolerable Heat in the latter end of May and the beginning of June, 1665.  

I.  
FIre, fire, fire, fire, the Bells all backward ring:  
Haste, haste to every Well and Spring;  
Let every Cock, and every Spout  
With noise and fury rush like Winter-torrents out.  
Pull from the Church's Walls the Buckets down;  
Bring forth those Engines that defend each Town;  
Engines which now singly more useful are  
Than all that Archimedes made for War.  
Yet these cannot suffice, 'tis not one Town;  
It is not Newport now alone  
That's burnt, each City feels the same;  
England's on fire, and all the Isle does flame.  
Rise then kind Rivers from your low-sunk Beds,  
Lift up your curled Heads;  
With raised waters quickly go,  
And all the parched land in welcome haste o'erflow.  
Let Trent and Medway meet,  
The Thames and Tweed each other greet,  
Severn and Chane their streams conjoin,  
And crooked Wye mix with the Northern Tyne:  
All this and more this Summer's fire  
Does for to quench its kill rage require.  
All these too little be;  
To quench us we must call the Sea;  
And for this succour we shall owe him more  
Than all our traffic and defence before.  
Return, you waves, and your old triumphs gain:  
Behold, we wish a Deluge once again.   

II.  
In spite of what Philosophers have proved,  
We find the Poles are moved:  
These England from its Northern climate turn,  
Which now beneath the Line doth burn:  
This needs must be, or else the Sun  
His wont constant Stages has outrun  
In May, the Lion reached the Dog in June,  
Who madded with his heat too soon,  
Does with great fury rage and by't,  
And wreak on us below his more than usual spite.  
Is then the doted Sire of Phaeton  
Become a Boy again, and like his son,  
The Fiery Chariot does misguide,  
And where his horses hurry him does ride,  
Whilst that his hands grown feeble now with age,  
Can guide no more their headstrong rage?  
Or else has Cupid, thus to show  
That still he has the better Bow,  
Shot to his heart again some hot desire,  
With some new Daphne set his breast on fire?  
Whom that in Verse he may entreat,  
He kindles too his own Poetic heat.  
And thus this triple fire inflames the weather,  
Whilst he is burnt, and burns the world together.   

III.  
Alas, Love kindles a more gentle flame,  
From him such dismal Fires ne'er came:  
No, this is rage, and Phoebus' angry is,  
When his face shines so bright as this;  
We now at length the Poet's meaning know,  
Who tell us of his Arrows and his Bow.  
His Rays are those sharp Darts he threw  
When he the Monster Python slew;  
With them the Grecian Camp with death he filled,  
And more than all the Trojans killed.  
No Armour 'gainst these Darts is proof,  
Nor hardest Iron, nor toughest Buff:  
Such is their strange enchanted Power found,  
They most of all the Armed wound.  
But yet submission neither cannot shield  
Those that cast down their Arms and yield;  
Relentless still the Sun his Rage does keep,  
Though not our Eyes alone, but all our Body weep.  
He is softened ne'er the more,  
Though a Tear fall from every Poor;  
His Temples and his Altars lost,  
Which had so much the Heathen cost;  
His Horses and his Sacrifices gone,  
He now revenges upon us alone.  
All England one great Altar is,  
Which shines and burns with sacred Fire of his:  
Nor will ten thousand Herds alone suffice,  
But all its People too are made one Sacrifice.   

iv  
Apollo thus, who did at Delphos yield,  
Again retakes the Field;  
And our Religion, his victorious Foe,  
Endeavours yet to overthrow:  
So far alas he gets the day  
By force of many a persecuting Ray,  
That whosoever to Church does come,  
Endures a Martyrdom.  
Each Chorist in the Choir  
Sings Anthems like the Martyrs in the fire:  
Each is his own and neighbour's Funeral-pile,  
On which all do themselves and others broil.  
Did but their inward zeal, and outward heat,  
Make but a Blaze so great,  
The Church's Tapers might then show their light,  
Through their transparent Lanterns bright:  
For there are few whose blood  
Swells with a youthful flood;  
Few at their hot devotions, or none,  
Have aught but Linen on:  
The Surplice is no more  
A Vest of Ceremony, as before.  
Our nearest Garments do for it make way,  
And yield it is more useful far than they.  
The rigid Nonconformist who could bear,  
Even when his rage and zeal at hottest were,  
An heavy, thick, unwieldy Cloak,  
Would all his former rail strait revoke,  
Felt he this heat here, nay forsake  
His Cloak and Doublet, and the Surplice take.   

