Ex otio Negotium. OR, MARTIAL HIS EPIGRAMS Translated. With Sundry Poems and Fancies, By R. Fletcher.  
— vivere Chartae  
Incipiant, Cineri gloria sera venit.  Mar. lib. 1. Epig. 26. 
LONDON, Printed by T. Mabb, for William Shears▪ and are to be sold at the Bible in Bedford street in Covent-garden, 1656.   


M. VALERIUS MARSHAL.  
Anno Aetatis suae 51.  Ro▪ Vaughan sculpsit   

To the Reader.  
Courteous Reader  
I Here present thee with the scattered Papers of my Youth: which if they want that seriousness and solemn thoughts which become the ticklish stage of so catching a world, let me beseech thy pardon: had I sacrificed to thy view a volume beyond exception: it had Anticipated thy Clemency, and left thee no occasion to have exercised thy goodness. But I am not of that number that dares Challenge the sharp-sighted Censure of the times; and conceive their Papers as their persons beyond fault or defection. If I have not rendered the acute fancy of my most ingenious Author in its pure & genuine dress, as his own Pen hath delivered him in; ascribe the fail to my weakness, not my will. And for those abortive births slippd from my brain which can carry neither worth nor weight in the scale of this pregnant age, so fraught and furnished with variety of gallant Pieces and performances of the choicest of writers, give me leave to flurn at them, as the poor excrescencies of Nature, which rather blemish than adorn the structure of a well-composed body. But lest I tyre thy patience with a tedious Apolligie, like the Pulpit-cuffers of the age, which breath their Audience at every accent either a sleep or out of doors; I will no longer detain thee in the Porch and Preface of the Work: If my loser minutes shall either please or profit thee, I have my end: If not, I have my desire, may I be thought worthy to be acknowledged  
Thy Friend and Servant R. Fletcher.   

A Table of the Poems and Fancies in this Book.  

THe Publipue Faith Page 129.  
A Lent on Lettany composed for a confiding Brother for the benefit and edification of the Faithful Ones. p. 131  
The Second Part p. 135  
A Hue and Cry after the Reformation p. 137  
A Committee p. 138  
On the happy Memmory of Alderman Hoyl that hanged himself p. 141  
On Clarinda Praying p. 142  
On Clarinda Singing p. 145  
Platonic Love p. 147  
A Sigh p. 149  
Love's Farewell p. 151  
Christmas Day; or the shuttle of an inspired Weaver, bolted against the Order of the Church for its Solemnity p. 154  
Good Friday p. 156  
Easter Day p. 157  
Holy Thursday p. 159  
Whitesunday p. 161  
A short Ejaculation upon that truly worthy Patron of the Law, Sr John Bridgman p. 164  
Obsequies on that right Reverend Father in God John Prideaux late Bishop of Worcester p. 166  
On the death of his Royal Majesty Charles late King of England p. 171  
An Epitaph on the same p. 173  
A Survey of the World p. 174  
An Old Man Courting a Young Girl p. 177  
An Epitaph on his deceased Friend p. 182  
Mount Ida, or beauties Contest p. 183  
Upon a Fly that flew into a Lady's eye, and there lay buried in a Tear. p. 185.  
Obsequies to the Memory of the truly Noble right Valiant and right Honourable Spencer Earl of Northampton, Slain at Hopton Field in Staffordshire in the beginning of this Civil War p. 186  
The London Lady p. 190  
The Times p. 194  
The Model of the New Religion p. 202  
Content p. 204  
May-day p. 208  
An Epigram to Doulas p. 211  
An Epigram on the people of England p. 212  
An Elegy upon my dear little Friend Mr. I. F. who died the same morning he was born Decm. the 10. 1654. p. 213  
A short Reflection on the Creation of the World p. 217.  
My Kingdom is not of this world p. 221  
Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden p. 222  
A Sing-song on Clarinda's Wedding p. 226  
On the much to be Lamented Death of that gallant Antiquary, and great Master both of Law and Learning, John Selden Esquire p. 231  
Upon the Death of John Selden Esquire p. 235  
Upon the incomparable Learned John Selden p. 239  
Upon the Death of John Selden p. 240  
Degenerate Love and Choice p. 242  
A Dialogue between two water Nymphs Thamesis and Sabrina p. 247  
To my honoured Friend Mr. T. C. that asked m● how I liked his Mistress being an old Widow p. 254  
The Engagement Stated p. 257    


MARSHAL: Lib. I. Epig.  

Ad Catonem.  

WHen thou didst know the merry Feast  
Of jocund Flora was at best,  
Our solemn sports▪ how loosely free,  
And debonair e the vulgar be,  
Strict Cato, why didst thou intrude  
Into the seated multitude?  
Was it thy frolic here alone  
Only to enter and be gone?    

Ad Lectorem Epig. 2.  

This whom thou readst is he by thee required,  
Martial, through all the world famed and desired,  
For sharpest Books of Epigrams, on whom  
(Ingenious Reader) living, without Tomb,  
Thou hast bestowed that high and glorious wreath,  
Which seldom Poets after death receive.    

Ad Librum suum, Epig. 4.  

Among the Stationer's th'hadst rather be  
(My little Book) though my shelf's void for thee,  
Alas! thou know'st not Madam Rome's disdain,  
Great Mars his sons are of a pregnant brain,  
Gybes no where are more free: young men and old,  
And Boys their Nose up in derision hold,  
Whiles thou shalt hear thy praise, and kisses have,  
Thou shalt be tossed from th' bosom to the Grave.  
But thou for fear thou feelest thy Master's hand,  
And thy loose sports should by his reed be scanned,  
(Lascivious Book) thou seekest to mount abroad,  
Go, fly, but home were yet thy safer road.    

Ad Caesarem, Epig. 5.  

If by chance (Caesar) thou take up my Books,  
Lord of the world put by thy morning looks:  
Thy greatest triumphs have admitted mirth,  
Nor needest thou blush to give my fancy birth,  
With what aspect thou smilest on Thymele,  
Or mimical Latinus, read thou me.  
Innocent sports, strict censure may peruse,  
My life is modest though my lines be loose.    

Ad Decianum Epig. 9  

Because thou follow'st so in thy intents  
Great ●hrasea's, and brave Cato's precedents,  
That thou mayst be secure: nor runnest thybrest  
Naked on drawn Swords in a frantic jest,  
(Decian) thou dost what I would have thee do:  
I like not him, who to redeem, or woe  
An empty fame by is easy blood is raised,  
Give me the man that lives and yet is praised.    

De Gemello & Maronilla. Epig. 11.  

Gemellus seeks old Maronill to wed,  
Desires it much, is instant, prays, and fees,  
Is she so fair? Nought's more ill favoured:  
What then provokes? O she doth cough and wheeze.    

De Arria & Paeto. Epig. 14.  

When Arria to her Paeto gave the sword,  
Which she in her own bowels first had gored,  
Trust me quoth she, that wound I made, don't grieve.  
But that doth Paetus which thou meanest to give.    

Ad Julium. 16. Epig.  

O thou to me 'mongst my chief friends in mind.  
(Julius) if ancient faith, and ties ought bind,  
The sixtith Consul present is to thee,  
And yet thy life knows small felicity.  
Thou dost not well defer thus to deny,  
And call that only thine that is passed by:  
Cares, and chainpd toils expect thee, joys ne'er stay,  
But fleeting take their leave, and fly away;  
These with spread arms and with eaeh hand embrace,  
They oft slide from our bosom's secretest place.  
Credit me 'tis not wise, I'll live to stay  
To morrow's life's too late, live thou to day.    

In Aeliam. Epig. 20.  

Aelia just four teeth had, if I told right,  
One Cough ejected two, another two:  
Now she may Cough securely day and night  
There's nothing left for the third Cough to do.    

De Porsena & Mucio Scaevola. Epig. 22.  

When the right hand mistaken in the guard  
Seeking t' assault the king; in fell reward  
Threw itself in the holy flames to die,  
Such Cruel wonders the good enemy  
Could not sustain, but by command anon  
Snatched from the flames enjoins him to be gone;  
That hand which Mucius in contempt was bold  
To burn, King Porsena could not behold:  
The failing hand the greater glory found,  
Had it not erred, it had been less renowned.    

Ad Cottam Epig. 24.  

Cotta th'invitest none, but such with thee  
Are bathed, and baths provide thee company:  
I wondered long how I escaped thy call:  
But now I see my naked truth spoiled all.    

Ad Sabidum Epig. 33.  

I do not love the (Sabidus),  
Nor can I tell thee why:  
Only my humour happens thus,  
I do not fancy thee.    

De Gellia, Epig. 34.  

Gellia ne'er mourns her father's loss  
Whiles no one's by to see,  
But yet her soon commanded tears  
Flow in society:  
to weep for praise is but a feigned moan,  
‛ He grieves most truly that does grieve alone▪    

Ad Lesbiam, Epig. 35.  

Lesbian thou sin'st still with an unpimped door,  
And open, and ne'er cloak'st thy pleasure o'er,  
Thy peeper's more than active friends delight,  
Nor are thy joys in kind if out of sight:  
But yet the common wench with veil and key  
Strives to expel the witness far away▪  
No chink doth in a Brothel-house appear,  
Of vulgar Strumpets learn this modest care,  
Stews hide this filthiness: but Lesbian see  
If this my censure seem too hard to be?  
I don't forbid thee to employ thy prime,  
But to be taken Lesbian, there's the crime.    

Ad Fidentinum, Epig. 39  

That Book thou readest is ours, my Fidentine,  
But now thou readst so ill, 'tis surely thine.    

Ad Lividum, Epig. 41.  

Thou that look'st sour, & readst unwillingly,  
Mayst the envy all men! no man envy thee!    

De Porcia Epig. 43.  

When Porcia heard her husband Brutus fate,  
And grief pursued substracted arms to take,  
Know ye not yet death cannot be denied?  
Quoth she, this proof enough my father tried  
This said, she drank the burning Coals in ire,  
Go now vexatious Crowd your sword retire.    

Ad Hedylam Epig. 47.  

When thou sayst I hasten to't,  
Do it if thou meanest to do't;  
Hedyla, delayed desire  
Soon languishes and doth expire.  
Command me to expect, than I  
Withheld shall run more speedily,  
But Hedyla if thou dost haste,  
Tell me that I not come too fast.    

Ad Fuscum Epig. 55.  

If any room (my Fuscus) yet there be  
Void in thy Love; for here and there we see  
Thy friends abound, one place I do implore,  
Nor me reject because unknown before,  
Thy ancientest familiars were as new,  
When first thy parts their apt affection drew,  
O let my later love this boon obtain,  
To be embraced in the elder strain.    

Ad Frontonem, Epig. 56.  

Wouldst know thy Marcus wish here in a word?  
(Fronto) thou great renown of Gown and Sword,  
'tis to be master of a little Field,  
His own, course pleasures him such pleasures yield.  
Every man courts the walks of Spartan stone,  
And wearies his how they ' simply till noon:  
He that enjoys his happy grove and land,  
Before whose fire the loaded Nets spread stand,  
And leaping fish hangs with a trembling line,  
Drawing sweet honey from red casks for wine?  
Whose fat made spreads his Table with three legs,  
And whose unpurchased embers roast his eggs,  
May he hate me that hates this life or this,  
And live employed in City Offices.    

Ad Flaccum, Epig. 58  

My Flaccus, if thou needs wouldst crave  
What wench I would, and would not have?  
I loathe the too too easy field  
A like with her that ne'er will yield.  
A moderation I embrace,  
And most approve the middle place,  
I fancy none that wring my guts,  
Nor her that in enjoying gluts.    

De Laevina Epig. 63.  

Laevina chaste as Sabines were of old  
Whose face looked stricter than her husbands, could,  
Whiles she permits herself refreshed to be  
Oft in the baths held in communit ie,  
She fell on fire, embraced a lad, and burned,  
chaste she came there, but too much chasd returned.    

Ad Somnum Epig. 72.  

Naevia six Cups Justina seven Comprise,  
Lycus five, Lyde four▪ and Ida three,  
Each man his love by healths arithmatize,  
If none appear, then Sleep come thou to me    

Ad Fidentinum Epig. 73.  

Fidentine dost thou think and seek to be  
A Poet by my verse in thievery?  
So Eagle with her bought and Indian bone  
may seem to have a sound mouth of her own.  
So painted-faced Lycoris may seem white,  
Though black as Moors veiled in a nat'rall night.  
For that same cause that thou art Poet called,  
Thou mayst be said bush-haird when thou art bald.    

Ad Caecilianum Epig. 74.  

Scarce on in all the City would embrace  
Thy proffered wife (Caecilian) free to have:  
But now she guarded, and locked up: apace  
Thy custom comes. O thouart a witty knave!    

Ad Flaccum Epig. 77.  

Flaccus thou greatest of my cares to me,  
The heir of old Antenor's family!  
Out with these Muse's songs, and company,  
No Girl among them will bring aught to thee.  
What seek'st of Phoebus? 'tis Minerva's chest  
Is full, she's wise and hoards up all the rest.  
What can poor Bacchus' wreaths give? Pallas tree  
Weighs down her boughs with superfluity.  
Helicon has no more but springs, and bays,  
The harps of Goddesses and empty praise.  
With th' Sacred Fountains what hast thou to do?  
The Roman Courts more rich, and nearer too.  
There the chink jingles, but about our chair  
And pulpits, Kisses only fill the Air.    

De Manneia's Epig. 84.  

A puppy licks Manneia's lips, the sense  
I grant, a dog may kiss.— sir reverence.    

De Quicinali Epig. 85.  

Sly Quicinalis cares not much to wed,  
Yet would partake the offspring of the bed,  
But yet what trick? what custom is't he uses?  
Most certain he his chambermaids abuses.  
So stocks his house and fields: how truly he  
Is called the Father of his family?    

De Novio Microspico Epig. 87.  

Novius my neighbour is, and he  
From out my windows reached may be,  
Who will not envy me? and say  
I'm happy all hours of the day?  
Who may, enjoy a friend so near?  
But he's as far from me, as where  
Terentian guards Syene's wall,  
Nor can I feast with him at all,  
Nor is it granted once to me  
To hear him, or at least to see,  
Nor in this City one throughout  
Lives me more near, or more remote.  
Well he or I must further move,  
Who so would Novius neighbour prove:  
And verily his Inmate be,  
Must never Novius mean to see.    

Ad Bassam tribadem Epig. 91.  

'Cause amongst males thou ne'er was seen to be  
Nor as unchaste no fable feigned thee,  
But all thy offices discharged were  
By thy own sex, no man intruding there,  
I grant thou seemedst Lucretia to our eye,  
But (o mistake!) Bassa th' art out on't, fie.  
Two Twatts commit the fact, and dare it can,  
Whiles a prodigious lust supplies the man,  
The hast made a riddle worth the Theban guile,  
Where no man is, adultery bred the while.    

Ad Naevolum Causidicum Epig. 98.  

Still in a crowd of noise thy voice is heard,  
And thinkst thyself a Lawyer for thy table,  
On this account each man that wears a beard  
May be as wise: lo all men peace! now prattle.    

Ad Calenum avarum Epig. 100  

Thou scarce hadst twenty sesterces in all,  
Yet wast so bountiful, and liberal,  
So richly neat (Calenus) that all we  
Thy friends did wish thee much more great to be,  
Jove heard our prayers, and what we then desired,  
And ere seven months (I think) were full expired  
Four funerals bequeathed thee such a sum:  
But, thou as if no Legacies had come,  
But rather hadst been robbed, grew'st so in care,  
So basely hard, that our more sumptuous fare  
That in a year thou dost provide one time  
Costs thee no more than th' offal of thy coin:  
And we thy seven old friends are by thee thought  
Worth but a lead half pound if to be bought,  
What mischief shall we wish that's worthy thee?  
Even a thousand times more rich to be!  
If this shall happen which we pray it might,  
Wretched Calenus thou wilt starve outright.    

Ad Scoevolam Epig. 104.  

Scaevola not as yet dubbd Knight he prays  
For one ten thousand pounds his stock to raise,  
How largely would he live! how happily!  
The easy gods smiled and vouchsafed it free.  
Upon this b●on his coat was much more bare▪  
His Cloak far worse, his shoes thrice clouted are,  
His olives were of seven years' vintage standding,  
One Table serves two meals by his commanding:  
The course dregs ofred wine are his chief drink,  
His pease and wench scarce cost one doit I think,  
Let us appeal to Law, thou cheating Boar,  
Live, or else to the gods their goods restore.    

Ad Lucium Julium Epig. 108.  

Most famous Julius thou sayst oft to me,  
thouart idle, write things for eternity:  
Give me such boons I cry, such as of old  
Horace and Virgil from their Patron hold,  
I'll strive to raise my cares beyond times date,  
And snatch my name from fire's consuming hate,  
The Ox on barren fields his yoke wilned bear,  
A fast soil tires, but yet the labour's dear.    

Ad Velocem Epig. 111.  

Velox complains my Epigrams are long,  
whiles he writes none: he fing a shorter song     

Lib. 2.  

Epig. 3.  

SExtus owes nought, nor fears his quarter day,  
'Tis true: he owes most truly that can pay.    

Ad Decianum, Epig. 5.  

Let me not live (my Decian) if the day  
And the whole night I would not with thee stay,  
But there are two miles that divide our home,  
Which are made four to me when I back come.  
thouart oft abroad: when not, thouart oft denied,  
Or with thy causes, or thyself employed.  
But yet to see thee two miles I will go;  
But not to see thee, four don't please me so.    

De Selio, Epig. 11.  

(Rufus) if an inquiry's made  
Why Selius walks so late and sad?  
Why his dull looks seem to employ  
Some dismal chance and malady?  
Why his foul nose hangs o'er his chest?  
And pulls his hair, and beats his breast.  
He moans no loss of friend, or brother,  
His one son's well, and so's the other,  
And may they live! his wife's in health,  
His servants safe, and bags of wealth,  
His Husbandman and Bailiff too,  
Have near purloined aught of his due,  
What then's the cause that thus he blubbered?  
Why Selius sups at his own Cupboard.    

In Posthumum, Epig. 12.  

What's this that myrrh doth still smell in thy kisse's,  
And that with thee no other odour is?  
'tis doubt (my Posthumus) he that doth smell  
So sweetly always, smells not very well.    

In Hermum, Epig. 15.  

Hermus because thou givest thy Cup to none:  
It i● not proudly, but humanely done.    

De Paulo, Epig. 20.  

Paulus buys verse, recites, and owns them all,  
For what thou buyest, thou mayst thine truly call.    

In Posthumum, Epig. 21.  

Posthumus kisses some must have,  
And some salute his fist:  
Thy hand good Posthumus I crave,  
If I may choose my list.    

De eodem, Epig. 22▪  

O Phoebus and ye sisters nine,  
What shall I do with you?  
Behold that merry Muse of mine  
Her Poet will undo.  
Posthumus late was wont to kiss  
With half lips, which I loath,  
But now my plague redoubled is,  
He kisses me with both.    

In Candidum, Epig. 24.  

If thy cross fortune send thee some sad fate,  
I must persist thy pale and squalid mate.  
If from thy Country thou must banished be.  
Through seas and rocks I still must follow thee.  
If riches come, will they be free to many?  
Wilt thou give part? 'tis much; wilt thou give any?  
'tis crosses makes thee mine: when they are gone,  
Candidus will be happy then alone.    

Ad Gallam, Epig. 25.  

Galla dares promise, but makes good no ty,  
If thou still failest? I prithee once deny.    

Ad Bithynicum, Epig. 26.  

Cause Nevia coughs, and grieves, breaths thick and short,  
And drops her spittle on her breast in sport:  
Dost think thyself her heir made presently?  
The art out, thy Naevia flatters, will not die.    

In Cajum Epig. 30.  

Twice twenty sesterces I once besought,  
Which were they given could not much be thought,  
'Cause 'twas my happy and my ancient friend  
I asked, whose cofferd treasures knew no end?  
He answered: follow suits, thou mayst buy land:  
I ask no Counsel Cajus, cross my hand.    

In Caecilianum Epig. 37.  

What's here and there thou dost purloyn,  
A pregnat sow's paps, a hogs chine,  
A woodcock, commons for two men,  
A whole Jack, half a Barble, than  
A Lampreys side, a Pullet's thigh,  
A Stock-dove boiled in pottage by:  
When these are hid in greasy clout,  
And to thy Boy delivered out  
To be brought to thy home: we sit  
An idle crowd without a bit.  
Restore the feast if any shame there be,  
To morrow I have not invited thee.    

In Linum Epig. 38.  

Linus dost ask what my field yields to me?  
Even this profit, that I ne'er see thee.    

De eodem  

Linus gives purple and rich scarlet gowns  
To his notorious and adulterous woman:  
If thou wouldst give what her degree becomes?  
A loose coat would more fitly stock her common.    

In Candidum Epig. 43.  

These are thy 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 these are they  
(Candidus) which thou soundest out night and day.  
Thy gown is washed in the Portuguese spring,  
Or of those flocks their fleece to Parma bring.  
But mine as one that passed the bulls horns, stairs,  
Or which would scarce be owned by the first hairs,  
Agenor's son's ●●●et country sends thee coats,  
Thou canst not sell my scarlet for three groats.  
Thou hangest with Indian teeth thy Libyan rings,  
My beechen table's propd with earthen things  
Thy gold-tipd plates rich barbles do bedight  
My dish is red with self-looked Aconite.  
Thy boys may with the Ilian lad compare,  
My hands my Ganymedes most duly are.  
Of this thy wealth thou nought bestowest on us  
Thy friends: yet criest out 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Candidus.    

In Sextum Epig. 44.  

Whether I've bought a freeze coat or a boy,  
For three or four times double the pound Troy,  
Forthwith the us're● Sextus, which ye know  
To be my ancient neighbour-friend in show,  
In care, lest I should borrow of him, fears  
And whispers to himself, but by my ears,  
I to Secundus owe seven thousand pounds,  
To Phoebus four, eleven Philetus sounds;  
Whiles I have not one farthing in my chest:  
O my conceited friend's ingenious jest!  
Sextus 'tis hard to give a flat denial,  
When thou art asked: much more before the trial.    

In Maximum 〈◊〉  

Maximus wouldst be free? 'tis false, thou'lt not,  
But if thou wouldst indeed, hence take the plot;  
Thou shalt: if thou canst choose to sup abroad:  
Or if small wine thy thirst can quench or load:  
If thou canst scorn poor Cinna's bravery,  
And with our homely gown contented be,  
If thy lust may be calmed for half a souse,  
And entering canst stoop to thy low-roofd house:  
If thou this power of self and mind canst bring,  
Thou shalt live freer than the Parthian king.    

Ad Gallum de ejus uxore Epig. 56.  

In Lybia thy wife they stigmatize  
With the foul crime of too much avarice.  
But they are lies they tell: she is not wont  
To take, but give for scouring of her—.    

In Zoilum Epig. 58.  

Zoilus well clothed, derides my threadbare gown,  
'tis true 'tis threadbare Zoilus, but my own.    

In Taurum Epig. 64.  

While now thou'lt Lawyer be, now Rhetorician,  
And know'st not to make forth thy wished condition,  
Peleus, and Priam's, Nestor's age slips by,  
And it was grown too late for thee to try;  
Begin: three Rhetoricians died one year!  
Ifthou hast any skill or stomach here?  
If Schools dislike? Courts swarm with the old trade,  
And Marsya's self a Lawyer may be made.  
Fie, out with this delay: how long shall we  
Expect? whiles doubting, nothing thou wilt be.    

In Saletanum Epig. 65.  

Why do we see old Saletan so sad?  
Is the cause light? thou sayst his wife is dead.  
O the grand crime of fate! o the sad chance!  
Is Secundilla dead? that did advance  
A thousand sesterces in dowry to thee?  
O would this hap had near came to undo thee!    

De Fannio Epig. 80.  

When Fannius should have scaped his Foe,  
His own hands stopped his breath:  
And was't not madness I would know,  
By dying to 'scape death;    

In Mamercum Epig. 88  

Thou nought recit'st, and yet wouldst be  
Thought Poet on that score:  
Be what thou wilt Mamercus free,  
So thou wilt speak no more.    

Ad Quinctilianum Epig. 90.  

O thou great master of the youth of Rome  
Quinctilian, the glory of the gown!  
Pardon though poor, nor struck in years, I hast  
To live, since no man strives to live too fast:  
Let him delay that's Father's rents would raise,  
And fill his house with shapes of ancient days,  
Me fire, and houses please smoakd with their steam,  
A native salad, and a living stream,  
A bondman serves my turn, an unlearnd wife,  
A night with sleep, a day without all strife.     

Lib. 3.  

Epig. 9  

CInna writes verses against me 'tis said,  
He writes not, whose bad verse no man  
doth read.    

In Candidum Epig. 26.  

Candidus has alone fine farms, gold, coin,  
Myrrh, and drinks Caecuba and Massick wine▪  
Has the sole wisdom, and the only wit,  
Enjoys the world alone and all in it.  
But has he all alone? that I deny:  
His wife with ours is in community,    

Ad Gargilianum Epig. 30.  

No money's paid, yet gratis eatest my cheer,  
But when at Rome (Gargilian) what dost there?  
Whence hast thou house-rent? or whence a coat?  
How canst thou pay thy wench? whence hast a groat?  
Though with much reason thou art said to live,  
Yet how thou dost it none can reason give.    

Ad Rufinum Epig. 31.  

I grant thy large spread fields yield much to thee  
And to thy City houses great farms be,  
The debtors to thy chest are numerous,  
And golden tables furnish out thy house:  
Yet do not scorn, such as inferior be;  
Since other men have greater wealth than thee.    

In Matriniam Epig. 32.  

Matrinia asks if I can love  
A woman that is old:  
And such a one I do approve,  
But thou art dead and cold.  
I can embrace old Hecuba's itch,  
Or Niobe all one;  
But not till she's turned to a bitch,  
The other to a stone.    

Qualem puellam velit Epig. 33.  

I'd rather have the gentile lass,  
But if she be denied?  
The Libertine shall freely pass,  
And with my fancy side.  
The handmaid which excels them both,  
Comes in the latest place:  
If that she have in very troth,  
But an ingenious face?    

In Pollam Epig. 42.  

Cause Polla thou dost strive so fine  
With paint to smooth thy wrinkled groin,  
Thou daubst thy belly, not thy lips to me,  
And peradventure in simplicity  
The smaller fault lies open freely still,  
That which is hid is thought the greater ill.    

In Lentinum Epig. 43.  

Lentinus Counterfeits his youth  
With Periwigs I trow,  
But art thou changed so soon in truth,  
From a Swan to a Crow?  
Thou canst not all the world deceive,  
Proserpina knows thee grey:  
And she'll make bold without your leave,  
To take your Cap away.    

Ad Ligurinum Epig. 45.  

Whether sacred Phoebus fled (my Ligurine)  
Thyestes feast? I Know not; we fly thine:  
Though that thy Table's rich and nobly spread,  
Yet thy sole talk knocks all th'enjoyment dead.  
I care not for thy Barbles, Turbots, Please,  
Thy Oysters, nor thy Mushrooms, hold thy peace.    

Ad Tongilianum Epig. 52.  

Thy house two hundred pounds (Tongilian) cost,  
Which by a frequent chance of fire was lost:  
Thy Brief rose ten times more: let me require  
Was't not thy plot to set thy house on fire?    

Ad Chloën Epig. 53.  

I could not freely want thine eyes,  
Thy praised neck, and hands, and thighs,  
Thy paps, thy giblets, and thy hips,  
And lest I should quite tire my lips  
Thy several parts to mind to call  
Chloë in short I'd want thee all.    

In Gelliam Epig. 55.  

Where ere thou com'st we think Cosmus goes by,  
As from cracked viols spices cast their smell:  
I care not for thy foreign frippery,  
For at this charge my dog shall smell as well.    

In Cinnam Epig. 61.  

What ere thou askdst (Cinna) 'tis nought said by thee:  
If it be nothing? nothing I deny thee.    

In Cotilum. Epig. 63.  

Cotilus thou art called a pretty man,  
I hear, but tell, what is that pretty than?  
he's pretty, that in order curls his hair,  
Or smells all baulm or Cinnamon most rare.  
That Nile's loose songs, or Gaditan doth sing,  
And into various modes his arms doth swing.  
He that in crowds of females wastes the day,  
And in their ears has somewhat still to say,  
That reads; then writes new letters here and there,  
And nicely leans not on his neighbor's chair:  
That knows whom each man loves, that runs through feasts,  
Blazons Nirpinus great Grandfather's crests.  
What sayst? is this thy pretty man? this tool?  
He then that's pretty's but a fribling fool.    

Ad Lauferam. Epig. 72.  

Thou darest be nought, yet wilt not bathe wtih me,  
I know no guilt to ground thy jealousy.  
Either thy ragged breasts hang ugly down,  
Or being naked, fearest to show thy own,  
Else thy torn groin, gapes with a monstrous slit,  
Or foam prodigious thing hangs over it;  
If none of these? thou art a beauteous tool,  
If true? thou hast a worse fault, thouart a fool.    

In Lupercum Epig. 75.  

Lupercus now thy— has left to stand,  
Yet thou strivest madly him up to command.  
But scallions and lose rochets nought prevail,  
And heightening meats in operation fail;  
Thy wealth begins thy pure cheeks to defile,  
So venery provoked lives but awhile.  
Who can admire enough, the wonder's such,  
That thy not standing stands thee in so much?    

Ad Apicium Epig. 80.  

Apicius ne'er complains, does no man wrong,  
Yet the voice goes, he has a filthy tongue.    

In Tongilionem Epig. 84.  

What does thy Strumpet say Tongilion?  
I do not mean thy wench, what then? thy tongue.    

De Galla Epig. 90.  

My Galla will, and will not buss,  
My fancy never could;  
By willing and not willing thus,  
Suppose what Galla would.    

In Vetustillam Epig. 93.  

Thou Vetustill hast lived three hundred years,  
Hast but four teeth in all, and but three hairs,  
A grashoper's thin waist, an emet's thigh,  
A brow more wrinkled then old wives gowns be,  
Dugs like the webs of spiders, and if Nile  
Should with thy chaps compare her Crocodile,  
His jaws would seem but straight: the frogs that be  
Bred at Ravenna croak better than thee,  
The Adrian gnats sing sweeter, birds of night  
Blinded in morning beams equal thy sight,  
Thou smell'st all hee-goat, hast a rump as fine  
As the extreme end, of a lean duck's chine:  
The bony tout outvyes th' old Cinnick quite,  
When she the bath-man with extinguished light  
Admits among the bustuary sluts,  
When August brings a winter to thy guts,  
Nor yet can thaw thee with a pestilence,  
After two hundred deaths, darest thou commence  
Bride still? and seek a husband in thy dust  
To raise an itch? what though he harrow must  
A stone? who'll call thee wife, or aught that's so?  
Whom thy last mate, called grandam long ago:  
And if thou askest thy carcase scratchd to be,  
Lame Coricles shall make thy bed for thee;  
He that alone becomes thy bridal cheer,  
The burner of dead bodies best can bear  
A taper at thy nuptials, torches can  
Best enter at the Salliport of man.    

In Naevolum Epig. 95.  

Naevolus ne'er salutes first, but replies,  
Which the taught crow, himself seldom denies.  
Why dost expect this from me Naevolus?  
Since thou art not more great nor good than us?  
Both Caesars have rewarded my due praise,  
And me to th' priv'ledg of three sons did raise,  
I'm read by every mouth, known through the town,  
And before death receive my quick renown,  
And this is worth your note I'm Tribune too,  
And sit where that Oceanus caps you;  
How many by great Caesar's grant are made  
Free denizens because by me 'twas prayed?  
The number far exceeds thy family,  
But thou art buggred Naevolus, feedest high,  
Now now thou over-comst me shear, thus, thus,  
Thou art my betters, Salve Naevolus.    

Ad Cerdonem Epig. 99  

Why art offended (Cerdo) with my book?  
Thy life, and not thy person's by me struck,  
Then suffer harmless-wit, why is't not due  
For me to sport? when stabbing's free to you?     

