Pembroke's pass FROM Oxford to his Grave.  
HEnce mountebank of honour, hence away,  
And seek some cavern, where the cheerful day  
Ne'er made enquiry, where continued night  
May not expose thee to the shame of light;  
Th' owl from the Birds chidings shall be free,  
When seen by all men, thou reproached shall be;  
Base property of State, time serving thing,  
Thy Servants Slave, yet rebel to thy King.  
Thou Puppet, who canst neither speak nor move,  
If Say or Oldisworth teach not, or approve,  
For which Records to after times will show  
Thee an ingrateful fool in Folio.  
O! how would Pembroke thy brave Brother grieve  
To see his heir to play the under-Shreeve,  
And force the Dwellings of the muse's Sons  
To give the unlettered their Possessions:  
And with a borrowed dress of Power sit  
To cry up Ignorance, and banish wit,  
In which thine Honour, as thy soul, is tainted,  
Compared with thee Manchester may be Sainted;  
Had Martin done't, or Mildmay, who in evil  
Are listed journey-workers to the devil.  
Or had thy sacrilegious Tutor, Say,  
Or Cromwell made the find an holiday,  
By such an Act as must his realm advance,  
And perish this by growth of Ignorance,  
It might be borne: nor should we cozened be  
From such impostors, when such arts we see,  
But that good Pembroke, who in no man's hearing,  
Was e'er condemned but for the switch and spurring.  
One who (we know) had ne'er been dipped in Treason,  
Had he been left unto his proper reason,  
A mere concurring rebel, that doth cry  
Like a half entered whelp for company:  
For the great Doctors of so great a school  
To be confuted by so great a fool,  
There lies the wonder, which thus solved must be,  
This Age produceth nought but prodigy;  
A hundred Horse his Lord ship had to boot▪  
He knew his own wit never else could do't:  
Arms are a powerful Ergo, and make schism  
And Folly good, Maugre a syllogism;  
Hadst thou but sense of wit, thou wouldst be slain  
With the just rhymes composed in thy disdain;  
And to each angry Muse an Object stand  
Till rhymed to death, like Rats in Ireland.  
But we will bridle Fancy, nor let lose  
Too much brave fury on so tame a Goose:  
No, thou shalt feel the chastening Rod,  
First of the abused King, next of thy God;  
And when just Heaven shall due vengeance take,  
And to ingrate thee an Example make;  
Apollo's Sons shall in a Chorus laugh,  
And fix upon thy tomb this Epitaph.  

The Epitaph.  
PEmbrooke here lies under-layed,  
Who his God and King betrayed:  
To which sins, he joined this other,  
To commit Rape upon his Mother.  
Who so unto this Grave-stone goes,  
And reads, is prayed to stop his nose:  
His very name thus blasted, must  
Be more nautious than his dust.