Musarum Deliciae: OR, THE MUSES RECREATION.  
Containing several select Pieces of sportive Wit.  
By Sir J. M. and Ja: S.  
LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman, and are to be sold at his Shop, at the sign of the Anchor in the New Exchange, 1655.   

THE STATIONER TO THE Ingenious READER.  
PLain Poetry is now disesteemed, it must be Drollery or it will not please: I have therefore, to regal the curious palates of these Times, made a Collection of Sir John Mennis, and Doctor Smith's Drolish Intercourses; which as they need no recommendation to your acceptance, the world being well acquainted with the ingenuity both of those persons, and their preductions; so neither can you suspect them adulterate, since they are inimitable by any but themselves.  
Read, Laugh and enjoy. H. H.   

MUSARUM DELICIAE: OR, The muse's Recreation.  

To Parson WEEKS. An Invitation to London.  

HOw now, my John, what, is't the care  
Of thy small Flock, that keeps thee there?  
Or hath the Bishop, in a rage,  
Forbid thy coming on our Stage?  
Or want'st thou coin? or want'st thou Steed?  
These are impediments indeed:  
But, for thy Flock, thy Sexton may  
In due time ring, and let them pray.  
A Bishop, with an Offering,  
May be brought unto any thing.  
For want of Steed, I oft see Vic  
Trudge up to Town with hazel stick;  
For coin, two Sermons by the way,  
Will Host, hostess; and Tapster pay.  
A willing mind pawn's Wedding-ring,  
Wife, Gown, Books, Children, any thing.  
No way neglected, nought too dear  
To see such friends, as thou hast here.  
I met a Parson on the way,  
Came in a Wagon tother day,  
Who told me, that he ventured forth  
With one tithe Pig, of little worth;  
With which, and saying grace at food,  
And praying for Lord carrier's good:  
He had arrived at's journeys end,  
Without a penny, or a friend.  
And what great business do you think?  
Only to see a friend, and drink.  
One friend? why thou hast thousands here  
Will strive to make thee better cheer.  
Ships lately from the Islands came  
With Wines, thou never heardst their name.  
Montefiasco, Frontiniac,  
Viatico, and that old Sack  
Young Herric took to entertain  
The Muses in a sprightly vein.   

Come then, and from thy muddy Ale,  
(Which serves but for an old wife's Tale:  
Or, now and then, to break a jest,  
At some poor silly neighbour's Feast)  
Rouse up, and use the means, to see  
Those friends, expect thy wit, and thee.  
And though you cannot come in state,  
On Camels back, like Coryat:  
Imagine that a packhorse be  
The camel, in his book you see.  
I know you have a fancy, can  
Conceive your guide a Caravan.  
Rather than fail, speak Treason there,  
And come on charges of the Shire;  
A London Gaol, with friends and drink,  
Is worth your vicarage, I think.   

But if besotted with that one  
Thou hast, of ten, stay there alone;  
And, all too late lament and cry,  
Th''ve lost thy friends, among them, I.    

To a friend upon a journey to Epsam Well.  

SIR, though our flight deserves no care  
Of your enquiry, where we are;  
Yet, for to put you out of doubt,  
Read but these Lines, you'll smell us out.  
We having at the mazzard dined,  
Where Veal and Mutton open chined,  
Hang on the Shambles; thence we pace  
To Putney's Ferry, Coomes old Chase  
We next passed o'er, then to the Town  
Which name of King doth much renown;  
Where having supped, we went to bed,  
Ourselves and cattle wearied.  
Next morning ere the Sun appeared,  
Our Horses and ourselves well cheered;  
To Epsam Well we asked the way,  
Of young and old, of poor and gay:  
Where, after five or six mistakes,  
We found the Spring, near hid with brakes.  
These waters clear, two Hermits keep,  
Who always either wake, or sleep;  
And by alternate courses, wait  
On Man or Beast, if here you bait.  
'Tis here the people far and near  
Bring their Diseases, and go clear.  
Some drink of it, and in an hour,  
Their Stomach, Guts, and kidneys scour:  
Others do bath, and Ulcers cure,  
Dry Itch, and leprosy impure;  
And what in Lords you call the Gout,  
In poor the Pox, this drives all out.  
Close by the Well, you may discern  
Small shrubs of Eglantin and Fern,  
Which show the business of the place;  
For here old Ops her upper face  
Is yellow, not with heat of Summer,  
But safronized with mortal scumber.  
But then the pity to behold  
Those ancient Authors, which of old  
Wrote down for us, Philosophy,  
Physic, music, and Poetry,  
Now to no other purpose tend,  
But to defend the finger's end.  
Here lies Rome's Naso torn and rent,  
New reeking from the Fundament:  
Galen's old rules could not suffice,  
Nor yet Hippocrates the wise.  
Not teaching, how to cleanse, can do,  
Themselves must come and wipe it too.  
Here did lie Virgil, there lay Horace,  
Which newly had wiped his, or her Arse,  
Anacreon reeled too and fro,  
Vexed, that they used his papers so.  
And Tully with his Offices,  
Was forced to do such works as these.  
Here lies the Letter of a Lover,  
Which piecemeal did the thing discover.  
Sonnets half written would not stay,  
But must necessity obey.  
This made us for a while to think,  
The Muses here did seldom drink:  
But hap what would, we light from stirrup,  
And straight descend to drink the syrup.  
The good old Father takes a cup,  
When five times washed, he fills it up  
With this prized liquour, than doth tell  
The strange effects of this new Well.  
Quoth he, my friends, though▪ I be plain,  
I have seen here many a goodly train  
Of Lords and Ladies, richly clad,  
With Aches more than ere I had:  
These having drunk a week, or so,  
Away with health most jocund go:  
Mean while the Father thus did prate,  
We still were drinking as we sat;  
Till Gut by rumbling, us beseeches,  
My boys, beware, you'll wrong your Breeches.  
Ah, doth it work? the old man cries,  
Yonder are brakes to hide your thighs.  
Where, though 'twere near we hardly came,  
Ere one of us had been too blame.   

Here no Olympic games they use,  
No wrestling here, Limbs to abuse,  
But he that gains the glory here  
Must scumber furthest, shit most clear.  
And, for to make us emulate,  
The good old Father doth relate  
The vigour of our Ancestors,  
Whose shiting far exceeded ours.  
Quoth he, do you see that below?  
I do, quoth I, his head's now low,  
But here have I seen old John Jones,  
From this hill, shit to yonder stones.  
But him Heaven rest, the ma●●…s dead,  
This speech of his me nettled;  
With that my head I straightway put  
Between my knees, and mounting scut,  
At chiefest random, forty five,  
With lion's face, dung forth I drive,  
The air's divided, and it flies,  
Like Draco volans through the skies.  
Or who had seen a Conduit break,  
And at the hole with fury reek:  
Had he but hither took the pain  
To come, had seen it once again.  
Here Colon played his part indeed,  
And over-shit the stones a reed.  
Whereat the Father, all amazed,  
Limps to the place, where having gazed  
With heaved up hands, and fixed eyes,  
Quoth he, dear, let me kiss those thighs  
That prop the tail will carry hence  
Our glory and magnificence.  
His suit being granted, home he walks,  
And to himself of wonders talks;  
From whence he brings a painted stake,  
High to be seen, above the Brake:  
And having asked my name, he writ  
In yellow Letters, who 'twas shit,  
Which still stands as a Monument  
Called longtail, from the Man of Kent.  
This being all the first day did,  
We home retired, where we lay hid  
In Alehouse, till another day  
Shall prompt my Muse; then more I'll say.  
Till when, take this, to make an end,  
I rest your servant, and your friend.    

To a friend upon his Marriage.  

SInce last I writ, I hear dear honey,  
Thou hast committed Matrimony;  
And soberly both Morn and Even,  
Dost take up smock, in fear of Heaven.  
Alas poor Soul, thy Marriage vow  
Is as the Rites, unhallowed now;  
Slighted by Man, ordained by Bishop,  
Not one, whom zeal hath scared from his shop.  
The Ring profane, and Surplice foul,  
No better than a friar's Cowl,  
With poesy vile, and at thy Table  
Fiddlers, that were abominable,  
Who sung, perhaps, a song to Hymen,  
And not a Psalm to edify men.   

It is th'opinion of this place,  
Thou canst not get a Babe of Grace.  
This story is sad; to make amends,  
I'll tell thee news, to tell thy friends.  
You heard of late, what Chevaliers  
(Who durst not tarry for their ears)  
Prescribed were, for such a plot  
As might have ruined Heaven knows what:  
Suspected for the same's Will D'avenant,  
Whether he have been in't, or have not,  
He is committed, and, like Sloven,  
Lolls on his Bed, in garden Coven.  
He had been racked, as I am told,  
But that his body would not hold.  
Soon as in Kent they saw the Bard,  
(As to say truth, it is not hard,  
For Will has in his face, the flaws  
Of wounds received in country's cause:)  
They flew on him, like Lions passant,  
And tore his Nose, as much as was on't:  
They called him Superstitious Groom,  
And Popish Dog, and cur of Rome;  
But this I'm sure, was the first time,  
That will Religion was a crime.  
What ere he is in's outward part,  
He is sure a Poet in his heart.  
But 'tis enough, he is thy friend,  
And so am I, and there's an end.   

From London, where we sit and muse,  
And pay Debts when we cannot choose;  
The day that Bishops, Deans and Prebends,  
And all their friends, wear mourning ribbons;  
If this day smile, they'll ride in Coaches,  
And, if it frown, than Bonas Noches.    

In answer to certain Letters, which he received from London, whilst he was engaged to follow the Camp.  

WHat, Letters two, on New-years-day?  
'Tis sign, thy Muse hath leave to play,  
And swelling grape distils his liquour,  
Which makes thy Pulse and muse flow quicker.  
Alas poor souls! in Mud we travel,  
And each day vexed with March and Gravel,  
And when at night, we come to quarter,  
Drink, what thou wouldst not give to Porter.  
From Northern soil, I lately came,  
With Horses two of mine, one Lame;  
But when I came to house of state,  
Where quondam fled his Grace in Plate:  
Expecting after journey scurvy,  
Solace, I found all topsy-turvy.  
New Orders bid me thence away,  
The people grumble, they want pay;  
And now, like wandering Knights we wend  
Without a penny, or a friend:  
Our score grows great, from whence we go,  
And every Alehouse turned a foe.  
These give their friend's intelligence  
That we are coming, without pence;  
And those we fear, will shut the door  
At wandering Prince, when known so poor.  
However, we march on to morrow,  
And here, and there, small sums we borrow.   

Judge, if thy Muse could soar so high,  
When pinion's cliped, what Bird can fly?  
No, no, good Wine and ease I'm barred of,  
Which makes my Muse to come so hard off;  
And hearing fellows nine in London,  
Get cash, carouse, while I am undone:  
While not one captain here will tarry  
But John, with Horse of Commissary;  
And here he spends his time and pence,  
Without a hope of recompense,  
And scarce sees friends, but such as grudge him,  
If he have coin, they none, they catch him  
With that old beaten, trodden way,  
Jack, canst thou lend, till next pay day?  
Till now, at length my pocket's grown  
Like Nest defiled, when Bird is flown.   

Judge, from such stories, if you can  
Expect a Muse from any man.  
Yet have I still respects from them,  
Who weekly think upon. J. M.   

To noble Kenelm, say, I drink,  
And unto Lord of down, I think  
The day, when Janus, with face double,  
Looks on the passed, and coming trouble.  
The first day ever rich or poor,  
Wrote forty years, and one before.  
The House, the Talbot, Corney Host,  
My liquour now, but Ale and tossed.    

In answer to this last, or some such like Letter.  