V  
Moloch, that monstrous Coloss, all of brass,  
Who God at once and Altar was,  
Who many a sacrificed Hebrew child  
Within his red-hot glowing arms hath killed,  
Scarce heretofore did those  
With crueler embraces close,  
Than our Gowns us, who with the Sun conspire  
To set our kindled bodies all on fire:  
Hither those Drums, here let those Trumpets sound,  
Which then the cries of tortured infants drowned;  
We strait shall roar out full  
As loud as he who first hanseled his burning Bull.  
Nor is our noise alone as great,  
But that which causes it, our heat:  
Off therefore goes the Gown,  
We cast our Doublets down;  
Our loosened Breeches fall,  
And to our Shirts we soon are stripped all.  
Nor should our , though they should be  
Far finer than the French trim Beggary;  
Though decked with all the Jewels of the East,  
With all the Gold and Pearls o'th' West:  
Although they shone more richly gay  
Than the Moguls, upon his own Birthday,  
The great Moguls, who at his ears  
The price of European Kingdoms wears;  
Whose Daggers hilt does in its Gems display  
An Asiatic Armies pay.  
Although more Jewels should our Garments hid,  
They should not tempt our pride  
To keep us dressed one moment there  
Where all mankind spectators were;  
If to the Sun as we our Jewels turn,  
Whilst that he makes them shine, he makes us burn.   

VI  
Our  are off, yet every single Shirt  
Still burns as much, as much does hurt,  
As that of Hercules, which heretofore  
With Hydra's poison stained, and Nessus' gore.  
So both revenged, none but would choose  
Even all his blood to lose,  
So that his wounds might be  
But half so smarting to his enemy.  
The eating threads his flesh got in,  
His Shirt sat closer than his Skin:  
The spreading venom grew,  
Through all his mighty limbs it in an instant flew.  
Through every artery and vein  
It bore an universal pain:  
The Purple-rivers of his blood  
In vain the fire withstood:  
They boil themselves, and feel the same;  
These streams like those of  Scamander flame.  
His very bones Alcides kindled felt;  
He felt his marrow melt,  
And therefore built his Funeral-pyre,  
And soon to cool himself leapt in the gentler fire.  
With such a furious heat  
Our Shirts too make us sweat;  
Which though no venom slain,  
Than Hydra's fertile stings they cause a greater pain.  
Off therefore soon they go;  
Down our last torments so  
With them we think to grow:  
But yet the stubborn heat does still perplex,  
Still our tired patience vex;  
Some secret unseen cover  
Doth press and scald all over:  
Something would yet be needs put off, and we  
Than nakedness itself would fain more naked be.   

VII.  
But see! cool Charwel softly by does glide;  
There our bare skins we gladly hid:  
Can but those Artists, who with skilful Press,  
On Watered Tabby waves express;  
Can they some Stuff of real water make,  
Their former trade they'd soon forsake;  
No other garments would be sought,  
No other Stuff be bought:  
Our native finer Cloth we should not prise,  
And, though deep died in grain with Cocheneal, despise.  
The Silks that haughty Naples brags,  
Would be accounted rags;  
Brocadoes, and rich Cloth of Gold,  
No more to us by Genoa should be sold:  
Chinese and Indian Manufactures here  
None then would wear,  
Nor any else beside,  
That Merchant's profit serve, or Courtier's pride.  
For those no Ship should cross the Seas,  
When the next shore with better stuff would please.  
But since no Virtuoso's daring Wit  
Hath ventured yet hot limbs to fit  
With cooling Summer-suits of water made,  
We cannot wait th'inventing of the Trade.  
Art tedious is, and slow;  
To Nature's ready gifts we go;  
Into th'inviting stream ourselves in haste we throw.   