Lib. 4.  

De Natali Domitiani Epig. 1.  

THis is great Caesar's day, and far above  
That wherein Ide produced mighty Jove.  
Mayst thou come long! and and Nestor's years fulfil,  
And with this, or a better face, shine still.  
May he adore his Sea-god in rich gold,  
And let his hands great Jove's tree still enfold!  
May he enjoy the Serpent-ages long,  
Such as Terentus consecrates in song!  
'tis much we ask, ye Gods, but to us due,  
And since 'tis Caesar, what is much to you?    

Ad Faustinum Epig. 10.  

Whiles that thy book is new and rough, and fears  
To have its undried page took by the ears,  
Go boy, present this small gift to my friend▪  
He that deserves my toys at the first end:  
Run, but yet let the sponge accompany  
The book, for it becomes each gift from me.  
Faustinus 'tis not many blots we say,  
Can mend my merry flashes, one blot may.    

In Thaidem Epig. 12.  

Thais denies no man: If no shame thence spring?  
Yet let this shame thee, to deny nothing.    

De Nuptiis Pudentis & Claudiae Epig. 13.  

Strange, Claudia's married to a friend of mine,  
O Hymen be thou ready with thy Pine!  
Thus the rare Cinnamons with the Spicknard join:  
And the Thesean sweets, with massick wine.  
Nor bettor do the Elm and Vine embra ce,  
Nor the Lote tree affect the fenny place.  
Nor yet the Myrtles more  
Love and desire the shore.  
Let a perpetual peace surround thy bed,  
And may their loves with equal fire be fed!  
May she so love him old, that to him she,  
Though old indeed, may not seem so to be.    

De Selio Epig. 21.  

Selius affirnes there are no gods,  
And that the heavens are void:  
And well he proves what he avers,  
Whiles he lives undestroyd.    

De Cleopatra Epig. 22.  

The virgin danger passed, the Bride enraged,  
Sweet Cleopatra to be disengaged  
And, scarce mine arms dives in the baths most clear:  
But the kind waters soon betrayed her there,  
For though thus hid her glories did appear,  
Like to soft Lilies in a crystal grave,  
Or Roses closed in Gems no cover have;  
With that I dived, and cropd the struggling kisses,  
Ye glittering streams forbade the other blisses.    

Ad Fabianum Epig. 24.  

Lycoris kills up all his wives apace,  
I would he had my wife in the same chase!    

Ad Hyppodamum, Epig. 31.  

'Cause thou desirest to be read and named  
So in my books, as by it to be famed,  
Let me not live the thing much pleases me,  
And in my lines I would insert thee free,  
But that thy name is so averse to all  
The Muses, which thy Mother did thee call,  
Which nor Melpom'ne, nor Poly'mnia may  
Nor sweet Calliope with Phoebus say.  
Adopt thee then some grateful name to us,  
How wretchedly this sounds? Hyppodamus?    

De Ape electro inclusa, Epig. 32.  

Shining and yet shut up in th' amber drop,  
The Bee as closed in its own wax did lie,  
Of all her labours reaping this the crop:  
It's credible she fancied thus to die.    

Ad Gallum, Epig. 38.  

Galla deny: love's glutted if the joy  
At first do not seem coy:  
But Galla yet take care lest you deny  
Too long, and fancy die.    

Ad Colinum, Epig. 54.  

O thou to whom 'tis free to wear jov' Tree,  
And with his first leaves honoured to be,  
If thou art wise, enjoy thy days repast,  
Colinus think the present still the last:  
The fatal Sisters grant no wished delay  
To any, but observe the destined day.  
Wert▪ thou more rich than Crispus, constanter  
Than ●hrasea's self, more free than Melior,  
Lachesis adds no tow, the spindle's be  
Unwound, the thread's cut by one of three.    

In Gargillianum, Epig. 56.  

'Cause thou bestowest vast gifts on aged men,  
And widows struck in years, Gargilian,  
Wouldst have me call thee bountiful for this?  
Nothing's more base than thou, nought more vile is.  
Which master thy gifts thine ambuscadoes call,  
So the false hooks indulge the fishes fall,  
So the sly bait traps silly beasts and all,  
Know'st thou not how to give? how to be free?  
I'll teach thee then Gargilian: give to me.    

De vipera electro inclusa, Epig. 59  

Whiles up the Viper climbs the weeping boughs,  
The amber drop the struggling beast o'er flows,  
Wondering to see himself in rich dew found,  
The freezing gemm enclosed him quickly round.  
Boast not then Cleopatra of thy Tomb  
Since a Snake lies in a more noble room.    

De Curiatio, Epig. 60.  

Ardea in the solstice we desire,  
And baths the Cleonaean Star doth heat,  
By'r Curiatius death condemns their sweat,  
Since in those praised streams he did expire,  
‛ No place excludes the fates: when death shall come,  
‛ Sardinia is in the midst of Rome.    

Ad Quinctum, Epig. 72.  

Quinctus requires I should give him my books:  
I have them not, at Tryphon's he may speed:  
Shall I buy toys (quoth he) with sober looks?  
And verse? l'me not so mad: nor I indeed.    

In Zoilum invidum, Epig. 77.  

I never asked the gods for gold,  
Content with mean things, and my own,  
Now povety let me be bold  
I ask thee pardon to be gone.  
But what is the cause of this vote for pelf;  
I would see Zoilus hanging of himself.    

In Varum, Epig. 78.  

Varus did lately me to supper call,  
The furniture was rich, the Feast but small:  
The Table's spread with plate, not meat: they put  
Much to accost the eyes, nought for the gut.  
We came to feast our bellies, not our eyes:  
Pray take away your gold, give us some Pies.    

In Afrum, Epig. 79.  

Now that the sixtieth harvest thou hast known,  
And that thy face with snow is overgrown  
Thou runnest through all the City, every seat,  
And bringst thine Ave in a toilsome sweat,  
Nor can a man salute a Tribune free,  
There's never a Consul can be rid of thee.  
To Caesar's House thou walkest ten times a day▪  
And talk'st of nothing less than Courtiers gay,  
(Afer) 'tis bad in Boys that go to School,  
Nought's more absurd than an old meddling fool.    

De Bassa, Epig. 88  

Thy Bassa's used to place a child up by her,  
And calls it her delight her pretty pink:  
Yet loves no child, which thou mayst more admire,  
What then's the cause? why, Bassa's wont to stink.     

Lib. 5.  

Ad Lectores. Epig. 2.  

Ye Matrons, Boys, and Vigins neat,  
To you my Page I dedicate,  
Thou whom more shameless sports delight,  
And naked pleasant wit, invite.  
Thy fancy to my four first books:  
This fifth shall sport with Caesar's looks.  
Which great Domitian may be bold,  
Before his Goddess to unfold.    

Ad Vulcanum. Epig. 7.  

As ruins renovate th' Assyrian nests,  
When twice five ages the sols bird hath spent:  
So Rome her old decrepitness digests,  
Dressed in the visage of her precedent.  
Now (Vulcan,) I beseech forget and spare  
Our grief, weare Mars and Venus progeny:  
So thy loose wife shall pass the Lemnian snare,  
And in chaste love affect thee patiently.    

Ad Regulum de fama Poetarum. Epig. 10.  

What's this? that fame to living men's denied.  
And Readers their own Lines seldom affect?  
(Regulus) these are tricks of envious pride,  
The present still for old things to reject.  
So most ingrate we seek old Pompey's shades,  
And praise the tottered fane of Catulus.  
While Maro lived, Ennius' whole Rome invades  
And Homer's age laughed him ridiculous.  
Crowned Menander seldom heard a shout,  
Corinna her own Naso knew alone,  
O my small books ne'er hasten to go out,  
If praise come after death I'll not go on.    

In Calistratum. Epig. 13.  

Calistratus I do confess  
I have been poor, and am no less,  
But not obscurely base as yet,  
Nor a Knight of the lowest seat.  
But through the world I'm freely read,  
And as I pass here's he 'tis said,  
What dust and ashes give to some,  
My life affords without a Tomb.  
But thy house leans on stately props,  
Thy chests enclose great silver crops,  
Rich Egypt's glebes thy household keep,  
And Parma shear thy numerous sheep.  
Thus what we are we both may see,  
But what I am thou canst not be,  
What thou art each plebeian may  
With thy estate be any day.    

In Gelliam, Epig. 17.  

Whiles Gellia cried up her Forefathers House,  
And our low Knighthood valued not a louse,  
While's she denied all under the Broad Key,  
A Basket-bearer swept her quite away.    

De Crispo, Epig. 33.  

Crispus by will no doit of all his pelf  
Gave to his wife: whom then? even to himself.    

In Caussidicum, Epig. 34.  

A Lawyer's said unknown my Book to flout,  
But woe be to thee, if I find thee out.    

De Erotio, Epig. 35.  

Ye Parents Fronto and Flaccilla here  
To you I do commend my Girl, my Dear,  
Lest pale Erotion tremble at the shades,  
And the fowl Dog of Hell's prodigious heads,  
Her age fullfilling just six winters was,  
Had she but known so many days to pass.  
'Mongst you old Patrons may she sport and play,  
And with her lisping tongue my name oft say.  
May the smooth turf her soft bones hide, and be  
O Earth as light to her as she to thee!    

Quod datur non perire, Epig. 43.  

A Thief may break thy Chests, and steal thy gold,  
A fire consume thy Father's House of old,  
Debtors detain thy use and principal,  
Thy swoon seed bring thee no increase at all:  
A crafty Harlot may thy Steward plunder,  
Thy Ships and goods the raging Seas sink under:  
‛ What's on thy friends bestowed is above fate:  
‛ Thy gifts thou still shalt have inviolate.    

De Thaide & Lecania. Epig. 44.  

Thais her teeth are black and nought,  
Lecania's white are grown,  
But what's the reason; these are bought,  
The other wears her own.    

De Philone, Epig. 48.  

Philo ne'er sups at home he swears: 'tis true,  
For not invited crib must want his due.    

Ad Labienum, Epig. 50.  

When (Labiene) by chance I thee did see  
Sitting alone, I thought thou hadst been three.  
The number of thy baldness me deceived,  
For here and there thy hairs I then retreiud▪  
Which a boy's head will hardly well become,  
Upon thy crown lies a large vacant room,  
A floor wherein no hair's observed to be.  
Yet this December's error yields to thee,  
That when the Emperor keeps his solemn day,  
Thou carry'st three shares of his alms away.  
Geryon I suppose was such a one,  
But when thou seest Phillippus Porch, begun▪  
If Hercules shall spy thee th' art undone.    

In Posthumum, Epig. 53.  

What thou conferr'st on me I do  
Remember, and shall think on too.  
Why therefore do I hold my tongue?  
'Cause (Posthumus) thou ne'er hast done.  
As often as I go to treat  
Of these thy gifts to them I meet,  
'tis presently replied, forbear,  
He whispered it into my ear.  
Two men some things cannot do well,  
One person may suffice to tell,  
And do this work: if it may please  
That I shall speak, then hold thy peace.  
For prithee Posthumus believe  
Though that thy gifts are great to give,  
‛ All thanks must perish, and are lost  
‛ When Authors their own actions boast.    

Ad Bassum, Epig. 54.  

My Bassus why? why dost thou write  
Thyestes Feast? Medea's flight?  
What hast to do with Niobe?  
Or Troy's remains Andromache?  
Deucalion's feat's a theme more fit,  
Or Phaethon's to share thy wit.    

Ad Lupum, Epig. 57  

Lupus is careful, and of me doth crave  
To know what Master for his Son to have?  
I give thee warning all Grammarians shun,  
And Rhetoricians too: then out upon  
tully's and Virgill's barren books and name,  
Leave old Tutilius to enjoy his fame.  
If he makes verse? expel the Poet straight,  
But if he fancy Arts of richer weight,  
Let him turn Fiddler, or a Minstrel be,  
But if he's dull of ingenuity?  
Make him a noble public City Cryer,  
Or famous Architect that works by squire.    

Ad Posthumum Epig. 59  

To morrow Posthumus, to morrow still  
Thou sayst thou'lt live: but Posthumus when will  
That morrow come? how far? where to be found?  
Is't in the Parthian, or Armenian ground?  
Or can that morrow Priam's age out-boast?  
Or Nestor's? tell what will that morrow cost?  
Thou'lt live to morrow? this days life's too late,  
he's wise that lived before the present date.    

Ad Detractorem, Epig. 91.  

Though thou dost bark against me still  
With bitter yelpings of ill will,  
That fame shall sure thee be denied  
In my books to be notified,  
Though 'tis desired of old by thee  
Through the world to be read with me.  
For why should men know thou hast been?  
Obscurely perish in thy sin.  
Yet peradventure there may be  
In this great City two or three  
A dogs skin that would deign to gnaw,  
That scab my nails shall never claw.    

In Marianum, Epig. 92.  

Who is that Crispulus? (my Marian)  
That sticks so to thy wife? what is he man?  
I know not what that prattles in her ear?  
And leans with his right elbow on her chair?  
Through all whose fingers her light ring doe● run?  
Whose smother legs no rough hair grows upon?  
Reply'st thou not? he's one thou dost confess  
That doth solicit thy wife's business.  
A sharp observant lad, that wears the Proctor  
Locked in his looks, more strict than an old Doctor?  
How worthy thou deserv'st stage buffets thus?  
Or to succeed old blind Panniclus?  
Crispulus do thy wife's work? he does none;  
'tis not thy wife's he does, but 'tis thy own.    

Ad suos ministros, Epig. 65.  

Callistus fill four cups of muscadine,  
And in cool snow my boy dissolve the wine.  
Let my moist hair grow rich with perfume sweats,  
And tire my brows with rose-bud coronets.  
The royal tombs commands us live: since they  
Teach that the very gods themselves decay.    

Id Pontilianum, Epig. 67.  

Pontilian ne'er salutes till after me:  
So his farewell will everlasting be.    

De origine Bacchi, 73.  

He that affirms Jove, Bacchus' mother, may  
Prove Semele his Father the same way.    

Ad Theodorem, Epig. 74.  

Why I ne'er give my books to thee  
Desiring, and beseeching me,  
Dost wonder Theodore? the cause is clear,  
That thine to me may not appear.    

De Pompeio, Epig. 75.  

Great Pompey's Sons Europe and Asia both  
Interr, Lybia himself, if any doth?  
What wonder through the world to see him slain;  
So great a fall one field could not contain.    

Ad Quinctum, Epig. 76.  

(Quinctus) why Laelia married is to thee?  
'tis only once legitimate to be.    

Ad Cinnam, Epig. 77.  

Oft drinking poison prepared Mithridate,  
No venom could his brains intoxicate:  
So Cinna by bad meals so fixed doth grow,  
Hunger cannot prevail to starve him now.    

Ad Aemilianum, Epig. 76.  

If thou art poor Aemilian?  
Thou shalt be ever so.  
For no man now their presents can  
But on the rich bestow.     

Lib. 6.  

Adulatorium Caesarem, Epig. 4.  

MOst Mighty Caesar, King of kings, to whom  
Rome owes so many triumphs yet to come,  
So many Temples growing and restored,  
So many Spectacles, gods, Cities: Lord  
She yet in debt to thee doth more remain,  
That she by thee is once made chaste again.    

De Thelesina, Epig. 7.  

(Faustinus) from the hour the Julian Law  
Revived, and chastity began to draw  
By public Edict into every House,  
Scarce thirty days have passed,  
Since Thelesine was asked,  
And ten times over hath been made a Spouse.  
She that doth wed so oft, weds not at all:  
But rather her we may more truly call  
A mere legitimate Adulteress:  
A simple arrant wench offends me less    

De Fabulla, Epig. 12.  

Fabulla swears  
Those new bought hairs  
Paulus now by her worn,  
Are all her own,  
Most truly shown;  
Prithee is she for sworn?  
If thou deny,  
So cannot I.    

Ad Priscum de Salonino, Epig. 18.  

Salonine lies interred in Spanish ground,  
A sweeter shade ne'er passed the Stygian sound.  
But it's a sin  
To mourn for him.  
For since (my Priscus) thou surviving art,  
He lives yet in his more beloved part.    

Ad Posthumum Causidicum, Epig. 19  

No action of battery,  
Of murder, or of poison, I  
Pursue: but of three Kids bereft  
I do accuse my Neighbour's theft.  
The Judge requires how I it know:  
Thou tell'st th' Apulian overthrow,  
The Pontic war, and perjury  
Of H●●nibal's rash cruelty,  
Scylla and Marius, Mutius wrath,  
With open mouth, and speed arms both.  
Now Posthumus I prithee tell  
At last where I my Kids may smell.    

In Proculinam, Epig. 22.  

Because thou joynst (my Proculine)  
In Marriage with thy Concubine,  
One that most palpably before  
Did only love thee as a Whore,  
Lest that the Law thee should distress,  
Thou dost not Marry but confess.    

In Lesbiam, Epig. 23.  

Lesbian thou seemest my Thomas to command,  
As 'twere a finger at thy will to stand:  
Which though thou temp'st with flattering hands and voice,  
Thy cross grained face still countermands thy choice.    

Epitaphium Glauciae, Epig. 28.  

The free born Boy of Melior  
Which being dead, whole Rome mourned for,  
His dearest Patron's short delight,  
(Glaucias) interred in endless night  
Under this marble Tomb doth lie,  
The great Flaminian road hard by,  
Of modest life, and purely chaste  
Accutely witty, and sweet faced,  
Just twice six Harvests he passed by  
Scarcely disrobed of infancy,  
O Traveller that these dost moan  
Mayst thou ne'er weep such of thine own!    

De eodem, Epig. 29.  

No Slave of a Plebeian House or kind,  
But a Lad worthy his Lord's love to find,  
Glaucia my Meliar's manumitted Boy  
Scarce capable his gifts yet to enjoy,  
This boon with life and form he did partake,  
None looked more lovely, none more sweetly spoke.  
‛ Things too much doted on live short: and such  
Thouwouldst love long, let them not please too much.    

In Paetum, Epig. 30.  

If thou hadst sent me presently  
Six sesterces, when first to me  
Thou saidst (my Paetus) take, I give,  
I'd owed there ten score as I live.  
But now to do't with this delay  
When seven or nine months slipd away,  
Wouldst have me tell thee what I think?  
Paetus th' haste clearly lost thy chink.    

De Morte, Othonis, Epig. 32.  

Whiles yet Bellona doubts the warlike doom,  
And softer Otho might have overcome,  
He stops the costly charge of blood in War,  
And by his sword falls his own murderer.  
He lived a Cato, more than Caesar too,  
Yet dying, how like Otho he did do?    

Ad Diadumenum, Epig. 34.  

Seal me squeezed kisses (Diadumene)  
How many? count the Billows of the Sea,  
Or spread Cockles on th' Aegaean shore,  
Or wand'ring Bees in the Cecropian store,  
Or th' hands and voices in the Theatre  
When Rome salutes her sudden Emperor:  
I slight how many courted Lesbian gave  
Catullus: he that numbers, few would have.    

In Carinum, Epig. 37.  

Medal so fine,  
Short breeched (Carine)  
No vain superfluous relics hast,  
Yet itchest from the head to th' waist!  
O wretch what pain  
Dost thou sustain?  
I'have no place for't,  
Yet love the sport?    

In Lygdum & Lectoriam, Epig. 45.  

Y'have played, enough, lascivious cronies wed,  
No lust is lawful but in marriage bed,  
Is this love chaste? Lygdus and Lectore join?  
she'll prove a worse wife, than a Concubine.    

In Pomponiam, Epig. 48.  

'Cause the long robe applauds thine eloquence,  
'tis not thyself, thy supper strikes the sense.    

De Thelesino, Epig. 50  

Whiles Thelesine embraced his chaste friends still.  
His gown was short and threadbare, cold and mean,  
But since he served foul Gamesters and obscene  
Now he buys Fields, Plate, Tables at his will.  
Wouldst thou grow rich Bithinicus? live vain:  
Pure kisses will yield none, or little gain.    

Ad Luperlum, Epig. 51.  

'Cause thou dost feast so often without me  
Luperlus, I have found a plague for thee.  
Though thou dost importune, and send, and call,  
I'll show a seeming anger over all.  
And when thou sayst, what wilt thou? do in sum  
What will I do? I am resolved to come.    

Epitaphium Pant●gathi, Epig. 52.  

Here lies interred cropped in his youthful years  
Pantagathus, his Master's joy, and tears.  
Learnt with a flying touch to trim loose hairs.  
And shave the brisly cheek that roughly stairs,  
O earth lie pleasing! and light on him stand,  
Thou canst not be more light than was his hand.    

In Phaebum, Epig. 57  

Phoebus belies with Oil his feigned hairs,  
And o'er his scalp a painted border wears:  
Thou needst no Barber to correct thy pate,  
Phoebus a sponge would better do the feat.    

In Invidum, Epig. 61.  

Rome praises, loves, and sings my merry leaves,  
Me every bosom, every hand receives.  
One blushes, one grows pale, and one disdains,  
One stands amazed, one hates me for my pains:  
This was my great desire, my wished increase,  
Now now my verses, now my verses please.    

Ad Marianum, Epig. 63.  

Thou know'st thyself entrapd, and art aware  
How covetous he was that laid the snare.  
And (Marian) needs must know his second care;  
Yet notwithstanding dost make him thine heir,  
And headily wouldst have him to succeed  
Thee in thy goods and lands by thy last Deed.  
'tis true he sent rich gifts, but laid in wire,  
And can the Fish their murderer desire?  
Or will he (Marian) truly weep for thee?  
To have true tears, reverse thy Legacy.    

De praecone Pu●llam vendente, Epig. 66.  

Gaellian the Cryer brought a Lass  
To market, of small fame to pass,  
Such as in Baudy-houses sat:  
Whiles she stood long at a small rate,  
He to approve her sound and good  
Drew her near to him as she stood,  
And kissed her three or four times o'er  
But wouldst thou know what fruit these bore?  
Why he that bade six hundred pieces for her  
Upon this score did utterly abhor her.    

Ad Pannicum de Gellia uxore, Epig. 67.  

Pannicus dost desire to know  
Why thy Gellia keeps I trow  
eunuchs only with her still?  
'tis thy cunning Gellia's will,  
To have the secret active sport,  
Yet feel no throws nor anguish for't.    

Ad Martianum, Epig. 70.  

Cotta has lived full sixty years and more,  
And yet (my Martian) never felt the sore  
Affliction of a Fever one short 'bout;  
Thence though unchastly holds his finger out  
Against Alcontis, Dacus, Symmachus,  
But if our years were well computed thus,  
And what sharp Fevers have took from us, what  
Languishing grief, and sickness, we are not  
Less then divided from the happier day,  
We are but Boys in years and yet seem grey.  
He that conceives (my Martian) Priam's age,  
Or Nestor's to be long on the world's stage,  
Is much deceived, much out: for I thee tell  
To be, is not called life, but to be well▪    

De Cilice Fure, Epig. 72.  

Cilix a knave of noted theft,  
Resolved to rob a Garden by:  
But there was nought (fabulus) left  
But a huge Marble-dyetie.  
Yet lest his empty hand should miss its prey,  
Cilix presumed to steal the god away.    

Ad Lupum, Epig. 79.  

How? Sad and rich? Beware lest fortune catch  
Thee Lupus, then she'll call thee thankless wretch.    

In mortem Rufi Camonii Epig. 85.  

In th' absence (Rufus) my sixth Book is out,  
But thou her Reader she doth sadly doubt,  
Base Capadocia by a fate unjust  
Gives to thy friends thy bones, to thee thy dust.  
Widdowd Bononia bathe friend in tears,  
While that Aemilia thy griefs echo bears,  
How Pious? but how short lived did he fall?  
Five bare Olimpiads he had seen in all.  
Rufus thou that wast wont to bear in mind  
Out sports, and them in memory to find  
Accept this sad verse which I send,  
As the sweet incense of thy absent friend.    

De Thaide, Epig. 93.  

Thais smells as ill as doth a Fuller's vate  
That long hath steeped, broke in the street of late:  
The tired Goats not more rank, the breath and breech  
Of Lions, nor stripd Dogs-skins in a ditch;  
Nor addle egg that putrifying lies,  
Nor pot of rotten fish that stinking dyes.  
That she may change this plague for some sweet scent,  
Naked and oft she doth the Baths frequent,  
And shines with Oil, lies in sharp fennel hid,  
Or in bean meal twice or thrice covered.  
When safe by thousand slights herself she thinks,  
When all's done, Thais still all Thais stinks.     

Lib. 7.  

De reditu Domitiani, Epig. 7.  

NOw sport, if ere, ye Muses with my vein,  
From the north world the god returns again.  
December first brings forth the people's vote,  
'tis just we cry, He comes, with open throat.  
Blessed in thy chance, from Janus share the day  
Since what he'd give, thou givest to us, our joy.  
Let the crowned Soldier play his solemn sport,  
While he attends the bays invested Court  
'tis right (great Caesar) our light jokes to hear,  
Since that thy Triumph them doth love and bear.    

De Casselio, Epig. 8.  

When sixty years Casselius has lived meet,  
He's witty: when will he be called discreet?    

Ad Faustinum, Epig. 11.  

(Faustinus) to let Caesar read my book  
With that same face he on my spots doth look.  
As my Page hurts no one it justly hates,  
I like no glory gained at blushrng rates.  
What does it profit me? if others whet  
Their spleen in my stile? and Jambiques sweat?  
And in my name their viperous poison vent?  
Which cannot brook the day? or orient?  
We blameless sport. Thou knowst it well, I swear  
By Helicon, and every Genius there;  
And by thy ears as deities to me,  
Reader, I'm from inhuman envy free.    

Ad Regulum, Epig. 15.  

I have no money (Regulus) at home,  
Only thy gifts to sell, wilt thou buy some?    

In Gallum, Epig. 17.  

When th' hast a face of which no woman may  
And body without blur, have aught to say,  
Why suitors thee so seldom do repeat  
And seek, dost wonder Galla? the fault's great,  
As oft as thou and I in the work joined,  
Thy lips were silent, but thou prat'st behind.  
Heavens grant that thou wouldst speak, but bridle that,  
I'm angry with thy tattling Twit come Twat.  
I'd rather hear thee fart: for Symmachus  
Says that's a means of laughter unto us.  
But who can smile to hear the foolish smack  
Of thy loose Toul? and when it gives a crack  
Whose mind and mettle will not fall? at least  
Speak something that may usher in a jest  
Of thy C—'s noise: but if thou art so mute,  
Articulately learn thence to dispute.    

De natali Lucani, ad Pollam, Epig. 20  

This is the day known by its mighty birth  
Which Lucan gave to thee, and to the Earth  
O cruel Prince! more cursed in no decree,  
This at lest was not lawful unto thee.    

In Malum Poetam. Epig. 24.  

When thou dost write sweet Epigrams always,  
Which look more smooth than painted features may,  
Without one grain of salt, or drop of gall,  
Omad man wouldst thou have them read at all?  
Meat does not please without its vinegar,  
Nor faces which in mirth ne'er wrinkled are,  
Give luscious Figs and Rome's to Boys: but mine  
That please, are Figs that relish Salt and Wine.    

In Caeliam, Epig. 29.  

To Parthians, Germans, Dacians thou art spread,  
In Cappidocians and Cilicians bed.  
From Memphis comes a whipster unto thee,  
And a Black Indian from the red Sea;  
Nor dost thou fly the circumcised Jew,  
Nor can the Muscovite once pass by you;  
Why being a Roman lass dost do thus? tell,  
Is't cause no Roman-knack can please so well?    

De Caelio, Epig. 38.  

When various walks, and days in wand'ring on,  
And pride, and great men's salutation,  
Caelius could not endure, and bear about,  
He feigned himself tormented with the gout,  
Which while he strove to personate too much,  
In a laborious gate upon his crutch,  
Binding, and 'noynting his sound feet: O see  
How much the care and curiosity,  
And Art of feigned grief, did work and please!  
Caelius has left dissembling his disease.    

Ad Licinium Suram, Epig. 46.  

Licinius! thou crown of learned men!  
Whose tongue brought back our Grandfathers again,  
Thou art restored, but with how great a fate?  
Returned almost from the eternal gate,  
Our wishes now had lossed their fear: secure  
Our tears did weep thy loss as passed all cure.  
But yet the King of death could not sustain  
Our grief, and sent the fates their threads again.  
Thou know'st what moan thy false death moved for thee,  
Enjoy thyself in thy posterity.  
Live as thine own survivor, hug thy joy:  
A life returned will never lose a day.    

De Annio, Epig. 47.  

Annius two hundred Tables has I think,  
And for those Tables Boys to fill him drink.  
The platters fly,  
And charges run about most fluently.  
Rich men take to yourselves these Feasts and stir,  
I care not for your walking supper Sir.    

In umbrem, Epig. 52.  

The five day's presents which were given to thee  
In the Saturnal Feasts thou send'st to me.  
Twelve threefoot Tables, and seven tooth pickers,  
A Sponge, a Napkin, and a Cup with ears,  
Two Pecks of Beans, of Olives one small twig,  
A bottle of course Spanish Wine to swig.  
Small Syrian Figs with musty damsins came,  
And a huge cask of Lybian figs o'th' same:  
Thy gifts were worth scarce five shillings in all,  
Which to me sailed on thy eight Syrians tall.  
With how much ease mightst thou have sent in short  
Me five pounds by thy Boy and ne'er sweat for't.    

De Caecilianum, Epig. 58.  

Without a Boar Caecilan near doth feast,  
(Titus) Caecilan has a pretty guest.    

In Cinnamon, Epig. 63.  

Thou wast a Barber through the City known,  
Though by thy Mistress raised to the gown,  
Of Knighthood (Cinnamus) when thou shalt fly  
The judgement of the Court to Sicily,  
What Art shall then sustain thy useless age?  
How will thy Fugitive rest foot the stage?  
Thou canst not be Grammarian, Rhetorician,  
Fencer, nor Cynic on any condition▪  
Nor yet a Stoic, nor canst sell thy tongue  
Or thy applause in the Sicilian throng:  
What then (my Cinnamus) doth yet remain?  
Why thou must even turn shaver once again.    

In Gargilanum, Epig. 64.  

Full twenty years (Gargilian) thou hast lost  
In one suit in three Courts to thy great cost.  
O mad and wretched! that in strifes dost run  
Through twenty years, and mayst be overcome?    

De Labieno, Epig. 65.  

Fabius' left Labian heir to all his store:  
Yet Labian says that he deserved more.    

Ad Maximum, Epig. 72.  

Thou hast a house on the Aventine hill,  
Another where Dianan's worshipped still,  
In the Patrician street more of them stand,  
Hence thou beholdest within thine eyes command  
The widowed Cybells, thence Vesta with all,  
There either Jove earthed in the Capital.  
Where shall I meet thee? tell, where wilt appear.  
‛ He dwells just no where, that dwells every where.    

In anum deformem, Epig. 74.  

Wouldst thou be wimbled gratis when thou art  
A wrinkled wretch deformed in every part?  
O 'tis a thing more than ridiculous:  
To take a man's full sum, and not pay Use?    

Ad Philomusum, 75. Epig.  

'Cause great ones carry thee themselves to please  
To Feasts, to Galleries, and Spectacles,  
And Coach thee up and down, and bathe with thee  
As oft as thou jump'st in their company:  
Near hug thyself for this, or look proud for't,  
thouart not beloved, but only makest them sport.    

In Tuccam, Epig. 76.  

Tucca most earnestly doth look,  
I should present him with my Book:  
But that I will not: For I smell  
My Book he will not read, but sell.    

Ad Lausam, Epig. 80.  

(Lausus) just thirty Epigrams in all,  
My volume thou most truly bad master call:  
But if beside so many good there be,  
The Book is good enough than credit me.    

De Eutrapelo, Epig. 82.  

While that the Barber went to trim  
And shave Lupercus chaps and chin,  
He was so tedious on the face  
Another beard grew in the place.    

Ad Sabellum, Epig. 84.  