WHy seeks my friend so vain excuse,  
For the long silence of his Muse;  
As if her faculty were worse,  
Because joined with an empty purse?  
Lines may accrue, although the pence  
That use to purchase Influence  
From constellation of Corney,  
Be fewer, then will fee Attorney.  
Thou know'st that Vacuus cantabit,  
(there's Latin for thee, though but a bit)  
Sing then, and let's be free from blame,  
Thy Verse is fat, though horse be lame.  
Seest thou not, Ovid, Homer, Virgil,  
With Muse more needy, John, than your Gill;  
Indite things high, and rest the ivy,  
From wealthy Tacitus and Livy:  
From Cicero, (that wrote in Prose)  
So called, from Rouncival on's Nose.  
For, though 'twas hid, till now of late,  
Yet 'tis a truth, as firm as fate,  
That Poets, when their Money scants,  
Are oft inspired by their wants.  
Want makes them rage, and rage poetic  
Makes Muse, and Muse makes work for critic.  
As for thy pocket, which thou sayst  
Is like to a defiled Nest,  
A Nest, that is of all bereft,  
Save what the Cat in Maulthouse left;  
There is a Proverb to thy comfort,  
Known, as the ready way to Rumford,  
That, when the pot o'er fire you heat,  
A louse is better than no meat;  
So, in your Pocket by your favour,  
Something, you know, will have some savour.  
But soft, the word is now come forth,  
We all must pack into the North;  
When mind of Man was set to play,  
And riding Boot lay out of th'way;  
We were commanded in a Minute,  
To journey base, the Devil's in it;  
For now I have no more mind to't,  
Then is an Apple like a Nut:  
Yet look I must for riding tackle,  
In corners of my Tabernacle;  
And look, as men for slanders hark,  
Or one that gropes in privy dark,  
So must I search with fear of mind,  
And seek for what I would not find.  
Had I two faces, like to Janus,  
(A Month that now hath overta'en us.)  
With one of them I'll smile in Town,  
While t'other 'mong my foes did frown.  
But wishes help not, nor can with▪  
Hold, from embracing thee, James Smith.   

Long acre, from the Angel Tavern,  
Two hundred miles from head of Severn.  
Where, for my shillings twain, I dine,  
With Tongue of Neat, far worse than mine:  
The tenth of January day dirty.  
One thousand, hundreds six, and forty.    

Description of three Beauties.  

PHiloclea and Pamela sweet,  
By chance in one great house did meet,  
And meeting did so join in heart,  
That th'ne from tother could not part.  
And who, indeed, not made of Stones,  
Would separate such lovely ones?  
The one is beautiful, and fair,  
As lilies and white Roses are;  
And sweet, as after gentle showers,  
The breath is of ten thousand flowers.  
From due proportion, a sweet air  
Circles the other, not so fair;  
Which so her Brown doth beautify,  
That it enchants the wisest eye.  
Have you not seen, on some bright day,  
Two goodly Horses, White, and bay,  
Which were so beauteous in their pride,  
You knew not which to choose, or ride?  
Such are these two, you scarce can tell,  
Which is the daintier Bonny bell:  
And they are such, as, by my troth,  
I had been dead in love with both,  
And might have sadly said, good-night  
Discretion, and good fortune quite,  
But that God Cupid, my old Master,  
Presented me a sovereign plaster:  
Mopsa, even Mopsa, pretty Mouse,  
Best piece of Wainscot in the House;  
Whose Saffron Teeth, and Lips of Leeks,  
Whose coral Nose, and Parchment Cheeks;  
Whose pasteboard forehead, eyes of Ferret,  
Breast of brown Paper, Neck of Caret;  
And other parts, not evident,  
For which dame nature should be shent,  
Are Spells and Charms of great renown,  
Concupiscence to conjure down.  
How oft have I been reft of sense,  
By gazing on their excellence,  
Till meeting Mopsa in my way,  
And looking on her face of Clay,  
I soon was cured and made as sound,  
As though I never had a wound.  
And when, in Tables of my heart,  
Love with such things as bred my smart;  
My Mopsa, with her face of Clout,  
Would in an instant wipe them out:  
And when their faces made me sick▪  
Mopsa would come with hers of Brick,  
A little heated by the fire,  
And break the neck of my desire.  
Now from their face I turn mine eyes,  
But (cruel Panthers) they surprise  
Me with their breath, that incense sweet,  
Which only for the Gods is meet;  
And jointly from them doth respire  
Like both the Indies set on fire,  
Which so o'ercomes man's ravished sense,  
That souls to follow it, fly hence.  
Nor such like smell you, as you range  
By th'Stocks, or Old, or New Exchange.  
Then stood I still as any Stock,  
Till Mopsa with her puddle Dock.  
Her Compound or Electuary,  
Made of old Ling, or Caviary,  
Bloat Herring, Cheese, or voided physic,  
(Being sometimes troubled with the Tysick)  
Did Cough, and fetch a fie so deep,  
As did her very bottom sweep;  
Whereby to all she did impart,  
How Love lay rankling at her heart;  
Which when I smelled, desire was slain,  
And they breathe forth perfumes in vain.  
Their angel's voice surprised me now,  
But Mopsa's shrill; To whit to who  
Descending through her hollow Nose,  
Did that distemper soon compose.  
And therefore Oh thou virtuous owl,  
The wise Minerva's only fowl:  
What at thy shrine shall I devise  
To offer up for Sacrifice?  
Hang Aesculapius, and Apollo,  
Hang Ovid with his precepts shallow:  
With patience who will now endure  
Your slow and most uncertain cure,  
Seeing Mopsa's found, for Man and Beast,  
To be the sure Probatum est?  
Oh thou, Loves chiefest Medicine,  
True water to Dame Venus' wine,  
Best cordial, soundest Antidote,  
To conquer Love, and cut his throat;  
Be but my second, and stand by,  
And I their beauties both defy,  
And all else of those fairy races  
That wear infection in their faces;  
For I'll come safe out of the Field  
With this thy face, Medusa's shield.    

A journey into France.  

I Went from England into France,  
Neither to learn to sing, nor dance,  
To ride, nor yet to Fence:  
Nor did I go like one of those  
That do return with half the nose  
They carried from hence.   

But I to Paris rid along  
Much like John Dory in the song,  
Upon a holy Tide:  
I on an ambling Nag did get,  
I think he is not paid for yet,  
And spurred him on each side.   

And to S. Denis first we came,  
To see the sights at Notre dame,  
The man that shows them snuffles;  
Where who is apt for to believe,  
May see our Ladies right arm sleeve,  
And eke her old Pantofle.   

Her Breasts, her Milk, her very Gown,  
Which she did wear in Bethlem Town,  
When in the inn she lay;  
Yet all the world knows, that's a fable,  
For so good clothes ne'er lay in stable,  
Upon a lock of Hay.   

No Carpenter could by his Trade  
Gain so much coin, as to have made  
A Gown of so rich Stuffe;  
Yet they (poor fools) think for their credit,  
They must believe old Joseph did it,  
'cause she deserved enough.   

There is one of the Crosses nails,  
Which who so sees, his Bonnet veils;  
And, if he will, may kneel:  
Some say, 'tis false, 'twas never so,  
Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,  
It is as true as Steel.   

There is a lantern which the Jews,  
When Judas led them forth did use;  
It weighed my weight down right:  
But to believe it, you must think  
The Jews did put a Candle in't,  
And then 'twas wondrous light.   

There's one Saint there hath lost his Nose,  
Another's head, but not his Toes,  
His Elbow, and his Thumb;  
But when w''ve seen the holy rags,  
We went to th'Inne, and took our Nags,  
And so away did come.   

We came to Paris, on the said,  
'Tis wondrous fair, but nothing clean,  
'Tis Europe's greatest Town;  
How strong it is, I need not tell it,  
For any man may easily smell it,  
That walks it up and down.   

There many strange things you may see,  
The Palace, the great Gallery,  
Place royal doth excel:  
The New Bridge, and the Statue's there,  
At Notre dame, Saint Christopher,  
The Steeple bears the Bell.   

For Learning, th'University,  
And for old Clothes, the Frippery,  
The house the Queen did build.  
Saint Innocents, whose earth devours  
Dead corpse, in four and twenty hours,  
And there the 
* Hen the Great, by ●●vllias.  King was killed.   

The Bastile and St. Denis street,  
The Chastelet, just like London Fleet,  
The Arsenal, no Toy;  
But if you'll see the prettiest thing,  
Go to the Court, and view the King,  
Oh 'tis a hopeful Boy.   

Of all his Nobles, Dukes and Peers,  
He's reverenced for his wit and years,  
Nor must you think it much:  
For he with little switch can play,  
And can make fine Dirt pies of Clay,  
Oh never King made such.   

A Bird that doth but kill a fly,  
Or prates, doth please his Majesty,  
'Tis known to every one;  
The Duke of Guise gave him a parrot,  
And he had twenty Cannons for it,  
For his new gallion.   

Oh that I e'er might have the hap  
To get the Bird, that, in the Map,  
Is called the Indian Ruck;  
I'll give it him, and hope to be  
As great as Guise or Luyne,  
Or else I had ill luck.   

Birds round about his Table stand,  
And he them feeds with his own hand,  
'Tis his humility;  
And if they do want any thing,  
They need but chirp for their kind King,  
And he comes presently.   

And now, for those rare parts he must  
Entitled be, Lewis the Just,  
Great Henry's lawful heir;  
When to his style, to add more words,  
Th've better call him King of Birds,  
Then King of lost Navarre.   

He hath besides a pretty firk,  
Taught him by nature how to work  
In Iron, with much ease;  
Sometimes into the Forge he goes,  
And there he knocks, & there he blows,  
And makes both Locks and keys.   

Which moves a doubt in every one  
Whether he's Mart or Vulcan's Son,  
Some few believe his Mother;  
But let them all say what they will,  
I am resolved and do think still,  
As much the one as th'other.   

The people do dislike the youth,  
Alleging reason, for, in truth,  
Mothers should honoured be;  
Yet others say, he loves her rather,  
As well as ere she loved his Father;  
That's a notorious lie.   

His Queen's a little pretty Wench,  
Was born in Spain, speaks little French,  
Not like to be a Mother:  
For her incestuous House would not  
Have any Children, but begot  
By uncle, or by Brother.   

Now why should Lewis, being so just,  
Content himself to take his Lust  
With his lascivious Mate,  
And suffer his little pretty Queen,  
From all her race, that e'er hath been.  
Once to degenerate?   

'Twere Charity for to be known  
Love others' Children, as his own,  
And why? it is no shame:  
Unless that he would greater be  
Then was his Father Henery,  
Who (men thought) did the same.    

Hankins Heigh-hoa.  

NOrth Britain loved Sculler of our times,  
That twy-beatest this way, that way going Thames;  
Divine Aquarius of all fluent rhymes,  
Such as describe Lepanto's bloody streams.  
Lend me thy Scull, full of Pyerian sweat  
My sorrows to repeat,  
And in each pie, I'll bake up every she,  
Big as thy Boat for thee.   

Thrice had all new-year's Guests their yewl guts filled  
With embalmed Veal, buried in Christmas Past,  
Thrice had they Ivy hereby wreath, well peeled;  
Crane slept at Tottenham first, at Chelsey last;  
Since first my heart was broached on Cupid's spit,  
Roasting bit after bit,  
In her love's flames, who casts it now behind,  
And blow'st away with wind.   

When I had built with practic Architecture  
Newcastle Mine, refined to such a frame  
Proportionable, as might deserve a Lecture,  
And that the Mast stayed only for a flame;  
Her love alone, without or Match or Tinder,  
New styled this new built Cinder,  
And so an emblem of our Love we beeted,  
The word black, but love lighted.   