VIII.  
O what a ravishing coolness now does glide  
Into our veins from every side!  
A gentle, fresh, reviving cold  
Does all embold:  
The wanton waves about us sport,  
And as we them, they us do court;  
That o'er our shoulders leaps, and this  
Steals from our lips a sudden kiss:  
And then as fearing to be spied,  
As nimbly back does glide.  
We swim, and stretch our arms out wide, to have  
A full embrace of each beloved wave.  
Nor does to kiss or to embrace suffice  
Our wide voluptuous avarice;  
Our heads and all go down;  
Ourselves all ore we in our pleasures drown.  
Nor do we care  
For the delay of necessary air:  
Who would not change a moment's breath  
For th'ecstasies of this short pleasing death?  
The waves of Styx ne'er led  
The pious dead  
To an Elysium that could please  
So much as now the breathless divers these.  
All pleasures and all riches that are known,  
Their liquid coolness comprehends alone.  
So much that he that would recount  
How far earth's wealth the waters doth surmount,  
Need not speak aught of rich Pactolus' Strand,  
Nor Tagus' golden sand;  
Nor how the Eastern Pilgrims yearly go  
Their Coin in Ganges sacred stream to throw.  
He need not tell how in the Ocean lies  
The wealth of disappointed Treasuries:  
The golden Wrecks which every year  
Storms and tempests drowned there;  
The Spanish Fleets on purpose cast away,  
Lest they become the conquering English prey:  
These riches which from spoiled earth came,  
He need not name,  
Nor yet what are more precious far than these,  
The native Pearls and Coral of the Seas:  
More than all this may in one word be told;  
Who doubts the waters price, who now but hears 'tis cold?   

IX.  
Lovers do now no more  
Those sparkling eyes by which they're burned adore:  
Their being like the Sun,  
Now hatred draws, which former praises won.  
The Water-nymphs alone now please,  
And Venus only reigns within her native Seas.  
All Peleus happy fortune praise,  
Which him to Thetis happy bed did raise.  
To Thetis' bed, that fair Seanymph, whose love  
Was thought too great a happiness for Jove;  
Were she now present here,  
None to embrace her close would fear,  
Although, transformed again, she should appear  
A Lion, Tiger, Leopard, Bear,  
Or any Monster else like these,  
Which Sailors fright upon her imitating Seas;  
So that at last herself again  
A Water-nymph she would remain.  
The Ladies too, as much as they desire  
A vigorous youth, all heat, all fire,  
Yet now perhaps would scarce approve  
For a Gallant the mighty Jove,  
If such as when to Semele he came,  
Clad in lightning and in flame,  
His love so fiercely burned,  
That its own object it to ashes turned,  
Her flames ascended to the sky,  
Wither her too ambitious love did fly.  
A cooler Wooer now they love,  
And Neptune spite of Fate prefer to Jove.  
Juno may cease her usual spite,  
None may be jealous now but Amphitrite.  
Or if Jove chance to be  
In love with some new Danaë,  
He must now o'ercome her Tower  
Not with a golden, but a watery shower.   

X.  
What then shall we to bounteous Charwel give  
For all the pleasures we receive?  
Shall we a Grassy Altar build  
In the next fruitful field?  
There sacrifice a ready Ox or Cow  
Which neither Yoke nor Milk-pail know;  
A Goat, a Kid, a Ram,  
Or many a tender Lamb;  
And with their Consecrated blood  
Augment his sinking flood?  
Shall we his Curled head,  
Which now with Reeds is only covered,  
With all the flowery Garlands crown,  
Which the great Garden of the Town  
The Market shows, or Gardens yield  
The Markets of the field?  
Into his waters shall we pour forth wine,  
The richest Juice of the Canary-Vine;  
And for the coolness of our kind retreat,  
Repay as kinds an heat?  
No, none of these he loves;  
These ancient honours all he disapproves.  
He who so long ran on the British sand,  
So many hundred years a Christian Land,  
Whose waters unto Fonts conveyed,  
So many Christians have made;  
In his own waves so far baptised is,  
As to think it much amiss  
That we ourselves again should make  
Idolaters and Pagans for his sake.  
Nay, though himself were Heathen still,  
He would not suffer we should kill  
Those beasts for him for whom he has  
So long provided Hay and Grass:  
To more ignoble Man he leaveth that,  
Who those he does intent for to devour makes fat.   