'Cause thou dost pen tetrastics clean and sweet  
And some few pretty distiches with smooth feet,  
I praise but not admire:  
'tis easy to acquire  
Short modest Epigrams that pretty look,  
But it is hard and tough▪ to write a book.    

In Sextum, Epig. 85.  

Sextus was wont me to his feasts to call,  
When I was scarce made known to him at a●●  
What have I done so late? so suddenly?  
That I his old companion am passed by?  
After so many pledges, many years?  
But I perceive the cause: no gift appea●  
Of beaten silver from me, no light coat  
No cloak, fee, or negotiating groat.  
Sextus invites his gifts, but not his friends▪  
Then cries his servants bones shall make amends.    

Epitaphium Vrbici Pueri, Epig. 95.  

My Parent's grief I here lie in this Tomb,  
Who had my birth and name from mighty Rome:  
Six months I wanted of three years to me,  
When my life's thread was cut by destiny.  
What favour shall age, tongue, or beauty have?  
Thou that readst this shed some tears on my grave.  
So he that thou wouldst have thyself survive,  
Shall longer than decrepit Nestor live.    

De Milone, Epig. 101.  

Milo is not at home, but travelled out,  
His fields lie barren, but his wife doth sprout:  
But why's his land so bare? his wife so full?  
His land has none, his wife has many a pull.     

Lib. 8.  

Ad Librum suum, Epig. 1.  

THou that art entering the triumphant Court,  
Learn with a blushing grace more chaste to sport.  
Stripped Venus hence: this is not thy book,  
Great Caesar's goddess come, and on me look.    

Ad Caesarem Domitianum, Epig. 4.  

How great a concourse of the world doth bring  
Their ay o? and make prayers for their king?  
But this is not alone a humane joy,  
Caesar, the gods themselves keep Holiday.    

In Cinnam, Epig. 7.  

Cinna is this to plead? and wisely say  
Only nine words in ten hours of the day?  
But with a mighty voice thou cravest for thee  
The hourglass twice two times reversed to be,  
Cinna, how great's thy taciturnity!    

Ad Quinctum, Epig. 9  

Nine ounces blear-eyed Hylas would have paid  
Now dusk he tenders half thy debt delayed:  
Take his next offer: gain occasions short,  
If he prove blind, thou wilt have nothing for't.    

De Basso, Epig. 10.  

Bassus bought cloaks of the best Tyrian die,  
Forbear ten thousand pieces, gained thereby:  
But was his bargain so good cheap you'll say?  
He took it upon trust, or stoleed away.    

Ad Priscum, Epig. 12.  

Dost ask why I'd not marry a rich wife?  
I'll not be subject in that double strife.  
Let matrons to their heads inferior be  
Else man and wife have no equality.    

De Cinna, Epig. 19  

Cinna would seem to need,  
And so he does indeed.    

Ad Luciferum, Epig. 21.  

Phosphor produce the day: why dost delay  
Our joys? lo, Caesar comes, produce the day.  
Rome begs it. What slow Chariot carries thee?  
What sign? that thy sweet rays retarded be?  
Take Cyllaron from the Ledaean Star,  
Castor himself will lend his Horse for war,  
Why dost rein in the forward eager Sun?  
Apollo's Courser with their harness on,  
Aurora waits: but yet the spangled night  
Will not give room to the more glorious light,  
Diana longs to see the Ausonian king,  
Come Caesar, though in night, thy presence bring:  
For though the Stars their revolution stay,  
Thee coming we shall never want a day.    

Ad Caesarem Domitianum, Epig. 24.  

If I in fear chance to petition thee,  
If I'm not impudent, vouchsafe it me.  
If thou'lt not grant, deign to be asked in love,  
Incense and Prayers ne'er offended Jove.  
‛ He that an Image frames in gold or stone,  
‛ Makes not a god, he that knelt, makes it one.    

In Oppianum, Epig. 25.  

Oppiane thou only once didst come to see  
Me very sick: I'll oftener visit thee.    

Ad Gaurum, Epig. 27.  

Gaurus he that doth gifts bestow  
On thee both rich and old,  
If thou art wise thou needs must know  
he'd have thee dead and cold.    

In pessimos Conjuges, Epig. 35.  

When that ye are so like in life  
An extreme wicked man and wife,  
I wonder how you live in strife.    

Ad Priapum, Epig. 40.  

No Guardian of a Garden, or vine bud,  
But (my Priapus) of a mighty wood,  
From whence thouart born, and again born mayst be,  
I charge thee keep all thievish hands from me.  
Preserve thy Master's grove for firing too,  
For if that fail, we shall find wood in you.    

Ad Faustinum, Epig. 41.  

Sad Athenagoras us no presents sent  
Which in the winter he did still present:  
I'll see (Faustinus) if he be so sad,  
I'm sure he me hath truly sorry made.    

Ad Cestum Puerum, Epig. 46.  

How sweet's thy virtue, and thy shape to us?  
Cestus' my Boy, chaste as Hippolytus!  
Diana's self may teach, and swim with thee,  
More wished than Phrygus by old Cybele.  
Thou mayst succeed Ganymede in his place,  
And unsuspected Smug the thunderer's face.  
O happy she shall climb thy tender bed!  
And make thee man first for a maiden head!    

In variè se tondentem, Epig. 47.  

Part of thy hair is shorn, part shaved to thee,  
Part pulled: who'll think it but one head to be.    

De Aspro, Epig. 49.  

Blind Asper loves a lass that beauteous is,  
Yet as it seems he loves more than he sees.    

Ad Caesarem Domitianum, Epig. 54.  

Though thou givest great boons oft, and wilt give more  
O King of Kings, and thyself Conqueror!  
The people love thee not cause they partake  
Thy Blessings: But thy Blessings for thy sake.    

Ad Flaccum, Epig. 56.  

When to our age times may subscribe of yore,  
And Rome's increased great with her Emperor,  
Dost wonder Maro's fancy wanting is?  
And none sound wars like that brave Trump of his?  
Let patrons (Flaccus) Poets soon will be,  
Thy Country shall yield Virgil unto thee.  
When near Cremona Tytirus did weep  
His wretched acres, and lossed flock of sheep  
The royal Tuscan smiled: Fell poverty  
Repulsed, and by command away to fly:  
Bade him be rich, and best of Poets be,  
And cried my sweet Alexis love with me.  
He that most amiable did waiting stand  
Filling black falerne wine with snowy hand,  
And tasted cups gave to his rosy lip,  
Which might solicit Jove himself to sip.  
Course Galatea from the Poet drops,  
And Sunburnt Thestilis in harvest crops.  
Forthwith he fancied Rome, arms, and the Prince:  
Which the poor Gnat mourned but a moment since.  
What should I quote the Vari? Marsi? and  
The glorious names of Poets rich in land?  
Which to recfunt would be a tedious pain?  
Shall I then be thy Virgil, if again  
Thou wilt Maecenas bounty show to me?  
I'll not thy Virgil, but thy Marsus be.    

De Picente, Epig. 57  

Old Picens had three teeth which from him come  
As he sat coughing hard over his Tomb:  
Which fragments he took up into his breast  
Dropped from his mouth: Then laid his bones to rest.  
Lest that his Heir should not them safely s●e  
Interred: He did himself the courtesy.    

Ad Entellum, Epig. 68  

Oh that the famed Alcinous garden sees  
May well prefer (Entellus) thine to his.  
Lest nipping winter pierce the purple grapes,  
And on the Vines smart Frosts commit their rapes.  
Thy vintage in a gem enclosed lies,  
And the Grape covered, not hid from our eyes.  
So female shapes shine through their Tifanie,  
And Pebbles in the waters numbered be,  
What would not nature free, to wit, impart?  
When winter's made an Autumn by thy art.    

In Vacerram, Epig. 69.  

Thou only dost admire old Poets past,  
And praisest none but such have writ their last:  
Hence I beseech (Vacerra) pardon me,  
'tis not worth perishing to humour thee.    

Ad Liberum amicum, Epig. 77.  

(Liber) thy friends sweet care! worthy to be  
Crowned with Rosebuds to all eternity!  
Art wise? still let thy hair with unguents flow!  
While flowery garlands compass in thy brow!  
May thy clear glass with falerne wine black prove!  
And thy soft bed grow warm with softer love!  
A life thus led, though in its youth resigned,  
Is made much longer than it was designed.    

In Fabullum, Epig. 79.  

When wrinkled Beldames thy familiars be,  
Or filthy Bawds, or worse if ought you see,  
When these compagnions' thou dost lead along  
Through every Feast with thee, and walk, and throng,  
(Fabulla) thus compared we needs must say  
Th' art handsome and dost bear the bell away.     

Lib. 9  

Ad Domitianum, Epig. 4.  

IF thou shouldst challenge what is due to thee  
From heaven, and its creditor wouldst be;  
If public sale should be cried through the spheres,  
And th' gods sell all to satisfy arrears,  
Atlas will banq'rrupt prove, nor one ounce be  
Reserved for Jupiter to treat with thee.  
What canst thou for the Capitol receive?  
Or for the honour of the Laurel-wreath?  
Or what will Juno give thee for her shrine?  
Pallas I pass, she waits on thee and thine.  
Alcides, Phoebus, Pollux I slip by  
And Flavia's Temple neighbouring on the sky.  
Caesar thou must forbear, and trust the heaven:  
Jove's Chest has not enough to make all even.    

In Aeschylum, Epig. 5.  

When for two guilders Galla thou mightst swive,  
And more than so if thou it double give:  
Aeschylus why did she take ten of thee?  
The feate's not worth it: what? the secrecy.    

In Paullam, Epig. 6.  

Paulla thou very fain wouldst Priscus wed,  
I wonder not, 'tis witty so to do:  
But Priscus will not meddle with thy bed,  
And therein he is full as witty too.    

In amicum Caenipetam, Epig. 15.  

Dost think this man whom thy Feast makes thy friend  
A heart of faithful friendship can pretend?  
He loves thy brawn thy oysters, but not thee,  
Let me sup so, he shall be friend to me.    

In Afrum, Epig. 26.  

As oft as we thy Hyllus do behold  
Filling thy wine, thy brows do seem to scold,  
What crime is't, I would know to view thy Boy?  
We look upon the gods, the stars, the day,  
Shall I fling back as when a Gorgon lies  
Steeped in the cup? and hide my face and eyes?  
Great Hercules was fierce in cruelty  
Yet we might see his pretty Hylas free:  
Nor would great Jove have aught in wrath to say  
If Mercury with Ganymede did play.  
(Afer) if then we must not view thy loose  
Soft ministers that serve thee in thy house,  
Invite such men as Phineas to be  
Thy guests or Oedipus that ne'er could see.    

Epitaphium Latini, Epig. 29.  

The stage his sweet renown, the fame  
Of plays, Latinuses known by name,  
I here lie seized in deaths cold night,  
Thy great applause, thy delight.  
I that could make strict Cato be  
My joyed spectator, and at me  
The Curii and Fabricii smile  
And lose their gravity the while.  
But yet my life ne'er bore away▪  
Ought from the theatre or play,  
I only there did act my part  
Not out of nature, but by art.  
Nor could I to great Caesar be  
Grateful without my vanity.  
Yet Deified Domitian might  
See that my inward parts were right.  
But ye may call me at your will  
A Parasite of Phoebus still,  
While Rome may know me raised above  
Into the family of Jove.    

Qualem velit amicam, Epig. 33.  

I love a Lass that's apt, and plain doth go,  
And with my Boy hath had a bout or t●o.  
And her that twopences makes her mine all ore,  
And being one can tug with▪ half a Score,  
She that asks pay, and in big strains doth ball,  
Let her be drudge to thickskinned Burdigal.    

In Ponticum. Epig. 42.  

(Ponticus) 'Cause thou ne'er doth swive,  
But some by-lusts contentment give,  
And thy more conscious hands supply  
The service of thy venery:  
Dost think that this is no offence?  
(Believe it) its damned excellence  
Is of so foul and high a weight  
Thou canst not reach it in conceit.  
Horace but once did do the feat  
That he three glorious twins might get,  
Mars and chaste Ilia once did join  
That Rome's great founders they might coin.  
All had been lossed, had either's list,  
Spent his foul pleasure in his fist.  
When thus then thou shalt tempted be  
Think that Dame nature cries to thee,  
That which thy fingers do destroy  
O Ponticus it is a Boy.    

In Gaurum. Epig. 51.  

Gaurus approves my wit but slenderly,  
'Cause I write verse that please for brevity.  
But he in twenty volumes drives a trade  
Of Priam's wars. O he's a mighty blade!  
We give an Elegant young pregnant birth,  
He makes a dirty Giant all of earth.    

In Mamurram. Epig. 60.  

Mamurra, long and much stalked up and down  
The stalls, where all the goods are sold in Rome,  
Beholds the boys, and with them feeds his eyes,  
Near prostitute from their first cottages,  
Such whom the Cages kept in secrecy,  
Close from my cronies and the people's eye,  
Thence full, he calls for the round tables down,  
And t' have the high placed Ivory open shown,  
And measuring the Tortoise beds thrice o'er,  
As too small for his Cypress groaned sore.  
Then smells if purely Corinth the brass scent,  
And Delian statues give him no content.  
Complains the crystals mixed with Courser glass.  
Marks myrrhine Cups, and ten aside doth place,  
Cheapens old baskets and if any were  
Wrought cups by noble Mentur's cunning there,  
And numbers the green Em'ralds laid in gold,  
Or any from the ears that take their hold,  
Then seeks true gems in table boards most nice.  
And of rich precious jasper's asks the price.  
Tired and departing when the eleventh hour come,  
He bought two farthing cups, and carr'd them home.    

In Aeschylum, Epig. 68  

I enjoyed a buxsom lass all night with me,  
Which none could overcome in venery.  
Thousand ways tired, I asked that childish thing,  
Which she did grant at the first motioning,  
Blushing and laughing I a worse besought,  
Which she most loose vouchsafed as quick as thought.  
Yet she was pure, but if she deal with you  
she'll not be so, and thou shalt pay dear too.    

In Caecilianum, Epig. 71.  

O times! o manners! Tully cried of old  
When Cat●line his cursed plot did unfold,  
When Caesar and great Pompey took the field,  
And civil war with blood the ground did gild.  
Why dost thou cry o times, o manners now?  
What doth displease (Caecilian) what cramps you?  
There's not contest of Princes, no swords rage▪  
But peace and gladness all the world assuage▪  
'Tis not our guilt makes the times bad to thee,  
‛ Thy own (Caecilian) force them such to be.    

In Sutorem, Epig. 74.  

O thou whose teeth were wont to reach old hides,  
And gnaw base rotten soles with dirty sides,  
Thou hast thy Patron's lands now in th● grave,  
In which I vex that thou a crib shouldst have,  
And drunk dost break the crystals with burn wine,  
And frigst thy late Lord's Boy as he were th●ne.  
With letters my sad Parents fooled me,  
O learning, what have I to do with thee?  
Thalia burn thy Books, and thy quills too▪  
If Cobblers get such boons from an old shoe.    

De effigy Camoni, Epig. 77.  

This which you see is my Camonus face,  
Such his young looks, such his first beauty was▪  
Thy countenance grew stronger twice ten years  
Till a beard creamed his cheeks with downy hairs.  
The offered Purple once his shoulders spread,  
But one of the three Sisters wished him dead,  
And thence his hastened thread of life did cut,  
Which to his Father in a sad Urn put  
Came from his absent pile: but least alone  
This Picture should present his beauty gone,  
His Image yet more sweetly drawn shall be  
In never dying papers writ by me.    

De Gellia, Epig. 81.  

An old rich wife starved Gellius bare and poor  
D●d wed: So she crammed him and he crammed her.    

Ad Auctum, Epig. 82.  

My readers and my hearers like my Books,  
But a acquaint Poet says th' are not done clear:  
I care not much for pleasing of the Cooks,  
If that my guests affect my slender cheer.    

In Munnam, Epig. 83.  

Th' ginger foretell of thee,  
That thou shouldst perish suddenly;  
Nor (Munna) do I think he told a lie;  
For thou for fear lest there should be  
Aught left for thy posterity,  
Hast wasted all thy wealth in luxury,  
Thy brace of millions in one year was spent,  
Was not this perishing incontinent?    

Ad Rufum, Epig. 89.  

While thou didst seek mylove, thou senst me some  
Presents, but now thou hast it no gifts come.  
That thou mayst hold me (Rufus) still be free  
Lest th' ill fed Boar break from his fra●●● and fly.    

Domitiano Adulatorium, Epig. 92.  

If that a divers invitation came  
At once in Jove's and in great Caesar's name,  
Though that the Stars were near, Rome more remote,  
The gods in answer should have this my vote,  
Go seek an other that Jove's guest would be,  
My Jupiter on Earth hath fett'red me.     

Lib. 10.  

Liber ad Lectorem, Epig. 1.  

IF I seem of a tedious length to thee,  
Read but a few, I will a manual be,  
M● Page in three or four short lines shall cease,  
〈…〉 me as brief as may thy fancy please.    

Ad eundem, Epig. 2.  

My tenth Book's care once hastened from my hand  
Is now revoked again to be new scanned,  
Part hath been public, but they new smoothed are,  
O favour both, the lasts the greater share.  
Reader, these riches when Rome gave to me,  
She said no greater we can give to thee.  
By these thou shalt escape oblivion,  
And live in thy best part when thou art gone.  
The Figtree may Messala's Marble wear,  
And base Mule-drivers Crispus Statues jeer,  
No theft can papers hurt, no age thrust by,  
These Monuments alone can never die.    

In maledicum Poetam, Epig. 5.  

Who so by impious verse in all the Town  
Scandals the Senators or Matron's gown,  
Which rather ought be worshipped: Let him be  
Banished through all the seats of beggary.  
And let him from the Dogs bespeak their meat▪  
Be his December long, his winter wet,  
Let his shut Vault prolong the frost most sad,  
And let him cry such happy that are dead  
On hellish-bedsteads carried to their grave,  
And when his last threads their fulfilling have,  
And the slow day shall come, o let him see  
Himself the strife of Dogs, and his limbs be  
The prey of ravenous Birds, nor let his pains  
End in the simple crack of his heart's veins,  
But feeling the strict doom of Aeacus,  
One while let him relieve old Sisyphus,  
Then scorch in Tantalus his dry desire,  
And all the fables of the Poet's tire,  
And when the truth the Furies shall demand,  
May his false conscience cry this was the hand.    

De Paulla, Epig. 8.  

Paulla thou needs wouldst marry me  
When thou art old and tough:  
I cannot: yet I'd venture thee  
Wert thou but old enough.    

In Calliodorem, Epig. 11.  

(Calliodore) there's no other talk with thee  
But Theseus and Pirithous: And wouldst be  
Conceived like Pylades. But let me die  
If thou deserv'st to hold a Mallet by  
To Pylades, or feed Pirithous Swine,  
Yet thou sayst thou hast served some friends of thine  
With twice five Millions, and a Coat thrice wore,  
What? as if sweet Orestes gave no more  
At any time to his dear friend? why he  
That giveth much, not all, doth more deny.    

Ad Crispum, Epig. 14.  

Crispus thou sayest thou art best friend to me,  
But how you'll make it good I ask let's see?  
When I desired ten pieces, 'twas denied,  
Though that thy Chest could not thy coin bestride,  
When didst thou send me one peck of bean meal?  
When thou didst reap thy fields by fruitful Nile?  
In winter frosts when did a short Coat come?  
Or one half pound of silver in a sum?  
I see not how thou my familiar art,  
But that before me thou art wont to fart.    

In Cajum▪ Epig. 16.  

(Cajus) if promises be all thy gifts,  
I'll overcome thee in thy bounteous shifts.  
Take all th' sturian Digs in Spanish fields,  
And all the Ore that golden Tagus yields,  
What ere the Indian finds in the Sea weed,  
And what the Phoenix in her Nest hath hid,  
Take all great Tyros cloth of richest die,  
Take all men have: O how thy gifts do fly!    

De M. Antonio, Epig. 23.  

Happy Antonius in a pleasant age  
Hath seen fifteen Olympiads on Earth's stage:  
Looks back on his passed days and safer years  
With joy, nor at his near grave shrinks or fears.  
No day's ingrate or sad to think upon,  
Nor doth he blush to mention any gone,  
A good man doubles his life's date: For he  
Lives twice, that can his age with comfort see.    

In Calliodorum, Epig. 31.  

Thou for three hund'red pence thy man didst sell,  
(Callidore) that thou mightst but once sup well.  
Nor didst that neither: For afour pound fish  
Was the crown of thy feast, and thy chief dish,  
Pase wretch this is not fish we justly can  
Exclaim, 'tis man, thou dost devour a man.    

De Imagine M. Antonio ad Caeditianum, Epig. 32.  

This draught adorned with Rosebuds which you see,  
Whose Picture is't (Caeditian) ask'st thou me?  
Such was Mark Antoni in his prime years,  
When old such was his unchanged look and hairs,  
O would that Art his mind and parts could draw,  
A fairer portraiture earth never saw!    

In Lesbiam, Epig. 39  

Lesbian why dost thou swear  
That thou wast born that year  
When Brutus was made Consul? 'tis a lie.  
Thy Mother brought thee forth her womb  
When Numa reigned first in Rome,  
And so again thou dost the truth deny.  
For thy long dated ages seem to say  
Thou wast produced from Prometheus' clay.    

Ad Philerotem, Epig. 43.  

Thy seaventh wife now lies buried in the field,  
Thy ground more gain than any man's doth yield.    

Ad Julium Martialem, Epig. 47.  

Most pleasant Martial these are they  
That make the happier life and day,  
Means not sweat for, but resigned,  
Fire without end, fields still in kind,  
No strife, no office, inward peace,  
Free strength, a body sans disease,  
A prudent plainness, equal friends,  
Cheap Cates, not scraped from the world's ends,  
A night not drowned, but free from care,  
Sheets never sad, and yet chaste are,  
Sleep that makes short the shades of night,  
Art such thou wouldst be, if there might  
A choice be offered, nor dost fear  
Nor wish thy last day's exit here.    

Epitaphium nobilis Matronae, Epig. 63.  

Behold these little Marble stones  
Which veil not to those mighty ones  
Of Caesar, nor the Carian pride:  
Terentus twice my life hath tried,  
And 'twas sincere to my last end.  
Five Boys great Juno did me sen d,  
And just as many Girls as those  
Whose hands my dying eyes did close.  
And this rare glory happened more to me,  
One prick was privy to my chastity.    

Epitaphium vetulae. Epig. 67.  

Here Pyrrha's Daughter, Nestor's Mother in Law,  
Whom youthful Noibe in grey hairs saw,  
Whom old Laertes did his Beldame name,  
Great Priam's Nurse, Thyestes wive's grandam,  
Survivor to all nine lived Daws are gone,  
Old ●lotia with her bald Melanthion  
Lies itching here at last under this stone.    

De Phillide, Epig. 81.  

Two men betimes came Phillida to swive,  
And strove which of them first the feat should do,  
She promised both, to both herself to give,  
Did it, one stole her gown, th' other her shoe.    

Ad Caecilianum, Epig. 84.  

Dost wonder Afer cannot sleep? dost see  
What a sweet faced companion hath he?    

In Ligellam, Epig. 90.  

Why dost thou reach thy Merkin now half dust?  
Why dost provoke the ashes of thy lust?  
Girls such lasciviousness doth best beseem,  
For thou art passed old woman in esteem.  
That trick (Ligella) suits not, credit me,  
With Hecuba, but young Andromache.  
Thou errest, if this a C— thou dar'st to call  
To which no Prick doth now belong at all,  
If thou cann'st blush Ligella, be afeared  
To pull a deceased Lion by the beard.    

De Numa, Epig. 97.  

While they the Funeral charge prepare  
Which in the paper piles placed are,  
And Numa's weeping wife now buys  
Sweet perfumes for his Obsequies,  
His Grave and Beer being ready made,  
And one to wash his body dead,  
And me left Heir by his own Pen,  
Pox on him! he grew well again.     

Lib. 11.  

Ad Lectores, Epig. 2.  

SAd looks, and rigid Cato's stricter brow,  
And course Fabricius Daughter from the plough,  
Disguised pride, manners by rule put on,  
And what we are not in the dark, begun.  
My verses Iô Saturnalia cry,  
And (Nerva) under thee 'tis liberty.    

De suis Libellis, Epig. 4.  

My lines are not alone delighted here,  
Nor do I spend them on the idle ear,  
But by the sour Centurion they are lost  
Under his ensigns in the Getick frost.  
And Brittain's said my verse to sing: But what  
Can thence accrue? my purse ne'er hears of that.  
What never dying Papers could I write?  
And glorious wars in a rich strain Indite!  
Should Heaven Augustus once again revive,  
And Rome to me a sweet Maecenas give!    

Ad Romam, Epig. 7.  

In Sythe-crowned Saturn's Feasts, wherein  
The box of Dice doth reign as King,  
All-covered Rome thou dost permit  
Me now to sport my fluent wit,  
So I suppose, for thou didst smile,  
Thence we are not forbid the while.  
Ye pallid cares far hence begun,  
I'll speak what ere I think upon,  
Sans any studied delay,  
So fill me out three cups my Boy,  
Such as Pythagoras did give  
To Nero when he here did live,  
But (Dindymus) fill faster too,  
For sober I can nothing do.  
When I am drunk up to the height  
Full fifteen Poets seize me straight.  
Now give me kisses, such as were  
Catullus his and if they are  
So numerous as his are said to be,  
I will Catullus Sparrow give to thee.    

Epitaphium Paridis, Epig. 14.  

Thou that beatest the Flaminian way  
Pass not this Noble Tomb but stay,  
Here Rome's delight, and Nile's salt treasure,  
Art, Graces, Sport, and sweetest Pleasure,  
The grief and glory of the Stage,  
And all the Cupids of the Age,  
And all the Venuses lie here  
Interred in Paris Sepulchre.    

De Libro suo, Epig. 16.  

I have such papers that grim Cato's wife  
May read, and strictest Sabines in their life.  
I will this Book should laugh throughout and jest,  
And be more wicked than are all the rest,  
And sweat with wine, and with rich unguents flow,  
And sport with Boys, and with the wenches too;  
Nor by Periphrasis describe that thing  
That common Parent whence we all do spring;  
Which Sacred Numa once a Prick did call.  
Yet still suppose these verses Saturnal.  
(O my Apollinaris) this my book  
Has no dissembled manners, no feigned look.    

Ad Lupum, Epig. 19  

(Lupus) thou gavest a Farm in Rome to me,  
A larger through my loophole I can see,  
But canst thou this a Living call or prove?  
Which one poor sprig of Rue shades like a Grove?  
Which one sly Grashopper's wing hides all ore?  
And which an Ant can in a day devour?  
Which with a Rose-leaf may be crowned,  
In which a larger herb cannot be found  
Than a small Pepper-blade that's newly sprung?  
In which a cucumber can't lie along?  
Nor Serpent safely dwell unless half seen?  
The Garden scarce a Cancker-worm can dine,  
The wood consumed it starves a single Moth,  
A Mole's my labourer and Ploughman both,  
A Mushroom cannot blow in't, nor a Rush  
Smile, nor sweet Violets their heads forth push.  
A Mouse lays waste the bounds by the Farmer more  
Is feared than was the Caladonia● Bore.  
The Herbage in a Swallow's foot at best  
Is carried at a burden to her Nest.  
Nor can Priapus when he's but half man'd  
Without a prick or sickle in it stand.  
The gathered Crop will scarce a Snails house fill,  
The Vintage may be housed in a Nutshell.  
(Lupus) thou err'dst but in a 
* Praedium, prandium.  single letter,  
For when thou gavest me this thou hadst done better  
To have invited me— to dine with thee.    

In Gallam, Epig. 20.  

Galla dost ask why thee I will not take  
In marriage bonds to join with me?  
Thou art too eloquent I see.  
My Prick doth oft a Solecism make.    

In Paediconem masturbantem, Epig. 23.  

'Cause thou dost kiss thy Boys soft lips with thy  
Rough chin, and with stripped Ganymede dost lie,  
Who does deny thee this? 'tis well. At least  
Frig not thyself with thy lascivious fist,  
This in light toys more than the Prick offends,  
Their fingers hasten and the man up sends,  
Hence Goatish rankness, sudden hairs, a beard  
Springs forth to wondering Mothers much admired.  
Nor do they please by day when in the Bath  
They wash their skins. Nature divided hath  
The males: Half to the Girls born to be shown,  
The other half to men: Use then thy own.    

In Silam, Epig. 24.  

Sila's prepared to marry me  
On any score what ere it be.  
But I shall put by Sila still;  
Be the condition what it will.  
Yet when she needs would fasten hold  
Give me cried I in ready gold  
Ten hundred thousand sesterces  
In dowry: For what can be less?  
Nor will I swive thee though it be  
Our very first night's jollity.  
Nor shall my Couch or palate lie  
In common both to thee and I.  
And when my Handmaid I embrace  
Thou shalt not dare to make a face.  
But if thine too I do command  
She shall be sent me out of hand.  
My wanton Boy my lips most sweet  
Shall smack though thou art by to see't.  
It makes no matters whether he  
My Boy or else thy Eunuch be.  
And when thou dost to supper come  
Thou shall sit in a distant room:  
That my Mantle take no smutch  
From thy courser garments touch.  
And when thy kisses I receive  
It shall be seldom and with leave.  
Not as a wife, but cold as she  
That may my riveled Grandam be.  
If thou canst bear such things as these,  
And nought refuse that I shall please;  
Sila thou suddenly shalt find  
A man to satisfy thy mind.    

Ad Phillidem, Epig. 30.  

When thou beginst to raise  
By thy old hand and ways  
My languishing desire to force it come  
Phillis I'm tortured with thy active thumb.  
For when thou call'st me thy  
Dear life, thy pretty eye,  
Methinks I scarcely am wound up by thee  
In ten hours to the height of Venery.  
Thou know'st not the true flattery:  
Say but once thou wilt give to me  
A hundred thousand sesterces in hand,  
So many Acres of Campanian land,  
A House, and Boys, and Wine that's old,  
Tables, and Cups bordered with gold:  
No fingers then will needful be to thee,  
Thus Phillis rub me up, thus tickle me.    

In Nestorem, Epig. 33.  

When thou hast neither Coat, nor Fire, nor Bed  
That's eat with Worms, nor Mat with Sedg patched up,  
Nor Boy, nor Man, nor Maid, nor infant head,  
Nor Lock with thee, nor Key, nor Dog, nor Cup.  
Yet thou affectest to be called and seem  
Poor, and to have a popular esteem.  
Thou liest: Thou soothst thyself with vanity,  
(Nester) this is not want, but beggary.    

Ad Fabullam, Epig. 36.  

fabulus when thou dost invite  
Three hundred Strangers to my sight,  
Dost wonder? and complain? and chide?  
When thus unknown accompanied?  
Though called I do not forthwith wait on thee?  
Me thinks I sup alone, and am not free.    

In Vxorem, Epig. 44.  

Caught with my Boys, at me my wife the Froe  
Scolds, and cries out she hath an ars-hole too.  
How oft hath Juno thus reproved loose Jove?  
Yet he with Ganymede doth act his love.  
Hercules' bend his Boy, layd-by his Bow,  
Though Megara had haunches too we know.  
Phoebus' was tortured by the flying Wench,  
Yet the Oebalian Lad those flames did quench.  
Though much denied Briseis from him lay  
Achilles with Patroclus yet did play.  
Give not male names then to such things as thine,  
But think thou hast two Twats o wife of mine.    

Ad senem Orbum, Epig. 45.  

The art blind, and rich and under Brutus bore,  
And dost thou think true friendship now to have?  
'tis true: But such thou hadst when young and poor,  
He that comes now, desires thee in thy Grave.    

In Phillida, Epig. 50.  

There's not an hour thou dost not plunder me  
When thou perceivest me mad with love of thee,  
Phillis thou thiev'st with such calidity.  
One while thy cheating Maid weeps for the loss  
Of some rich Gem, Ear-ring, or Looking-glass,  
Which from her hand or ear did slip or pass.  
Then the Silk-gowns are stolen away she'll fain.  
To be recovered at my charge and pain,  
Or else some Sweet-box must be filled again.   