Oft have I parboiled been with blubbering grief,  
Seasoned & soused with brine of bitter tears,  
With salads sliced, and lettuced up with Beef,  
With vinegar and Sugar, hopes and fears,  
Undone like Oysters, peppered with despair,  
All for this Laundres fair,  
Who now she thinks, a bitter bit hath got  
To furnish her flesh-pot.   

My kitchen door, like Pluto's gates still open,  
Down comes this beauteous Queen, like Proserpin,  
I smeared with soot, and she with suds of soap,  
Was ever match more necessary seen?  
And faith we swore, I by my Oven and Peel,  
She by her Starch and Steel;  
Which sacred Oath I kept, but she hers broke,  
And turned it into smoke.   

Hartford, now Hatesford, which my Heartsford  
Be ever ruinous, as thou art this day;  
Because thou bredst this well washed Laundry Lass, was▪  
Let Ware beguile thee of thy rich road way;  
And may thy Craifish River fall from thee  
As she forsaketh me:  
But he that hath her I do wish no worse,  
Than a true Sedgely curse.   

You Chargers from my hands that lustre drew,  
To brighten you to stars, but spotless fair;  
You twinkling saucers, Constellations new,  
And glazing Platters, which like Comets are,  
Be ever dark, let neither Chalk nor Sand,  
Nor the Oily circling hand  
For evermore rekindle you again,  
But mourn you for my pain.   

Draw me the bravest Spit that e'er was bent  
With massy Member of laborious beast;  
Drill me from Mouth to Taile incontinent,  
Dress me and dish me at the nuptial Feast,  
Thus for her Love and loss, poor Hankin dies,  
His amorous soul down flies  
To th'bottom of the Cellar, there to dwell;  
Susan, farewell, farewell.    

Some Gentlemen shut out of their seats in Paul's, while they went to drink.  

Nouns, Gentlemen, how now? shut out?  
Must we, mixed with the zealous rout,  
Stand hoofing on the vulgar stone,  
To hear the Cheuri-illeson?  
First, Let the Organs, one by one,  
Treble their Lamentation;  
And the choirs sing, till they  
For want of moisture fall to play,  
Ere it shall be said, that I  
Let my choice devotions fly  
Up from hence, in th'foul-mouthed peal  
Of Prentice Orisons, where my zeal  
Shall stand cheap-rated, faith, for why?  
The best seats shut, and we put by.  
We did but step aside awhile  
With juice of Grapes our Lamps to oil;  
Where staying long, we came too late,  
And shared the foolish virgin's fate.  
Yet saw I two or three within,  
Fair Virgins, such as had no sin:  
Or if they had, their worths high rate  
Might it soon transubstantiate  
Into a virtue, whose least share,  
A branch of holy Saints might wear.  
Should great Saint Peter me deny  
Passage, t'enjoy such company,  
We should fall foul, unless that he  
Put me to them, or them to me.    

Upon a lame tired Horse.  

ABout the time———  
Aurora in her Mantle wrapped the clime,  
When the bright Day, and thirsty Sun had quaffed  
A thousand Flagons, for his morning's draught,  
Brim full with Pearly dew; I got me up,  
And tasted freely of a liberal cup;  
Pursued my journey, on a Horse as poor  
As is a sterved Beggar at the door,  
Or Pharaoh's leanest Cow; there was as much  
Flesh on his back, as on an old man's Crutch.  
Now men observing, that I was so fat,  
And durst ride on a Horse so lean as that,  
Did scoff and jeer me, as I passed the way,  
And, as I thought did one to th'other say,  
The horse has stripped his flesh, and on his back  
Does carry it, as Pedlars do a Pack.  
For I have often seen upon my troth,  
Poor ragged Pedlars carry packs of Cloth.  
Another swore, that I was some Saint Paul,  
Because my Horse was so spiritual.  
A Clown unto his fellow's cries, Gods foes,  
I think this Horse has Corns upon his Toes.  
Another swore, that I no more did ride,  
Than Children, that a Hobby-horse bestride;  
Another said, my horse did sure intend,  
To tell each step unto his journeys end.  
But, ere I got out of a Lane to th'Heath,  
I'll take my oath, they jeered my Horse to death.    

Upon a Surfeit caught by drinking evil Sack, at the George Tavern in Southwark.  

WHo thought that such a storm, Ned, when our Souls,  
From the calm Harbour of domestic bowls,  
Would needs aboard the George, t'embark our brain,  
To the Cantabrian Calenture of Spain?  
Oh hadst thou seen, (and happy are thy eyes  
That did not see) that Friday's Crudities,  
Such Hecatombs of indigested Sack  
Retreated up my throat, oh what a wrack  
'Twas, to a thick-brained paper-Boat of wit,  
In a Canary voyage to be split?  
We drank old Lees, & gave our heads a fraught,  
Of that Don Pedro left in Eighty Eight:  
A bawdy house would scorn it, 'twas too poor,  
For those that play at Noddy on the score.  
Feltmakers had refused it; Nay, I think  
The devil would abhor such posset-drink.  
Bacchus, I'm sure detests it, 'tis too bad  
For heretics, a Friar would be mad  
To bless such vile unconsecrable stuff,  
And Brownists would conclude it good enough  
For such a Sacrifice: I'd wish no worse  
A draught unto the Ignorant, nor curse  
My foes beyond it. Not a beadsman sure▪  
At a Town funeral would it endure;  
Much less a Man of sense; 'twere an affront,  
To put an understanding Fur upon't,  
Or Burgo Mistress: It is such a thing  
Would dam a Vintner at a Christening.  
Yet we must quaff these dregs, and be constrained  
To what the L●ety, seven years since disdained▪  
Oh would I might turn Poet for an hour,  
To satirise with a vindictive power  
Against the Drawer! or I could desire  
Old johnson's head had scalded in this fire▪  
How would he rage, and bring Apollo down  
To scold with Bacchus, and depose the Clown,  
For his ill government, and so confute  
Our Poet Apes, that do so much impute  
Unto the grape's inspirement! Let them sit,  
And from the winepress, squeeze a bastard wit  
But I, while Sever●, and old Avon can  
Afford a draught; while there's a Cider-Man,  
Or a Metheglenist, while there's a Cup  
Of Beer or Ale, I do forswear to sup  
Of wicked Sack: Thus Solemn I come from it,  
No dog would e'er return to such a vomit.    

The Lowse's Peregrination.  

DIscoveries of late have been made by adventure,  
Where many a pa●e hath been set on the Tenter,  
And many a Tale hath been told more than true is,  
How Whales have been served whole, to sailors in brews.  
But here's a poor louse, by these presents defies  
The Catalogue of old Mandevil's lies:  
And this I report of a certain.   

My Father and Mother, when first they joined paunches,  
Begot me between an old pedlar's haunches;  
Where grown to a Creeper, I know how a pox I  
Got to suck by chance of the blood of his doxy.  
Where finding the sweetness of this my new pasture,  
I left the bones of my pockified Master,  
And there I struck in for a fortune.   

A Lord of this Land that loved a Bum well,  
Did lie-with this Mort one night in the Strummel,  
I clinged me fast to him, and left my companions,  
I scorned to converse more with Tatterdemalians;  
But sued to Sir Giles, to promise in a Patent,  
That my heirs might enjoy clean linen and satin;  
But the Parliament crossed my Intention.   

This Lord that I followed delighted in Tennis,  
He sweat out my fat with going to Venice,  
Where with a brave Donna, in single Duello,  
He left me behind him within the bordello;  
Where lecherous passages I did discover,  
Betwixt Bonna Roba, and Diego her Lover,  
you'd wonder to hear the discourse of't.   

The use of the Dildo they had without measure,  
Behind and before, they have it at pleasure;  
All Aretine's ways, they practice with labour,  
An Eunuch they hate like Bethlem Gabor;  
Counting the English man but as a Stallion,  
Leaving the Goat unto the Italian:  
And this is the truth that I tell you.   

Thus living with wonder, escaping the talon,  
Of Citizen, Clown, Whore, Lawyer, and Gallant,  
At last came a Soldier, I nimbly did firk him,  
Up the greasy skirts of●s robustuous Buff Jerkin;  
Where finding companions, without any harm I  
Was brought before Breda, to Spinola's Army:  
And there I remain of a certain.    

King Oberon's apparel.  

WHen the Monthly horned Queen  
Grew jealous, that the Stars had seen  
Her rising from Endymion's arms,  
In rage, she throws her misty charms  
Into the bosom of the night,  
To dim their curious prying light.  
Then did the dwarfish fairy Elves  
(Having first attired themselves)  
Prepare to dress their Oberon King  
In highest robes, for revelling.  
In a Cobweb shirt, more thin  
Than ever Spider since could spin,  
Bleached by the whiteness of the Snow,  
As the stormy winds did blow  
It in the vast and freezing air;  
No shirt half so fine, so fair.   

A rich waistcoat they did bring  
Made of the Trout flies gilded wing,  
At that his Elveship, 'gan to fret,  
Swearing it would make him sweat,  
Even with its weight, and needs would wear  
His waistcoat weave of downy hair,  
New shaved from an Eunuch's chin;  
That pleased him well, 'twas wondrous thin.   

The outside of his Doublet was  
Made of the four-leaved true-love grass,  
On which was set so fine a gloss,  
By the oil of crispy moss;  
That through a mist, and starry light,  
It made a Rainbow every night.  
On every Seam, there was a Lace  
Drawn by the unctuous snails slow trace;  
To it, the purest Silver thread  
Compared, did look like dull pale Lead.   

Each Button was a sparkling eye  
Ta'en from the speckled Adders fry,  
Which in a gloomy night, and dark,  
Twinkled like a fiery spark:  
And, for coolness, next his skin,  
'Twas with white Poppy lined within.   

His Breeches of that Fleece were wrought,  
Which from Colchos Jason brought;  
Spun into so fine a yarn,  
That mortals might it not discern;  
Weave by Arachne, in her Loom,  
Just before she had her doom;  
Died crimson with a Maidens blush,  
And lined with Dandely on Plush.   

A rich mantle he did wear  
Made of Tinsel Gossamer,  
Bestarred over with a few  
Diamond drops of morning dew.   

His Cap was all of Lady's love,  
So passing light, that it did move,  
If any humming Gnat or Fly  
But buzzed the air, in passing by;  
About it was a wreath of pearl,  
dropped from the eyes of some poor girl  
Pinched, because she had forgot  
To leave fair water in the pot.  
And for Feather, he did wear  
Old Nisus fatal purple hair.   

The sword they girded on his Thigh,  
Was smallest blade of finest Rye.   

A pair of Buskins they did bring  
Of the Cow Lady's coral wing;  
Powdered o'er with spots of Jet,  
And lined with purple-Violet.   

His Belt was made of myrtle leaves,  
Plaited in small curious threaves,  
Beset with Amber Cowslip studds,  
And fringed about with Daizy buds.  
In which his Bugle horn was hung,  
Made of the babbling echoes tongue;  
Which set unto his moon-burned lip,  
He winds, and then his fairies skip:  
At that, the lazy dawn'gan sound,  
And each did trip a fairy round.    

A poet's farewell to his thread bare Cloak.  