XI.  
The Flowers his fertile waters bred,  
Through the earth's subtle channel spread,  
Since to himself so near allied,  
For his sake to be cut he counts it Parricide.  
As he the Drunkard's Garden will not use,  
So he his Wine too doth refuse:  
His Fishes lives he loves to spare,  
Who but too oft intoxicated are;  
Who in such numbers die,  
Their greediest Host to satisfy,  
And by their drunkenness his gluttony supply.  
Since than he'll none of these receive,  
Good wishes we can only give.  
May therefore this excessive heat,  
His enemy and ours, retreat:  
May he not any where for dread  
Of the hot Sun hid underneath his head,  
Nor yet again let Winter-flouds confuse  
His course, whilst in himself, himself he swollen may lose:  
But let a plenty clear and still,  
Brim-high his undisturbed Channel fill:  
May none with Dams restrain his force,  
Nor interrupt his course;  
May none his Mother-stream divide,  
Nor into petty Dykes his waters turn aside:  
May not his liquid state  
So perish by unhappy Empire's fate:  
May no foul Sinks his clearness spoil,  
No Common-shore his stream defile:  
But let him chaste and clear enter fair Isis' bed,  
And Virgin- Thameses himself a Virgin wed.   

XII.  
May their innumerable Progeny  
The Fishy Trent outvie;  
Replenished with these,  
Let 'em creep softly to the Seas,  
Thorough rank Grass, full Corn, and lofty Trees,  
By wealthy Farms, and stately Palaces:  
But still be sure that by the way  
They both their homage pay,  
Their daily tribute bring  
To their whole elements great universal King,  
In whose large Throne  
We Jove and Neptune see conjoined in one;  
Tridents in one, Sceptres in th'other hand,  
Sway both the Sea and Land;  
The Kingdom's Pilot, he the Navies King,  
Both to a happy Port do bring:  
Both with so skilful hands do steer,  
Nor hidden Rocks, nor open Streams they fear.  
From his great Palace they may then go down,  
And view that Ocean of a Town,  
That Sea of wealth which does enfold  
All the rich Rivers gold.  
This they may coast too, since they know  
She all to them does owe:  
But yet descending with the Tide,  
They find a cause of greater pride.   

XIII.  
These wishes we to Charwel own  
For the sweet Cold that in his waves do flow.  
But yet our pleasures grow more great,  
In that we round us still perceive the vanquished heat:  
Thence fresh delights arise,  
That whilst so near us it doth tyrannize,  
His force we laugh at and despise:  
Still we midst flaming swords enjoy our paradise.  
Although a Furnace round us glow,  
We still are cool, like Aetna's constant Snow;  
That valiant Snow which does defeat  
The neighbouring power of all that Magazine of heat.  
Whilst not a Cloud does flatter in the sky,  
Wells, Pools, and many Brooks be dry,  
We to our lips stand up,  
Like happy Sun-dew in our well-filled Cup,  
That Jovial plant whose fate now all things wish,  
Which even at general draughts but laughs,  
Whilst in her brimful natural dish  
The unexhausted Rosa Solis quaffs.  
This Charwel still whilst deep, though fallen, he flows,  
On us alone bestows.  
The parched earth he secure can't:  
His nearest Meadows do his presence want;  
Their wide deep cracks do gape in vain  
For floods and for delaying rain:  
The earth does with a thousand mouths complain,  
And heaven of foul ingratitude accuse,  
That can quick aid refuse;  
Who though she had received from her below  
Her Rains exhaled, her Hail, her Snow,  
Doth yet he hold her Benefactress burn,  
And not one single shower, one single drop return.   