Another while there is an appetite  
To a rich Jug of falerne wine that's right  
To expiate the terrors of the night▪   

Another while a great Jack I must buy,  
Or else a two pound Barble: some sweet she  
Bespeaks a supper at thy cost with thee.   

Blush then at last, and Phillis let there be  
A just respect of truth and equity,  
I grudge thee nothing: Nought deny to me.    

In Cheraemonem, Epig. 57  

Stoic Cheraemon cause that thou  
Canst cry up death I know not how  
Thou wouldst have me this thy fortitude admire:  
Some broken Pitcher bred in thee  
This seeming piece of gallantry,  
Or else some frozen Chimney without Fire;  
A noisome Worm, or Coverlid,  
Or Side-piece of thy naked Bed,  
Or a short Coat worn by thee day and night,  
O what a mighty Man thou'lt seem  
That canst the Dregs of sour red Wine,  
And thatch, and poor course black bread dare to slight!  
But yet suppose thy Couch should be  
Stuffed with Leuconick wool for thee,  
And Purple Vallions should thy Bed attire,  
And that thy Boy with thee should sleep,  
Which filled rich Wine with rosy lip  
And set thy love-inflamed guests on fire?  
O how wouldst thou then wish to see  
Thrice Nestor's years fulfilled in thee?  
And not a minute of a day lossed have?  
To slight a life in misery  
Is nothing: But he that can be  
Contentedly distressed is truly brave.    

De Lesbian, Epig. 63.  

Lesbian swears she doth never gratis sport,  
'tis true: For when she's swived she pays well for't.    

In Vacerram, Epig. 67.  

Th' art both a Pickthank, and Detractor,  
A cunning Cheater, and a Factor,  
A Lick-twat, and a Fencer too,  
I wonder much (Vacerra) how now?  
With all these trades thou canst want money    

In Maronem, Epig. 68  

Maro you'll give me nothing while you live  
But after death you cry then then you'll give:  
If thou art not indeed turned arrant Ass,  
Thou knowst what I desire to come to pass.    

De Leda, Epig. 72.  

Leda complained to her old man that she  
Was choked up in her womb, and swived must be.  
But weeps and whines her health's not so much worth,  
And rather choose to die than thus hold forth.  
The poor Man begs her live, her youth run on▪  
And what he could not suffers to be done.  
Hence male Physicians come, and female fly,  
Up goes her heels: O mighty remedy!    

Ad Paetum, Epig. 77.  

Paetus thou took'st ten sesterces from me  
Cause Bucco loosed two hundred due to thee,  
May others crimes I pray ne'er hurt me! when  
Two hundred thou canst lose, why not my ten?    

Ad Paetum, Epig. 80.  

By ten of clock cause we came but a mile  
We are accused of tedious sloth the while:  
'tis not the way's, nor mine, the fault's in thee  
Paetus, that sentest thy drowsy Mules for me.    

De Spadone & Seine, Epig. 82.  

An Eunuch and an old man strove to lie  
With Eagle, but 'twixt both she still lay dry,  
One wanted means the other strength to frig,  
So either's labour itbhed without a Jig.  
To Venus then for them and her she groans,  
To give the one his youth, th' other his stones.    

Ad Sosibianum, Epig. 84.  

Sosibian no man dwells with thee  
Under thy roof gratis or free,  
Unless he's rich or in an Orphan's state,  
No House is let out at a dearer rate.    

In Parthenopaeum, Epig. 87.  

That thy Doctor may assuage  
Thy Jaws whose cough doth seem to rage  
Daily (Parthenopaeus) he  
Commands that they shall give to thee  
Life-honny, Kernels, and sweet Cakes,  
That every Boy unbidden takes.  
But day by day thy cough grows more on thee,  
This is no cough (I fear) 'tis Gluttony.    

Epitaphium Canaces, Epig. 92.  

Sweet Canace lies buried in this Tomb,  
On whom the seaventh Winter just hath come.  
O mischief! traveller why dost haste to weep?  
We must not mourn life shortness now a sleep  
This kind of death was worse than death: Her face  
The Pox consumed, and spoiled its tender grace,  
Those cruel plagues her kisses eat and have,  
Nor were her lips brought whole to the black Grave.  
If the hard Fates could not admit of stay,  
Me thinks they might have come some milder way,  
But death made hast her pretty tongue to seize,  
Lest her sweet wo●ds should meet the Destinies.    

In Zoilum, Epig. 93.  

Zoilus he lied that called thee vicious Elf,  
Thou art not vicious, but Vice itself.    

De Theodoro, Epig. 94.  

A fire consumed the Poet's trumpery:  
Apollo can this please the nine and thee?  
O the great crime of Heaven! o sad disaster!  
Because the House was burnt and not the Master!    

In Thelesillam, Epig. 98.  

I can swive four times in a night: But thee  
Once in four years I cannot occupy.    

Ad Flaccum, Epig. 101  

Flaccus I would not have a Wench so thin  
Whose arms my little Rings can compass in.  
Whose buttock bones would shave, and knee prick harsh,  
That wears th' Saws in her loins, Spears in her arss.  
Nor would I one that's of a thousand weight,  
I'd have some flesh but not all glory fat,    

In Lydiam, Epig. 103.  

Lydia he lied not that reported has  
Thou hast a handsome skin but not a face,  
'tis so whiles silent, and whiles mute you lie,  
Like Pictures wrought in Wax or Tapestry.  
But when thou speak'st thy skin its grace doth loose,  
And no tongue more than thine doth thee abuse.  
Beware lest th' Officer thee hear and take,  
'tis monstrous when an Image goes to speak.    

Ad Sophronium, Epig. 104.  

The hast so much shamefacedness and honesty  
I wonder how a Father thou couldst be.    

In Vxorem, Epig. 105.  

Sweet heart begun: Or use our ways with us,  
I am no Curius, Numa, Tatius.  
Nights spent in pleasant Cups best please my sense,  
Thou to drink water cann'st rise and dispense.  
Thou joy'st in darkness, I by light to sport,  
Or else by day to lose my Breeches for't.  
Swaths or Coats cover thee, or obscure stuff,  
No Wench to me can lie displayed enough.  
Such kisses please like Doves that are a billing,  
Thou smackst me like thy Grandam so unwilling,  
Nor towards the work dost voice or motion bring,  
Nor hand: But makest it as some Offering.  
The Phrygian Boys in secret spent their Seed  
As oft as Hector's wife rid on his Steed,  
Whiles her Sire slept, Penelope though chaste  
Was wont to play her hand below her waist.  
Thou'lt not be buggerd: Although Gracchus wife  
Pompey's and others did it without strife.  
And when the Boy not present was 'tis said  
To fill Wine: Juno was Jove's Ganymede.  
If gravity by day doth thee delight,  
Lucretia be: I'll have thee Lais by night.    

Ad Lectorem, Epig. 109.  

Though thou mayst justly vex at this long Book,  
Yet for some further distiches thou dost look,  
But Lupus for his use doth call,  
And Schoolboys for their dinner ball,  
Then let me go: Thou hold'st thy peace: but tell  
(Reader) dost thou dissemble too? farewell.     

Lib. 12.  

De Ligeia, Epig. 7.  

IF by thy hairs thy age be to be told,  
Ligeia by thy crown th' art three years old.    

De Africano, Epig. 10.  

African has a thousand pound in store,  
Yet he desires, and hunts, and rakes for more:  
Fortune hath overmuch bestowed on some;  
But plenary content to none doth come.    

In Posthumum Epig. 12.  

Whiles in loose Cups thou top'st the night away,  
Then thou wilt promise any thing to do,  
But nothing will't perform on the next day,  
Pray (Posthumus) drink in the morning too.    

Ad Auctum, Epig. 13.  

Anger's a kind of gain that rich men know:  
It costs them less to hate then to bestow.    

Adulatorium Caesari, Epig. 15.  

Whatever shined in the Parrhasian Hall  
Is to our eyes and to our gods given all,  
Jupiter stands and wonders to behold  
Himself in Scythian flames of sparkling gold;  
Great Caesar's pleasant pride, and vast expense.  
These Cups may suit with Jove's magnificence,  
Such as may well become the Phrygian Boy,  
Now all with Jove are rich and clad with joy.  
It shames it shames me to confess of yore  
How all of us with Jove were very poor.    

In Lentinum, Epig. 17.  

Lentinus why dost thou complain and groan  
That all this while thine Ague is not gone?  
he's carried in a Chair, and bathed with thee,  
Eats Mushrooms, Oysters, Sow's paps, and Brawn free,  
Oft foxed with Setine, oft with Falerne Wine,  
Nor Caecube drinks without its Snow to join,  
Lies compassed in with Rosebuds, black with sweets,  
In a rich purple Bed, soft Down, fine Sheets.  
When he doth live so well so brave with thee,  
Wouldst have thy Ague to poor Dama fly?    

In Thelesinum, Epig. 25.  

When money without pledge I ask of thee,  
I have it not thou soon replyst to me.  
Yet thou the same man if my field or land  
Will but pass for me, hast it out of hand.  
When to thy friend thou wilt not credit give,  
Thou cann'st my little hills and trees believe.  
Lo, thou art to be banished: Come field prithee,  
Wouldst have me now? No, let my field go with thee.    

Ad Julium Martialem, Epig. 34.  

Julius 'twas four and thirty year,  
That thou and I together were.  
Sweeter days were mixed with sour,  
But yet the pleasanter were more.  
And if we should divide the time  
with a divers coloured line,  
The white would over-vie the black.  
If thou wouldst shun the bitter smack,  
And stinging tortures of the mind,  
No man to thee too much bind,  
Or too much in thy friend believe:  
Thou shalt joy less, and less shalt grieve.    

In Pontilianum, Epig. 40.  

When thou dost lie, I seemingly believe,  
When thou repeatst bad verse, my praise I give,  
When thou dost sing (Pontilian) I sing out,  
And when thou dost carouse, I drink about,  
When thou dost fart, I grunt too in conceit,  
And when thou play'st at Chess, I am still beat.  
Yet thou dost give nothing: dead, you cry  
I shall be heir: I care not, prithee die.    

In Tuccam, Epig. 41.  

'tis not sufficient that thou drunk hast been,  
But thou desirest so to be called and seen.    

Ad ●haebum, Epig. 45.  

Thou that with Leather cap hast covered  
The naked Temples of thy hair st●ippd head,  
How elegantly did he sport and plod,  
(Phoebus) that verified thy head was shod.    

In habentem varios Mores, Epig. 47.  

Thou the same man hard, soft, sweet, bitter art,  
Nor can I live with thee, nor yet apart.    

In Lautum Invitatorem, Epig. 48.  

If Brawn and Mushrooms thou servst up as vile,  
As though I wished them not, know 'tis my will.  
If thou conceivest me wealthy, and wouldst be  
My Heir for five bare Oysters, farewell thee.  
But yet thy supper's rich, most rich, yet there  
To day, to morrow, straight nought will appear,  
That thy unhappy Maide's base broom know may,  
Or Dog, or house of Office by the way.  
Of Ba●bles, Hares, and Sow's paps this the end,  
A pale sulphurous look, and gouty friend.  
Domitian's Feast's not so much worth to me,  
Nor Jove's, nor can the high Priest's junkets be.  
Upon this score should Jove bring Nectar here,  
It were as dead Wine, or Crab-vineger.  
Some other guests go seek Sir to your meat,  
Whom the vast kingdoms of thy cheer may cheat.  
My friend to some short Steaks may me invite,  
I like that Supper which I can requite.    

In habentem amaenas aedes, Epig. 50.  

Thou hast bay Groves, plain, and high Cypress Trees,  
And Baths for more than one man's privacies.  
Thy lofty Porch on hundred Pillars joins,  
And the spurned Onyx under thy feet shines.  
The flying hoofs the dusty race rejoice,  
And falls of water each where make a noise,  
Thy Courts stretch wide: But yet no place we smell  
To sup, or sleep. How well thou dost not dwell!    

De Fabullo, Epig. 51.  

Why (Aullus) dost thou wonder that  
fabulus is so oft snapped by deceit?  
I'll give thee satisfaction straight,  
A good man's still an undergraduate.    

Ad Semproniam, Epig. 52.  

He that his brows decked with the Muse's crown  
Whose voice to guilty men no less was known  
Sempronia here thy Rufus, here is laid.  
Whose dust even with thy love still drives a trade,  
'Mongst the blessed shades thy story he doth bear,  
And Helen's self thy rape admires to hear,  
Thou better from thy spoiler didst return,  
She though redeemed did after Troy still burn.  
Menelaus laughs and hears the Ilian loves,  
Thy rape old Paris guilt forgives, removes.  
And when thee those blessed mansions shall receive,  
No shade greater acquaintance there shall have.  
Proserpina loves although she cannot see  
Such rapes, that love shall make her kind to thee.    

In Avarum, Epig. 53.  

When thou hast so much coin and wealth with thee  
That seldom Citizens or Fathers see.  
Yet are not liberal, but thy heaps hangest o'er  
Like the great Dragon, whom the Bards of yore  
Feigned to be keeper of the Scythian Grove,  
But the base cause of this thy Muck-worm love,  
Thou brag'st and dost pretend thy Son to be:  
Why dost delude us with this foolery  
As though we Blocks or Idiots had been?  
Thou wast a Father ever to this sin.    

In Zoilum, Epig. 54.  

Red haired, black faced, club-footed, and bleareyed,  
Zoilus 'tis much if thou art good beside.    

In Polycarmum, Epig. 56  

Thou ten times in a year art sick or more.  
This is not thine (my friend) but 'tis our sore.  
No sooner well but for thy gifts dost call.  
Blush: Prithee once be sick for good and all.    

Ad suum Natalem, Epig. 60.  

Dear son of Mars, wherein I first did see  
Great Phoebus' rosie-glittering Deity.  
If Country worship, and green Altars may  
Displease, cause I at Rome observed thy day?  
Pardon, if there thy Calends slighted be,  
And on my Birthday if I would live free.    

De Ligurra, Epig. 62.  

Ligurra thou dost fear that I  
Verses, and quick sharp Poetry  
Would spend upon thee, and desirest to be  
Thought worthy of that fear conceived on me,  
But thou in vain dost tremble and desire,  
On Bulls the Lybian Lions their strength tire,  
But are not troublesome to Butter flies:  
Seek then, if thou dost wish thy name should rise,  
Some poor Pot-poet of the sooty Vault,  
That with a course Coale, or some putrid Chaulk  
Writes verses, which are read upon Closestools,  
Thy head shall ne'er be raised with my tools.    

De Phillede, Epig. 66.  

When beauteous Phillis to me all the night,  
Had gave her ●elf in all garbs of delight,  
And in the morning I began to sound  
What gift were best, of Cosmus sweets a pound,  
Or Niceros his Unguents, or of fine  
Rich Spanish Wool eight pound, or Caesar's coin  
Ten yellow boys: My neck embraced she,  
And with as long a kiss alluring me  
As marriages of Doves are making up,  
Phillis desired nought else but a merry Cup.    

Ad Clientes, Epig. 69.  

Thou early Client that didst cause me fly  
The City, some ambitious Courts imply,  
I am no Lawyer, nor ordained for strife,  
But slow, and old, and of a quiet life.  
Rest, and sweet sleep delight me: Which great Rome  
Denied: If I must watch here too, I'll come▪    

Ad Cautullum, Epig. 74.  

I am thy Heir Cautullus, thou hast said it,  
But I will not believe it till I read it.    

De Callistrato, Epig. 82.  

Lest that Callistratus should not  
Praise worthy men, he praises all:  
He that thinks no one hath a blot,  
Whom can he then a good man call?    

De Vmbro, Epig. 83.  

In winter time and Saturn's holy days  
Umber when poor did me present always  
With finest Wheat: but now with courser grain,  
For now he's rich, and made a man of gain.    

Ad Charinum, Epig. 91.  

Charinus cause thou bindest thy head with wool,  
'tis not thy ears that grieve: 'tis thy balled skull.    

De Marone, Epig. 92.  

Maro a Vow did make but something loud  
For an old Friend, by a fierce A gue bowed;  
That if this sickness spared him from the Grave,  
Great Jove a grateful Sacrifice should have.  
The Doctors promised certain health: O now  
Maro makes Vows to scape the former Vow.    

Ad Priscum, Epig. 95.  

Priscus thou oft dost ask what I would be  
If I were rich and raised to Potency.  
Can any man his future soul declare?  
Suppose thou wert a Lion: How wouldst stare?    

In Tuccam, Epig. 96.  

I penned an Epod: Thou beganst to write?  
Therefore I ceased, lest thine with mine unite.  
My Muse to Tragic fancies soared her strain,  
Thou strov'st to fit the buskin to thy brain.  
Thence than I touched the Harp with learned skill,  
With new ambition thou pursuedst me still.  
I Satyrs dared: Thou more exact wouldst be,  
I played light Elegees, thou ecchod'st me;  
What could be less? I Epigrams did frame:  
And here thou soughtst to rob me of my fame.  
Say what thou wilt not: Blush all things to be:  
And what thou wilt not, Tucca leave to me.    

In Bassum, Epig. 99  

When thou a wife so youthful haste,  
So rich, so noble, wise, and chaste,  
That the most wicked Goat that is  
A better cannot wish for his.  
Thou spendst thy strength with Boys (we see)  
Which thy wife's dowry bought for thee,  
So to his Mistress thy Prick comes  
Tired, thus redeemed with mighty sums.  
Nor will he stand though tempted by  
The voyce's or thumbs flattery.  
Blush then, or let the Law unfold it,  
(Bassus) this is not thine, th' hast sold it.    

Ad Mattum, Epig. 102.  

He that denies himself at home  
When thou dost knock to see,  
Dost thou not know his meaning in't?  
He is a sleep to thee.    

Ad Milonem, Epig. 103.  

thouart wont to sell clothes, incense, precious stone,  
Cloaks, pepper, silver, bought away th' are gone:  
Thy wife's a better chaffer: Though oft sold  
She never doth forsake thee, or loose hold.     

Libel. Spect.  

Epig. 1.  

IN silence Nile thy miracles conceal  
Nor let great Babylon her cost reveal,  
May the soft glories of Diana's fane  
Sink with the Cuckold-god that horned Jove's name.  
Nor let the Carian People boast so high  
Their hanging Monuments 'twixt earth and sky.  
Whiles Caesar's single Piece confines alone  
Fame and the world to one encomion.    

In Opera publica Caesaris, Spect. Epig. 2.  

Here where that high Coloss the Stars surveys,  
And lofty engines swell up in the ways  
The envied Courts of Nero shined: And one  
One only house this City filled alone.  
Here where the Amphitheatres vast Pile  
Is now erected were his Pools ere while.  
Where we admire the Baths that running gift  
The proud Field from poor men their dwellings shrift.  
Where Claudia's Walk extends its ample shade  
Was the extreme part of his Palace made.  
Rome's to itself returned, And by thee they  
Though once thine Caesar, are the People's joy.    

De Gentium confluxu & congratulatione, Epig. 3.  

What Nation's so remote or barbarous  
That has not some spectator here with us?  
The Thracian High-shooe from Mount Haemus comes,  
And Russians that in blood pick up their crumbs,  
He that sips the first streams of sudden Nile  
And he that in the utmost Sea doth toil.  
Th' Arabian and Sabaeans hither beat,  
And moist Cilicians in their unguents sweat.  
The Germans with their hair curled in a ring  
And th' otherwise crisped Moor's their presence bring.  
The voice sounds divers, but the votes agree  
When Rome's true Father thou art said to be.    

Ad Caesarem quod expulerit delatores, Epig. 4.  

An envious crew to pleasant rest and peace  
Which wretched wealth still studied to increase  
Are to the Geteses exiled: Nor could the sand  
Receive the guilty Vagabonds on land.  
So now the Teazers have  
That banishment they gave.  
The Pickthank's banished the Ausonian gate,  
The lifes of Princes from their gifts take date.    

De Daedalo, Epig. 8.  

Now Daedalus thou thus art torn  
By the Lucanian Bear,  
How dost thou with thy waxen wings  
Again to cut the Air?    

De sue quae ex vulnere peperit, Epig. 13.  

Peir●d with a deadly Dart the wounded Mother  
At one time loosed one life and gave another.  
How sure the levelled Steel the right hand throws!  
This was Lucin●'s arm I do suppose.  
Diana's double power she did sustain,  
When th' Parents was delivered and yet slain.    

De Orpheo, Epig. 21.  

What Thrace on Orpheus' Stage was said to see  
Caesar the Sand exhibits here to thee.  
The Rocks have crept, and the strange Wood did move,  
Such as was once believed th' Hisperian Grove.  
A mingled troop of all wild Beasts were there,  
And o'er the Bard a cloud of Birds in th' air.  
But he lay torn by the ungrateful Bear  
As it came feigned thence so 'twas true here.    

De Prisco & vero Gladiatoribus, Epig. 29.  

When Priscus and Verus did enter the field  
And their valour proved equal and neither would yield,  
The people besought that they parted might be  
But Caesar the law of Arms would satisfy.  
The Law was to cuff it out at finger's end,  
Thence cherishing Cups and gifts he oft did send,  
A conclusion at last this equal strife found,  
They both boxed alike, and both fell to the ground.  
Caesar to both gave rods, both did reward  
Such guerdons their virtue found that fought so hard  
This thing hath happened (Caesar) to no Prince but thee,  
When two men contended both victors should be.      


The Public Faith.  

STand off my Masters: 'tis your pence a piece,  
Jason, Medea, and the golden Fleece;  
What side the line good Sir? Tigris? or Po?  
Lybia? Japan? Whisk? or Tradinktido?  
St. Kits? St. Omer? or St. Margaret 's Bay?  
Presto begun? or come aloft? what way?  
Doublets? or Knap? the Cog? low Dice? or high?  
By all the hard names in the Litany,  
Bell, book and candle, and the Pope's great toe  
I conjuṙe thy account: Devil say no.   

Nay since I must untruss, gallants look to't  
Keep ●our prodigious distance, forty foot,  
This is that Beast of eyes in th' Revelations,  
The Basilisk has twisted up three Nations.  
Ponteus Hixius doxius, full of tricks,  
The Lottery of the vulgar lunatics.  
The Knapsack of the State, the thing you wish,  
Magog and Gog stewed in a Chaffendish.  
A bag of spoons and whistels, wherein men  
May whistle when they see their Plate again.   

Thus far his Infancy: His riper age  
Requires a more mysterious folio page.  
Now that time speaks him perfect, and 'tis pity  
To dandle him longer in a close Committee,  
The elf dares peep abroad, the pretty fool  
Can wag without a truckling standing-stoole;  
Revenge his Mother's in famy, and swear  
he's the fair offspring of one half-score year;  
The Heir of the House and hopes, the cry  
And wonder of the People's misery.  
'tis true, while as a Puppy it could play  
For Thimbles, any thing to pass the day.  
But now the Cub can count, arithmatize,  
Clinck Masenello with the Duke of Guise;  
Sign● for an Irish purchase, and traduce  
The Synod from their Doctrine to their Use.  
Give its Dam suck, and by a hidden way  
Drink up arrears a tergo mantica.  
An everlasting Bale, Hell in Trunk-hose,  
Uncased, the Devil's Don Quixot in prose.  
The Beast and the false Prophet twined together,  
The squinteyed emblem of all sorts of weather.  
The refuse of that Chaos of the earth  
Able to give the world a second birth.  
Africa avaunt: Thy trifling monsters glance  
But Sheep's▪ eyed to this Penal Ignorance.  
That all the prodigies brought forth before  
Are but Dame Natures blush left on the score.  
This strings the Bakers dozen, christens all  
The cross-legd hours of time since Adam's fall.   

The publipue faith? why 'tis a word of kin.  
A Nephew that dares Cozen any sin.  
A term of Art, great Behemoths younger Brother,  
Old Machiavelli, and half a thousand other.  
Which when subscribed writes Legion, names on Truss,  
Abaddon, Belzebub, and Incubus.  
All the Vice Royes of darkness, every spell  
And Fiend wrapped in a short Trissillable.   

But I forestall the show. Enter and see,  
Salute the Door, your Exit shall be free.  
In brief 'tis called Religion's ease, or loss,  
For no one's suffered here to bear his cross.    

A Lenten Litany.  
Composed for a confiding Brother, for the benefit and edification of the faithful Ones.  

FRom villainy dressed in the doublet of zeal,  
From three Kingdoms baked in one commonweal,  
From a gleek of Lord Keepers of one poor Seal libera nos, etc.   

From a Chancery-writ, and a whip and a bell,  
From a Justice of Peace that never could spell,  
From Colonel P. theVicar of Hell Libera nos, etc.   

From Neat's feet without socks and threepenny Pies,  
From a new sprung light that will put out ones eyes,  
From Goldsmith's Hall, the Devil and Excize Libera nos, etc.   

From two hours talk without one word of sense,  
From liberty still in the future tense,  
From a Parliament long-wasted conscience, Libera nos, etc.   

From a Coppid crown-Tenent pricked up by a Brother,  
From damnable members and fits of the Mother,  
From ears like Oysters that grin at each other, Libera nos, etc.   

From a Preacher in buff, and a quarterstaff steeple,  
From th' unlimited sovereign power of the People,  
From a Kingdom that crawls on its knees like a Cripple, Libera nos, etc.   

From a vinegar Priest on a Crabtree stock,  
From a foddering of prayer four hours by the Clock,  
From a holy Sister with a pitiful Smock. Libera nos, etc.   

From a hunger-starved Sequestrators maw,  
From Revelations and Visions that never man saw,  
From Religion without either Gospel or Law, Libera nos, etc.   

From the Nick and Froth of a penny pot-house,  
From the Fiddle and Cross, and a great Scotch-Louse,  
From Committees that chop up a man like a Mouse. Libera nos, etc.   

From broken shins and the blood of a Martyr▪  
From the titles of Lords and Knights of the Garrer,  
From the teeth of Mad-dogs and a Countryman's quarter. Libera nos, etc.   

From the Public Faith and an egg & butter,  
From the Irish purchases and all their clutter,  
From megas nose when he fettles to sputter, Libera nos, etc.   

From the zeal of old Harry locked up with a Whore  
From waiting with plaints at the Parliament door,  
From the death of a King without why or wherefore, Libera nos, etc.   

From the French disease and the Puritan fry,  
From such as ne'er swear but devoutly can lie,  
From cutting of capers full three story high, Libera nos, etc.   

From painted glass and Idolatrous cringes,  
From a Presbyters Oath that turns upon hinges,  
From Westminster Jews with Levitical fringes, Libera nos etc.   

From all that is said, and a thousand times more,  
From a Saint and his charity to the Poor,  
From the plagues that are kept for a Rebel in store. Libera nos, etc.    

The second part.  

THat if it may please thee to assist  
Our Agitators and heir list,  
And Hemp them with a gentle twist▪ Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to suppose  
Our actions are as good as those  
That gull the people through the nose, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it my please thee here to enter  
And fix the rumbling of our centre,  
For we live all at peradventure, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to unite  
The flesh and bones unto the spirit,  
Else faith and literature good night. Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee o that we  
May each man know his Pedigree,  
And save that plague of Heraldry, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee in each Shire,  
Cities of refuge Lord to rear  
That failing Brethren may know where, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to abhor us,  
Or any such dear favour for us  
That thus have wrought thy people's sorrows, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to embrace  
Our days of thanks and fasting face,  
For robing of thy holy place. Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to adjourn  
The day of judgement▪ lest we burn,  
For lo it is not for our turn, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to admit  
A close Committee there to sit,  
No devil to a humane wit, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to dispense  
A little for convenience,  
Or let us play upon the sense, Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee to embalm  
The Saints in Robin wisdom's Psalm,  
And make them musical and calm. Quaesumus te, etc.   

That it may please thee since 'tis doubt  
Satan cannot throw Satan out,  
Unite us and the Highland rout. quaesumus te, etc.    

A Hue and Cry after the Reformation.  

WHen Temples lie like battered Quarrs,  
Rich in their ruin'd Sepulchers,  
When Saints forsake their painted glass  
To meet their worship as they pass,  
When Altars grow luxurious with the die  
Of humane blood,  
Is this the flood  
Of Christianity?  
When Kings are cup-boarded likc cheese,  
Sights to be seen for pence a piece,  
When Dyadems like broker's tire  
Are customed relics set to hire  
When Sovereignty and Sceptres lose their names  
Streamed into words  
Carved out by swords  
Are these refining flames?  
When subjects and Religion stir  
Like Meteors in the Metaphor,  
When zealous hinting and the yawn  
Excize our Miniver and Lawn▪  
When blue digressions fill the troubled air  
And th' Pulpit's let  
To every Set  
That will usurp the chair?  
Call ye me this the night's farewell  
When our noon day's as dark as Hell?  
How can we less than term such lights  
Ecclesiastic Heteroclite?  
Bold sons of Adam when in fire you crawl  
Thus high to be  
Perched on the tree  
Remember but the fall.  
Was it the glory of a King  
To make him great by suffering?  
Was there no way to build God's House  
But rendering of it infamous?  
If this be then the merry ghostly trade?  
To work in gall?  
Pray take it all  
Good brother of the blade.  
Call it no more the Reformation  
According to the new translation,  
Why will you wrack the common brain  
With words of an unwonted strain?  
As plunder? or a phrase in senses cleft?  
When things more nigh  
May well supply  
And call it down right theft.  
Here all the Schoolmen and Divines  
Consent, and swear the naked lines  
Want no expounding or contest,  
Or Bellarmine to break a jest.  
Since then the Heroes of the pen with me  
Near screw the sense  
With difference,  
We all agree agree.    

A Committee.  

CAst Knaves my Masters, fortune guide the chance,  
No packing I beseech you, no by-glance  
To mingle pairs, but fairly shake the bag,  
Cheats in their spheres like subtle spirits wag.  
Or if you please the Cards run as they will,  
There is no choice in sin and doing ill.  
Then happy man by's dole, luck makes the odds,  
He acts most high that best out-dares the gods.  
These are that Raw-boned Herd of Pharoahs' Kine  
Which eat up all your fatlings, yet look lean.  
These are the after-claps of bloody showers  
Which like the Scots come for your good and yours  
The gleaners of the field, where, if a man  
Escape the sword that milder frying-pan,  
He leaps into the fire, cramping claws  
Of such can speak no English but the cause.  
Under that foggy term, that Inquisition,  
YE are wracked at all adventures On suspicion.  
No matter what's the crime, a good estate's  
Dilinquency enough to ground their hate.  
Nor shall calm innocence so scape, as not  
To be made guilty, or at least so thought.  
And if the spirit once inform, beware,  
The flesh and world but renegadoes are.  
Thus once concluded, out the Teazers run  
All in full cry and speed till Wat's undone.  
So that a poor Delinquent fleeced and torn  
Seems like a man that's creeping through a horn.  
Finds a smooth entrance, wide and fit, but when  
he's squeezed and forced up through the smalller end,  
He looks as gaunt and prin, as he that spent  
A tedious twelve years in an eager Lent.  
Or bodies at the Resurrection are  
On wing, just rarifying into air.  
The Emblem of a man, the pitied Case  
And shape of some sad being once that was.  
The Type of flesh and blood, the skeleton  
And superficies of a thing that's gone.  
The winter quarter of a life, the tinder  
And body of a corpse squeezed to a cinder  
When no more tortures can be thought upon  
Mercy shall flow into oblivion.  
merciful Hell! thy Judges are but three,  
Ours multiform, and in plurality.  
Thy calmer censures flow without recall,  
And in one doom souls see their final all.  
We travel with expectance: Sufferings here  
Are but the earnests of a second fear.  
Thy pains and plagues are infinite, 'tis true  
Ours are not only infinite but new.  
So that the dread of what's to come exceeds  
The anguish of that part already bleeds.  
This only difference swells 'twixt us and you,  
Hell has the kinder Devils of the two.    