CLoak (if I so may call thee) though thou art  
My old acquaintance, prithee now let's part;  
Thou were't my equal friend in thirty one,  
But now thou look'st like a mere hanger on,  
And art so useless to me, I scarce know  
Sometimes whether I have thee on or no.  
But this I needs must say, when thou go'st from me,  
These ten years thou hast been no burden to me:  
Yet that's thy accusation; for if I  
Divorce thee from me, 'tis for Levity.  
Thou hast abused my Bed, that is, thou hast  
Not kept me warm, when thou were't overcast.  
Transparent garment, proof against all weather,  
Men wonder by what art thou hangest together;  
Nor can the eyes of the best reason pry  
Into this new Occult Geometry.  
A fellow tother day but cast his eye on,  
And swore I was mantled in Dent de lion.  
Another asked me (who was somewhat bolder)  
Whether I wore a love-bag on my shoulder?  
I fear a fire, as fair maids the small pox,  
And dare not look towards a Tinder-boxe,  
Nor him that sells'em up and down; I know,  
If he comes near me, 'tis but touch and go.  
A red-faced fellow frights me, though some fear  
That which makes his nose red, makes my cloak bare.  
They say my thick Back, and thin Cloak appear,  
Very like powdered Beef, and Vinegar.  
An other vowed (whose tongue had no restriction)  
It was no garment, but the poet's fiction.  
Did ever man discover such a knack,  
To walk in Querpo with a Cloak on's back!  
A very zealous brother did begin  
To jeer and say, Sir, your Original sin  
Is not washed off (pray do not take it ill)  
I see, you wear your father's Fig-leaves still.  
A Scholar (in an elevated thought)  
Protested, 'Twas the web Arachne wrought  
When she contended with Minerva: but  
Another Raschal had his finger cut,  
And begged a piece to wrap about it. Thus  
You see (kind Cobwebs) how they laugh at us.  
Good cambric Lawn, depart; let me not be  
For ever fettered thus in Tiffany.  
Although I never yet did merit praise,  
I'd rather have my shoulders crowned with Bays  
Than hung with cypress. If this fortune be  
Always dependent on poor Poetry,  
I would my kinder destiny would call  
Me to be one o'th'Clerks of Blackwell-hall;  
For though their easy studies are more dull,  
Yet what they want in wit, they have in wool.  
Once more farewell, these are no times for thee,  
Thick Cloaks are only fit for knavery.  
The only Cloaks that now are most in fashion  
Are Liberty, Religion, Reformation:  
All these are faced with zeal, and buttoned down  
With Jewels dropped from an imperial crown.  
He that would Cloak it in the new Translation,  
Must have his tailor cut it Pulpit-fashion.  
Do not appear within the City; there  
They mind not what men are, but what they weave.  
The habit speaks the Man. How canst thou thrive  
When a good Cloak's a Representative?  
The Females will not wear thee, they put on  
Such Cloaks as do obscure the rising sun.  
How canst thou hope for entertainment, when  
Women make Cloaks even of Committee men?  
Farewell good coverwit, upon the briar  
I'll hang thee up; if any do inquire  
Where his brains were that let his Cloak thus swing,  
Tell him, his wits are gone a woolgathering.    

Upon a Fart unluckily let.  

WEll Madam, well, the Fart you put upon me  
Hath in this kingdom almost quite un-  
Many a boisterous storm, & bitter gust  
Have I endured, by Sea, and more I must: done me.  
But of all storms by Land, to me 'tis true,  
This is the foulest blast that ever blue.  
Not that it can so much impair my credit,  
But that I dare pronounce, 'twas I, that did it.  
For when I thought to please you with a song,  
'Twas but a strain too low that did me wrong;  
Yet winged Fame will yet divulge it so,  
That I shall hear of't where soe'er I go,  
To see my friends, I now no longer dare,  
Because my Fart will be before me there.  
Nay more, which is to me my hardest doom,  
I long to see you most, but dare not come;  
For if by chance or hap, we meet together,  
You taunt me with, what wind, Sir, blew you hither?  
If I deny to tell, you will not sail,  
I thought your voice, Sir, would have drowned your Tale;  
Thus am I hampered wheresoever you meet me,  
And thus, instead of better terms you greet me.   

I never held it such a heinous crime,  
A Fart was lucky held, in former time;  
A fox of old, being destitute of food,  
Farted, and said, this news must needs be good,  
I shall have food, I know, without delay,  
Mine Arse doth sing so merrily to day;  
And so they say he had. But yet you see  
The fox's blessing proves a curse to me.  
How much I wronged am, the case is clear,  
As I shall plainly make it to appear.  
As thus, of all men let me be forsaken,  
If of a Fart can any hold be taken:  
For 'tis a Blast, and we Recorded find,  
King Aeolus alone commands the wind.  
Why should I then usurp, and undertake  
The Subject of a royal Prince to make  
My Prisoner? No, but as my duty binds,  
Leave that command unto the King of winds.  
So, when I found him struggling to depart,  
I freely gave him leave with all my heart.  
Then judge you, gentle Ladies, of my wrong,  
Am I not well requited for my Song?  
All the revenge that I require is this,  
That you may Fart as oft as e'er you piss;  
So may you chance, the next time that we meet,  
To vie the ruff, and I not dare to see't.  
In the mean time, on knees devoutly bended,  
My Tongue craves pardon, if my tail offended.    

A young Man courting an old Widow.  

DAme Hecuba, fie, be not coy, that look  
How it drew up your wrinkles, like a Book  
Of velum, at a fire? glazen your eyes  
And view this face, these limbs, here virtue lies  
Restorative, will make you smooth and straight,  
As you were in the sixth of Henry th'eighth.  
Come, let us kiss, that solitary Tusk,  
As garlic strong, but wholesomer than Musk,  
Invites me nearer yet; the hottest fires  
Ne'er scorched, as do your ashes my desires.  
Time was, I've heard my Grandfather report  
When those eyes drew more company to Court  
Then hope of Honour; they have virtue still,  
And work upon my breast, for as they drill  
That humour down your yawning cheeks, my blood  
Grows dull, congeals, & thickens with your Mud.   

Somewhat you'd say now! I perceive your gums  
Are labouring for't, as when we brace our Drums,  
To make them sound the better: oh take heed,  
A little wind shivers a cracking reed.  
One syllable will fetch your lungs up; stay  
And make but signs, I'll guess what you would say.  
Good Granam, do but nod your tottering head,  
And shake your bunch of keys, you'll raise the  
Why may not you and I be one? there be  
In one world, several tempers, Harmony dead.  
Is made up thus, and Contraries preserve  
That subject, where they do each other serve.  
Nor are we therefore over near akin,  
Because your Granchilds Niece hath married been  
To my great uncle; 'Twas a lovely pair,  
They say, who knew them then, equally fair  
In years and Fortune: this a Priest may do,  
Spite of stern nature's Laws, twixt me & you.  
He can take you as y'are, me in my prime,  
And tie up in one knot both ends of Time;  
'Mongst all your Coffers and your bags of Gold,  
A cunning Goldsmith ever likes the old.  
The new may prove as currant, and may pass  
From hand to hand, as fast as a young lass.  
But you're more grave and stayed, come, pray consent,  
And blaze but one good snuff, ere you be spent.  
Touchwood should take fire soonest, as it falls,  
Fresh joy clings fully close to aged walls.  
So let us join thus in one volume bound,  
A Chronicle and Corant may be found.    

Upon chess. play. To Dr. Budden.  

TO thee Laws Oracle, who hadst the power  
To wage my pens employment for an hour,  
I send no Frogs, nor Mice, pygmies nor Cranes,  
Giants nor Gods, which trouble so the brains  
Of feigbning Poets; nor my leisure sings  
The Counterbuffs of the four painted Kings:  
Those worthy Combatants have had their times,  
And battles sung in thousand curious rhymes.  
I sing the fierce alarm, and direful stroke  
Of passing timbered men, all heart of oak;  
Men that scorn arms defensive, nor, in heat  
Of bloody broils, complain of dust or sweat.  
Men that do think, no victory is fit  
That's not compacted by the reach of wit.  
Men that an Ambuscado know to lay,  
T'entrap the Foe in his retiring way;  
Plot Stratagems, and teach their brains t'indite  
What place is fittest to employ their might.  
Dull downright blows, are fit for rustic wits,  
Within the compass of whose scalp there sits  
A homebred sense, weak apprehension,  
That strike the first they cast their eye upon;  
Those are the Chaff of Soldiers, but this Corn  
Of choicest men, at highest rate is born.  
Here life is precious, where the meanest man  
Is guarded by the Noblest, who do scan,  
(Not what a poor man is, but) what may prove,  
If bravely to the army's head he move;  
Such may his valour be, he may of right  
Be an Executor to Rook or Knight,  
Whose Lands fall to the King (their Master dead)  
With which this Pawn lives to be honoured,  
And do his Prince good service. Tell me then,  
Thou that dost distribute Justice to men,  
Must Honours ever follow blood? or should  
Virtue be graced, though in the meanest Mould?  
Tell me, thou Man of Peace, are not these Wars  
Lawful and commendable, where the scars  
Are for Command, where either Enemy  
Seeks to himself a fifth great Monarchy?  
Where neither knows his confines, but each foot  
Is his, where he or his, can take firm root?  
Pity with me, the fortunes of those Kings,  
Whose battle such an untaught Poet sings.  
Know, that great Alexander could not have  
An Homer; and remember, in wars brave,  
Each deeds a Poem, and he writes it best  
Who doth engrave it on a conquered Crest.  
If I offend, part of the blame is thine,  
Thou gav'st the theme, I did but frame the Line.  
Two angry Kings weary of lingering peace,  
Challenge the field, all Concord now must cease;  
So do their stomachs with fired anger burn,  
Nothing but wounds, blood, death, must serve the turn.   

They pitched their field in a fair checkered square,  
Each form two Squadrons, in the former are  
The common Soldiers, whose courageous scope  
Is venturing their lives, like Fortune, Hope.  
These still march on, & dare not break their rank,  
But for to kill a Foe, then 'tis their prank  
To make the ground good 'gainst the Enemy,  
Till by a greater force subdued, they die.   

The Kings for safety, in mid battle stand,  
And Marshal all their Nobles on each hand.  
Next either King, an Amazonian Queen,  
Like our sixt Henry's Margaret is seen,  
Ready to scour the Field, corner, or square,  
She succours, where the Troops distressed are.   

Next stand two mitred Bishops which in War  
Forget their Calling, venturing many a scar  
In Prince's cause, yet must no Bishop stray,  
But leave the broad, and keep the narrow way.   

Next are two venturous Knights, whose nimble feet  
Leap o'er men's heads, scorning to think it meet  
They should stand sentinels, while the poor pawns,  
With danger of their lives do scour the lawns.   

The battles outspread wings, two Rooks do guard,  
These flank the field so well, that there is barred  
All side assaults; these, for their valour's grace,  
(The King in danger) with him change their place.  
But Majesty must keep a settled pace,  
Rides not in post, moves to the nearest place,  
That's to his standard; If there be report  
Of the King's danger, all troops may resort.   

But now they sound alarm, each heart doth swell  
With wrath, strikes in the name of Christabel,  
Strike, strike, be not aghast, Soldiers are bound  
To fear no death, much less to dread a wound.  
Now without mercy dies the common Troop,  
A Rook, a Bishop, and a Knight doth droop;  
Yet neither boasts of Conquest, though each hope  
To win the field, which now is half laid open  
By Soldiers death; now dares a martial Queen  
Check her Foe King, when straight there steps between  
A venturous Soldier, or a Noble man  
Who cares not for his life, so be he can  
From danger keep his King; he fears not death,  
In Prince's cause, that gives each Subject breath.   

But this Virago dies, being left alone,  
When straight a nimble Soldier steppeth on,  
And through the thickest Troops hews out his way  
And till he come to th'head doth never stay.  
This brave attempt deserves the honouring;  
The Queen's colours are his, given by the King▪  
Who knows that valour should not want reward,  
And venturous spirits, best keep a Prince's guard.   