XIV.  
Now that the Earth their Nurse's breasts are dry,  
The infant-Plants grow sick and die;  
Not one of all their mouths, one lucky root  
Cannot suck one poor drop into't.  
Thus choked and banished, in one place they have  
A Cradle and a Grave:  
The rest do droop, and for the dead  
Each seems to mourn, and hang his pensive head;  
But none one dewy tear can shed;  
That mournful rain,  
Were't not to them as to sad men in vain,  
Those tears would keep them all alive,  
And even the dead they weep for too revive.  
But now their thirsty grief  
Cannot that way procure its own relief;  
Amazed they know not why,  
For what grand crime they thus should die.  
What causeless rage  
Can thus engage  
That civil God Apollo  
His savage Grandsire Saturn's crime to follow,  
Who to secure his power,  
All his own offspring did devour?  
Like Cruelty what makes Apollo use,  
His power to lose;  
Whilst those same Plants for whose wise use old Fame  
Did him the God of Physic name;  
Those Plants with which lost health he did restore,  
And from the jaws of death preys half devoured tore,  
He makes declining from their vigour lie,  
Themselves on their sick beds, and of one Fever die?   

XV.  
Hence justly all the children of the Spring  
The Sun their Tyrant count, and not their King.  
The proudest Flowers now hate the very light  
That shows their beauties to our sight:  
The amorous Marigold that turns  
To her dear Sun, he now not warms, but burns,  
Weary of his import'nate ray,  
Would spite of Love and Nature turn away.  
Those tender fruits that hardly bear  
The sharpness of our Northern air,  
Whom the Sun yet could ne'er make ripe with all  
His force, unless assisted by a wall;  
On the most shady bough,  
Not ripe alone, but roasted now.  
Those courteous Ladies whose kind hands reprieve  
The perishing fruits, and give  
By their obliging art a longer date  
To their short fate,  
And so the Winter make and Spring  
The Summers and the Autumn's pleasures bring,  
Need now no more whilst they desire  
Their fruit to keep, by the same fire  
Their beauties lose, nor to raise enmities  
Betwixt our pleased tastes, and our defrauded eyes,  
Their Sweetmeats with due colours now to grace,  
They need not spoil a better in their face:  
Some sugared water let their Gardeners throw  
On the scorched trees, and so  
The Fruits will turn to Sweetmeats as they grow:  
The heat which all before did spoil,  
Will them in that new Liquor boil.  
So Cherries, Grapes, or Goosberries,  
Plums, Apricocks, or any fruits they please,  
Preserved they may gather from the trees.   

XVI.  
This scorched heat in Gardens reigns,  
In spite of all the Gardener's care and pains,  
And all his Watring-pots poor counterfeited rains.  
A fiercer fire burns up th' unwatred field,  
Which had been better left untiled.  
The piercing Sunbeams aged trunks invade,  
Through all the numerous leaves that hid them in their shade.  
The Oak that grows on the most shady vale,  
Would with her kindred in the Navy sail;  
And less would fear  
Dutch Fireships there,  
Than the Sun's rays more formidable here:  
There ready water would her flames surround,  
But here she burns upon the burning ground.  
For fear of this, all without wind may shake,  
And trembling Asps excused quake:  
Many already show their griefs and fears  
In copious gummy tears;  
And well they may,  
Since though still green, and Lightning-proof, the Bay  
Is almost scorched by her own Phoebus' ray.   

XVII.  
But these effects of the Sun's spite  
Are all but light:  
Worse torments his malignant influence  
Inflicts on them to whom unhappy sense  
Cruelly-bounteous Nature did dispense:  
Their feeling like a Burning-glass,  
Doubles the fiery rays, as through their skins they pass.  
Hence from each echoing Rock there does rebound  
Tormented Cattles mournful sound:  
The fairest and most healthful Cow  
Would gladly live like that of Myron, now;  
Since all our Herds of fire are quite as full  
As the flame-belching Cretan Bull:  
The Sun's mere rays the beasts more smartly sting  
Than all the Gad-flyes which they bring.  
The scorched Race-horse now would fain outrun  
The fiery Coursers of the Sun:  
Though consecrated once unto that God,  
He so much fears his flaming Whip and Rod,  
He'd rather through the Russian Snow  
With heavy Sled long Winter-journeys go,  
Than made immortal in the heaven-highway,  
Draw the illustrious Chariot of the day.   