On the happy Memory of Alderman Hoyle that hanged himself.  

ALL ●aile fair fruit! may every crabtree bear  
Such blossoms, and so lovely every year!  
Call ye me this the slip? marry 'tis well,  
Zacheus slipped to Heaven, the Thief to Hell,  
But if the Saints thus give's the slip, 'tis need  
To look about us to preserve the breed.  
Th' are of the running game, and thus to post  
In nooses blanks the reckoning with their Host.  
Here's more than Trussum cordum I suppose  
That knit this knot, guilt seldom singly goes.  
A wounded soul close coupled with the sense  
Of sin pays home its proper recompense.   

But hark you Sir, if hast can grant the time?  
See you the danger yet what 'tis to climb  
●n Kings prerogatives? things beyond just  
When Law seems bribed to doom them must be trussed.  
But o I smell your plot strong through your hose,  
'twas but to cheat the Hang- man of your clothes,  
Else your more active hands had fairly stayed  
The leisure of a Psalm: Judas has prayed.  
But later crimes cannot admit the pause,  
They run upon effects more than the cause.  
Yet let me ask one question, why alone?  
One member of a corporation?  
'tis clear amongst Divines, bodies and souls  
As jointly active, so their judgement rowles  
Concordant in the sentence; why not so  
In earthly sufferings? States attended go.  
But I perceive the knack: Old women say  
And be't approved, each dog should have his day.   

Hence sweep the Almanac: Lily make room,  
And blanks enough for the new Saints to come,  
All in Red letters: as their faults have been  
Scarlet, so limb their Anniverse of sin.  
And to their children's credits and their wives  
Be it still said they leap fair for their lives.    

On Clarinda Praying.  

AS when the early Lark, waked by th● tears  
Of sweet Aurora blushing through the sphaers'  
Mounts on her silver wings, and towers the skies  
To offer up her morning Sacrifice  
To her great Deity the Sun: and sings  
The Anthems of her joy to court the springs:  
So here Clarinda rescued from the night  
Of soul-contracting slumber, takes her flight  
Into the azure heavens, and prevents  
The vulgar sullying of the elements  
By a most holy haste, and stoops to fly  
To the great Master of requests on high.   

No sooner was she bended on her knees  
But lo a cloud of Angels sympathize,  
And strive to catch her prayers and convey  
Her sacred breathe o'er the Milky-way.  
Pardon me (Reader) if I here aver  
That holy contestation bred by her  
Amongst those Hierarchies Celestial  
Almost engaged them to a Second Fall.  
But such was the sweet plenty, such the flood  
Of her rich soul, each Angel had his load:  
Some charged with a sigh, some with a tear,  
Each one was busied though not burdened there.   

Yet blessed Saint why why such streams of brine?  
Sure 'twas for others, for no sin of thine?  
Those crystal beads perhaps dropped for my  
Or else in pious charity for the Times?  
Those sacred gales of grief sufficient be crimes,  
To waft whole worlds into eternity.  
No need of Sails or Pilot there was here,  
They knew the channel to the heavenly ear,  
Only the officious Seraphims to woe  
A greater glory would be meddling too   

O had but Sodom found in her sad state  
So dear! so prevalent an advocate!  
The brimstone of her Judgements had not burned,  
But all her fire had into incense turned.  
Or had these Noah's drunken world forerun,  
The Ark had kept the woods, nor had the Sun  
Been shut up: But the floodgates of the deep  
Had lulled themselves in a perpetual sleep.   

Smelled you the Phoenix when she dying lies  
Raising her issue from her obsequies?  
Embalmed in her own ashes? so divine  
So precious was the perfume of each line  
Sailed through the ruby Portal of her lips,  
And now o'er the celestial Ocean trips.  
Saw you a pearl closed in an amber womb?  
Glowing and sparkling through its courser tomb?  
So radiantly transparent shined her soul,  
Which she in Holy blasphemy termed foul,  
And therefore challenged tears to wash that hue  
And stain of owned guilt she never knew.  
O Adam hadst thou lived thus long to be  
Made happy in thy late posterity?  
Thou mightst have seen that Innocence again  
Which thy too slippery hands could not retain!   

Thus thus she clasped her God with pious zeal,  
With melting Rhetoric, till he vowed to heal  
The wounds in Zion: For in her there were  
No objects for the balm of one poor tear.  
But least the general works of Providence  
Should ravished stop their courses in suspense:  
In pity to the whole Creation, she  
Grew silent, lest their destiny should be  
Scored on her harmless piety. O so  
Though yet with much regret she let him go.    

On Clarinda Singing.  

AS when the Swan, that warbling Prophetess  
Of her approaching death, begins to guess  
The fatal minute near, summons up all  
The raptures of her soul to gild her fall,  
Wracking her throat into variety  
Of different Diapazon● sweet as high,  
Then sings her Fpicedium to that night  
Of darkness whence she never more takes flight.   

So my Clarinda sporting with her rare  
Harmonious Organs filled the ravished Air  
With soul-transporting notes, as though she meant  
To breathe the world into astonishment.  
Had the bright Lady of the floods been by  
She had been silently content to die,  
Finding herself so rivalled in each strain,  
But that Clarinda lives to sing again.   

If ever Artist wrought so high a key  
To steal a man even from himself a way,  
And wind him up to heaven in a dream  
Not knowing how, or when, or whence he came?  
So slipped my soul: But thanks dear Sovereign  
Thou pull'dst me safely down to thee again.   

Had Thracian Orpheus with his feathered Choir,  
And Rendezvouz of brute been present here  
The wondering Bard had suffered with the rest,  
Winged amazement, or at least turned beast.  
So winningly did she dissolve the sense  
In thousand labyrinths of joy, from whence  
The captived soul could no more hope to see  
Releasement than time in eternity.  
But that that voice exhaled it from its earth  
Proved merciful, and gave it second birth.   

With holy reverence let me dare to say  
Angels thus clothe their hallelujah.  
Thus Mercury to reach Jove's maiden prise  
Charmed all the guards and rounds of Argus eyes.  
Thus Philomela to drown the chirping wood,  
Melts all her sugard forces to a flood.  
Thus heaven's high consort blessed the breaking day  
When the sweet Baby in a manger lay.  
The Wisemen, had they heard this sacred strain,  
Had ventured to have offered once again,  
Though neither spice nor myrrh: What then I pray?  
Even moping gravely to have lossed their way.  
For that great constellation of her light  
Had sunk their lantern star in endless night.  
But yet how sweetly had they strayed? when she  
Makes it no less than heaven where ere she be?   

O had you seen how the small birds did creep,  
And dance from bough to bough! then stand and peep  
Through the green lattice of the trees, to see  
The instrument of that rich harmony!  
And how the active grass there carpeted  
Contended which should first thrust up its head,  
And wake th' enammeled circle of the Bower  
To hasten forth each pretty drooping flower,  
That in a radiant Coronet they might meet  
To wove gay buskins for Clarinda's feet!  
'Twould puzzle a strong fancy here to prove  
Which did exceed their envy or their love.  
But I shall range no further in dispute,  
The way to speak her worth is to be mute.  
For when that voice closed her angelic song,  
To paraphrase would prove a double wrong.    

Platonique Love.  

Begun fantastic whimsy, hence begun.  
I slight thy dreams, I'm no Chameleon.  
Nor can I feed on Airy smoky blisses,  
Or bait my strong desire with smiles and kisses,  
Old Tantalus as well may surfeit on  
The flying streams by contemplation.  
Give me a minute's heaven with my love,  
Where I may roll in pleasures far above  
The idle fancy of the soul's embrace,  
Where my swift hand may ravish all the grace  
Of beauty's wardrobe, where the longing Bride  
May feast her fill, yet ne'er be satisfied.  
Blaspheme not Love with any other name  
Than an enjoyment kindled from the flame  
Of panting breasts, mixed in a sweet desire  
Of something more than barely to admire.  
‛ Though sighs and signs may make the pulses beat,  
‛ Action's the bellows that preserve the heat.  
If all content were placed in the eye,  
And thoughts comprised the whole felicity?  
Pictures might court each other, & exchange  
Their white-lime looks, woe hard, and yet seem strange,  
‛ No, Love requires a quick and home embrace.  
‛ Nor can it dwell for ever on the face.  
‛ What ever glories Nature's tender care  
‛ Compiles to make a piece divinely rare,  
' theyare but the sweet allurements of the eye  
‛ Fixed on a stage to catch the standers by.  
‛ Or like rich Signs exposed to open sight  
to tempt the Traveller to stay all night.  
Yield then (my chaste Clarinda) once to see  
The sweet Maeander of Love's liberty.  
And seal thy thoughts a grant to understand  
The welcome pleasures of a wife well manned.  
For all the sweets mistaken in a kiss  
Are but the empty circumstance of this.  
So shall a full content wipe out the score  
Of all our sorrows that have pas●'d before.  
Not a sad sigh shall scape unsatisfied  
Which in its master's passion wept and died.  
But like a Sea made subject to our Oars  
we'll hoist up Sail and touch the wished Shores.    

A Sigh.  

FLY thou pretty active part  
To the Mistress of my heart,  
Show her how the tedious night  
Sadly wastes without delight,  
How my waking soul divides  
The silent day 'twixt ebbs and tides  
Of hope and fear: How Love in me  
Knows no measure or degree.  
Tell her all my feigned dreams  
Of her enjoyment, which in gleams  
Of wished bliss I seemed to see  
But waking proved a fallacy;  
Contrived by death to kill a Swain  
More than half already slain.  
Tell her all my secret fears,  
What a length's in seven years,  
And that my grief well understood  
Is worse by far than widowhood.  
How to see and not partake  
Is but dying for her sake.  
Tell her more than I dare say,  
Yet can think as well as they  
That feel the freedom of that heat  
Which I in contemplation beat.  
And let her know Love more delights  
In action than in appetites.  
Tell her burial and a wife  
Untouched, are both things without life.  
And that too many heats and cold  
Will make the best complexion old.  
And when poor beauty's past its prime  
The rest is but asleeping time.  
Tell her all those heights and graces  
Which are built in female faces  
Like the Orbs without their motions  
Are but glorious pitied notions.  
And in short without deceit  
Love cannot for ever wait.  
Pray her, pray her quickly yield,  
Venus' joys to lose the field,  
And in fettered twines to lie  
Working through love's Mystery.  
Where in thousand winding ways  
She can twist the lover's maze.  
Where with pleasing loss and pain  
Ladies clip and to't again,  
Mixing fresh with flames half gone,  
Joys first felt then thought upon.  
Tell her if she this deny  
Love only fed with air must die.  
Ask her whether groans and charms  
Midnight walks and folded arms  
Be all she meant when first she slew  
My silly heart at second view?  
And if a life be spent in wooing  
Where's the time reserved for doing?  
Now little sigh if she at last  
Chide and check thee with a cast  
Of angry looks, like one that comes  
To kindle love in sullen Tombs?  
Return to me my pretty dear,  
And I will hide thee in a tear.    

Love's Farewell.  

FOnd Love adieu, I loathe thy tyranny.  
Strive now no more to kill me with an eye,  
Or that we call  
Thy pastime, but our thrall.  
I see thy cruelty, and moan the days  
My fettered heart lay doting on thy praise.  
If an unconstant look be all the grace  
Attends the pleasure of thy wanton chase?  
I'm none of thine  
Nor will adore thy shrine.  
I prise the freedom of a single hour  
More than the sugared tortures of thy power.  
If floods of brinish tears be all thy drink?  
And the whole man confined to gaze & think?  
If groans and sighs  
Be still thy sacrifice?  
I'll rather quench the flames of my desire,  
Then at thine Altar languish and expire.  
No, I supposed thy guilded baits to be  
As real blisses as they seemed to me▪  
But now I find  
They captivate the mind,  
And slave the soul to endless proofs of joy,  
Which in the end are pills but to destroy.  
Wound me no more: I'm tired with daily dying,  
Refrain thy dull delays and bitter trying  
Of my sad heart  
Slain by th● dart  
If this be all my crop of hopes and fears?  
My love my God shall have, my sins my tears.  
Free me this once, and when I come to be  
The prisoner of a second misery.  
Bring all thy chains  
And wracks of horrid pains,  
I'll willingly embrace the dreadful chance,  
And court my death as a deliverance.  
Whisper no more there's faith in womankind,  
Or any fixed thought to strike me blind.  
When each new face  
Their fickle vows unlace.  
And each strange object that attempts their eye,  
Bribes all their sense into variety.  
Give me a heart of such a solid frame  
Breathes above changes, and is still the same.  
I like no wits  
That flow by antique fits.  
Nor such a whiffling love who's wand'ring fire  
Is guided by a weathercock desire.  
Give me a Mistress whose diviner mind  
Speaks her descended of the heavenly kind,  
Whose glories are  
No borrowed tinsel ware,  
Let her be ice to all the world, but such  
As wax to me that melts upon the touch.  
Call not that chastity that's proud disdain,  
Nor plead them honest that in show refrain,  
Lust has that trick,  
And stews such Rhetoric,  
Only to raise the standard of their price,  
And steal a virtuous paint by seeming nice.  
No, I abhor those poor religious blinds,  
Which aim to sequester our eyes & minds,  
Love has no mask,  
Nor can it frown or ask,  
But in a sweet consent moves every way  
With its dear object like the Sun and day.  
No, either love me still or not at all,  
I like no passions that can rise and fall,  
No humours please  
In this concealed disease,  
But if my Mistress strive to catch my will,  
The Laurel is attained by standing still.  
Once more I tempt thy pity (Dearest Love)  
And if these tears can no compassion move,  
I'll scorn thee more  
Than I have loved before.  
And stanck up the salt Conducts of mine eyes  
To watch thy shame, & weep mine obsequies.    

Christmas Day; Or the Shutle of an inspired Weaver bolted against the Order of the Church for its Solemnity.  

Christmas? give me my beads: The word implies  
A plot, by its ingredients Beef and Pies.  
A feast Apocryphal, a popish rite  
Kneaded in dough (beloved) in the night.  
The night (beloved) that's as much to say  
(By late translations) not in the day.  
An annual darklanthorn Jubilee,  
Catesby and Vaulx baked in conspiracy,  
The Hierarchy of Rome, the Triple Crown  
Confessed in Triangles, then swallowed down,  
With spanish Sack? The eighty eight Armado  
Newly presented in an Ovenado.  
O Calvin! now my Cause upon thee fixes,  
Were ere such dregs mixed with Genevae six?  
The cloistered steaks with salt and pepper lie  
Like Nuns with patches in a monastery.  
Profaneness in a Conclave? nay much more  
Idolatry in crust! Babylon's Whore  
Raked from the grave, and baked by haunches, then  
Served up in coffins to unholy men  
Defiled with superstition, like the Gentiles  
Of old, that worshipped Onions▪ Roots and Lentiles!  
Did ever John of Leyden prophecy  
Of such an Antichrist as pudding-pie?  
Beloved 'tis a thing when it appears  
Enough to set the Saints all by the ears  
In solving of the text, a doubtful sin  
Reform Churches ne'er consented in.   

But hold (my Brethren) while I preach and pray  
Me thinks the Manna melts and wastes away,  
I am a man as all you are, have read  
Of Peter's sheet, how he devoutly fed  
Without exception, therefore to dispense  
A little with the worm of conscience.  
And bend unto the creature, I profess,  
Zeal and a Pie may join both in a mess.  
The dearest sons may err, then why a sinner  
May I not eat? since HUGH eat three to dinner?    

Good Friday.  

WHat sable Cypress masks the glorious Sun?  
Rivals the world? and robs us of our Noon?  
What Ague cramps the earth? whereas time fled?  
Why groan the graves? is nature vanished?  
Or must y shriveled heavens in one dread fire  
Rowel up in flames? then languish and expire?  
Some horrid change approaches, some sad guise,  
Nature, or else the God of nature dies?  
Here's more than man in this, more than mankind,  
Death's in pursuance, or the world resigned,  
No common passion strikes mine eye, no fate  
Less than the whole's extinction, or debate.  
Angels stand trembling and amazed, the spheres  
Cease their blessed harmony, and turn all tears  
Wrapped in a dreadful hush! so highly more  
Is man's redemption than his birth before!  
To raise a world from nothing, and divide  
Dull bodies from the thin and rarified  
Speaks God in every close: But to renew  
Those ruin'd atoms when confusion threw  
The whole into a lumpish mass again,  
This makes the lovely wonder sovereign.   

To mould a man in clay, then quicken that  
Dead body with a soul cooperate,  
Argues a Real Presence: But when sin  
Has soiled that heavenly stamp, and chained it in  
The fetters of damnation, to restore  
That life in death transcends the love before.   

O then behold and see if ever pain  
Or anguish matched that sorrow! when the slain  
Of God bleeds on the Cross? when heaven descends  
In blood, to make man & the heaven's friends?  
Nay more, when man lay doomed eternally,  
To answer his own wrath, even God could die!  
And smile upon those Wounds, that Spear, that Grave,  
Which our rebellions merited and gave!  
This love exceeds all height: yet I confess  
'Twas God that did it, how could it be less?    

Easter Day.  

HOw all the guard relieved? the Romans fled?  
Those Basilisks that seeing conquered?  
Heaven back my faith! what glorious Apparition  
Shines in the vault? what angel like condition  
Of Soldiers do I see? surely my fear  
Trebles the object, 'tis the Gardener.  
Flow out my tears: Th' have stolen the Lord away,  
Come view the place whereas his body lay▪  
But yet behold the napkin, and the clothes  
Wrapped by themselves! in vain you take your Oaths  
Hard hearted Jews. For o he's risen and gone  
Why stand you gazing? what d'ye dote upon?  
Peace be unto you. O now I hear his voice,  
Run Peter that thy spirit may rejoice.  
A greater Star than that out of the East  
Which led the Wisemen rises in my breast.  
See where he rides in triumph! hell & death  
Dragged at his chariot wheells, the powers beneath  
Made grovelling Captives, all their trophies bring  
Slaves to the laurels of the glorious King.  
Nay sin and the dull grave make up the crowd  
Though base, yet all prisoners at war allowed.   

Ride on brave Prince of Souls, enlarge thy  
'tis thy own work alone to kill & raise,  
Dying to vanquish death and by thy fall bays  
To be the Resurrection of us all.   

Flow hither all believers, ye that sow  
In tears, and in a veil but darkly know,  
Stretch hither the distrustful hand and feel  
Th' impressions of the nails and barbed steel.  
But yet forbear, his word must be attended  
Touch me not, for I am not yet ascended.  
However feast your eyes, behold the Star  
Of Jacob, Israel's deliverer.  
This boon to begging Moses he'd not give,  
But now frail man may See his God and live.   

Here's ecstasy of joy enough, that when  
Our sins conspired with ungodly men  
To crucify the Lord of life, and kill  
His innocency by our doing ill,  
He yet survives the gall of bitterness,  
Nor was his soul forsaken in distress,  
But having led Captivity in chains  
He burst the bonds of death, and lives, and reigns,  
And this revives our souls there's yet again  
A Monarchy beyond the reach of men.    

Holy Thursday.  

AS when the glorious Sun veiled and disguised  
(As by the shadows of the night surprised)  
Disrobes his sable dress, and reasumes  
The beauty of its splendour from the Tombs  
And vaults of darkness, mounts the dapled skies  
And guilds the heavenly wardrobe as he flies:   

So here the Majesty of God concealed  
Under a mortal mantle, unrevealed  
Till the predestined day of its disclose,  
Sublimed its earth, and in full lustre rose,  
Joyed with the shouts of Angels, and the choir  
Of Cherubims made happier to admire.   

Me thinks I hear the arched spheres resound  
The Paeans of the Saints, and give them round  
The tires of heaven, like claps of thunder rolled  
From pole to pole, and doubled as they fouled.  
Such a diffusive glory, that we see  
Each Saint triumphant in his victory.   

But is he gone for ever from our eyes?  
Will he no more return? shall we not rise?  
Or must that cloud that closed him from our sight  
Stand a partition wall between the light  
Of his eternal day and our dull shades?  
O that's a horror kills as it invades!   

No: There's a hope yet left, a sure record  
Of mercy undeniable, his Word.  
Nay more▪ his faithful Promise: I'll not leave  
You comfortless. And can the Lord deceive?  
See there his hand and seal: And if you please  
T●admit the voice of Angels to increase  
An Infant faith? As you have seen him go  
So he shall come again: Believe it so.  
Rejoice then (o my soul) that as thou art  
Rescued from death, and glorified in part,  
So thy Redeemer lives, and that he's gone  
Hence to prepare thy heavenly mansion.  
And when the trembling hearts of them that slew  
And peirct his precious body quake to view  
The terror of his glorious return,  
When time shall be no more, the heavens burn,  
Earth crumble into ashes, and the dead  
Waked by th' Archangles voice dissepulcred,  
And catched up in the clouds, thy greater bliss  
Shall meet thy sweet Redeemer with a kiss,  
And with their eyes his glittering court survey  
In all the garb of that triumphant day.   

Yet so demean thyself in this his dear  
And pitied absence as if present here.  
That at his second coming, Sans all grudge  
He may return thy Saviour as thy Judge.    

Whitsunday.  

WHat strange noise strikes mine ear? what sudden sound?  
As though the rolling winds were all unbound  
And met at once, by one joint fury hurled  
To overturn the hinges of the world?  
This Scene fore▪ runs some dreadful Act to come,  
Some greater wonder issuing from the womb  
Of Providence than what has passed our eye?  
Sure there's no second Son of God to die?  
Nor summons to the dead once more to rise  
And scare the bloody City's Sacrifice?  
Nor does the cheerful Sun dance through the spheres  
As though he meant to fetch his last carrears?  
Time's not so near its Exit? nor the fall  
And conflagration of this circled Ball?   

But yet behold a fire! most contrary  
To its own nature posting from on high!  
Kindling a sad suspicion, cleft in rays  
As though designed to catch all sorts of ways!  
Sure 'tis no wanton flame, such whifling Lights  
Quench with the night-mark of tempestuous nights,  
Not daring to attempt the day's bright eye  
To judge their non-existent frippery.  
No, this descends more stayed, reached from above,   

‛ O 'tis the very God of peace and love!  
But how so strange divided? can there be  
Twelve parts like Tribes couched in the deity?  
That it appears multipartite? in th' dress  
Of Cloven Tongues? what tongue can this express?  
Yet though it seems in Sections to appear  
Most like the soul 'Tis wholly every where.  
The Spirit's omnipresent, nor can be  
Confined to number, measure, or degree.  
But why in fire? and such myrac'lous flame?  
Fixed on a stay, yet not consume the same?  
Are men like Moses bush? can bodies burn  
Insensible? and not to ashes turn?  
The wonder's great! but not so deep as high.  
‛ Nature must needs leave work, when God stands by.   

Descend on me Great God but in such fire  
May not consume, but kindle my desire.  
Descend on me in flames! but such as move  
Winged by th' inspiration of the Dove.  
Descend in Cloven Tongues! such as dispense  
No double meanings in a single sense.   

Hence all you wild pretenders, you that blaze  
Like Meteors lapped in zeal, and dance the maze  
Of nonconformity in antique fits,  
Yea even from yourselves cursed Heretics;  
Light not your frighted censors here: no Quaker,  
Frisker, Baboon, or Antinomian shaker  
Must fire his brand from hence, the Spirit claims  
No holderforth that dwells on second aims;  
But Comes t' reprove the world's Judaic press  
Of Sin, of Judgement, and of Righteousness.   

No strange fanatic spark that gaping flies  
And leaves its Audience skared with ecstasies.  
No Skipper in divinity, no Hinter,  
No radled Cardinal, no dreaming minter  
Of words and faces, no Choir of the Bristle,  
No squib, no squeaker of the puny gristle  
Approach this glory: For the beauteous Sun  
Admits no maskers till the day be done.  
No Chemical St. Martin's pass the Test  
Till the pure Oare's exiled, or gone to rest.   

Shine out bright God, dispel these smoky fogs  
Of schism and heresy that smears and clogs  
The chariot of thy Gospel, that truth may  
Break forth in its own gloss and proper ray.  
That the Blue-aproned Crackers of the times.  
Those wildfire Rockets, whose ambition climbs  
To wound the world with broils, set all on fire,  
And sink a glorious Church through base desire,  
May dwindle to their bulks, and there indite  
Long small-drink Anthems of the Saints good night.  
While it contents the boys to nod at last  
November and my Ld. Mayor's day are past.    

A short Ejaculation Upon that truly worthy Patron of the Law Sr. John Bridgman Kt. and Lord Chief Justice of Chester and the Marshes of Wales deceased.  

SHall all the Tribes of Israel thirty days  
Mourn for the death of Moses? and so raise  
Their doubled cries to heaven, and bemoan  
The Light of Jacob in a Tomb unknown.  
And Bridgman set obscurely? can the Sun  
Withdraw its radiant splendour at high noon,  
And the whole world not stand amazed to see  
Their glory swallowed in eternity?  
Can the bright soul of Justice mount the skies  
And we not fear a Deluge from our eyes?   

Such was thy sad departure, such thy flight  
Into the spangled heavens, that the night  
Of a more sad despair hath seized our beams,  
And left us nothing but our brackish streams  
To offer at thy shrine: And in those showers  
We state the day, and steep the slow-paced hours.   

Hence let the Law be canonised no better  
Than a mere corpse of words, a bare dead letter,  
In thee the life departed: In thy dust  
Lies raked the hand & sense of right and just.   

What yet survives, or rather what presents  
Its seeming face clothed in thine ornaments,  
'Tis but Elias Mantle (though unknown)  
Dropped to work wonder, but the Prophet's gone.    

Piae Memoriae Doctiss. Reveren dissimique in Christo Patris, Johannis Prideaux quam novissimè Wigoriae Episcopi, harumque tristissimè lacrymarum Patroni nec nòn defuncti.  

BVsta struant alii, lacrymisque altare refundant,  
Quorum tristitiâ fata pianda cadunt.  
Talia praecurant cineres monumenta pusilli,  
Queis melos & tumulum fama gemenda petit.  
Hîc neque pyramidum, nec inertis monstra colossi  
Poscuntur, subito corruitura die.  
Gloria securi confidentissima Caeli  
Non vocat haec stellis astra minora suis.  
Sic tuus ascendit currus, dign●ssime Praesul,  
Terreni miserans futile honoris onus.  
Sed vae Zodiaco nostro, vae (Phoebe) trementi,  
Ortus enim patriae lux tenebraeque fuit.  
In te floruimus, tecum decerpimur omnes  
Et Pater & gnati: Mollitèr ossa cubent.  
Parva tegaṅt tenues & aperti funera fletus,  
Tanta ruunt superis damna silenda metu.    

Obsequies On that right Reverend Father in God John Prideaux late Bishop of Worcester deceased.  

IF by the fall of Luminaries we  
May safely ghuess the world's Catastrophe?  
The signs are all fulfilled, the Tokens flown,  
(That scarce a man has any of his own)  
Only the Jews conversion some doubt bred,  
But that's confuted now the Doctor's dead.   

Great Atlas of Religion! since thy fate  
Proclaims our loss too soon, our tears too late,  
Where shall the bleeding Church a Champion  
To grasp with Heresy? Or to maintain  
Her conflict with the Devil? For the odds gain  
Runs biased six to four against the Gods.  
Hell lists amain, nay and th' engagement flies  
With winged Zeal through all the Sectaries,  
That should she sound into question fall,  
We were within a Vote of none at all.  
But can this hap upon a single death?  
Yes: For thou wert the treasure of our breath.  
That pious Arch whereon the building stood  
Which broke, the wholes devolved into a flood  
An inundation that ore-bears the banks  
And bounds of all religion: If some stancks  
Show their emergent heads? Like Set●'s famed stone  
The are monuments of thy devotion gone!  
No wonder then the rambling Spirits stray  
In thee the body fell, and slipped away.   

Hence '●is the Pulpit swells with exhalations.  
Intricate nonsense travelled from all Nations,  
Notions refined to doubts, & maxims squeezed  
With tedious hickups till the sense grows freezed.  
If aught shall chance to drop we may call good,  
'tis thy distinction makes it understood.  
Thy glorious Sun made ours a perfect day,  
Our influence took its being from thy ray.  
Thine was that Gedeon's fleece▪ when all stood dry,  
Pearled with celestial dew showered from on high.  
But now thy night is come our shades are spread,  
And living here we move among the dead.  
Perhaps an Ignis fatuus now and then  
Starts up in holes, stinks and goes out again.  
Such Kicksee winsee flames show but how dear  
Thy great Ligh●'s resurrection would be here.  
A Brother with five loaves and two small fishes,  
A table-book of sighs, and looks, and wishes,  
Sta●tles religion more at one strong doubt,  
Than what they mean when as the candle's   

But I profane thy ashes (gracious soul)  
Thy spirit flew too high to truss these foul out.  
Gnostick opinions. Thou desired'st to meet,  
Such tenants that dust stand upon their feet,  
And beard the Truth with as intensed a zeal  
As Saints upon a fast night quilt a meal.   

Rome never trembled till thy piercing eye  
Darted her through, and crushed the mystery.  
Thy Revelations made St. John's complete,  
Babylon fell indeed, but 'twas thy sweat  
And oil performed the work: to what we see  
Foretold in misty types, broke forth in thee.   

Some shallow lines were drawn, and sconces made  
By smatterers in the Arts, to drive a trade  
Of words between us, but that proved no more  
Than threats in cowing feathers to give o'er.  
Thy fancy laid the Siedg that wrought her fall,  
Thy batteries commanded round the wall:  
Not a poor loophole error could sneak by,  
No not the Abbess to the Friary,  
Though her disguise as close and subtly good  
As when she wore the Monk's hose for a hood.  
And if perhaps their French or Spanish wine  
Had filled them full of beads and Bellarmine,  
That they durst sally, or attempt a guard,  
O! how thy busy brain would beat & ward?  
Rally? and reinforce? rout? and relieve?  
Double reserves? And then an onset give  
Like marshaled thunder backed with flames of fire?  
Storms mixed with storms? Passion with globes of ire?  
Yet so well disciplined that judgement still  
Swayed, and not rash Commissionated will.  
No, words in thee knew order, time, & place,  
The instant of a charge, or when to face;  
When to pursue advantage, where to halt,  
When to draw off, and where to re-assault.  
Such sure commands streamed from thee, that 'twas one  
With thee to vanquish as to look upon.  
So that thy ruin'd Foes grovelling confess  
Thy conquests were their fate and happiness.   

Nor was it all thy business here to war  
With foreign forces: But thy active star  
Could coarse a homebred mist, a native sin,  
And show its guilt's degrees how, & wherein;  
Then sentence and expel it: Thus thy sun  
An everlastingstage in labour run;  
So that its motion to the eye of man  
Waved still in a complete Meridian.   

But these a●e but fair comments of our loss,  
The glory of a Church now on the Cross:  
The transcript of that beauty once we had  
Whiles with the lustre of thy presence clad.  
But thou art gone (Brave Soul) & with thee all  
The gallantry of Arts Polemical.  
Nothing remains as primitive but talk,  
And that our Priests again in Leather walk.  
A Flying ministry of horse and foot,  
Things that can start a text but ne'er come to't.  
Teazers of doctrines, which in long-fleeved prose  
Run down a Sermon all upon the nose.  
These like dull glow-worms twinkle in the night,  
The frighted Landscapes of an absent light.   

But thy rich flame's withdrawn, heaven caught thee hence,  
Thy glories were grown ripe for recompense:  
And therefore to prevent our weak essays  
The art crowned an Angel with celestial Bays.  
And there thy ravished Soul meets field and fire,  
Beauties enough to fill its strong desire.  
The contemplation of a present God,  
Perfections in the womb, the very road  
And Essensies of virtues as they be  
Streming and mixing in Eternity.   

Whiles we possess our souls ●ut in a veil,  
Live earth confined, catch heaven by retail,  
Such a darklanthorn age, such jealous days,  
Men tread on Snakes, sleep in Bataliaes,  
Walk like Confessors, hear, but must not say  
What ● bold world dares act, and what it may.  
Yet here all votes, Commons and Lords agree,  
The Crosier fell in Laud, the Church in thee.    