Now is the War in heat, bloody the Field,  
Mercy is banished, none hath thought to yield,  
Basely to beg his breath; the fame now ran,  
That they must fight it out, to the last man.  
All Soldiers die, but one, who to his King,  
Grieved with his great loss, doth this comfort bring,  
That their great Foe, whose Troops are all now dead,  
Must to their swords, yield up his conquered head.  
Then with their Check, and Check on either hand,  
The poor disheartened King doth mated stand.  
Though thus to die it be the Prince's fate,  
Who dares pronounce he had a whisking mate;  
Who, rather than mumping forgo the Field,  
Joys in the place he stands, his breath to yield?   

But now the conquering couple want their breath,  
Their festered wounds do rankle, & grim death  
Creeps through the gashes, down the victor's fall,  
And then one general hearse entombs them all.    

The loose Wooer.  

THou dost deny me, cause thou art a Wife,  
Know, she that's married lives a single life  
That loves but one; abhor that nuptial curse,  
Tied thee to him, for better and for worse.  
Variety delights the active blood,  
And Women the more common, the more good,  
As all goods are; there's no Adultery,  
And Marriage is the worst Monopoly.  
The Learned Roman Clergy admits none  
Of theirs to Marry; they love all, not one:  
And every Nun can teach you 'tis as meet,  
To change your Bedfellow, as smock or sheet.  
Say, would you be content only to eat  
Mutton or Beef, and taste no other meat?  
It would grow to loathsome to you, and I know  
You have two palates, and the best below.    

Upon the biting of Fleas.  

SUmmon up all the terrifying pains  
That ever were invented by the brains  
Of earthly Tyrants; Then descend to Hell,  
And count the horrid tortures that do dwell  
In the dark Dungeon, where the horrid stone  
Makes Sisyphus his panting entrails groan.  
Where Tantalus (in th'midst of plenty cursed)  
Is doomed to famine, and eternal thirst;  
Where the pale Ghosts are lashed with whips of steel,  
Yet these are gentle, to the pains I feel.  
Vexed with a Thousand Pigmy friends, and such  
As dare not stand the onset of a touch.  
Strange kind of Combatants, where Conquest lies  
In nimbly skipping from their Enemies,  
While they, with eager fierceness lay about  
To catch the thing they fain would be without.  
These sable furies bravely venture on,  
But when I'gin t'oppose them, whip, theyare gone.  
Doubtless I think each is a magic dancer,  
Bred up by some infernal Necromancer,  
But that I do believe, none ere scarce knew  
('Mong all their Spirits) such a damned crew.  
Some, when they would express the gentle sting  
Of a slight pain, call it a Flea-biting.  
But were they in my place, they soon would find  
A cause sufficient for to change their mind▪  
Some, telling how they vexed another, say  
I sent him with a Flea in's ear away,  
Only to show what trouble hath possessed  
Him, whom this little creature doth molest.  
It is reported, that a Mouse can daunt  
The courage of the mighty Elephant.  
Compare my bigness, and the Fleas to theirs,  
And I have smaller reason for my fears,  
And yet I tremble when I feel them bite;  
Oh how they sting my flesh? was black-browed night,  
And the whist stillness of it, made by Fate,  
To make man happy or unfortunate?  
If there be any happiness or rest  
In pangs of torture, I am fully blessed.  
All my five senses are combined in one,  
For, but my sense of feeling, I have none,  
And that is left me, to increase my smart;  
Bloodsucking Tyrants, will you ne'er depart?  
Why do you hang in Clusters on my skin?  
Come one to one, and try what you can win.  
You Coward Aethiop Vermine! Oh you Gods,  
You are unjust, to load me with such odds.  
If Jove-born Hercules can't deal with two,  
Then what can I against a Legion do?  
Their number frights me, not their strength; I'll dare  
The Lion, Panther, Tigar, or the bear  
To an encounter, to be freed from these  
Relentless demy-Devills, cursed Fleas.    

Upon Madam Chevereuze swimming over the Thames,  

'TWas calm, and yet the Thames touched heaven to day,  
The water did find out the Milky way,  
When Madam Chevereuze by swimming down,  
Did the fair Thames the Qu● of Rivers crown.  
The humble Willows on the shore grew proud  
To see her in their shade her body shroud;  
And meeting her the Swan (wont to presume)  
Bowed to her whiter neck his sullied Plume.  
Was not great Jove that Swan? so shaped, he came  
To Leda's sight; but Gods and Courtiers shame  
Twice to appear alike; I rather dream  
Jove was not here, the Swan might be the stream,  
And took far greater pleasure to be cooled  
In silver drops, than in his shower of gold.  
And now let Aristotle's scholars tread  
Their Masters timeless footsteps to the dead,  
In searching out the deepest secret, which  
Or earth or water may be thought most rich.  
Venus by proxy from the flood ascends,  
Bright Chevereuze the whole difference ends,  
Adding so great a treasure to the waves,  
As the whole earth seems useless, but for graves.  
Water above the Earth by nature lies,  
But she hath placed it now above the skies.  
The flame she took, a spirit of water drew,  
Framed opal Raine, out of extracted Dew.  
But her chaste breast, cold as the cloistered Nun,  
Whose Frost to crystal might congeal the Sun,  
So glazed the stream, that pilots then afloat,  
Thought they might safely land without a Boat.  
July had seen the Thames in Ice involved,  
Had it not been by her own beams dissolved:  
But yet she left it cordial, 'twas no more  
Thawed to so weak a water as before,  
Else how could it have born all beauty's freight?  
Of force it must have sunk so great a weight.  
Have sunk her? where? how vainly do I err?  
Who know all depths are shallow unto her.  
She dreads not in a River to be drowned,  
Who, than the Sea itself, is more profound.  
Small vessels shake, the great Ship safely rides,  
And, like her royal builder, awes the tides.  
Above their foam, or rage, we see her float,  
In her bright scorn, and, Madam, here's my Vote:  
So may all troubled waves beneath you shrink;  
So may you swim for ever, your foes sink.    

Upon Aglaura in Folio.  

BY this large margin did the Poet mean  
To have a Comment writ upon the Scene?  
Or is it that the Ladies (who ne●re look  
In any, but a Poem or playbook)  
May in each Page, have space to scribble down  
When such a Lord or Fashion came to town?  
As swains in almanacs account do keep  
When their Cow calved, and when they bought their Sheep?  
Ink is the life of Paper, 'tis meet then  
That this, which scaped the Press, should feel the Pen.  
A Room with one side furnished, or a Face,  
Painted half way is but a foul disgrace.  
This great Voluminous Pamphlet may be said  
To be like one that hath more hair than head,  
More excrement than body▪ Trees that sprout  
With broadest leaves, have still the smallest fruit.  
When I saw so much white, I did begin  
To think Aglaara either did lie in,  
Or else did Penance, never did I see  
(Unless in Bills dashed in the Chancery)  
So little in so much, as if the feet  
Of Poetry, like Law, were sold by th'sheet.  
If this new fashion do but last one year,  
Poets, as Clerks, would make our Paper dear.  
Doth not that Artist err, and blast his fame,  
Who sets out pictures lesser than the frame?  
Was ever Chamberlain so mad, to dare,  
To lodge a child in the great bed at Ware?  
Aglaura would please better, did she lie  
In th' narrow bounds of an Epitome;  
Pieces that are weaved of the finest twist,  
As Silk and Plush, have still more stuff than list.  
She that in Persian habits, made great brags,  
Degenerates in this excess of rags,  
Who by her giant bulk, this only gains,  
Perchance in Libraries to hang in chains.  
'Tis not in Books, as clothe; we never say,  
Make London measure, when we buy a Play;  
But rather have them pared; those leaves be fair  
To the judicious, which much spotted are.  
Give me the sociable pocket books,  
These empty folios only please the looks.    

Upon Lute-scrings cateaten.  

ARe these the strings that Poets feign,  
Have cleared the Air, & calmed the main?  
Charmed Wolves, and from the Mountain crests  
Made forests dance, with all their Beasts?  
Could these neglected shreds you see,  
Inspire a Lute of ivory,  
And make it speak? oh then think what  
Hath been committed by my Cat,  
Who in the silence of this night,  
Hath gnawn these cords, and marred them quite,  
Leaving such relics as may be  
For frets, not for my Lute, but me.  
Puss, I will curse thee, Mayst thou dwell  
With some dry Hermit in a Cel,  
Where Rat ne'er peeped, where Mouse ne'er fed,  
And Flies go supperless to bed:  
Or with some close-pared Brother, where  
Thou'lt fast each Sabbath in the year,  
Or else, profane, be hanged on Monday,  
For butchering a Mouse on Sunday.  
Or Mayst thou tumble from some tower,  
And miss to light upon all four,  
Taking a fall that may untie  
Eight of nine lives and let them fly.  
Or may the midnight embers singe  
Thy dainty coat, or Jane beswinge  
Thy hyde, when she shall take thee biting  
Her Cheeseclouts, or her house be—  
What, was there ne'er a Rat nor Mouse,  
Nor Butry ope? nought in the house  
But harmless Lutestrings, could suffice  
Thy paunch, and draw thy glaring eyes?  
Did not thy conscious stomach find  
Nature profaned, that kind with kind  
Should staunch his hunger? think on that,  
Thou cannibal and Cyclops Cat.  
For know, thou wretch, that every string  
Is a cat's gut, which Art doth bring  
Into a thread; and now suppose  
Dunstan, that snuffed the devil's nose,  
Should bid these strings revive, as once  
He did the calf, from naked bones;  
Or I to plague thee for thy sin,  
Should draw a Circle, and begin  
To Conjure, for I am, look to't,  
An Oxford scholar, and can do't.  
Then with three sets of Mops and mows,  
Seven of odd words, and Motley shows,  
A thousand tricks, that may be taken  
From Faustus, lamb, or Frier-Bacon;  
I should begin to call my strings  
My catlings, and my Minikins;  
And they recatted, straight should fall  
To mew, to purr, to Caterwawle;  
From Pusses belly, sure as death,  
Puss should be an Engastrumeth.  
Puss should be sent for to the King,  
For a strange Bird or some rare thing.  
Puss should be sought to far and near,  
As she some cunning woman were.  
Puss should be carried up and down,  
From Shire to Shire, from Town to town,  
Like to the camel, lean as Hag,  
The Elephant or Apish Nag,  
For a strange sight; Puss should be sung  
In lousy Ballads, midst the throng,  
At Markets, with as good a grace  
As Agincourt, or Chevy chase;  
The Troy▪ sprung Britain would forgo  
His Pedigree, he chanteth so,  
And sing that Merlin (long deceased)  
Returned is in a nine lived beast.  
Thus Puss thou seest, what might betide thee,  
But I forbear to hurt or chide thee.  
For't may be Puss was Melancholy,  
And so to make her blithe and Jolly,  
Finding these strings, sheled have a fit  
Of Mirth; nay, puss, if that were it;  
Thus I revenge me, that as thou  
Hast played on them, I on thee now;  
And as thy touch was nothing fine,  
So I've but scratched these notes of mine.    

To a Lady vexed with a Jealous Husband.  