XVIII.  
The Winter-thriving Rabbits curse  
Their once-more-friendly Furs:  
Though no Guns lightning reach their fearful eye,  
From the Sun's fire away they fly;  
In their deep holes, to save their lives, they buried lie:  
Their barren Warrens may unheeded burn,  
To see their loss they'll not return:  
The sweetest shortest grass, their chief delight,  
From their cool holes would now not one invite,  
Although secured from the ravenous Kite.  
The Kite, that with the Sun did use to play,  
And meet his rays half way,  
Flies to the shade, and fears herself to be his prey.  
The sharpest-sighted Eagle dare no more  
Upon his lustre poor;  
No more her young one that way doth she try;  
She from his heat herself doth fly;  
Her body cannot bear't, much less her tender eye.  
With gaudiest colours Birds arrayed,  
Do hid their bravery in the shade:  
Others in vain some refuge seek to find,  
By courting, Stanniel-like, the wind:  
No succour thence is to be got;  
The wind itself blows hot:  
None but the Waterfowl for happy go,  
Who hid themselves where shady rivers flow:  
The Swans, the Geese, the Ducks, the Drakes,  
And others who frequent ponds, rivers, lakes;  
These live what all their fellows wish,  
The life of blessed Fish:  
These can defy the heat, whilst all the rest  
Die Phoenixlike, each burnt in his own nest.   

XIX.  
But all those pains which singly do infest  
That Plant, this Bird or Beast,  
On more unhappy man concentred light,  
On him they wreak their utmost spite:  
The world's epitome can show  
All the sharp griefs the greater world doth know:  
Nay, all its ills to him are worse;  
Their union does augment their force.  
The sweeting Country-swain  
Feels not alone his proper pain;  
The numerous mischiefs that surround  
His Farm, do all on him rebound:  
There his parched Corn, here growing Hay appears,  
And these in vain he waters with his tears:  
Here a sick Ox, or dying Cow,  
Does lamentably low;  
And from his breast their piteous moan  
Re-ecchoes in a sadder groan:  
The many acres of his barren field  
Of grief alone a plenteous harvest yield.  
But lest that  ground make corn scant,  
And bread the greedy multitude should want,  
A Plague is raised by the same power,  
The numerous eaters to devour.  
Nor doth Death now his prey  
With single darts, as heretofore, destroy.  
The Sythes that rusty to the walls were laid,  
By the dire heat to th' Country useless made,  
Death to the City hath conveyed;  
These round him with quick hands he throws;  
Whole houses down at once, whole streets alone he mows.   

XX.  
But all these Sythes for Death do prove too few;  
Nor will he stay for new:  
Each wounded prey  
His weapon is ten more to slay.  
'Tis not alone at Sea, where our brave Fleet  
Does with the Dutchmen meet,  
That flaming Fireships to the Combat fly,  
And, burned themselves, consume the Enemy:  
Here too at Land whoere expires,  
Doth kindle others with his Funeral-fires.  
New Civil wars again  
In England reign:  
Strange Civil wars, where still  
The Victors die, and Vanquished kill!  
Now at noonday none dares to walk that Town,  
Whose midnight-safety gains her such renown.  
A murderer men fear to meet  
In the most large frequented street.  
In vain each house shut up a Jail is made,  
In which the numerous Homicides are laid:  
For there penned up, their kill breath  
Brings to each other surer death.  
These prisons too, to some,  
The cause of further crimes become.  
The father hastening to the grave,  
Bereaves his children of that life he gave:  
His deathbed-blessings curses are,  
With which he kills his Heir.  
Thus doth this more-than-Tyrant heat,  
To make their miseries complete,  
With simple Tortures not content,  
Add guilt, and make each pain a punishment.  
Those who first innocently sick did lie,  
As Criminals do justly die:  
Yet even the Cities unassisted heat  
To th' uninfected seems so great,  
That they, though pained with torments and with faults,  
Envy the very dead their cool and shady vaults.   