On the death of his Royal Majesty Charles late King of England etc.  

WHat went you out to see? a dying King?  
Nay more, I fear an Angel suffering.  
But what went you to see? A Prophet slain?  
Nay that and more, a martyred Sovereign.  
Peace to that sacred dust! Great Sir our fears  
Have left us nothing but obedient tears  
To court your hearse; & in those pious floods  
We live, the poor remainder of our goods.  
Accept us in these later obsequies  
The unplundred riches of our hearts and eyes,  
For in these faithful streams and emanations  
W' are subjects still beyond all Sequestrations.  
Here we cry more than Conquerors: malice  
Murder estates, but hearts will still obey.  
These as your glory's yet above the reach may  
Of such whose purple lines confusion preach.   

And now (Dear Sir) vouchsafe us to admire  
With envey your arrival, and that Choir  
Of Cherubims and Angels that supplied  
Our duties at your triumphs: where you ride  
With full celestial Iôes, and Ovations  
Rich as the conquest of three ruin'd Nations.   

But 'twas the heavenly plot that snath d you hence,  
To crown your soul with that magnificence  
And bounden rights of honour, that poor earth  
Could only wish and strangle in the birth.  
Such pitied emulation stopped the blush  
Of our ambitious shame, nonsuited us.  
For where souls act beyond mortality  
Heaven only can perform that Jubilee.   

We wrestle then no more, but bless your day  
And mourn the anguish of our sad delay:  
That since we cannot add, we yet stay here  
Fettered in clay: Yet longing to appear  
Spectators of your bliss, that being shown  
Once more, you may embrace us as your own.  
Where never envy shall divide us more,  
Nor City tumults, nor the world's uproar.  
But an eternal hush, a quiet peace  
As without end, so still in the increase  
Shall lull humanity a sleep, and bring  
Us equal subjects to the heavenly King.  
Till when I'll turn Recusant, and forswear  
All Calvin, for there's Purgatory here.    

An Epitaph.  

STay Passenger: Behold and see  
The widowed grave of Majesty.  
Why tremblest thou? Here's that will make  
Al● but our stupid souls to shake.   

Here lies entombed the sacred dust  
Of Peace and Piety, Right and Just.  
The blood (O startest not thou to hear?)  
Of a King, 'twixt hope and fear  
Shedd, and hurried hence to be  
The miracle of misery.   

Add the ills that Rome can boast.  
Shrift the world in every coast,  
Mix the fire of earth and seas  
With humane spleen and practices,  
To puny the records of time,  
By one grand Gygantick crime,  
Then swell it bigger till it squeeze  
The globe to crooked hams and knees,  
Here's that shall make it seem to be  
But modest Christianity.   

The Lawgiver, amongst his own▪  
Sentenced by a Law unknown.  
Voted Monarchy to death  
By the course Plebeian breath.  
The Sovereign of all command  
Suffering by a Common hand.  
A Prince to make the o●ium more  
Offered at his very door.  
The head cut off, o death to see't!  
In obedience to the feet.  
And that by Justice you must know,  
If you have faith to think it so.  
we'll stir no further than this sacred Clay,  
But let it slumber till the Judgement day.  
Of all the Kings on earth, 'tis not denied,  
Here lies the first that for Religion died.    

A Survey of the World.  

THe World's a guilded trifle, and the state  
Of sublunary bliss adulterate.  
Fame but an empty sound▪ a painted noise,  
A wonder that ne'er looks beyond nine days.  
Honour the tennis-ball of fortune: Though  
Men wade to it in blood and overthrow;  
Which like a box of dice uneven dance  
Sometimes 'tis one's, sometimes fewer chance.  
Wealth but the hugged consumption of that heart  
That travails Sea & Land for his own smart.  
Pleasure a courtly madness, a conceit  
That smiles and tickles without worth or weight  
Whose scattered reckoning when 'tis to be paid  
Is but repentance lavishly inlayd.   

The world, fame, honour, wealth, & pleasure than  
Are the fair wrack and Gemonieses of men.  
Ask but thy Carnal heart if thou shouldst be  
Sole Monarch of the world's great family,  
If with the Macedonian Youth there would  
Not be a corner still reserved that could  
Another earth contain? If so? What is  
That poor insatiate thing she may call bliss?   

Question the loaden Gallantry asleep  
What profit now their Laurels in the deep  
Of death's oblivion? What their Triumph was  
More than the moment it did prance & pass?  
If then applause move by the vulgar cry,  
Fame's but a glorious uncertainty.   

Awake Sejanus, Strafford, Buckingham,  
Charge the fond favourites of greatest name,  
What faith is in a Prince's smile, what joy  
In th' high & Grand Concilio le Roy?  
Nay Caesar's self, that marched his Honour▪ s through  
The bowels of all Kingdoms, made them bow  
Low to the stirrup of his will and vote,  
What safety to their Master's life they brought?  
When in the Senate in his highest pride  
By two and thirty wounds he fell and died?   

If Height be then most subjected to fate?  
Honour's the dayspring of a greater hate.  
Now ask the groveling soul that makes his gold  
His Idol, his Diana, what a cold  
Account of happiness can here arise  
From that ingluvious surfeit of his eyes?  
How the whole man's enslaved to a lean dearth  
Of all enjoyment for a little earth?  
How like Prometheus he doth still repair  
His growing heart to feed the Vulture care.  
Or like a Spider's envious designs  
Drawing the threads of death from her own loins.  
Torturing his entrails with thoughts of to morrow,  
To keep that mass with grief he gained with sorrow.  
If to the clinking pastime in his ears  
He add the Orphans cries and widows tears  
The music's far from sweet, and if you sound him  
Truly, they leave him sadder than they found him.  
Now touch the Dallying Gallant, he that lies  
Angling for babies in his Mistress eyes,  
Thinks there's no heaven like a bale of dice  
Six Horses and a Coach with a device.  
A cast of Lackeys, and a Ladybird,  
An Oath in fashion, and a guilded Sword,  
Can smoak Tobacco with a face in frame,  
And speak perhaps a line of sense to th' same,  
Can sleep a Sabboath over in his bed,  
Or if his play book's there will stoop to read,  
Can kiss its hand, and congey a la mode,  
And when the night's approaching bolt abroad,  
Unless his Honour's worship's rent's not come;  
So he falls sick, and swears the Carrier home.  
Else if his rare devotion swell so high  
To waste an hourglass on divinity,  
'tis but to make the church his stage, thereby  
To blaze the Tailor in his ribaldry.  
Ask but the Jay when his distress shall fall  
Like an armed man upon him, where are all  
The rosebuds of his youth? those attic toys  
Wherein he sported out his precious days?  
What comfort he collects from Hawk or Hound?  
Or if amongst his loser hours, he found  
One of a thousand to redeem that time  
Perished and lost for ever in his prime?  
Or if he dreamed of an eternal bliss?  
he'll swear God damn him he ne'er thought of this.  
But like the Epicure adored the day  
That shined, rose up to eat, and drink, and play.  
Knows that his body was but dust, and die  
It once must, so have mercy, and God b'wy.   

Thus having traverssed the fond world in brief,  
The lust of th' eyes, the flesh, and pride of life,  
Unbiass'd and impartially, we see  
'tis lighter in the scale than vanity.  
What then remains? But that we still should strive  
Not to be born to die, but die to live.    

An old Man Courting a young Girl.  

COme beauteous Nymph, canst thou embrace  
An aged, wise, majestic grace  
To mingle with thy youthful flames?  
And make thy glories stayed? The Dames  
Of loser gesture blush to see  
Thy Lilies clothed with gravity?  
Thy happier choice? thy gentle Vine  
With a sober Elm entwine?  
Seal fair Nymph that lovely tye  
Shall speak thy honour loud and high.   Nym: 
Cease Grandsire Lover, and forbear  
To court me with thy Sepulchre,  
Thy i'll December and my May,  
Thy Evening and my Break of Day  
Can brook no mixture, no condition,  
But stand in perfect opposition.  
Nor can my active heart embrace  
A shivering Ague in love's chase.  
Only perhaps the luky tye  
May make thy forked fortune high.  Man: 
If fretted roofs, and beds of down,  
And the wonder of the Town,  
bended knees, and costly fare,  
Richest dainties without care,  
May temptatious motives be  
Here they all attend on thee,  
And to raise thy bliss the more,  
Swell thy Trunks with precious O●e,  
The glittering entrails of the East  
To varnish and perfume thy Nest.  Nym. 
I question not Sage Sir but she  
That weds your grave obliquity,  
Your Tizick, Rheums, and Sultan's face  
Shall meet with Fretted Roofs apace,  
I fancy not your bended knees  
Lest bowing you can sprightly rise,  
Your gold too when you leave to woe  
Will quickly become Precious too.  
And dainty Cates without delight,  
May glut the day but starve the night.  
For when thou boasts the Beds of bliss,  
The man, the man still wanting is.  Man. 
Nay gentle Nymph think not my fire  
So quenched, but that the strong desire  
Of love can wake it, and create  
New action to cooperate.  
The sparks of youth are not so gone,  
But I— ay marry that I can.  
Come smack me then me pretty dear,  
Taste what a lively change is here.  
Why fliest thou me?—  Nym. 
— ice ice begun,  
Clasp me not with thy Frozen Zone.  
That pale aspect would best become  
The sad complexion of a Tomb.  
Think not thy Churchyard look shall move  
My spring to be thy Winter's Stove  
If at the Resurrection we  
Shall chance to marry, call on me  
By that time I perhaps may ghuess  
How to bathe and how to dress  
Thy weeping legs and sympathize  
With perished lungs and wopper eyes;  
And think thy touchy passion wit,  
Love disdain and flatter it;  
And 'midst this costive punishment  
Raise a politic content.  
But whiles the Solstice of my years  
Glories in its highest spheres,  
Deem not, I will deign to be  
The Vassal of infirmity.  
The screen of phlegmatic old age,  
Decayed Methusalem his page.  
No, give me lively pleasures, such  
Melt the fancy in the touch;  
Raise the appetite, and more,  
Satisfy it o'er and o'er.  
Then from the ashes of those fires  
Kindle fresh and new desires.  
So Cyprus be the Scene: Above  
Venus and the God of love,  
Knitting true-love-knots in one  
Merry happy Union.  
Whiles their feathered team appears  
Doves and Sparrows in their gears  
Fluttering o'er the jovial-frie  
Sporting in love's Comedy.  Man. 
Hold hasty soul, beauty's a flower  
That may perish in an hour,  
No disease but can disgrace  
The trifling blossoms of a face,  
And nip the heights of those fond toys  
That now are doted on with praise.  
The noon-glory of the Sun  
To the shades of night must come.  
May, for all her guilded prime  
Has its weak and withering time.  
Not a bud that owes its birth  
From the teeming-mother earth  
But excels the fading dress  
Of a woman's loveliness.  
For when flowers vanish here  
They may spring another year.  
But frail beauty when 'tis gone  
Finds no resurrection.  
Scorn me then coy Nymph no more,  
Fly no higher, do not soar,  
Those pretty rubies of thy lips  
Once must know a pale Eclipse.  
And that plump alluring skin  
Will be furrowed deeply in.  
And those curled locks so bright  
Time will all besnow with white.  
Not a glory, not a glance,  
But must suffer change and chance.  
Then, though now you'll not contact  
With me in the marriage Act,  
Yet perforce choose, choose you whether  
You and I shall Lie together.   

An Epitaph on his deceased Friend.  

HEre lies the ruin'd Cabinet  
Of a rich soul more highly set.  
The dross and refuse of a mind  
Too glorious to be here confined.  
Earth for a while bespoke his stay  
Only to bait and so away:  
So that what here he doted on  
Was merely accommodation.  
Not that his active soul could be  
At home, but in eternity.  
Yet while he blest us with the rays  
Of his short continued days,  
Each minute had its weight of worth,  
Each pregnant hour some Star brought forth.  
So whiles he travelled here beneath  
He lived, when others only breathe.  
For not a sand of time slipped by  
Without its action sweet as high.  
So good, so peaceable, so blest,  
Angels alone can speak the rest.   

Mount Ida, or, Beauties Contest.  
THree regent Goddesses they fell at odds,  
As they sat close in council with the gods,  
Whose beauty did excel? And thence they crave  
A moderator of the strife to have,  
But least the partial heavens could not decide  
The grudge, they stoop to Mortals to be tried.  
Mantled in clouds then gently down they fall  
Upon Mount Ida to appease the brawl,  
Where Priam's lovely Boy sporting did keep  
His Father's lambs and snowy flocks of sheep,  
His lily hand was soon ordained to be  
The harmless Umpire of the fond decree.  
To him, to him they gave the Golden Ball,  
O happy goddess upon whom it fall!  
But more unhappy Shepeard, was't not pittv  
Thou didst not send it at a close Committee?  
There, there thou hadst surpassed what did befall,  
Thou mightst have crowned One, yet pleased All.  
First then Imperious Juno did display  
Her coronet of glories to the Boy,  
And ranged her stars up in an arched ring  
Of height and majesty most flourishing,  
Then wealth and honour at his foot did lay  
To be esteemed the Lady of the day.  
Next Pallas that brave Heroina came,  
The thundering Queen of action, war & fame,  
Dressed in her glittering arms, wherewith she lays  
World's waist, & new ones from their dust can raise,  
These, these she tenders him, advanced to be,  
With all the wreaths of wit and gall antrie.  
Last Venus breaks forth of her golden rays,  
With thousand Cupids crowned, ten thousand Boys,  
Sparkling through every quadrant of her eyes,  
Which made her beauty in full glory rise:  
Then smiling vowed so to sublime his parts  
To make him the great Conqueror of hearts.  
Thus poor distracted Par●s all on fire  
Stood trembling deep in doubt what to desire,  
The sweet temptations pleaded hard for all,  
Each theatre of beauty seemed to call  
For the bright prize: but he amazed he  
Could not determine which, which, which was she  
At last the Cyprian Girl so struck him blind  
In all the faculties of soul and mind,  
That he poor captived wretch without delay  
Could not forbear his frailty to betray,  
But maugre honour, wisdom, all above▪  
He ran & kissed & crowned the Queen of Love.  
Pallas and Juno then in high disdain  
Took snuff and posted up to heaven again▪  
As to a high Court of appeal, to be  
Revenged on men for this indignity.  
‛ Hence then it happens that the Ball was lost  
' 'Tis two to one but love is always crossed.   

Upon a Fly that flew into a Lady's eye, and there lay buried in a tear.  
POor envious Soul! what couldst thou see  
●n that bright Orb of purity?  
That active globe? That twinkling sphere  
Of beauty to be meddling there?  
Or didst thou foolishly mistake  
The glowing morn in that daybreak?  
Or was't thy pride to mount so high  
Only to kiss the Sun and die?  
Or didst thou think to rival all  
Don Phaethon and his great fall?  
And in a richer Sea of brine  
Drown Icarus again in thine?  
'twas bravely aimed, and which is more  
The hast sunk the fable o'er and o'er.  
For in this single death of thee  
Th' hast banqurrupt all Antiquity.   

O had the fair Egyptian Queen  
Thy glorious monument out seen,  
How had she spared what time forbids  
The needless tottering Pyramids!  
And in an emulative chafe  
Have begged thy shrine her Epitaph?  
Where, when her aged marble must  
Resign her honour to the dust,  
Thou mightst have canonised her  
Deceased Time's Executor?   

To rip up all the western bed  
Of spices where Sol lays his head,  
To squeeze the Phoenix and her Nest  
In one perfume that may write Best,  
Then blend the gall'rie of the skies  
With her Seraglio of eyes,  
T' embalm a name, and raise a Tomb  
The miracle of all to come,  
Then, then compare it: Here's a Gemm  
A Pearl must shame and pity them.  
An amber drop, distlled by  
The sparkling Limbeck of an eye,  
Shall dazzle all the short essays  
Of rubbish worth, and shallow praise.   

We strive not then to prise that tear  
Since we have nought to poise it here.  
The world's too light. Hence, hence we cry  
The world, the world's not worth a Fly.    

Obsequies To the memory of the truly Noble, right Valiant and right Honourable Spencer Earl of Northampton Slain at Hopton Field in Saffordshire in the beginning of this Civil War.  

What? The whole world in silence?  
Not a tear  
In tune through all the speechless Hemisphere?  
Has grief so seized and seared mankind in all  
The convoys of Intellegence? No fall  
But those of Waters heard? No Elegies  
But such as whine through th' organs of our eyes?  
Can Pompey fall again? And no Pen say  
Here lies the Roman Liberty in clay?  
Or can his blood Boe-die th' Egyptian Sand,  
And the black crime do less than ●ann the land?  
And make the Region instead of a verse  
And tomb his sable Epitaph and Hearse?   

So here Northampton that brave Hero fell  
Triumphant Roman thy pure parallel,  
The blush and glory of his Age: Who died  
In all points happy, but the Weak●● side.  
Only to foreign parts he did not roam,  
The kind Egyptians met him nearer home.  
Both, and such, Causes, that the world confess  
There's nought to plead against them but Success.  
Malignant Loyalty! a glorious fame  
And sin, for which God never found a name.  
Which had it scaped the Rubric of these times  
Had still continued among Holy Crimes.  
A Text on which we find no gloss at all  
But in the Alcorn of Goldsmith's Hall!   

Now (Great Adolphus) give me leave to stir  
The ashes of thy Urn, and Sepulchre;  
And branch the flowers of the Sweadish glory  
As rivalled to the life in our sad story:  
Yet not impair thy plumes, by adding more  
To suit that splendour from a neighbour shore●  
Nor deem thy honour less thus matched to be,  
If Compton died to grasping Victory.  
An active soul in gallant fury hurled  
To club with all the worthies of the world.  
Blind, envious, piping Fortune! what could be  
The tottering ground of this thy treachery?  
To stop the balance of that brave Carrear  
Was both at once thy miracle and fear?  
Was't not a panic dread surprised thy soul  
Of being made servile to his high control?  
Blush and confess poor Caitiff-godess! so  
we'll quit his in thy ●eall overthrow.   

And De●th, thou worm! thou pale Assassinate!  
Thou sneaking hireling of revenge and hate,  
Didst not thou feel an Earthquake in thy bones?  
Such as rends Rocks and their foundations?  
No Tirtian shivering, but an Ague fit  
Which with a burning Fever shall commit  
The world to ashes? when thou stolest creptst under  
That Helmet which durst dare Jove and his thunder   

But since the bays he reached at grew not here,  
Like a wise soldier, and a Cavalier,  
He left his covetous enemy at bay,  
Rifling the carriage of his flesh and clay:  
While his rich soul pursued the greater game  
Of Honour to the skies, there fixed his name.   

I shall not therefore vex the Orbs to trace  
Thy sacred footsteps in that hallowed place.  
Nor start a feigned Star, and swear it thine,  
Then stretch the Constellation to thy line.  
Like a Welsh Gentleman that tacks his kin  
To all Coats in the country he lives in.  
Nor yet, to raise thy Flaming Crest, shall I  
Knock for the wand'ring Planets in the sky:  
Perhaps some broken beauty of stale doubt,  
To comment on her face has hired them out▪   

Let fame, & thy brave race thy Statue live,  
The world can never such another give.  
Whiles each soul sighs at the sad thought of thee  
There fell a Province of Nobility.  
A fall, had Zeal but husbanded its throat,  
That sunk the House of Lords, and saved the Vote.  
They only state mute Titles in their gears,  
He singly represented all the Peers.  
One, had the enemy employed their Smeck,  
Those Ringworms of the Church, to beg a neck  
With Claudius, to metropolize all worth,  
Rome, & what ere the Suburb world brought forth,  
In him the sword did glut its ravening eye,  
The rest that kicked up were the smalller Fry.  
Sparks only of that fire in him deceased,  
Nyfles that cracked and vanished north & west.   

He lead the Royal war in such a die,  
In that dire entrance of the Tragedy,  
The sense (Great Charles) no longer to prorogue,  
None but thyself could speak the Epilogue.    

The London Lady.  

GEntly my Muse! 'tis but a tender piece,  
A paradox of Fumes and Ambergris.  
A cobweb-tinder at a touch takes fire,  
The tumbling whirligig of blind desire.  
Vulcan's Pandora in a crystal shrine,  
Or th' old Inn faced with a new painted sign.  
The spotted voider of the Term: In short  
Chemical nature phisicked into Art.   

But hold rude satire, here's a Hector comes,  
A Codpiece Captain that with her shares sums,  
One claims a Jointure in her sins, the foil  
That puts her off, like the old man ere while  
That with a dagger Cloak, and ho-boy gapes  
And squeeks for company for the Jack an Apes.  
This is the fierce St. George, fo●e runs the waggon,  
And, if occasion be, shall kill the Dragon.  
Don Mars the great assendant on the road  
When Thomass' teem begins to jog abroad.  
The hinter at each turn of Coven Garden,  
The Club pickearer, the robust Church warden  
Of Lincolne's Inn back corner, where he angel's  
For Cloaks and Hats, and the small gam eentangles   

This is the City Usher strayed to enter  
The small drink country squires of the first venture,  
And dubs them bach'lor-Knight of the black Jugg,  
Man's them into an oath, and the French shrug,  
Makes them fine graduates in smock impudence,  
And gelds them of their puny mother's sense.  
So that when two terms more, and forty pound  
Reads them acquainted all Gomorrha round,  
Down to their wondering friends at last they range,  
With breeding just enough to speak them strange,  
And drown a younger brother in a look  
Kick a poor Lackey, and berogue the Cook,  
Top a small cry of Tenants that dare stir  
In no phrase now, but save your Worship Sir.   

But to return: By this my Lady's up,  
Has swom the Ocean of the Caudle Cup,  
Conversed with every washing, every ground,  
And Fucus in the Cabinets to be found,  
Has laid the fixed complexion for the day,  
Her breech rings high Change and she must away.   

Now down the Channel towards the Strand she glides,  
Flinging her nimble glances on both sides,  
Like the death-darting Cockatrice that sly  
Close Engineer that murders through the eye.  
The first that's tickled with her rumbling wheels  
Is the old Statesman, that in slippers reels,  
He wire-drawes up his jaws, and snuffs and grins,  
And sighing smacks, but for my aged shins,  
My Conclave of diseases, I would board  
Your lofty Galley: Thus I served my Lord—.  
But mum for that, his strength will scarce supply  
His back to the Belcone, so god b'wy.   

By this she has surveyed the golden Globe,  
And finding no temptation to disrobe,  
To Durham New Old Stable on she packs,  
Where having wineed and breathed the what d' ye lacks,  
Rusled and bounced a turn or two in ire,  
She mounts the Coach like Phaethon all on fire,  
Fit for th' impressions of all sorts of evil,  
And whirls up towards the Lawyers and the Devil.  
There Ployden in his laced Ruff starched on edge  
Peeps like an Adder through a quickset hedge,  
And brings his stale demur to stop the course  
Of her proceedings with her yoke of horse;  
Then falls to handling of the case, and so  
Shows her the posture of her overthrow,  
But yet for all his Law and double Fees  
she'll bring him to join issue on his knees:  
And make him pay for expedition too,  
Thus the grey fox acts his green sins anew.  
And well he escapes if all his Norman sense  
Can save the burning of his Evidence.  
But out at last she's huddled in the dark,  
Man'd like a Lady Client by the Clerk.  
And so the nimble youngster at the parting  
Extorts a smack perhaps before the Carting.   

Down Fleetstreet next she rowls with powdered crest,  
To spring clip'd-half-crowns in the Cuekow's nest  
For now the Heroes of the yard have shut  
Their shops, and loll upon their bulks to put  
The Ladies to the squeak, if so perhaps  
Their mistress can spare them from their laps.  
Not far she waves and sails before she clings  
With the young tribe for pendents, lace and rings,  
But there poor tottered Madam, though to late,  
She meets the topsi-turvey of her state,  
For the calmed Boys▪ ●aving ●ought left to pay,  
A●● forced ●o pawn her, & so run away.  
On this the dreadful Drawer soon appears,  
Like her ill G●●●us about her ears,  
With a long bill of Items that affright  
Worse than a skull of Halberds in the night.  
For now the Jay's compelled to untruss all  
The tackling upon tick from every stall,  
Each sharing Broker of her borrowed dress  
Seems to do penance in her nakedness.  
For not a Lady of the noble game  
But is composed at least of all Long-lane:  
An Animal together blowed and made,  
And uped of all the shreds of every Trade.   

Thus purely now herself, homewards she packs,  
Excized in all the Dialects of her knacks:  
Squeezed to the utmost thread, and latest grain,  
Like Meteors tossed to their first grit again.   

A lane, a lane, she comes, summed down to nought,  
But shame and a thin under petticoat.  
But lest I should pursue her to the quick,  
I pass: The chase lies now too near the nick   

In pity satire then thy lash let fall:  
He knows her best that scans her not at all.  
And though thou seemest discourteous not to save her,  
No matter, when thou leav'st there's one will have her.    

The Times.  

TO speak in wetshod eyes, and drowned looks,  
Sad broken accents, and a vein that brooks  
No spirit, life, or vigour, were to own  
The crush and triumph of affliction;  
And creeping with Themistocles to be  
The pale-faced pensioners of our enemy.  
No, 'tis the glory of the soul to rise  
By falls, and at re-bound to pierce the skies.   

Like a brave Courser standing on the sand  
Of some high-working Fretum, views a land  
Smiling with sweets upon the distant side,  
Garnished in all her gay embroidered pride, woods,  
Larded with springs, and fringed with curled  
Impatient, bounces, in the capering floods,  
Big with a nobler fury than that stream a way  
Of shallow violence he meets in them;  
Thence armed with scorn & courage ploughs  
Through the impostumed billows of the Sea;  
And makes the grumbling surges slaves to oar  
And waft him safely to the further shore:  
Where landed, in a sovereign disdain  
He turns back, and surveys the foaming main,  
Whiles the subjected waters flowing reel  
Ambitious yet to wash the victor's heel.   

In such a noble equipage should we  
Embrace th' encounter of our misery.  
Not like a field of corn, that hangs the head  
For every tempest, every petty dread▪  
Crosses were the best Christians arms: and we  
That hope a wished Canaan once to see  
Must not expect a carpet way alone  
Without a red-sea of affliction.   

Then cast the dice: Let's ford old Rubicon,  
Caesar 'tis thine, man is but once undone.  
Tread softly though, lest Scylla's ghost awake,  
And us in the roll of his Proscriptions take.  
Rome is revived, and the Triumvirate  
In the black Island are once more a state;  
The City tre mbles: There's no third to shield  
If once Augustus to Antonius yield  
Law shall not shelter Cicero, the robe  
The Senate: Proud success admits no probe  
Of Justice to correct or quare the fate  
That bears down all as illegitimate;  
For whatsoe'er it lists to overthrow,  
It either finds it, or else makes it so.   

Thus Tyranny's a stately Palace, where  
Ambition sweats to climb and nustle there;  
But when 'tis entered, what hopes then remain?  
There is no salliport to come out again.  
For mischief must roll on, and gliding grow  
Like little rivulets that gently flow  
From their first bubbling springs, but still increase  
And swell their channel as they mend their pace;  
Till in a glorious tide of villainy  
They overrun the banks, and posting fly  
Like th' bellowing waves in tumults, till they can  
Display themselves in a full Ocean.  
And if blind rage shall chance to miss its way  
Brings stock enough alone to make a Sea.   

Thus treble treasons are secured & drowned  
By louder crimes of deeper mouth and sound.  
And high attempts swallow a puny plot  
As Canons over-whelme the smalller shot.  
Whiles the deaf senseless world inur'd a while  
(Like the Catadupi at the fall of Nile)  
To the fierce tumbling wonder, think it none  
Thus custom hallows irreligion.  
And strokes the patient beast till he admit  
The now-grown-light and necessary Bit.   

But whether do I ramble? Gauled times  
Cannot endure a smart hand o'er their crimes.  
Distracted age? What dialect or fashion  
Shall I assume? To pass the approbation  
Of thy censorious Synod; which now sit  
High Areopagites to destroy all wit?   

I cannot say I say that I am one  
Of th' Church of Ely-house, or Abington,  
Nor of those precious spirits that can deal  
The pomgranets of grace at every meal.  
No zealous Hemp-dresser yet dipped me in  
The Laver of adoption from my sin.  
But yet if inspiration, or a tale  
Of a long-wasted six hours length prevail▪  
A smooth certificate from the sisterhood,  
Or to be termed holy before good,  
Religious malice, or a faith ' thou't works  
Other than may proclaim us Jews or Turks.  
If these, these hint at any thing? Then, then  
Whoop my despairing Hope come back again.  
For since the inundation of grace,  
All honesty's under water, or in chase.  
But 'tis the old worlds dot age▪ thereupon  
We feed on dreams, imagination,  
Humours, and cross-graind passions which now reign  
In the decaying elements of the brain.  
'tis hard to coin new fancies, when there be  
So few that launch out in discovery.  
Nay Arts are so far from being cherished▪  
There's scarce a College but has lost its Head,  
And almost all its Members: O sad wound!  
Where never an Artery could be judged sound!  
To what a height is Vice now towered? When we  
Dare not miscall it an Obliquity?  
So confident, and carrying such an awe,  
That it subscribes itself no less than Law?  
If this be reformation then? The great  
Account pursued with so much blood & sweat?   

In what black lines shall our sad story be  
Delivered over to posterity?  
With what a dash and scar shall we be read?  
How has Dame Nature in us suffered?  
Who of all Centuries the first age are  
That sunk the World for want of due repair?   

When first we issued out in cries and tears,  
(Those salt presages of our future years)  
He adlong we dropped into a quiet calm,  
Times crowned with rosy garlands, spice and balm;  
Where first a glorious Church & mother came,  
Embraced us in her arms, gave us a name  
By which we live, and an indulgent breast  
Flowing with stream to an eternal rest.  
Thus ravished the poor Soul could not guess even  
Which was more kind to her yet, earth, or heaven.  
O● rather wrapped in a pious doubt  
Of ●eaven, whether she were in or out.   

N●xt the Great Father of our Country brings  
His blessing too, (even the Best of Kings)  
Safe and well grounded Laws to guard our peace,  
And nurse our virtues in their just increase;  
Like a pure spring from whom all graces come,  
Whose bounty made it double Christendom.  
Such and so sweet were those Halcyon Days  
That rose upon us in our Infant rays;  
Such a composed State we breathed under,  
We only heard of Jove, ne'er felt his thunder▪  
Terrors were then as strange, as love now grown,  
Wrong and revenge lived quietly at home.  
The sole contention that we understood  
Was a rare strife and war in doing good.   

Now let's reflect upon our gratfulness,  
How we have added, or (o) made it less,  
What are th' improvements? what our progress, where  
Those handsome acts that say that some men were?  
He that to ancient wreaths can bring no more  
From his own worth, dies banq'rupt, on the score.  
For Father's Crests are crowned in the Son,  
And glory spreads by propagation.  
Now virtue shield me! where shall I begin?  
To what a labyrinth am I now slipped in?  
What shall we answer them? or what deny?  
What prove? Or rather whether shall we fly?  
When the poor widowed Church shall ask us where  
Are all her honours? & that filial care  
We owed so sweet a Parent as the Spouse  
Of Christ, which here vouchsafed to own a house?  
Where are her Boanerges? & those rare  
Brave sons of consolation? Which did bear  
The Ark before our Israel, and dispense  
The heavenly Manna with such diligence?  
In them the primitive Mottoes come to pass,  
Aut mortui sunt, aut docent literas.  
Blessed Virgin we can only say we have  
Thy Prophet's Tombs among us, and their grave.  
And here and there a man in colours paint  
That by thy ruins grew a mighty Saint.   

Next Caesar some accounts are due to thee,  
But those in blood already written be.  
So loud & lasting, in such monstruous shapes,  
So wide the never to be closed wound gapes;  
All ages yet to come with shivering shall  
Recite the fearful pres'dent of thy fall.   