WHen you sit musing, Lady, all alone  
Casting up all your cares with private moan,  
When your heart bleeds with grief, you are no more▪  
Near unto comfort, than you were before.  
You cannot mend your state with sighs or tears,  
Sorrow's no balsam for distrustful fears.  
Have you a Foe you hate, wish him no worse  
A Plague or Torment, than the pillows curse.  
Observe your Lord with ne'er so strict an eye,  
You cannot go to piss without a spy.  
If but a Mouse doth stir about his bed,  
He starts, and swears he is dishonoured,  
And when a jealous dream doth craze his pate,  
Straight he resolves he will be separate.  
Tell me, right worthy Cuckolds, if you can,  
What good this folly doth reflect on man?  
Are women made more loyal? hath it power  
To guard the Tree, that none can pluck the Flower?  
Is it within the power of jealous heads,  
To banish lust from Court, or Country beds?  
I never knew, that base and foul mistrust  
Made any chaste, that had a mind to lust.  
It cannot make her honest, that by kind,  
To lose and wild affections is inclined.  
Debar her Lord, she, to supply his room,  
Will have a Horse boy, or a Stable-groom.  
Keep her from youth of lower rank and place,  
She'll kiss his Scullion, and with Knaves embrace:  
Suspect her faith withal, and all mistrust,  
She'll buy a Monkey to supply her lust:  
Lock her from Man and Beast, and all content,  
She'll make thee Cuckold with an instrument:  
For women are like angry mastiffs chained,  
They bite at all, when they are all restrained.  
We may set locks & guards to watch their fires,  
But have no means to quench their hot desires.  
Man may as well, by cunning, go about,  
To stop the Sun in motion, as by doubt,  
To keep a nettled woman, if that she  
Strongly disposed be to Venery.   

How many thousand women that were Saints,  
Are now made sinful by unjust restraints?  
How many do commit, for very spite,  
That take small pleasure in that sweet delight?  
Some are for malice, some for mirth unjust,  
Some kiss for love, and some do act for lust.  
But if the fates intend to make me blessed,  
And Hymen bind me to a female breast,  
(As yet, I thank my stars, I am not tied  
In servile bonds to any wanton Bride)  
Let Cynthia be my Crest, and let me wear  
The cuckold's badge, if I distrust, or fear.   

'Tis told me oft, a smooth and gentle hand  
Keeps women more in awe of due command,  
Than if we set a Ganneril on their Docks,  
Ride them with Bits, or on their gear set Locks.  
For then, like furious Colts, they'll frisk & fling,  
Grow wild and mad, and will do any thing.  
But if we slack our reins, to please their will,  
Kindness will keep them from committing ill.   

You blessed creatures, hold your female rights,  
Conquer by day, as you o'ercome by nights,  
And tell the jealous world thus much from me,  
Bondage may make them bad, whose minds are free.  
Had Collatine been jealous (say this more)  
Without a rape, Lucrece had dy'd a whore.    

Invitation to dalliance.  

BE not thou so foolish nice,  
As to be entreated twice;  
What should Women more incite,  
Than their own sweet appetite?   

Shall savage things more freedom have  
Than nature unto Women gave?  
The Swan, the Turtle, and the Sparrow  
Bill a while, then take the marrow.  
They Bill, they kiss, what else they do  
Come Bill, and kiss, and I'll show you.    

The country man's Song in the Spanish Curate.  

LEt the Bells ring, and the boys sing,  
The young Lasses trip and play,  
Let the Cups go round, till round goes the ground,  
Our learned Vicar we'll stay.  
Let the Pig turn merrily hay,  
And let the fat Goose swim,  
For verily, verily, hay,  
Our Vicar this day shall be trim.   

The stewed Cock shall Crow, Cockadoodle do,  
Aloud Cockadoodle shall Crow;  
The Duck and the Drake that swim in the Lake  
Of Onions and claret below.   

Our Wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat,  
To thee, our Noble Adviser,  
Our pains shall be great, and our pottles shall sweat,  
And we ourselves will be wiser.   

we'll labour & swink, we'll kiss and we'll drink,  
And tithes shall come thicker and thicker;  
we'll fall to the Plough, and get children enough,  
And thou shalt be learned, Oh Vicar!    

Upon the sight of an old decayed patched Bed, with a Pillow having T. R. as a mark on it.  

Prologue,  
Marvel not (Reader) though the Sun shine bright  
About you, if I bid you all good night,  
I'll tell how't may properly be said,  
Though you are up, yet I am going to bed.   Poetaster, 
My slumbering Muse upon thy drowsy bed,  
Rest once again thine unattired head  
Where, for thy great Maecenas so commands,  
Thy best assays with saporiferous bands.  
While darkness did thine outward senses blind,  
Tell me what fancies did usurp thy mind.  Muse. 
What think you Sir, while sleep enthraled my head,  
What subject could I have, except my bed?  Poetaster. 
A bed no subject to be written on,  
But lain, yea by the Muses tread upon.  Muse. 
The pillow from the bed I thinks not far,  
And yet on that were written T. and R.  
But to be lain on, right I like it well,  
For why in lying, Poets bear the Bell,  
And to be trod upon, 'tis not unmeet,  
The Muses scanned their subjects with their feet.  Poetaster. 
The R. O muse thou there saw'st (to be brief)  
Was nothing but a Rogue, the T. a Thief:  
In the next verse, but two, I blush to tell,  
Thou first brought'st forth a Lie, & then a Bell.  
Take heed of Libels Muse, thy Poet fears,  
If thy feet stumble, he may lose his ears.  
To sever thieves and Poets I am loath,  
Because I know Mercurius was both.  Muse. 
Within thy verses as Birds of a feather,  
Liars, rogues, thieves, and Muses flock together,  
By whom I'm softly to my subject led,  
For flocks and feathers do fill up the bed.  
Bacchus' his merry bowls may humour breed,  
But divine raptures from the bed proceed.  
Let the Pot Poets in their fury try,  
With dipping their Malignant pens to dry  
The muse's fountain, my inventions streams  
Can never fail, while beds procure me dreams.  
If we one Science justly may admire,  
What shall we here where all the Seven conspire?  
The letters on the pillow witness may  
That on this bed some grammar lately lay;  
In logic also it must needs be able,  
For 'twas a Cord would make a pretty Cable:  
That beds have rhetoric we need not fear,  
While to his pillow each man lends his ear:  
Who number all the feathers in it can,  
Must be a good arithmetician.  
The joints cry creek when on them any lie,  
As if the stocks hung by Geometry.  
Its music sure is pleasant which can keep  
In spite of snorting eyes and ears asleep.  
The bed I take for deep Astronomy,  
Which always studies to eclipse the eye.  
If you seek Planets, this is Vulcan's gin,  
That Mars and Venus were so fettered in.  
Astrology in this doth also dwell,  
For men by dreams may future things foretell:  
To read strong lines, if any mind be bent,  
Herein the bed can also give content.  
Not sage Apollo, nor the sacred Nine  
Can then this Bed-cord show a stronger line.  
Methinks I'm very sleepy still, and loath  
To rise, but that I've on me ne'er a cloth.  
'Twas T. and R. as sure's I live, 'twas they  
That stole the Coverlet and Sheets away.  
Out! a Roap choke you both, y'are arrant knaves,  
I'd knock you soundly, had I but bedstaffs.  

Epilogue.  
IF ought obscure you in my Verses, mark,  
Poets use not their Beds but in the dark.  
If false or foolish any thing you deem,  
Sithed came from Bed, account it for a Dream.  
If in my Verses boldly any catches,  
The Bed, my subject, was as full of patches:  
The blurs and blots I make, let none disdain,  
The Bed in one place had an ugly stain.  
If my unpolished lines being dull and dry,  
Do make you heavy, I will tell you why.  
Some sudjects make men laugh, some make them weep  
But the bedpost is to bring all asleep.    

A Letter to Sir John Mennis, when the Parliament denied the King Money to pay the Army, unless a Priest, whom the King had reprieved, might be executed. Sir John at that time wanting the Money for provisions for his troop, desired me by his Letter to go to the Priest, and to persuade him to die for the good of the Army; saying, 
What is't for him to hang an hour,  
To give an Army strength and power?   
The Reply.  

BY my last Letter John thou seeest  
What I have done to soften Priest;  
Yet could not with all I could say,  
Persuade him hang to get thee pay.  
Thou Swad, quoth he, I plainly see,  
The Army wants no food by thee,  
Fast oftener, friend, or if you'll eat  
Use Oaten straw, or straw of Wheat;  
They'll serve to moderate thy jelly,  
And (which it needs) take up thy belly.  
As one that in a tavern breaks  
A glass, steals by the bar, and sneaks:  
At this rebuke, with no less haste, I  
Trudged from the Priest, and Prison nasty:  
The truth is, he gave little credit  
To''th' Armies wants, because I said it.  
And, if you'll press it further, John,  
'Tis fit you send a leaner man.  
For thou with ease canst friends expose  
For thy behoof to fortunes blows.  
Suppose we being found together  
Had passed for Birds of the same feather?  
I had perchance been shrewdly shent,  
And mauled too, by the Parliament.  
Have you beheld th'unlucky Ape  
For roasted chestnuts mump and gape,  
And offering at them with his paws,  
But loathe he is to scorch his claws;  
When viewing on the Hearth asleep  
A Puppy, gives him cause to weep:  
To spare his own, he takes his help,  
And rakes out Nuts with foot of whelp.  
Which done, (as if 'twere all but play)  
Your namesake looks another way.  
The Cur awakes, and finds his thumbs  
In pain, but knows not whence it comes,  
He takes it first to be some Cramp,  
And now he spreads, now licks his vamp;  
Both are in vain, no ease appears,  
What should he do? he shakes his ears,  
And hobbling on three legs he goes,  
Whining away with aching toes.  
Not in much better case perhaps,  
I might have been to serve thy chaps,  
And have beshrewed my finger's end,  
For groping so in cause of friend;  
While thou wouldst munch like horse in Manger,  
And reach at Nuts with others danger:  
Yet have I ventured far to serve  
My friend that says he's like to starve.    

The Fart censured in the Parliament House.  