XXI.  
All these dire pains with which the Summer's spite  
Plagues others, heighten our delight;  
Whilst round about us everywhere  
They to our fancies or our eyes appear,  
Our singular cool pleasures they endear.  
But ah how short a date  
Is on great joys bestowed by Fate!  
Already does the dismal Bell  
Seem to ring our common Knell:  
For 'tis to death it bids us come,  
Whilst that it calls us home:  
Nay, ours is worse even than those sinner's death  
Who midst their crimes resign their breath.  
They only from small pains to greater sell,  
But we from heaven pass to hell;  
Such we account that air which yet  
Burns, though the flaming Sun be set:  
All enter it with unwilling feet;  
Each takes his Shirt as 'twere his Winding-sheet:  
Home with delaying haste we go;  
Our  half on, loosely about us flow:  
Yet though prepared so for bed,  
On restless Pillows none dare lay his head:  
All are sick-beds, not Down itself can please;  
The heat makes even its softness a disease.  
In vain we call on Sleep:  
His Lethe which so silent by did creep,  
Only because it was so deep,  
Is to the bottom dry, nor can it keep  
One precious drop wherein our eyes to steep:  
This makes us, though we grudged not their gold,  
For which rest only is not sold,  
To envy the Ormusians' wit,  
Who have by it  
Learned from the Sun, their mortal enemy,  
This useful policy,  
In water every night to lie.  
Ah that I so might sleep, not on  
Parnassus, but in Helicon!  
This only my Pindaericks do desire,  
Not for to save my house, but my own self from fire.  
Pindar's bright Poetic flame  
Survived his ashes, blown by Fame;  
And even his Thebes orecomers overcame:  
It made them spare his house alone;  
When all the City flamed, that only brighter shone.  
But I, alas, who breathless strive in vain  
To reach his noble strain,  
When from this heat my safety I desire,  
Too much from feeble Lines require,  
Which justly fear themselves to perish in the fire.   
CORBET OWEN.   
FINIS.   

Books printed for William Crook.  

Printed in the year 1670.  
THe Complete Vineyard: or, an Excellent way for Planting of Vines in England, and making of Wines, etc. By W. Hugh's. Price 1 s. 6 d. Edition 2. with Additions.  
A Description of the Siege of Candia. pr. 1 s.  
Deaf and Dumb man's discourse. pr. 1 s.  
Jesuits Morals, fol. pr. 10 s.  
Des Cartes Life, Engl. Octavo. pr. 1 s.  
A Sermon at the Funeral of a man drowned in a Pit: wherein accidental death is handled. pr. 1 s.   

In the year 1671.  
Sir Henry Blount's Voyage into the Levant. pr. 1 s.  
Mr. Hobbes' Three Papers presented to the Royal Society, against Dr. Wallis. pr. 6 d.  
Mr. Hobbes's Rosetum Geometricum. pr. 3 s.   

In the year 1672.  
The Flower-Garden: Showing how all sorts of Flowers are to be ordered. Edit. 2. with Additions. By W. Hughes. pr. 1 s.  
The American Physician. By W. Hughes. pr. 1 s.  
Bishop Corbet's Poems, Edit. 3. pr. 1 s.  
Court of Curiosity, Edit. 2. with Additions. Twelve. pr. 2 s.  
White Devil. A Play. pr. 1 s.  
Old Troop. A Play. pr. 1 s.  
Memoires and Adventures of Sylvia. pr. 2 s.  
Lux Mathematica: Wherein the twenty years' Controversy betwixt Mr. Hobbes and Doctor Wallis, in the Mathematics, is debated and stated, by R.R. pr. 5 s.   

In the year 1673.  
The great Law of Nature of Self-preservation examined, and vindicated from Mr. Hobbes his Abuses. pr. 1 s.  
The Travels of Ulysses. By Tho. Hobbes. pr. 1 s.   

In the year 1674.  
Principia & Problalemata aliquot Geometrica, ante desperata, nunc breviter explicata & demonstrata. pr. 2 s.  
Calliopes Cabinet opened and reviewed: Wherein Gentlemen of what quality soever may know how to adorn themselves for Feast, Funerals, etc. and all Heroic Meetings. Also, the Precedency of Kings, the degrees, titles and distinctions of all Honours, with the Orders of all Knighthood: with a Dictionary to explain all Charges, Devises, and Herald-terms, etc. This second Edition much enlarged. pr. 8 d.   
FINIS.