Hence we confute thy tenant Solomon,  
Under the Sun a new thing hath been done,  
A thing before all pattern, all pretence  
Of rule or copy: Such a strange offence,  
Of such original extract, that it bears  
Date only from the Eden of our years.   

Laconian Agis! we have read thy fate,  
The violence of the Spartan love and hate.  
How Pagans trembled at the thought of thee,  
And fled the horror of thy tragedy.  
Thyestes cruel feast, and how the Sun  
Shrunk in his golden beams that sight to shun.  
The bosoms of all Kingdoms open lie,  
Plain and emergent to th' enquiring eye.  
But when we glance upon our native home,  
As the black Centre to whom all points come,  
We rest amazed, and silently admire  
How far beyond all spleen ours did aspire.  
All that we dare assert is but a cry  
Of an exchanged peace for Liberty.  
A secret term by inspiration known,  
A mist that brooks no demonstration,  
Unless we dive into our purses, where  
We quickly find Our Freedom purely dear.   

But why exclaim you thus? may some men say,  
Against the times? when equal night and day  
Keep their just course? the seasons still the same?  
As sweet as when from the first hand they came?  
The influence of the Stars benign and free,  
As at first Peep up in their infancy?  
'tis not those standing motions that divide  
The space of years, nor the swift hours that glide  
Those little particles of age, that come  
In thronging Items that make up the Sum,  
That's here intended: But our crying crimes▪  
Our monsters that abominate the times.  
'tis we that make the Metonymy good  
By being bad. Which like a troubled flood  
Nothing produce but slimy mire and dirt,  
And impudence that makes shame malapert.  
To travel further in these wounds that lie  
Rankling, though seeming closed, were to deny  
Rest to an ore-watched world, and force fresh tears  
From stenched eyes, new alarmed by old fears.  
Which if they thus shall heal & stop, they be  
The first that ere were cured by Lethargy.  
This only Axiom from ill Times increase  
I gather, There's a time to hold one's peace.   

The Model of the new Religion.  
WHoop! Mr. Vicar in your flying frock!  
What news at Babel now? how stands the Cock?  
When wags the flood? no Ephimerides?  
Nought but confounding of the languages?  
No more of th' Saint's arrival? or the chance  
Of three pipes two pence and an ordinance?  
How many Queere-religions? clear your throat,   

May a man have a pennyworth? four a groat?  
Or do the juncto leap at truss a fail?  
Three Tenants clap while five hang on the tail?  
No Querpo model? never a knack or wile?  
To preach for spoons & whistels? cross or pile?  
No hints of truth on foot? no sparks of grace?  
No late sprung light? to dance the wild-goose chase?  
No Spiritual Dragoons that take their flames  
From th' inspiration of the city Dames?  
No crumbs of comfort to relieve our cry?  
No new dealt mincemeat of divinity?   

Come let's project: By the great late Eclipse  
We justly fear a famine of the lips.  
For sprats are risen an Omer for a souse,  
Which gripes the conclave of the lower House.  
Let's therefore vote a close humiliation  
For opening the sealed eyes of this blind Nation,  
That they may see confessingly and swear  
They have not seen at all this fourteen year.  
And for the splints and spavins too, 'tis said  
All the joints have the Riffcage, since the head  
Swelled so prodigious and excized the parts  
From all allegiance, but in tears and hearts.   

But zealous Sr. what say to a touch at prayer?  
How Quops the spirit? In what garb or air?  
With sauce erect, or pendent, winks, or haws?  
Snivelling? or the extension of the jaws?  
Devotion has its mode: Dear Sir hold forth,  
Learning's a venture of the second worth.  
For since the people's rise and its sad fall  
We are inspired from much to none at all.   

Brother adive! I see y'are closely girt,  
A costive Dover gives the Saints the squirt.  
Hence (Reader) all our flying news contracts  
Like the State's Fleet from the Seas into acts.  
But where's the model all this while you'll say?  
'Tis like the Reformation run away.   

On Brittanicus his leap three story high, and his escape from London.  
PAul from Damascus in a basket slides  
Craned by the faithful Brethren down the sides  
Of their embattled walls: Britanicus  
As loath to trust the brethren's God with us.  
Slides too, but yet more desperate, and yet thrives  
In his descent, needs must the Devil drives.  
Their cause was both the same, & herein meet,  
Only their fall was not with equal feet,  
Which makes the case jambick: Thus we see  
How much news falls short of Divinity.  
Truth was their crying crime: One takes the night,  
Th' other th' advantage of the New sprung Light  
Mother mantle his escape: How different be  
The Pristin and the Modern Policy?  
Have Ages their Antipodes? Yet still  
Close in the Propagation of ill?  
Hence flows this use and doctrine from the thump  
I last sustained (beloved) Good wits may Jump.    

Content.  

FAir stranger! winged maid, where dost thou rest  
Thy snowy locks at noon? Or on what breast  
Of spices slumber o'er the sullen night?  
Or waking whether dost thou take thy flight?  
Shall I go seek some melanchollick grove?  
The silent theatre of despair and love?  
There court the Bitterne and the Pelican  
Those Airy Antipodes to the tents of man?  
Or sitting by some pretty prattling spring  
Hear hoarse Nyctimene her dirges sing?  
Whiles the rough Satyrs dance Corantoes too  
The chattering Sembriefs of her Woe ho, ho?  
Or shall I trace some ice-bound wilderness  
Among the caverns of abstruse recess?  
Where never prying Sun, nor blushing Day  
Could steal a glimpse, or intersqueeze a ray?  
If not within this solitary Cell,  
O whether must I post? Where dost thou dwell?   

Shall I let lose the reins of blind desire?  
And surfeit every ravening sense? Give fire  
To any train? And tire voluptuousness  
In all her soft varieties of excess?  
And make each day a history of sin?  
Drink the A la mort Sun down and up again?  
Improve my crimes to such a roaring score,  
That when I die, where others go before  
In whining venial streams, and quarto pages,  
My floods may rise in folio, sink all ages?  
Or shall I bathe myself in widows tears?  
And build my name in th' curse of them and theirs?  
Shipwreck whole nature to craw out a purse  
With th' molten cinders of the universe?  
Belch nought but ruin? and the horrid cries  
Of fire and sword? & swim in drowned eyes?  
Make lanes to crowns & sceptres through th' heart's veins  
Of Justice, Law, Right, Church and Sovereigns?  
No, no, I trace thee not in this dark way  
Of death, this scarlet streaked Aceldama.   

Shall I then to the house of mourning go?  
Where the Saltpetre Vuates overflow  
With fresh supplies of grief? Fresh tides of brine?  
Or traverse the wide world in every line?  
Walk through the bowels of each realm and state  
Simpling for rules of policy to create  
Strange forms of government of new moulds & wastes  
Like a french Kickshaw of a thousand tastes?  
Or shall I dive into the secrecy  
Of Nature? Where the most retired doth lie?  
O● shall I waste the taper of my soul  
In scrutinies, where neither Northern-pole  
Nor Southern-constellation darts a light  
To constitute a latitude or height?  
Or shall I float into the watery pale  
Wan kingdom of the Moon? and there set sail  
For all the Orbs? and keep high holiday  
With th' Nectar-tipling-Gods in th'milky-way?  
Swell Bacchus tripes with a tun of lusty Sack?  
And lay the Plump Squire flat upon his back?  
O no, these revels are too short, too sour,  
Too sad, hugged and repent in an hour.   

Shall I then plough the seas to foreign soils?  
And rake the pregnant Indies for hid spoils?  
Or with the Anchorite abhor the eye  
Of heaven, and banish all society.  
Live in, and out the world? and pass my days  
In treading out some strange mysterious maze?  
Taste every humane sweet? lily and rose?  
With all the sharp guard that about them grows?  
Climb where despair would tremble to set foot?  
Spring new impossibles and force way to't?  
Make the whole globe a shop of Chemistry  
To melt down all her atoms, and descry  
That small jota, that last pitied grain  
Which the gulled sons of men pursue in vain?  
Or shall I grasp those meteors, fame, & praise?  
Which breath by th'charity of the vulgar voice?  
Pile honour upon honour till it crack  
The Atlas of my pride, and break its back?  
Hold fancy, hold! for whether wilt thou bear  
My sunburnt hope to loss? 'Tis, 'tis not here.   

Soar then (My Soul) above the arched round  
Of these poor spangled blisses: Here's no ground  
To fix the sacred foot of pure Content,  
Her mansions in a higher element.   

Hast thou perceived the sweetness of a groan?  
Or tried the wings of contemplation?  
Or hast thou found the balm of tears that press  
Like amber in the dregs of bitterness?  
Or hast thou felt that secret joy that flows  
Against the tide of common over-throws?  
Or hast thou known the dawnings of a God  
Upon thee, when his love is shed abroad?  
Or hast thou heard the sacred harmony  
Of a calm Conscience echoing in thee  
▪ A Requiem from above? A sealed peace  
Beyond the power of hell, sin, or decease?  
Or hast thou tasted that communion  
Between a reconciled God and Man?  
That holy intercourse? Those precious smiles  
Dissolved in holy whisper between while?  
Here, here's the steps lead to her blessed abode;  
Her chair of state is in the throne of God.    

May Day.  

COme Gallants, why so dull? What muddy cloud  
Dwells on the eyebrows of the day? Why shrowded  
Ye up yourselves in the furled sails of night,  
And tossing lie at Hull? Hark how delight  
Knocks with her silver wings at every sense?  
And great Apollo Laureal doth Commence?  
Up 'tis the golden Jubilee of the year,  
The Stars are all withdrawn from each glad Sphere  
Within the tyring-rooms of heaven, unless  
Some few that peep to spy our happiness  
Whiles Phoebus tugging up Olympus' craw  
Smokes his bright Teem along on the Gram Paw  
Hark how the songsters of the shady plain  
Close up their Anthems in a melting strain!  
See where the glittering Nymphs whirl it away  
In Checkling Caravans as blithe as May;  
And th' Crystal sweeting flowers droop their heads  
In blushing shame to call you slug-a beds.  
Waste but a glance upon Hyde-park, and swear  
All Argus eyes are fallen, and fixed there.  
The dapled lawns with Ladies shine & glow,  
Whiles bubbling mounts with springs of Nectar flow;  
And each kind Turtle sits and bills his Dove  
Dike Venus and Adonis lapped in love.  
Hark how Amyntas in melodious loud  
Shrill raptures tunes his hornpipe! whiles a crowd  
Of snowwhite milkmaids crowned with garlands gay  
Trip it to the soft measure of his Lay.  
And fields with curds and cream like green-cheese lie,  
This now or never is the Gallaxie.  
If the facetious Gods ere taken were  
With mortal beauties and disguised, 'tis here.  
See how they mix societies, and toss  
The tumbling ball into a willing loss,  
That th' twining Ladies on their necks might take  
The doubled kisses which they first did stake.  
Those pretty earnests of a maidenhead  
Those sugared seals of love, types of the bed,  
Which to confirm the sweet conveyance more  
They throng in thousand times ten thousand score  
Such heavenly surfeits, as they sporting lie,  
Thus catch they from each others lip & eye.  
The game at best, the girls May rolled must be,  
Where Croyden and Mopsa, he and she  
Each happy pair make one Hermaphrodite,  
And tumbling bounce together, black & white,  
Where had you seen the chance, you had not known  
Whose show had lovelier been Madam's or Joan.  
Then crown the bowl let every conduit run  
Canary, till we lodge the reeling Sun.  
Tap every joy, let not a pearl be spilt,  
Till we have set the ringing world a tilt.  
And sacrifice Arabia Faelix in  
One bone fire, one incense offering.  
'tis Sack, 'tis Sack that drowns the thorny cares  
Which hedge the pillow, and abridge our years,  
The quickening Anima Mundi that creates  
Life in dejection, and out dares the Fates,  
Makes man look big on danger, and out swell  
The fury of that thrall that threatens Hell.  
Chirp round my Boys: let each soul take its sipp,  
Who knows what falls between the cup and lip?  
What can a voluntary pale look bring  
Or a deep sigh to lessen suffering?  
Has mischief any piety or regard?  
The foil of misery is a breast prepared.  
Hence then with folded arms, eclipsed eyes,  
And low imprisoned groans, meek cowardice.  
Urge not with oars death that in full sail comes,  
Nor walk in forestalled blacks to that dark tombs.  
But rather than th' eternal jaws shall gape,  
Gallop with Curtius down the gallant hap.  
Mean time here's that shall make our shackles light,  
And charm the dismal terrors walk by night,  
'tis this that cheers the drooping soul▪ revives  
The benumbed captive c●āp'd in his cold gyves.  
Kingdoms and Cottages, the Mill and Throne  
Sack the Grand Leveller commands alone.  
'tis Sack that rocks the boiling brain to rest,  
Confirms the aged hams, and warms the breast  
Of gallantry to action, runs half share  
And metal with the buff-faced Sons of war.  
'tis wit, ' is art, 'tis strength, 'tis all and more;  
Then looss the flood gates Georg, we'll pay or score.   

An Epig. to Doulus.  
DOulus advanced upon a goodly Steed,  
Came mounting o'er the plain in very deed,  
Whereat the people cringed & bowed the knee,  
In honour of my Lord's rich Livery.  
Hence swell not Doulus, nor erect thy crest,  
'twas for the Goddess sake we capped the beast.   

An Epig. on the people of England.  
Sweeting and chafing hot Ardelio cries  
A Boat a Boat, else farewell all the prize.  
But having once set foot upon the deep  
Hotspur Ardelio fell fast a sleep.  
So we, on fire with zealous discontent,  
Called out a Parliament, a Parliament.  
Which being obtained at last, what did they do?  
Even squeeze the woolpacks, & lie snorting too.   

Another.  
Erittain a lovely Orchard seemed to be  
Furnished with nature's choice variety,  
Temptatious golden fruit of every sort,  
Th' Hesperian Garden fanned from feigned report,  
Great boys and small together in we broke,  
No matter what disdained Priapus spoke,  
Up, up we lift the great Boys in the trees,  
Hoping a common share to sympathise:  
But they no sooner there neglected straight  
The shoulders that so raised them to this height;  
And fell to stuffing of their own bags first,  
And as their treasure grew, so did their thirst.  
Whiles we in lean expectance gaping stand  
For one shake from their charitable hand.  
But all in vain the dropsy of desire  
So scorched them, three Realms could not quench the fire.  
Be wise then in ynur Ale bold youths: for fear  
The Gardner catch us as Moss caught his Mare.    

An Elegy Upon my dear little friend M. ay: F. Who died the same morning he was born. Decem. 10. 1654.  

COme all ye widowed Muses, & put on  
Your veils, and mourn in a full Helicon.  
Press every doleful string to bear a part  
In the sad harmony of a broken heart.  
Bring all your sacred springs as sweet supplies  
To feed the swelling ocean of mine eyes.   

Be dumb ye Sons of mirth, let not a joy  
Prie through the smallest cranny of the day:  
But let an awful silence seize the soul  
Of universal motion, whiles we towl  
Love's passing Bell, and ring a loud to all  
Little Adonis and his mighty fall.   

Malignant Heaven! can there be envy there  
Where never gall nor sequestration were?  
Is't possible that in so pure a shrine  
So consecrate, so holy, so divine  
As thy blessed mansions, there can dwell a grain  
Or atom of black malice or disdain?  
That for to boast thy riches to poor men  
Couldst drop a pearl and snatch it up again?  
First screw us to an Ecstasy of bliss  
Then dash us by an Antipe'ristasis?  
Punish a moment's ravishing happiness  
With such a furious glut of sharp distress?   

Could light & darkness be so twined together  
In such close webs of bitter change of weather,  
Just parted by a single subtle thread  
No sooner to be judged a live but dead?  
Could wit and fate no less a torment find?  
Would the hadst not been so cruel, or so kind!   

Blessed Babe! why could not thy friends many tears  
Invite thine innocent stay for a few years?  
Or at the least why didst thou them bereave  
Of the short comfort of a longer leave?  
How can that drown the anguish of thy birth  
For joy a man was born upon the earth?  
When th' Midwife only could arrive to this  
To reach thee to thy first and latest kiss?  
How loaded with ingratitude didst thou part  
From thy twice travelling Mother in one smart?  
First pained for thy remiss and slow delay,  
Now thrown for thy abortive haste away?   

But yet I wrangle not with heavens decree▪  
The hast only posted o'er that misery,  
Through which we beat the hoof sad Seventy Years  
To the last Act of life, in hopes and fears,  
Midst a perverse world, and a shipwrack'd-age  
Of Truth and Worth, & draw late off the Stage.  
To lay more weight or pressure upon thee  
'twere envy to thy sudden victory.  
Thou only wak'dst into the world, and then  
Shut'st up in holy discontent again.  
Thy chaste unspoted soul just lighted on  
The floor and perch of our low Horizon,  
But quickly finding the mistake, that here  
Was not her Centre, nor her Hemisphere,  
She made a point, and darted back most nice  
Like lightning to her element in a trice.   

The Thracian Dranst which with joy inter  
Their Dead, and sport about their Sepulchre,  
But mourn still at their birth, to think upon  
Those choking cares of earth are coming on,  
May here preach rules of piety to my grief,  
In bad times doubting what's best death or life  
Crowned Saint indeed thou mightst have stayed.  
A mournful Student in our history,  
Have read a world of sad looks in each page to be  
And passage of a sore distracted age,  
And then discussed the causes how and why,  
Which to repeat renews th' extremity;  
So have entailed thy guiltless tears to ours  
Now swelled to floods by long continued showers.   

But thou hast wrought that haven in a breath,  
For which we sweat & tug ourselves to death▪  
Thou mettest no tempest of assault to stay  
Thy fleeting bark in full sail all the way.  
we're clogged with thousand Remoraes', men of war  
That cross the road, through which with many a scar  
And foil we militant Christians do commence,  
And at the last take heaven by violence.   

Such was thy sudden how-dee & farewell,  
Such thy return the Angels scarce could tell  
Thy miss, But that thy feast was drawing on  
Of th' Son of God's high Genethliacon,  
Where all the holy Hosts appear to sing  
Solemn Te Deum's to the glorious King.  
Hence flows thy sweet excuse of haste: Then since  
Our loss was thy enjoyment of thy Prince,  
The Annual attendance on his Day  
To fill the heavens with Haleluiah.  
Yet grant us so much of the court, to be  
Envious a while at thy felicity,  
That thou so young a favourite shouldst partake  
Those smiles for which we so much cringing make.  
And reach that height of honour in a glance,  
For which we toil through Law & Ordinance.   

I chide thee then no longer Happy Soul,  
Farewell, farewel! since man cannot control  
The hand of Providence. May thine ashes lie  
Soft, till I meet thee in eternity!  
Where we shall part no more, nor death divide  
My griefs and their sweet object, but a tide  
Of endless joy shall satisfaction make  
For this poor stream of brine shed for thy sake.   

A short reflection on the creation of the World.  
WHen as this circling Globe of Seas and Earth  
Snugged in her night-clotheses, and had neither birth  
Nor motion, but a lumpish Chaos stood,  
An immaterial mass of slimy mud,  
A confused pre- existent nothing, where  
'tis blasphemy to say as yet things were.  
The great Eternal Being thought it good  
His Spirit here should move upon the flood.  
Hence bloomed the early and the infant light  
From out the swath-bands of eternal night,  
Which now furled up in sooty curls gives back  
And place to Time to date its Almanac.  
Whiles Midwife-Nature fits the Vacuum  
For the concealed impressions yet to come.  
This glimmering splendour in its course begun  
Christened three days before there was a Sun.  
Thus things with things in mized confusion hurled  
Lift up their eyelids, & Thus waked the World.   

Nor was it yet broad day to any sight,  
For time walked as it were by candlelight.  
The East had not yet guilded been by those  
Bright sparks by which she now most Orient grows.  
When as the muttering Elements took their place  
And Centres as their several nature was,  
The active fire first clipped the azure Round,  
To which the grosser air became a bound,  
Each in his proper Orb was stayed and penned flood  
Environed bv a solid Firmament.  
This was the time when th' rendevouzing  
Disbodying from the earth upon heaps stood,  
And N●ptune o'er that raging bulk of brine  
Advanced his Mace and sceptre tridentine.  
Whiles the dry land peepped up out of the froth  
Like a short Common● in a sea of brotn;  
Spangled with fruits & flowers, herbs & grass,  
And this the teeming world's First uprise was.   

Not long this beauty had in twilight lay  
But God made lights to sunder night and day;  
And deck the chequered palace of the skies  
With thousand Coronets of twinkling eyes  
Which by their rule & aspects in their spears,  
Should be for signs and seasons, month s and  
And now if ever there was harmony years.  
Amongst those blessed motions up on high,  
'twas in this instant, when in joint consent  
They danced this mask about the Firmament,  
And placed that heavenly round which ore & o'er  
Must be renewed till time shall be no more.  
Next those rich bodies of the Sun and Moon,  
Like the High Constables of the watch, for noon  
And night, drew forth in glory, whence created  
'tis much more safe admired than debated.  
Thus the Surveyors of the world took birth,  
And this was The good morrow of the Earth.   

There wanted nothing now, trees, herbs, nor plants,  
Nor sweets, but a few wild inhabitants,  
Fish and the reptile creature; winged Quires  
Of downy Organists for to tune their Lyres,  
And fill the breaking air with Rhapsodies  
Of chirping emulation to the skies.  
Thus the self generative streams brought forth  
Th' Amphibious brood of water and of earth.  
The shady woods now range with echoing strains  
Of shrill melodious notes; whose pretty chains  
Tie up the ears of things in silent love  
As 'twere a glimpse of heaven dropped from above.  
Next came the silver harnessed scaley fry  
Capering upon the deep, to give supply  
To every pretty winding brook, which now  
With tattling springs and living plenty flow.  
Thus Nature peeped out in her morning dress  
Though not arrived to a full readiness.   

And now the sixth day of God's labour dawns,  
Whenas the blowing meads and tufted lawns  
Are stocked with lowing beasts of every kind,  
The bleating snowy sheep, & fruitful hind,  
All creatures of all sorts for game and food,  
Which by the vote of heaven were very good.  
The little world and compliment of all  
Was only absent, for whose sake they call  
The Grand Consilio of the gods to make  
Man, which of earth and heaven should partake  
God's Image and the globe's Epitome  
Must in one structure both united be.  
Hence than the low and lofty Steward came  
To head the Colonies, and gave things a name  
Even Adam that prime moving dust, that small  
And great Vicegerent of the God of all.  
Thus the world walked abroad rich as the sun,  
And God's work ended where Man's work begun.   

Now that we have surveyed this tumbling Ball  
How & whence made, take a short touch on al.  
And first of that great mercy, that prime cause  
From which all causes spring and take their Laws  
'twas merely The eternal will & Love  
Of God revealed in time that did him move  
To raise an universe of beauty, where  
Was neither form nor mediate matter there.  
And thence he framed not man first as the sum  
And supreme piece of all that was to come,  
But brought him to a Furnished World, complete  
In all proportions, bade him take and eat,  
Subdue and have dominion, reign, command,  
And supervize the wonders of his hand.  
The only homage he sought on his part  
Was but the service of an upright heart,  
A pure obedience and a station in  
That innocency which yet had known no sin.   

But why in just six days God and no more  
Completed up this building and this store  
May some men ask? Was it a type of the  
Fixed Crisis of the world's Catastrophe?  
Which the old Rabbins of the Jews suppose  
After six thousand years shall have its close?  
When all flesh shall an endless Sabbath keep  
While sin and time & death are lulled a sleep?  
I dare not fathom these deep mysteries  
Concealed even from the very Angels eyes.  
As the beginning of all things hid lay  
In the Almighty bosom, where no ray  
Could pry into its purpose: So we now  
May gh●ess the end as undiscovered, how  
Or when, lies lapped up in th' obscure decree  
And secret cabinet of the deity.  
This only we dare say we know, as light  
Began, so fire shall be the world's good night.  
Thus having through this glorious week's work pressed  
Where God left labour I presume to rest.   

John chap. 18. ver. 36. My Kingdom is not of this World.  
TRue blessed Saviour, true! thy Kingdom's not  
Of this world. For we cannot find a spot  
Of thy Crown Land, where Geometry may stay  
Her reeling compass to move any way  
In demonstration of that circling Round  
That may define th' enclosure Holy ground:  
But since thy Church grew Stately & fell down,  
The lands are all confiscate from the Crown.  
Country freeze Elders have thy Flesh hooks been  
To shrive the Levites Pot and all within.  
And never conscious of thy pious rule  
Leave poor Elias to th' charity of the foul.  
Or like the Indian Astomis, to smell  
His way to life, or live by miracle.  
Thus Sion's wasted, and thy Prophets slain:  
And Godliness hath proved the only Gain.   

Math. chap. 11 ver. 28. Come unto me all ye that labour and are heavy laden etc.  
MOst great and glorious God how sweet, how free  
Is thy kind invitation! but ay me  
The clogs of sin  
So rein me in  
And black shame mixed with guilt restrains my will  
From all designs but doing ill,  
So that I tremble to approach thy throne,  
And tread the Courts of the most Holy One.  
But yet thy Calls so powerfully good,  
So pressing, that 'tis death if once withstood.  
Nor is it less  
To tempt thy Holiness.  
In this extreme this straight what shall I do?  
I'd come, but be accepted too:  
But o my loud-tongued sins so fill the air  
They'll bar up heaven against my cry & prayer.  
Yet wherefore should I doubt? 'Tis not the call  
Of Cherubims, or aught Angelical;  
'tis he, 'tis he  
That in that ecstasy  
Of fear to sinking Peter reached his hand  
And snatched him from the grave to land;  
Jehovah, he that tries the reins, and sees  
Our wounds and moans, our deep infirmities.  
Shall I then with poor Adam strive to hide  
My nakedness with leavs? Or slip a side?  
O no, he spies my way  
By night as by noon day:  
Darkness cannot exclude him, nor the shade  
Of Hell from what his hands have made;  
He knows our thoughts even long before they were,  
And when those lips bid come, can there be fear?  
But o 'tis said he's a Consuming fire!  
But o 'tis sure he now lays by his ire:  
He thunders out  
With trumpets shout  
No Judgement from mount Sinai: But a still  
Soft voice of love and free good will.  
He that appeared then in a warlike dress,  
Seeks now the stray sheep in the Wilderness.  
Put off thy terrors then Great God, and I  
Shall humbly prostrate at thy footstool lie;  
And there bemoan  
With many a groan  
And bitter tear my sinful sins to thee,  
To thee alone canst pardon me.  
O shut not up thy mercy in disdain,  
Nor yet remember my old sins again!  
Impute not my youth's guilt unto my charge?  
But thou that offerest Rest, set me at large  
Even from this death,  
And hell beneath  
That gapes with open jaws to swallow all  
That on thee do neglect to call;  
And hardened in their sins thy spirit grieve  
By a contempt and wilful hate to live.  
But ere thou com'st blessed God to pass me by  
First hide me from thy sin-abhorring eye,  
That I may stand  
Like Moses covered with thy hand  
Close in the cilft of Christ's wounds, in the dress  
And garment of his Righteousness,  
And on me through his satisfaction look,  
That on his score my sad transgressions took.  
Receive me then, but with that kind regret  
The good old man his prodigal child met,  
Who as't appears  
Divided betwixt joy and tears  
Ran and embraced, & kissed his drooping Son,  
In all points now undone,  
But that rich treasure of a Father's love  
Which ne'er could be exhausted, nor remove.  
Such bowels of compassion Lord put on!  
Such pregnant yearnings of affection!  
Then hear my cry,  
And heal my malady.  
Though I have sinned yet Christ hath satisfied.  
O Judge not, for 'tis he that died.  
But hear the voice of his still streaming gore  
Which calls to thee for mercy more & more.  
Prevent not then thy Angel's joy in me  
To see a sinner reconciled to thee!  
Nor let thy love  
So barren prove,  
Or lose its end for which thou sentest it here,  
Even my salvation now so near.  
What pleasure in my blood Lord can there be?  
Or will the chambers of death honour thee?  
Thy call is not a summons to the Bar  
Of Justice, but a throne where mercies are  
Like flowing balm  
To mitigate and calm  
The tumult of a raging conscience;  
Whose pricking bitter echoing sense  
Holds out a flag of death, whose motto runs  
No hope, no peace, no such rebellious Sons.  
But Lord thy sweeter promise is the ground  
We lean & build upon; canst thou be found  
Less than thyself?  
A ship-destroying shelf?  
No, though an Angel from thine Altar swear  
My sins unpardonable are,  
My crimes so great cannot forgiven be,  
Yet Lord I come, yet Lord I trust in thee.  
O then accept my Heavy laden Soul  
Crushed with the burden of her sins, so foul  
She dares not brook  
Once up to look;  
But drowned in tears presumes to come on board,  
And for this once to take thy word;  
If I at last prove shipwrecked for my pain  
I'll never venture soul more so again.   

A Sing-song on Clarinda's Wedding  
NOw that Love's Holiday is come,  
And Madge the Maid hath swept the room  
And trimmed her spit and pot,  
A wake my merry Muse, and sing  
The Revels, and that other thing  
That must not be forgot.  
As the grey morning dawn'd, 'tis said  
Clarinda broke out of her bed  
Like Cynthia in her pride:  
Where all the Maiden Lights that were  
Comprised w ithin our Hemisphere  
Attended at her side.  
But wot you then with much a do  
They dressed the Bride from top to toe  
And brought her from her chamber.  
Decked in her robes and garments gay  
More sumptuous than the live-long-day  
Or Stars enshrined in Amber.  
The sparkling bullose of her eyes  
Like two eclipsed Suns did rise  
Beneath her crystal brow.  
To show like those strange accidents  
Some sudden changeable events  
Were like to hap below.  
Her cheeks bestreaked with white and red  
Like pretty tell-tales of the bed  
Presaged the blustering night  
With his encricling arms and shade  
Resolved to swallow and invade  
And screen her virgin light.  
Her lips those threads of scarlet dye,  
Wherein Love's charms and quiver lie,  
Legions of sweets did crown;  
Which smilingly did seem to say  
O crop me, crop me whiles you may,  
A non th' are not mine own.  
Her Breasts those melting Alps of snow  
On whose fair hills in open show  
The God of Love lay napping;  
Like swelling Butts of lively Wine  
Upon their ivory stells did shine  
To wait the lucky tapping.  
Her waste that slender type of man  
Was but a small and single span▪  
Yet I dare safely swear  
He that whole thousands has in fee  
Would forfeit all, so he might be  
Lord of the Manor there.  
But now before I pass the line  
Pray Reader give me leave to dine,  
And pause here in the middle;  
The Bridegroom and the Parson knock,  
With all the Hymeneal flock,  
The Plum-cake and the Fiddle.  
When as the Priest Clarinda sees,  
He stared as't had been half his fees  
To gaze upon her face:  
And if the spirit did not move  
His continence was far above  
Each sinner in the place.  
With much stir he joined their hands,  
And hamp'red them in marriage bands  
As fast as fast might be,  
Where still me thinks, me thinks I hear  
That secret sigh in every ear,  
Once love remember me!  
Which done the Cook he knocked amain  
And up the dishes in a train  
Come smoking two and two▪  
With that they wiped their mouths and sat,  
Some fell to quaffing, some to prate,  
Ay marry and welcome too  
In pay'●s they thus impaled the meat  
Roger and Margot, and Thomas and Kate,  
Rafe and Bess, Andrew and Maudlin,  
And Valentine eke with Sibyl so sweet,  
Whose cheeks on each side of her snuffers did meet  
As round and as plump as a coddling.  
When at the last they had fetched their freeze,  
And mired their stomaches quite up to the knees  
In claret for and good cheer,  
Then, then began the merry din,  
For as it was thought they were all on the pin,  
O what kissing and clipping was there!  
But as luck would have it the Parson said grace,  
And to frisking & dancing they shuffled apace,  
Each Lad took his Lass by the fist,  
And when he had squeezed her, and gaumed, her until  
The fat of her face ran down like a mill  
He tolled for the rest of the grist.  
In sweat and in dust having wasted the day,  
They entered upon the last act of the play,  
The Bride to her bed was conveyed,  
Where knee deep each hand fell down to the ground  
And in seeking the Garter much pleasure was found,  
'Twould have made a man's arm have strayed  
This clutter o'er Clarinda lay  
Half bedded, like the peeping day  
Behind Olympus' cap;  
Whiles at her head each twittring Girl  
The fatal stocking quick did whirl  
To know the lucky hap.  
The Bridegroom in at last did rustle,  
All dissappointed in the bustle  
The Maidens had shaved his breeches;  
But let him not complain, 'tis well  
In such a storm, I can you tell  
He saveed his other stitches.  
And now he bounced into the bed,  
Even just as if a man had said  
Fair Lady have at all;  
Where twisted, at the hug they lay,  
Like Venus and the sprightly Boy,  
O who would fear the fall?  
Thus both with love's sweet tapers fired,  
And thousand balmy kisses tired,  
They could nor wait the rest,  
But out the folk and candles fled,  
And to't they went; but what they did  
There lies the cream of the jest.    