PUffing down comes grave ancient Sir Io. Crook,  
And reads his message promptly without book.  
Very well, quoth Sir William Morris, so;  
But Harry ludlow's foisting Arse cried no.  
Then starts up one fuller of devotion  
Then eloquence, and says, An ill motion.  
Nay, by my Faith, quoth Sir Henry Jenkin,  
The motion were good, were't not for stinking.  
Quoth Sir Henry Pool, 'Tis an audacious trick,  
To Fart in the Face of the body politic.  
Now without doubt, quoth Sir Edward Grevil,  
I must confess, it was very uncivil.  
Thank God, quoth Sir Edward Hungerford,  
That this Fart proved not a Turd.  
Indeed, quoth Sir John Trevor, it gave a foul knock,  
As it launched forth from his stinking Dock.  
Ay, quoth another it once so chanced,  
That a great Man Farted, as he danced.  
Quoth Sir Richard Haughton, no Justice of Quorum,  
But would take it in snuff, t'have a fart let before'um.  
Such a fart as this ne'er before was seen,  
Quoth the most learned council of the Queen.  
Quoth Mr. Daniel, this young man's too bold,  
This privilege belongs to us that are old.  
Then woe the time, quoth Sir Laurence Hyde,  
That these our privileges are denied.  
Quoth Mr. Recorder a word for the City,  
To cut off the alderman's right, were great pity.  
Well, quoth Kit Brook, we'll give you a reason,  
Though he had right by descent, he had not livery and seisin.  
Yet, quoth M. Peak, I have a precedent in store,  
His father farted last Sessions before.  
Then said Mr. Noy, this may very well be done,  
A fart may be entailed from the father to the son.  
Saith Mr. Moor, let us this motion repeal,  
What's good for the private, is ill for the Common weal.  
A goodyear on this Fart, quoth gentle Sir Harry.  
He hath caused such an earthquake, that my Coal-pits miscarry.  
It is hard to recall a Fart when 'tis out,  
Quoth Sir William Lower with a loud shout.  
Yes, quoth Sir Laurence Hide, that we may come by it,  
we'll make a proviso, time it and tie it.  
Qd. Sir Harry the hardy, look well to each clause,  
as well for England's Liberty as laws.  
Now than the knightly Doctor protests,  
This Fart shall be brought into th'Court of Requests.  
Nay rather, says Sir Edwin, I'll make a digression,  
And fart him a project, shall last him a Session.  
Then Sir Edward Hoby alleged with the spigot,  
If you fart at the Union, remember Kit Pigot.  
Swooks quoth Sir John Lee, is your Arse in dotage?  
Could you not have kept this breath to cool your pottage?  
Grave Senat quoth Mr. Duncomb, upon my salvation  
This Fart had need of great Reformation.  
Quoth the country Courtier upon my Conscience,  
It might have been reformed with frankincense.  
We must have this Fart by Parliament enacted,  
Said another, before this business be transacted.  
And so we shall have (oh do not abhor it!)  
A Fart from Scotland reciprocal for it.  
A very good jest it is by this light.  
Quoth spruce Mr. James of the Isle of Wight.  
Quoth Sir Robert Johnson, if you'll not laugh  
I'll measure this Fart with my Jacobs' staff.  
Now by my troth, quoth sage Mr. Bennet,  
We must have a selected Committee to pen it.  
Philip Gawdy stroak'd the old stubble of his face,  
Said, the Fart was well penned, so sat down in his place.  
Then modest Sir John Hollis said, on his word,  
It was but a shoe that creaked on a board.  
Not so, quoth Sir John Ackland, that cannot be,  
The place underneath is matted you see.  
Before God, said Mr. Brooke, to tell you no lie,  
This Fart, by our Law, is of the Post-nati.  
Fie, quoth M. Fotherbie, I like not this Embassage,  
A Fart Interlocutory in the midst of a Message.  
In all your Eloquence then, quoth Mr. Martin,  
You cannot find out this figure of Farting.  
Nay, quoth Dr. Crompton, can any man draw  
This Fart within compass of the civil Law?  
Then Sir William Pady, I dare assure'm,  
Though't be Contra modestiam, 'tis not Contra naturam.  
Up starts Ned Weymark the Pasquil of powl's,  
And said, this Fart would have fitted the Master of the Rolls.  
Said Oxenbridge, there is great suspicion,  
That this Fart savours of Popish Superstition.  
Nay, said Mr. Good, and also some other,  
This Fart came from some reformed Brother.  
Then up start Sir John Young, and swore by God's nails,  
Was ne'er such a Fart let in the Borders of Wales.  
Sir Walter Cope said, this Fart as 'twas let,  
Might well have broke open his privy Cabinet.  
Sir Jerome in Folio, swore by the mass,  
This Fart was enough to have broke all the glass.  
And Sir Jerome the less said, such an abuse,  
Was never committed in Poland or Pruce.  
In compass of a thousand miles about,  
Sir Roger Owen said, such a Fart came not out.  
Quoth Sir John Parker, I swear by my Rapier,  
This Bombard was stuff●d with very foul Paper.  
Now quoth Mr. Lewknor, we have found such a thing  
As no Tale-bearer dares carry to the King.  
Quoth Sir Lewis his Brother, if it come of Embassage,  
The Master of the Ceremonies must give it passage.  
Ay, quoth Sir Robert Drury, that were your part,  
If so it had been a foreign Fart.  
Nay, said Sir Richard Love lace, to end the difference,  
It were fit with the Lords to have a conference.  
Hark, quoth Sir John Townsend, this Fart had the might,  
To deny his own Master to be dubbed Knight,  
For had it ambition, or orationis pars,  
Your Son could have told him, quid est Ars.  
Quoth Sir Thomas Lake, if this house be not able  
To censure this Fart, I'll have it to the council Table.  
It were no great grievance, qd, M. Hare,  
If the Surveyour herein had his share.  
Be patient Gentlemen, quoth Sir Francis Bacon,  
There's none of us all but may be thus mistaken.  
Silence, quoth Bond, though words be but wind,  
Yet I do mislike these Motions behind.  
Then, quoth Mr. Price, it stinks the more you stir it,  
Naturam expellas furca, recurrit.  
Then 'gan sage Mounson silence to break,  
And said, this Fart would make an Image speak.  
Up rises the Speaker, that noble Ephestion,  
And says, Gentlemen, I'll put you a question:  
The question propounded the ears did lose,  
For the Major part went there with the nose.  
Sir Robert Cotton, well read in old stories,  
(Having conferred his notes with Mr. Pories,  
I can well witness that these are no fables)  
Said, 'twas hard to put the Fart in his Tables.  
If 'twould bear an Action, saith Sir Tho: Holcrost,  
I'd make of this Fart a Bolt or a shaft.  
Quoth Sir Roger Ashton, 'twould mend well the matter,  
If 'twere shayed and well washed in rose water:  
Why, quoth Sir Roger Acton, how should I tell it,  
A Fart by hearsay, & neither hear it nor smell it?  
Quoth Sir Thomas Knevet, I fear here doth lurk  
In this Hallow Vault, some more powder work.  
Then precisely rose Sir Anthony Cope,  
And prayed to God, 'twere no Bull from the Pope.  
Quoth Sir Tho: Chaloner, I'll demonstrat this fart  
To b'a voice of the Belly, and not of the heart.  
Then by my Faith saith Sir Edwin Sandy's,  
He plays not by th'line, this Gentleman bandies.  
Then said Sir George More, in his wonted order,  
I mean but to speak against the houses disorder.  
The Fart which we favour far more than is fit,  
I wish to the Sergeant you would commit.  
The Sergeant refused it, humbly on's knees,  
For Farts break Prison, and never pay Fees;  
Wherefore this motion without reason stands  
To charge me with what I can't hold in my hands.  
Then quoth the Clerk, I now plainly see  
That a private Act is some gain for me.  
All which was admitted by Sir Thomas Freak,  
This Gentleman saith, his shoe did but creak.  
Then said Sir Richard Gargrave by and by,  
This Gentleman speaketh as well as I.  
But all at last said, it was most fit,  
The Fart as a Traitor, to the Tower to commit:  
Where as they say, it remains to this hour,  
Yet not close prisoner, but at large in the Tower.    

Partus Chaucheri Posthumus Gulielmi Nelson.  

LIsten you Lordlings to a noble game,  
Which I shall tell you, by thilk Lord S. Jame,  
Of a lewd Clerk, and of his 'haviour bold,  
He was, I trow, some threescore winters old.  
Of Cambridge was this Clerk, not Oxenford,  
Well known at Stilton, Stewkey, and Stamford.  
He haunted fenny Staunton, and Saint Ives,  
And fair could gloze among the Country Wives.  
A lusty Runnyon beware he in his hose,  
Lowd could he speak, and crackle in the Nose.  
For scholarship him cared him light or nought,  
To serve his turn, he English postils bought.  
He used no colour, nor no rhetoric,  
But yet he couth some terms of art logic,  
He was full rude and hot in disputation,  
And wondrous frequent in his predication.  
Full gravely couth he spit, 'fore he 'gan speak,  
And in his mouth some Sugar-Candy break,  
But yet his preaching was to small effect,  
Though loud he roared, inth Northern Dialect.  
He beware a Cassock deep, but of small cost,  
His state was spent in Nutmeg, Ale and Toast.  
A galled backed spital Jade for travelling  
He kept in summer, but the wintering  
Too costly was, rode he early or later,  
Nought was his provender but grass and water,  
Well liquored were his Boots, & wondrous wide,  
Ne Sword, ne rapier beware he by his side,  
A long vast Cloak-bag was his carriage  
There nis the like from Hull unto Carthage.  
But, sooth to say, he was for ay formal,  
And wore a thread bare Cloak canonical.  
He had a Deanship and a Parsonage,  
Yet was in debt and danger all his age,  
His greater sum he pays by borrowing,  
And lesser scores, by often punishing.  
If that a Problem, or a common place  
Comes to his share, he is in jolly case;  
Then to a Nape of Ling he would invite  
Some rascal Tapster, hardly worth a Mite.   

Well was he known in every Village Town,  
The good Wives cleped him Gossip up & down;  
Oft was he Maudlin drunk, then would he weep,  
Not for his sins, of them he took small keep:  
It was the humour fell down from his eyn,  
Distilled from Ale, he drank but little wine;  
And being asked why those tears did fall,  
Soothly he preached at a funeral.  
And when with drinking he was some deal mellow,  
His Motto was, Faith Lad, I's half good fellow.  
Thus preached he often on an alehouse Bench,  
And, when the Spirit moved, coughed for his Wench,  
And Bastards got, which, if God send them grace,  
They may succeed him in his Seniors place.  
He was an idle Senior for the nonce,  
Foul may befall his body, and his bones.    

Upon the same.  

TWice twenty Sermons, & twice five, I ween,  
(And yet not one of them in print is seen)  
He preached, God and St. Mary's witnesseth,  
Where loud he roared, yet had but little pith.    

Imitatio Chauceri altera, In eundem.  

LEave, Jeffrey Chaucer, to describen a Man  
In thine old phrason, so well as I can.  
●ken no glozing, for my wit is rude,  
Natheless I'll limb out his similitude.  
Fierce was his look, 'twas danger him to meet,  
He passed like a Tempest through the street.  
Narrow his eyn, his Nose was Chamised,  
Sawfleum his Face, forked his Beard and head.  
Perdie I wot not what men do him call,  
Dan Thomas. ne Dan Richard, n'of what Hall  
He is, 〈◊〉 college; but, by th'holy matin,  
He was a frequent guest at John Port Latin;  
And eke at all other days' festival,  
He had a liquorous tooth over all;  
Ne was there any Wight in all this Town,  
That tasted better a pastry of Venisoun,  
Ybaked with Gravy God's plenty,  
It relished better than Austin's works or Gregory,  
Yet politic he was, and worldly wise,  
And purchaced hath, a double Benefice.  
Small was his Wage, and little was his hire,  
He let his sheep accumber in the mire;  
And solaced at St. John's, or at St. Paul's,  
That was a Sanctuary for his souls.  
Sir John of them, must always taken keep,  
A shitten shepherd cannot make clean sheep.  
Ne God Mercurius, ne Melpomene,  
Ere looked upon him at's Nativity:  
Or if they looked, they looked all askance,  
So was he made a Priest by foul mischance.  
Perdie he was of the worst clay y'maked,  
That e'er Dame Nature in her Furnace baked.  
For in his youth he was a servingman,  
And busily on his Master's errand ran;  
And fairly fore a Cloak-bag couth he ride,  
Algates a rusty whinyard by his side;  
And he that whilom could not change a groat,  
Hath changed, for a Cassock, his blue Coat.  
One cannot see the Body, nor the bulk,  
That whilom did attend on aged Fulk;  
A larger Gown hath all y'covered,  
And a square Cap doth penthouse his swine's head.   

Yet notes he got, when his Master disputed,  
And when the learned Papists he confuted.  
The Borel men say, he preach well enough,  
But others known, that he stolen all his stuff.   

Lustful he was, at Forty needs must wed,  
Old January will have May in Bed,  
And live in glee, for, as wise men have say,  
Old Fish, and young Flesh, would I have fayn,  
And thus he swinketh; but, to end my story,  
Men say, he needs no other Purgatory.    

The Nightingale.  