On the much to be lamented Death of that gallant Antiquary and great Master both of Law and Learning, John Selden Esquire.  

Epicedium Elegiacum.  
THus sets th' Olympian Regent of the day  
Laden with honour; after a full survey  
Of the deep works of nature, to return  
With greater lustre from his watery urn.  
Thus leans the aged Cedar to the rage  
Of tempests, which the grove for many an age  
Hath graced, yet yields to be transpanlted thence  
T' adorn the nobler Palace of his Prince.  
Thus droops the world, after a smiling May  
And June of pride into a withering day,  
And hoary winter season, to appear  
More lovely in the buds of a fresh year.  
Then boast not Time in the eclipsed light  
Of Selden's lower orbs, whiles the high flight  
Of his enthroned Soul looks down on thee  
With scorn, as an ungrateful enemy.  
For in his death thou sport'st with thy own dust,  
Whiles with his ashes thy poor glories rust.  
Mention no more thy Acts of old, nor those  
Grand ruins rich in thy proud overthrows;  
In him th' hast lost thy Titles and thy name,  
Who died the Register of time and fame.  
He was that brave Recorder of the world,  
When age & mischief had conspired & hurled  
Vast kingdoms into shattered heaps; who could  
Redeem them from their vaults of dust and mould.  
Then raise a monument of honour to  
That restored life, which death could ne'er undo.  
Such was the fall of this Tenth worthy then,  
This Magazine of earth and heaven, and men,  
He, whereas others to their ashes creep,  
(Those common elements of all that sleep;)  
Dissolved like some huge Vatican from on high  
Whose every limb became a Library.  
As therefore in the works of Nature they  
Which are most ripe are nearest to decay:  
So here this neighbouring Pyramid on th' sky  
Drew nearest heaven when furthest from the eye.  
And now thy Mare Clausum's true indeed,  
The rode's blocked up to th' many reined steed,  
Which to each point of the world's compass reels,  
And tacks her glad discoveries to her keels.  
Let then the travelling Mariner in the deep  
Of the Reserves of reason go to sleep;  
Since the grave Polestar of the groping sky  
Has suffered shipwreck in mortality.   

He that would praise thee well through all thy parts  
Must ransack all the languages and arts▪  
Drain nature to th' last scruple to descry  
How far thou wentest in her Anatomy.  
Then climb from orb to orbe, & gather there  
The pure Elixir of each star and sphere,  
Which in thy life did club their influence  
With thy rich flames as one Intelligence;  
Then raise a blazing comet to thy name,  
As a devoted Taper to thy Fame,  
To live the pitied shadow of that day  
And glorious Noon which with thee drew away.   

When Common People die, 'tis but a sight  
Whose grief and doles digested in a night.  
But when such brawny sinews of a state  
As thee break loose; 'tis like a clock whose weight  
Being slipped a side all motion's at a stand:  
Such sorrows do not wet but Drown a land.   

Could we with that brave Macedonian Spark  
Offer whole towns and kingdoms to the Ark  
Of a lost friend now floating in our eyes,  
And make more worlds in this grief sympathise,  
'Twere but due thanks for that high sovereignty  
o'er many nations we enjoyed in thee  
To languish any longer at thy shrine,  
Melting the sacred sisters into brine  
In a salt Hecatomb of tears, 'twould be  
But a weak, faint and pale discovery  
Of those few arteries of life they have  
Since the last mortal stab given in thy Grave.   

Such was the public universal wound  
That the whole bod ' of Law & learning found  
In thy preposterous and most sad decease,  
There's none can probe the grief, or state that case.  
In short, we lost so many Tongues in thee  
There's scarce one left to mourn thine obsequy.  
Those shallow issues which now from us rise  
Steal through the speechless conduits of our eyes,  
Which turning Water Poets tumble forth  
Insilent eloquence to bemoan thy worth.  
Such deep impressions has thy farewell left  
In every bosom, every secret cleft  
Of each particular soul, instead of verse  
We live thy doleful Epitaph and Hearse.  
And what the mournful Prophet sighed of old  
Seems now broke forth, as of these times foretold.  
Each face shall gather blackness, for in thee  
Thus gone, w' are shut up in obscurity.  
Such borrowed dependence had our light  
Upon thy sun, thy evening was our night.   

But since there's no perfection here, thy glass  
To become gold indeed translated was.  
Thy furnished soul being filled with all that could  
Be here extracted from the grosser mould  
Of earth's Idea, in a brave disdain  
Drew to its proper Centre, that vast Main  
Of truth and knowledge▪ great Jehovah, he  
That's all in all to all eternity.  
Where now I leave thee 'midst a glorious throng  
Of Saints; but hope to see thee ere't be long.   

Upon the death of John Selden Esquire.  
NOw thou art dead, Unequalled Sir, thy fall  
Confounds no less than England's funeral;  
For when the soul departs that gave her breath,  
We are but loathed carcases in thy death.  
Thus Pompey's Trunk found on the Egyptian sand  
Rome straight pronounced her time was at a stand.  
So when a fair aged Oak doth downward move  
We count not one Trees loss, but the whole Grove.  
As air and water when once useless grown  
One by too much drought, one b▪ infection,  
The City and Kingdom both deplore that loss:  
And we entitle't one man's private cross.  
O that Pythagoras' doctrine might obtain,  
(Old souls to inform new bodies hast again)  
Th●n would the world less sense of sorrow have,  
Nought but to life a backdoor were thy Grave!  
And like the Phoenix didst in balmy spice,  
That thence thou mightst into new glories rise.   

But this we hope not for, & 'tis thy praise  
Alone & Solomon 's, (None such in your days.)  
Learned Maimonides hence improved his fame,  
That none since Moses, such a Moses came.  
Joseph's perfections had outshined far more,  
If Julius Scaliger had not writ before.  
Thou like Melchizedeck knewst no peer nor  
Rich only with thy own true estimate.  
Witness those matchless volumes that can tell mate,  
The world how vast a soul did in thee dwell.  
So fraught with such a Mine of knowledge, we  
Might think thee well a living Library.   

Not like our Time-enthusiasts, who disclose  
In scurrile Pens, that they can rave in prose,  
And in such narrow hoops the conscience penned,  
As man ne'er durst, nor God for laws ere meant.  
Nay souls of men with such high reins keep in,  
That to be reasonable is counted sin.  
No, in such seasoned Judgement flowed thy Pen,  
We thence might learn what temper became men.  
Thou nor to Sects, nor to parties writt'st (& 'tis  
But just to point thee singular in this.)  
But uviht unwearied pain dispensed thy store,  
What all past ages thought and said before.  
Arabians, Persians, Hebrews, Greeks and all  
The Sun in'ts circuit dines or sups withal  
Thee in their several Idioms court, and bring  
Their commonwealths of learning to their King  
As tribute. Selden hadst thou flourished than  
When Jew and Greek, Crect and Arabian  
What each in varied Dialects said, could tell,  
Thy acquired pains had lamed the miracle.   

Thy fruitful Tongues might far as day have run,  
To language Countries to the posting Sun:  
The western Climes might have been told by thee  
All that the Indian voiced, Antiquity.  
Nor is that all, for numerous speech affords,  
Without good conduct, but a Mart of words.  
A bunch of keys men prise not wealth, but lets,  
Where skill comes short t' unlock the cabinets.  
A magazine of sounds in most we see  
Serve but to stuss and perfect pedantry.  
Thy copiousness of Tongues finds matter hence,  
It lets in matter that conveys new sense.  
And rat'st thy painted words embroideries,  
But as they usher strange discoveries.  
That East Idolatry yet had lurked 'tis odds  
But for thy subject of the Syrian gods.  
The world had still in ignorance been held  
How great she was, had Selden not revealed  
Those pompous Attributes, Titles of renown  
Which King, Prince, Emperor challenged as their own.  
Earls & Marquesses, Dukes & all degrees  
Hence found them bounds fixed for precedencies.  
A structure so elaborate it would ask  
Europe's joint labour to outgo the task.  
The Law of Nations 'mongst the Hebrews taught,  
And Nature's dictates where could we have sought  
But from that laboured Piece is published forth  
To leave the world a Legacy of thy worth.  
I name not others thy choice rarities,  
The Hebrew Priests, defence of British Seas,  
Arundles marbles, and the Hebrew wife,  
Thy Sanhedrims Tripartite, Edmer's life,  
With other choice which I not reckon here,  
Lest so the hidden embers I should stir  
Of rancour gone in some, who measure test  
Not by their judgement, but their interst.  
Such as wit-bound themselves can faintly spare  
To stab with censures, other choicest care.  
Such suburb-wits their shackled judgements bind  
To reach the bark, and dwell upon the rind.  
When 'twas thy excellence to pursue the chase,  
Till there was left to scruple no more place.  
So long Alcides thought his work unsped,  
As he to Hydra left or tail or head.  
Thy Plummet sinks into the deep stsound,  
Still plunging onward till it find the ground.  
What worn inscriptions didst from dust relieve?  
And from time's shipwreck didst restore to live?  
Custom, or Manners, Ensigne, Form, or Rite▪  
What is't thy teeming brain not brought to light?  
Now thou hast travelled through the world's wide coast,  
And left no creek, nor path, nor Seas uncrost,  
And nature's utmost boundaries hast known,  
'twas time thou tookst the period of ●hine own.  
That so thy wakeful soul dismantled hence  
Might meet fresh objects for Intelligence  
The Grecian Hero thus when he went through  
As far as bounds, wished he had more to do.  
So through fierce seas the angry keel is hurled  
To look out passage to another world.  
J. V. M. A. J. C. Oxon.   

Upon the incomparable Learned John Selden.  
'tWere wrong to thy great name on thee to write,  
Who like the Sun shines best with thy own light.  
Clocks that are made to imitate the Sun  
Seldom run right and true in motion▪  
With heaven great torch; whose course is regular▪  
And tells us our best acts erroneous are.  
Our praise, when best impoved, is at this stay  
As our faint twilight's to the bright midday.  
All we can speak comes so far short of thee  
As doth of nature our Philosophy.  
In thine own sphere thrice glorious star then shine;  
S●nce all our light is but a beam from thine.   

The spotless ray originally springs  
From the great mass of light, more splendour brings▪  
Than when through air's dark Medium it reflects,  
Where not so pure a beam the sun projects.  
So the first shade some glasses do present  
More vigour hath than to the next is lent.  
Thus Pictures from their excellence do fall  
The further off from their Original.   

Upon the death of John Selden.  
PRaise that is worthy thee who would rehearse  
Must dare beyond the skill of art, or verse.  
'twere sauciness here lest flattery for to use,  
Where to the nine the aid of a tenth Muse  
Is all too little to proclaim thy worth,  
Who art no comet blazing seldom forth,  
But a new Star, us mortals for to tell  
Thou wert from heaven sent a miracle.  
Since then none may presume to reach thy fire,  
We may be thought no trespassers to admire.  
Thus when we view stars that are far above  
'tis no crime such (if not to catch) to love.  
Let others speak thy richness by whole sale  
Twill us suffice to mention by retail.  
'twas but the least among thy lasting pains  
To purge our Laws from errors, & the stains  
That long had dwelled on them to wash away,  
By Duried Fleta's resurrection day.  
Time's ruind monuments, records out of date  
And rolls which ages passed exposed to fate,  
Thou with such wondrous artifice didst revive;  
'twas not recovery, but new life didst give.  
As if those characters yeared to dust and death  
Hadst reinstated with new soul and breath.  
And though on living men 'tis seldom seen  
That men contemporary pass a due esteem▪  
But when the carcase is dissolved to dust  
Envy gives then what to the dead is just▪  
Yet was it said of Selden, none beside,  
That he was stamped authentic ere he died▪  
For 'tis Truth's voice, at Bar when thou stoodst  
Thyself was cited for Authority.   

I want both pen and utterance to declare by  
How great a Master shinest, how singular  
In the deep insight of the Common Laws,  
There's n'one make scruple to give thee the Bays.  
And when 'midst throng of business did a rise  
Some sturdy doubts, unfathomed mysteries.  
Unto the Hive Statists would soon repair,  
Who best of Statists didst deserve the chair.  
Laws that were foreign were so much thy own,  
They were not more unto their natives known.  
Civil and Canon knewest all Kingdoms o'er,  
Yea all that ages past did know before.  
As if the Sun and thou tried Mastery,  
Whether more Countries did, or Kingdoms see;  
Joint tenants of the world, for both have gone  
Thy daily circle, both annual have run,  
Phoebus aimed not more secrecies to know  
Than our great Selden made his Title to.  
More I could say the grandiure of your praise  
Swells like a torrent on, nor can I raise  
A Mound against it. Let this Eulogy  
Serve for inscription then, that were each eye  
Turned to a Sun the round world to survey  
We should despair to find, Selden like thee;  
Like Caesar's Amphitheatre never was  
Is an Hyperbole that Poets pass.  
But we shall keep on modest bounds of fame,  
To say like thee ne'er sprung there such a frame.    

Degenerate Love and Choice.  

MAd Heretic forbear to say or swear  
That there is such a Meteor as love here.  
'tis true; when Adam in that perfect state  
Of life, first went on wooing for a Mate,  
'twas pure affection that his soul did catch  
And love conjoined with God made the best match.  
Virtue, not portion was the aim he sought,  
For Eve had scarce a smock t' her back 'tis thought.  
But when once Love and Adam were exiled  
Eden, Love soared to heaven, and man grew wild.  
And as his knowledge and that nobler light  
He first received, were muzzled up in night,  
Then Avarice and ambition seized the heart  
And faculties depraved in every part▪  
Hence 'twas he tugged and travelled to restore  
That blessed eternity he lost before.  
As though when he fell mortal, God had hid  
The Tree of life in earth, which he forbid.  
Hence, hence he gripped at lands, and moths, &  
And a large name deep written in that dust.   

Thus the blind sons of men, as real heirs rust,  
Of his corruptions, drew their father's cares  
And guilt in with their first breath, which sublime  
And are intensed in the decays of time.  
Thus matches took the High Cross, and of old  
That golden age became an age of gold.  
Hagling relations did their issues join,  
Not to make Good, but to exalt the Line;  
And horse-course of their children at a rate  
Ordained by them, not by the hands of fate.  
And therefore Phillip's Ass laden with Oar  
Shallsooner take Olynthe, than of yore  
Those royal Macedonians, whose high parts  
Lost their esteem against such sordid hearts.   

If the fine thing with fancies ribboned,  
And the gay tuft of feathers on his head,  
(That perfect emblem of its empty brain)  
Come rumbling with a Coach & dagled train  
Of snaphance-vouchers; can just smack its hand,  
And call to read the catalogue of his land;  
Run, hold & keep: For this, this, this is he,  
That storms, & takes & routs where ere he be.  
To this Diana straight the Ephesians bow:  
Or; squeeze the wax; no matter where, nor how▪  
So the revenue & the joynture's great;  
'tis never questoned whether by Escheat,  
Theft, or Disseisin, or the Orphan's tears  
It were extorted and grew basely theirs.  
But like the Israelites in the Devil's behalf.  
Forsake God to adore the goodly Calf.   

Then for that pretty trifle, that sweet fool,  
Just weaned from's bread & butter & the school;  
Cracknuts & Hobby-horse, & the acquaint Jackdaw,  
To wear a thing with a plush Scabbard— law;  
Whose Father's low-roofed late-hatched Scutcheon can  
Scarce speak him Saped into a gentlemam.  
Though at his great expense his arms took  
Last circuit from the Herauld's poor estate.  
Like a fierce Country Alehouse that renews date  
His Licence every Sessions, and so brews.   

But this sways not the balance: He has it  
That's Virtue, Gallantry, & Worth, and Wit,  
All trussed up in a bag, and more yet to't,  
For he that buye● him has the Pig to boot.   

And though he cannot speak sense, let it go,  
He offers at it, or else means it so.  
His worship's will was good. If he incline  
To any vice, as Swearing, Whores, or Wine;  
'tis Courage, Youth's fling, or a merry Cup,  
Such imperfections soon are soldered up.  
If otherwise a clown; 'tis modesty.  
Or simply lavish, 'tis good nature. We  
Have vizards of all sizes, small or large,  
If's greatness please but to be at the charge▪   

Thus Riches which were made man's slave to be,  
Have robbed him of his native sovereignty.  
And captive beauties, like fair Barks long lost,  
Are put to sale by th' Candle, who gives most.  
Whiles Love and Honour languish at the door,  
Most glorious pitied fancies, praised and poor.  
But here ye grovelling Muck-worms, ye that build  
Like Ants in Molehills; & tie field to field;  
Which varying God's decree, by joining hands,  
Instead of marrying Children, wed your lands.  
'tis true, you may pretend a busied care  
In the advance and Tilting of an Heir:  
And plausibly too; were the structure laid  
Upon a noble bottom; humble, stayed,  
Religious grace and worth met & combined  
With th' active vigour of a gallant mind;  
This were a pure connexion, sweet with good,  
A heightening and refining of the blood.  
But the hog-trough worldlings from these measures flirt,  
They love a great name though it's made of dirt;  
To which the children are th' forced Seals and Signs  
Of shipwrecked freewill in their Father's loins.  
The liberty of choice is quite flung by  
With a Proviso of new property.  
That primitive capacity of love  
Which the allseeing deity from a 'bove  
Had placed in the sweet cabinet of the breast  
Is now expulsed by man, and dispossessed.  
Upon which breach Lust made an entrance there  
which spreads its wide infection every where.   

Come Worlding let me undeceive thee now.  
If man's grand welfare hangs upon the plough;  
Or if there be eternity in pelf  
And earth, that is as mortal as thyself;  
Then thou hast grasped to purpose. But if not,  
The end of wealth's mistaken in thy plot.  
Where much is given, much required shall be.  
Not what was left to thy posterity;  
Or the by-issues of thy younger years;  
But how & when thou stop'dst the widow's tears  
With timely charity; and reliev'dst the poor  
With ready morsels frost-bound at thy door.  
These are the works & friends shall follow thee,  
The ●est shall live thy shame or infamy.   

Nor would I have thy offspring cast away  
Upon each roving wit, that shall essay  
Thy hopeful lovely viands, with pretence  
Of some blind far-hence-travelled eminence.  
Nor that unrighteous Mammon swells thy chest  
And thee, let looss on every straggling guest.  
But there's a mean in judgement, a mid course,  
A difference betwixt a Man and's Horse.  
A fair distinction, were not we too nice,  
To moderate disdain and Market price.  
Forestall not then the world, but let all live▪  
Some come to sell by weight, & some to give,  
Love never measured by the Acre stood,  
If we ●oll fairly, than the bargain's good.    

A Dialogue between two water Nymphs Thamesis and Sabrina.  THa. 
Ho! all ye sister-streams that governed be.  
By great Diana's watery deity.  
Ye silver Nymphs that gliding sport and play,  
And kiss your flowery banks, and flowing stray  
In lofty murmurs, o come sit you here,  
And lend my swelling grief a voice or tear.  Sab. 
What poor afflicted Soul with mournful cries  
And sobs awakes my long benighted eyes?  
What hapless maid of her first love bereaved  
Bemoans her friend in death's black arms received?  
Perhaps some pining Votaress in the dark  
Bedews a Lover's tomb with tears; hark! hark!  Tha. 
Ah me forlorn! ah me forsaken maid!  
Where is my loveliness and honour strayed?  
Those glories dwelled upon me? & those swans  
That sung my name beyond proud Ganges sands,  
And filled both Indies with the wide renown  
Of my spread fame? Now tossed now tumbled down?  Sab. 
I thought my crimson streams had buried all  
The bitter land-flouds of a Kingdom's thrall.  
But lo! a louder echo living is,  
A flood of yet continued miseries.  
A tide of woe at last has found a tongue  
To bear a sad part in my doleful song:  
Speak wretched Maid, whence art?—  Tha. 
— 'tis I, 'tis I,  
Poor Thamesis out of my ruins cry,  
Graveled with sorrow and scorched up with heat  
Of war, struck deaf with drums, who was the seat  
Of peace and plenty, now the rolling map  
Of violence and tyrannous mishap.  Sab. 
Alas fair Princess! were there left in me  
A Creek reserved from grief to pity thee,  
With what swift haste should I divert the course  
Of my salt waves to mixed their scattered force  
With that vast body of thy tears? And close  
My springs with thine to make a sea of woes?  Tha. 
Can there be such a monster that dares own  
Its small undoing when my mischief's shown?  
O can there be proportion 'twixt the drops  
Of private ills, and the full plenteous crops  
And buckets of mine anguish? O forbear!  
I drank those showers whereof thy storms skirts were.  Sab. 
We grant (Great Lady of the Isles) that thy  
Tumultuous tumors were that pleurisy  
That caused the opening of our veins. Thy head  
Distempered, we grew soon embodied  
In the same gulf and ocean of thy pain,  
Languishing rivulets of thee the main.  
But if the surges of thy bosom have  
Digged for thy beauty an untimely grave:  
If thy rash waters have so run thee in  
The winding gires and straits of suffering;  
Thank thy Augean filthiness for these,  
Thy Hydra which hath slain thy Hercules.  Tha. 
'tis true Sabrina I have acted right  
The fable of that Horse; who needs would fight  
The Hart: But finding straight himself to be  
Too weak for his Pallizadoed enemy;  
He begs the man to ride him, and became  
His slave, to gain an empty victor's name.  Sab. 
No, rather I suppose th' hast verified  
The story of the Frogs, that to Jove cried  
To have a King. He heard their prayers 'tis said  
And flung them down a Beam to be their head.  
But they disliked with peace, again did call,  
On which he sent a Stork that eat them all.  
So thou that kickest at quiet kings, hast gained  
A conquest, which now rides thee double reined.  
Thou, thou that shrunk'st at puny Subsidies  
Art eased at length with Taxes and Excize;  
Hast only changed the names of things▪ y● Hague  
For Amsterdam, the Measles for the Plague.  Tha. 
Crush not Sabrina now my smarting sores,  
But let the offering of my crumbled Towers,  
And rubbish Palaces appease thy fierce  
Censure: For lo I speak but in my hearse.  
This issue of my breath's a parting groan:  
Add not affliction to affliction.  Sab. 
Nor has that burden lighted all on thee  
Alone sweet Nymph, but Humber, Trent & Dee,  
Medway, and my poor channel had their share  
In th' crimson streams of a most bloody war.  
If by the shore the Public Father died  
'twas not long since the Son here slipped a side?  
Saved by a miracle of Providence,  
The finger of the Gods, that caught him hence  
From out the jaws of death, to make him more  
Than that fight gained could seal him conqueror.  
But lest I lessen thy deserts, o take  
The glory of our ruin for thy sake.  Tha. 
'twas I indeed was that main spring of all  
That set the judgements moving, which did fall,  
And in each quarter of the land did roam,  
But now again are justly travelled home  
Through my own bowels. O my pride and purse  
Were both at once the country's & my curse.  
Fullness of bread, & wantonness, that brat  
Of sweet abused peace, in me begat  
A nicety of palate, a desire  
Of novelties, and set●ing all on fire,  
Which flame once kindled, I was forced to be and well  
The Fuel of my own calamity.  Sab. 
And rightly, since thou wast the womb  
From whence those Spirits rose, to be their Hell.  
The high throne of that many headed Beast  
Popular Sovereignty: A snaky nest  
And Synagogue of Asps, which share the sweat  
Of three tame Nations tied up from their meat.  Tha. 
What then Sabrina rests yet to be done?  
But that we eat with shame and fly the sun,  
Suffering a willing winter to congeal  
Our drops to crystal, which we'll mildly deal  
In softer showers of pious tears again  
Till we have purged a scarlet Kingdoms slain.   

The Myrtle Grove.  

JUst as the reeling Sun came sliding down  
Among the Moors and Tethys in a Gown  
Of sea-green watcher fettled to embrace  
Her great Apollo from his circled race,  
And the streaked heavens did themselves digest  
Into a larger Iris, to invest  
And cano pie th'illustrious lovely pair  
In a Diaphanous Robe of costly air:   

Clarinda rose amidst the Myrtle Grove,  
Like the Queen-mother of the stars above.  
But that Clarinda's was no borrowed Light,  
Nor could it, where she was be deemed a night.  
Such was the natural glories she put on  
They owed no being to reflection.  
Whiles the inspired Musicians of the wood,  
Ravished at the new day, poured out a flood  
Of quavering melody in honeyed strains  
To court the glittering Deity of the plains.  
Those pretty flowery beds of sweets that now  
Had closed their heads up in an amber dew  
Of tears, to mourn the drowsy Sun's good night,  
Warmed with a nobler ardour sprung up right▪  
And threw the mantles of dull sleep aside  
In a displayed and meritorious pride,  
To strew with rich perfumes her balmy way,  
Which grew more fragrant by her active ray.   

Thus sweetly wooed Clarinda laid her down  
On a cur●'d quilt of roses, fond grown  
Proud of their own oppression, whiles they may  
Kiss the dear burden which upon them lay.  
Then screened with harmony, she stretched a long  
Upon her Damask Couch, where a bright throng  
Of Graces hovered o'er the firmament  
Of her pure orbs drawn to a full extent.  
Whiles a soft gale of wanton wind that blew  
Did sport her willing glories into view.  
But I poor dazzled I, not daring here  
T' attempt the splendour of each naked sphere,  
Stood peeping through the Optics of the shade,  
Which to my sight a kind reflection made.  
Her eyes half shut up in their crystal case  
Stood twinkling Sentinels upon her face;  
Or else to take the prospect of those fields  
Of beauty which that flowing Tempe yields.  
Her coral lips ten thousand smiles enthroned,  
Like clustered grapes which for a vintage groaned.  
The Ivory palace of her stately neck  
Clothed with majestic awe, did seem to check  
The loser pastime of her gamesome hair,  
Which in wild rings ran trick about the air.  
Her amorous breasts swelled to a lovely rise  
Of dripping plenty a twinned Paradise  
Of milk and honey, exhaled my roving eye  
Into a soul-ensnaring ecstasy.  
And had I not recoiled without delay  
I there had wandered in the milky way▪  
Her belly like the Ace of Clubs, so white,  
So black, the struting pillow of delight,  
So fired the catching tinder of my s●nse,  
That I no longer Student could commence,  
But straight weighed anchor & tacked up the sail  
To the main yard, waiting a stiffer gale  
To pass me through those ticklish straits of Man  
Into the full Mediterranean.  
At last I plunged into th' Elysian charms,  
Fast claspped b● th' arched Zodiac of her arms  
Those closer clings of love, where I pertaked  
Strong hopes of bliss; but so, o so I waked!   

To my honoured friend Mr. T. C. that asked me how I liked his Mistress being an old widow.  
BUt prithee first how long hast been  
Lost in this sad estate of sin?  
That the mild Gout, or Pox, or worse  
Serves not to expiate thy curse?  
Some Pestilence else may be thou ght upon,  
And not such absolute damnation.  
Are rocks and halters grown so dear  
That there's no perishing but here?  
Do no Committee yet survive  
Those cheaper Gregory's of men alive?  
If thou wilt needs to Sea, o must it be  
In an old Galleass of sixty three?  
A snail-crawled bottom? A grey Bark  
That stood at Font for Noah's Ark?  
Whose wrinkled Poop in figures furled  
Describes he● travels round the world?  
A Nut, which when th' hast cracked & fumbled o'er  
Thou'lt find the Squirrel has been there before?  
Then raise the Siege from falling on▪  
That old dismantled garrison.  
Rash Lover speak what pleasure hath  
Thy Spring in such an Aftermath?  
Who, were she to the best advantage spread,  
Is but the dull husk of a maiden head.  
How canst thou then delight the sense  
In beauties preterperfectense?  
And dote upon that freestone face  
Which wears but the records of grace?  
Whose antic Monast'ry brags but a Chest  
Of venerable Relics at the best?  
O can there such a famine be  
Of piping hot virginity,  
That thou art forced to slur and cheat  
Thy stomach with the broken meat?  
Why he that woos a Widow does no more  
Than court that Quagmire where one sunk before.  
Fie▪ prise not then those Arras Looks  
Sullied and thumbed like Town-hall Books!  
I like thy fancy well to have  
Its misery so near its Grave.  
And 'tis a general shrift that most men use,  
But yet 'tis tedious waiting dead men's shoes.  
If 'twere thy plot I do confess  
For to make Mummee of her grease,  
Or swop her to the Paper Mill,  
This were extracting good from ill.  
But if thou weddest on any worse condition,  
Thou'lt prove Delinquent for thy Superstition.  
But prithee hold, let me advise,  
Perhaps she's rich and seems a prize,  
New chalked▪ new rigged, a stately Friggot,  
But yet she's tapped at lower spigot.  
Yet if no medicine for thy grief be found,  
There's small odds Tom 'twixt being hanged or drowned.    

The Engagement Stated.  

Begun Expositor: The Text is plain  
No Church, no Lord, no Law, no Sovereign.  
Away with mental reservations, and  
Senses of Oaths in files outvie the Strand.  
Here's hell trussed in a thimble, in a brea●h,  
Dares face the hazard of the second death.  
The Saints are grown Laconians, and can twist  
Perjury up in pills like Leyden grist,   

But hold precise Deponents: Though the heat  
Of Zeal in Cataracts digests such meat,  
My cold concoction shrinks, and my advance  
Drives slowly to approach your Ordinance.  
The sign's in Cancer, and the Zodiac turns  
Leonick, rolled in curls while Terra burns.  
What though your fancies are sublimed to reach  
Those fatal reins? Success and will can teach  
But rash divinity. A sad renown  
Where one man fell to see a million drown.  
When neither Arts nor Arms can serve to fight  
And rest a Title from its law and right,  
Must malice piece the Trangum? & make clear  
The scruple? Else we will resolve to swear?  
Nay out swear all that we have sworn before  
And make good lesser crimes by acting more,  
And more sublime? This, this extends the Line  
And shames the puny soul of Catiline.  
On this account all those whose fortune's crossed,  
And want estates, may turn Knights of the Post.  
Vaulx we out vied thee, since thy plot fell lame,  
We found a closer Cellar for the same,  
Piling the fatal Powder in our mouths  
Which in an Oath discharged blew up the House.  
Maugre Mounteagle, asps not throughly slain  
Their poison in an age may live again.   

Good Demas cuff your Bear, then let us see  
The mystery of your iniquity.  
May a man course a cur? And freely box  
The Question? Or the formal paradox?  
But as in Physic so in this device  
This querk of policy the point is nice.  
For he that in this model means to thrive,  
Must first subscribe to the preparative.  
Like Witches compacts countermarch his faith,  
And soak up all what ere the Spirit saith:  
Then seal and sign. Scylla threw three bars short,  
He had a sword indeed, but no Text for't.  
Old Rome lament thy infancy in sin,  
We perfect what thou trembled'st to begin  
Blush then to see thyself out done. But all  
The world may grieve 'tis epidemical.  
Heaven frowns indeed. But what makes hell enraged?  
Sweet Pluto be at peace, we have Engaged.     
FINIS.