MY Limbs were weary, and my head oppressed  
With drowsiness, and yet I could not rest.  
My Bed was such, as Down nor Feather can Swan;  
Make one more soft, though Jove again turn  
No fear-distracted thoughts, my slumbers broke,  
I heard no Screech Owl shriek, nor Raven croak;  
Sleeps foe, the Flea, that proud insulting elf,  
Is now at truce, and is asleep itself.  
But 'twas nights darling, and the world's chief jewel,  
The Nightingale, that was so sweetly cruel.  
It wooed my ears to rob my eyes of sleep,  
That whilst she sung of Tereus, they might weep;  
And yet rejoice the Tyrant did her wrong,  
Her cause of woe, was burden of her song.  
Which while I listened to, and strove to hear,  
'Twas such, I could have wished myself all ear.  
'Tis false that Poets feign of Orpheus, he  
Could neither move a beast, a stone, or tree  
To follow him, but wheresoever she flies,  
The Grovy satire, and the fairy hies  
Afore her Perch, to dance their roundelays,  
For she sings distiches to them, while Pan plays.  
Yet she sung better now, as if in me  
She meant with sleep to try the Mastery.  
But while she chanted thus, the Cock for spite,  
Days hoarcer Herald, chid away the night,  
Thus robbed of sleep, my eyelids nightly guest,  
Methought I lay content, though not at rest.    

Epitaph on Mistress Mary Prideaux.  

HAppy Grave thou dost enshrine  
That which makes thee a rich mine,  
Yet remember, 'tis but loan,  
And we look for back our own.  
The very same, mark me, the same,  
Thou shalt not cheat us with a Lame  
Deformed carcase, this was fair,  
Fresh as morning, soft as air;  
Purer than other flesh as far  
As other souls their bodies are:  
And that thou Mayst the better see  
To find her out, two stars there be  
Eclipsed now; uncloud but those,  
And they will point thee to the Rose  
That died each Cheek, now pale and wan,  
But will be, when she wakes again  
Fresher than ever; and how e'er  
Her long sleep may alter her,  
Her Soul will know her Body straight,  
'Twas made so fit for't, no deceit  
Can suit another to it, none  
Clothe it so neatly as its own.    

Upon drinking in the Crown of a Hat.  

WEll fare those three, that when there was a Dearth  
Of Cups to drink in, yet could find out mirth,  
And spite of Fortune, make their want their store,  
And nought to drink in, caused drinking more.  
No brittle glass we used, nor did we think  
'Twould help the taste, t'have windows to our drink.  
We scorned base Clay, with tortured in the wheel,  
Martyred at last, the force of fire doth feel.  
Both these do fail, we drink not morally,  
In such like Emblems of mortality.  
The Cups that brewer's use, and long use may,  
But used by women the contrary way,  
Polluted not our palates; nor the horn,  
Due to the forehead, by our lips was worn.  
We did abhor these hell-bred, blood bought metals,  
Silver and gold; nor should that which makes Kettles  
Serve us for cups; nor that which is the Newter  
Betwixt these five, and is yclept Pewter;  
But 'twas as rare a thing, as often tried,  
As best of these, though seven times purified  
A seven times scoured Felt, but turned never,  
And pity 'tis, I cannot call it beaver.   

The circumlated Crown, somewhat depressed,  
And by degrees, toward the one side thrust,  
That to our lips it might the better stoop,  
Varied a little th'figure of a Hoop;  
From a just Circle drawing out an Angle,  
And that we might not for our measure wrangle,  
The butler's self, whose Hat it was and Band,  
Filled each his measure with an even hand.  
Thus did we round it, and did never shrink,  
Till we that wanted Cups, now wanted drink.    

An Epitaph upon Doctor Prideaux's Son.  

HEre lies his Parents hopes and fears,  
Once all their joys, now all their tears,  
He's now past sense, past fear of pain,  
'Twere sin to wish him here again.  
Had it lived to have been a Man,  
This Inch had grown but to a span;  
And now he takes up the less room,  
Rocked from his Cradle to his Tomb.  
'Tis better die a child, at four,  
Then live and die so at fourscore.  
View but the way by which we come,  
Thou'lt say, he's best, that's first at home.    

On his Mistress having the greensickness.  

WHite Innocence, that now lies spread  
Forsaken on thy widowed Bed,  
Cold and alone; for fear, love, hate,  
Or shame, recall thy crimson mate  
From his dark Mazes, to reside  
With thee, his chaste and Maiden-bride:  
And left he backward thence should flow,  
Congeal him in thy Virgin-snow.  
But if his own heat, with thy pair  
Of Neighbouring Suns, and flaming hair,  
Thaw him into a new Divorce,  
Lest to the heart he take his course:  
O lodge me there where I'll defeat  
A future hope of his retreat;  
And force the fugitive to seek  
A constant station in thy cheek.  
So each shall have his proper place,  
I in your heart, he in your face.    

Upon the naked Bedlams, and spotted Beasts, we see in Covent Garden.  

WHen Bess! she ne'er was half so vainly clad,  
Bess ne'er was half so naked, half so mad.  
Again, this raves with Lust, for Love Bess ranted,  
Then Bess' skin was tanned, but this is painted,:  
No, this is Madam Spots, 'tis she, I know her,  
Her face is powdered ermine, I'll speak to her;  
How does your most enammeled Ladyship?  
Nay pardon me, I dare not touch your Lip.  
What kiss a Leopard▪ he that Lips will close,  
With such a Beast as you, may lose his Nose.  
Why in such haste? before we part 'tis meet.  
You should do penance Madam in a Sheet:  
'Tis time when Schism and Error so loud cries.  
To punish such notorious Sectaries.  
I publicly appear half Adamite,  
In private practice you are one outright.  
But dapled Ladies, if you needs must show  
Your nakedness, yet pray why spotted so?  
Has beauty think you lustre from these spots?  
Is Paper fairer when 'tis stained with blots?  
What have you cut your Mask out into sippets,  
Like wanton girls, to make you Spots and Tippets;  
As I have seen a Cook, that over-neat,  
To garnish out a dish hath spoiled good meat?  
Pride is a Plague, why sure these are the sores,  
I will write (Lord have mercy) on your doors,  
Devils are black who doubt it, but some write  
That there are likewise devils that are white:  
Well, I have found a third sort that are neither,  
They are pied Devils, black and white together.  
Come, tell me true, for what these Spots are set,  
Are they decoys to draw fools to your net?  
Are they like ribbons in the Mane and tail,  
Of an old wincing Mare that's set to sale?  
You that use public trade must hang out signs,  
Bushes you think will vent your naughty Wines.  
I'll tell you (Ladies) never give me trust,  
If these baits move not more to scorn then Lust.  
Perhaps they may a stomach tempt, that loves  
A Gammon of Bacon that's stuffed with Cloves;  
Or white-broth with prunes, but never hope,  
That Love or Lust, to this patched Lure should stoop,  
Unless of such rude ruffians, as ne'er blush,  
To enter wherefoe're they see a bush.  
Whose Breeches and whose Shirts make plain report,  
That they as ready are as you for sport.  
Take my advice to be secure from jeers,  
Wash off your stinking Spots with bitter tears.   

O you sweet rural beauties who were never  
Infected with this ugly spotted fever.  
Whose face is smother than the Ivory plain,  
Need neither spots from France, nor paint from Spain.  
Whose snowy mountains never saw the light,  
And yet the Sun never saw Snow so white;  
Whose dress the Emblem is of Modesty,  
Whose looks secure you from attempts; whose Eye  
Has made jobs Vow, and kept it, and whose whose  
Behaviour chaste is, as your virgin-soul:  
Which to adorn, take up your choicest thoughts,  
Not to get Pendants, Paintings, ribbons, Spots:  
Trust me (sweet Ladies) I that never thought  
To love again, do now extremely dote;  
Men that have Wit, Religion or Estates,  
Will be ambitious to make you their Mates;  
Whilst all those naked Bedlams, painted Babies,  
Spottified Faces, and Frenchified Ladies,  
With all their proud fantastical disguises,  
Will prove at last, but fools and beggars prizes.   

Dear Coz: the want of thy sweet company,  
Puts me upon this idle Poetry:  
May you return with Olive in your hand,  
Bring thy dear self to me, peace to the Land.    

To Sir John Mennis, on a rich prize which he took on the Seas.  

WAlking last Friday morning in my Garden,  
Where stands a house that I have grunted hard in:  
And finding there sweet William by my Bower,  
It made me think of John for half an hour.  
Thou art (I hear) where thou dost play Carnoggin  
Thou broughtest from Wales, 'gainst flute of Hogan Mogan.  
And where thou richly dost abound in Ghelt,  
And ropes of Pearl now stripped off from thy Belt;  
But now laid up in safety on the shelf,  
Pearl that's more orient, than the East itself;  
A Bag of Diamonds too: and I Divine,  
That long ere this, all the Hans towns are thine;  
After thine own thou needst not call these Lands,  
For they are ready christened to thy hands,  
Whiles thus in thy Seraglio thou dost bristle,  
Poor Lady at Newcastle may go whistle,  
Or gnaw the sheets for anguish, no John comes,  
He wears out all he hath in foreign bums,  
he's not at all concerned in us (poor fouls)  
His friends may hang and who's will carry coals.   

Nay never toss your nose; I knew thee man  
When thou were't little better then poor John:  
The worlds well mended since the war began,  
Thou'rt now become the great Leviathan:  
And as that monster when he hath got a prize  
Now eats, than farts out Pilchards as he lies.  
So thou devour'st at Sea, making no bones  
Of smaller vessels, and their precious Stones.  
We have no booties brought us in from Sea,  
To furnish us for rates or monthly pay.  
No Jewels, nor rich prizes, no such matter,  
When Troopers come, we run & pawn a Platter,  
That we can spare, for we have little meat,  
If this world hold, we shall forget to eat.  
We shall be freeborn people then (Oh Hector)  
When we have nothing left but a—  
Hard-hearted Knight, how canst thou hear this tale  
And not bepiss thyself with grief or Ale?  
Hast thou no moisture, no relenting left?  
Wilt thou sit always brooding o'er thy theft,  
And part with never a penny to the Muses,  
Nor to thy friends, nor yet to pious uses?  
we'll draw thy picture (Churl) and thy shape both  
Standing like Dives in the painted cloth.  
One that ne'er thought upon his friends till then,  
When he was in the devil's frying pan.  
Then when it is too late thou wilt confess,  
Thou hast more sinned in Friendship then   
I. S.   

A Defiance to K. A. and his round Table. Incipit J. A.  

AS it befell on a Penticost day,  
King Arthur at Camelot, kept his Court royal  
With his fair Queen dame Guinever the gay,  
And many Princes and Lords in Hall.  
Heralds with Hukes, hearing full high  
Cried largesse, largesse, Chevaliers tres hardy.  
A doughty dwarf to the uppermost desk,  
Boldly 'gan wick kneeling on knee;  
Cried, King Arthur God thee save and see.   

Sir Rhines of Northgales greeteth well thee,  
And bids that thy Beard anon thou him send,  
Or else from thy jaws he will it off rend.   

For his robe of State is a rich Scarlet Mantle,  
With eleven Kings Beards bordered about,   

And there is room left in a Cantell,  
For thine to make it out.  
This must be done be thou never so stout,  
This must be done, I tell thee no Fable,  
Maugre the teeth of all thy round Table.   

When this doughty dwarf his dismal message had said,  
The King funed, Queen screeked, Ladies were aghast,  
Princes puffed, Barons blustered, Lords began to lower,  
Knights and Squires stormed, like Steeds in a flower  
Yeomen and Pages yelld out in hall,  
With that came in Sir Guy the seneschal.  
Silence my sovereign, quoth this courteous Knight,  
And therewithal the stour began to still.  
The dwarfs dinner was full dearly deight,  
Of Wine and Wassell he had his will.  
And when he had eaten and drunken his fill,  
A hundred pieces of fine Coined Gold,  
Was given the dwarf for his Message so bold.   

But say to Sir Rhines thou dwarf quoth the King,  
That for his bold Message, I him defy,  
For shortly I mean with basins him to ring  
Out of Northgales where he and I  
With Swords, and no Razors shall quickly try,  
Which of us two is the best Barber.   

And then withal he shook his good Sword.  
Excutitur   
Sic Explicit, I. A.   
FINIS.