POEMS &c. By JAMES SHIRLEY.  Sine aliquâ dementiâ nullus Phoebus. 
LONDON, Printed for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be sold at his shop at the sign of the Prince's arms in St. Paul's churchyard. 1646.   

To the truly Noble, BERNARD HIDE, Esquire.  
Sir,  
IT will be a long Ambition satisfied, if by this, I have the happiness of making myself more known to you, though in the same Act I put myself to a blush, that I have not a better present to excuse the confidence. If I do look upon you but as you relate to me in the common Interest and Fame of your virtues, wherein I share with others, I may be censured a bold man, since as they are proportioned to me, they are more than equal to the whole deserts of some that write both honour and abilities. But when I consider that graceful part of your Character, sweetness, which gives both the Price and Beauty to your other furnitures of Art and Nature, I cannot think myself without capacity of pardon for this application, the well meant tender of my service.  
They are Papers in themselves not worth your eye, or to be numbered with those reserves of wit and learning that wait upon your recreations; and if they receive entertainment abroad, I shall acknowledge it rather a debt which men pay to your Name, than a merit of the Poems; and if they meet with the frowning world, I have subscribed my own, to be accused for them, and this presumption. Howsoever, if they may enjoy but your smile and shade, which was the first choice of my thoughts, it shall encourage me to reach your worth with more suitable imaginations; till when, give me leave to write myself  
Your faithful Honourer, JAM. SHIRLEY.   

To my Worthy Friend Mr. JAMES SHIRLEY, Upon His Poems.  

WHen dearest Friend, thy verse doth reinspire  
love's pale decaying Torch with brighter fire,  
Whilst everywhere thou dost dilate thy flame,  
And to the world spread thy Odelias' name,  
The justice of all Ages must remit  
To Her the Prize of Beauty, Thee of Wit.   

Then like some skilful Artist, that to wonder  
Framing a piece, displeased, takes it asunder,  
Thou Beauty dost depose, Her charms deny,  
And all the mystic chains of Love untie;  
Thus thy diviner Muse a power 'bove Fate  
May boast, that can both make, and uncreate.   

Next thou call'st back to life that Love-sick Boy,  
To the kind-hearted nymphs less fair than coy,  
Who, by reflex beams burnt with vain desire,  
Did Phenix-like, in his own flames expire:  
But should he view his shadow drawn by thee,  
He with himself once more in love would be:   

echo (who though she words pursue, her haste  
Can only overtake and stop the last)  
Shall her first speech and human veil obtain  
To sing thy softer numbers o'er again.  
Thus into dying Poetry, thy Muse  
Doth full perfection and new life infuse,  
Each line deserves a Laurel, and thy praise  
Asks not a Garland, but a Grove of bays:  
Nor can ours raise thy lasting Trophies higher,  
Who only reach at merit, to admire.   

But I must chide thee Friend, how canst thou be  
A Patron, yet a Foe to poetry?  
For while thou dost this Age to Verse restore,  
Thou dost deprive the next of owning more;  
And hast so far even future aims surpassed,  
That none dare write; Thus being first and last,  
All, their abortive Muses will suppress,  
And Poetry by this increase grow less.   
THO. STANLEY.   

To my honoured Friend M. Ja. Shirley, Upon the printing of his Elegant Poems.  
ALthough thou want the Theaters applause,  
Which now is fitly silenced by the laws,  
Since these sad times that Civil swords did rage,  
And make three Kingdoms the lamented stage  
Of real Tragedies, it was not fit  
We quite should lose such monuments of wit  
As flowed from thy terse pen: the press alone  
Can vindicate from dark oblivion  
Thy Poems, Friend; those that with skill can read,  
Shall be thy Judges now, and shall instead  
Of ignorant spectators, grace thy name,  
Though with a narrower, yet a truer Fame,  
And crown with longer life thy worthy pains.  
All Muses are not guiltless; but such strains  
As thine, deserve, if I may verdict give,  
In sober, chaste, and learned times to live.  
THO. MAY.   

To his honoured Friend, the Author, Upon his Poems.  
WHilst I am in thy Poem, I am led  
Through a rich Gallery, in which are spread  
The choicest Pictures of true skill and height,  
Where every pause is Rapture and Delight.  
Here, by thy Fancy taught Apollo plays,  
To his own Daphne in a stand of bays;  
Here Myrtle Shades are, there the cypress Groves;  
Here Lovers sigh, and there embrace their Loves:  
By— through a flowery vale, there gently glides  
A silver stream, whose prattling current chides  
Itself in Turtle-murmures, and betrayed  
To every eye, like to some bashful maid  
Discovered in her beauties, fain would haste  
To hide those blushes which do speak her chaste.  
Here thy Narcissus in his loved despair,  
Courts all the rest to silence; sweet and fair,  
His love, and sorrow shows him; but to hear  
Him breathe 'em thus, who would not be all ear?  
What in his story did before but move  
Our pity, we do now admire, and love  
Beyond himself; so every maid would be  
His kind Nymphs Rival, borrowing from thee  
Those charms of love and language, where thy Art  
Gives Cupid feathers unto every dart.  
Thy Poem is as lovely, and all wit  
Thy echo is, and making love to it:  
Let Ovid boast their story, but their names  
Will take Eternity from thee, dear James.  
GEO. BUCKE.   

To his Learned Friend, M. JA. SHIRLEY, On his Elegant Poems.  

FRiend, in this dearth of Art, when but to write  
Or think in verse, is to be destroyed quite;  
When Sergeants too implacable are set  
To fill the Compters up with wit and debt:  
Nor any hope of rescue but from those  
Who would distrust their Creed if't were not Prose,  
I wonder at the influence of thy Pen,  
That could engage such generous knowing men  
(Warmed with thy flame) so boldly to advance  
'Gainst the prevailing monster, Ignorance.   

Sure this so fair return of gratitude  
To dare thus in thy cause, must needs conclude  
Thy elegant expressions (while the Scene  
Obeyed thy powerful Empire) are not clean  
Obliterated, when thy all-charming wit  
Secures so firm Allegiance unto it.  
'tis wisely done, thus to erect a Shrine  
Teternize their own names as well as thine.  
I envy not their Fate; let it suffice  
They deck thine Altar; but the sacrifice  
Is my fixed Heart, devoted to thy worth,  
Which all their laboured lines can ne'er set forth.  
Best Lapidaries oftentimes do set  
The fairest Diamonds in a foil of jet.   
FRA. TUCKYR.   

To my very Worthy and most Ingenious Friend, Mr. JA. SHIRLEY, Upon His Poems.  

WHen I am raised by some more noble flame  
To sing of thee, and thy Odelias' Name,  
So richly set in verse; Thy lines invite  
Me still to read, and I forget to write.  
So when a painter's hand would take the grace  
And figure of some admirable face,  
Struck with the sight, he lets his Pencil fall,  
And when his hand should work, his eye does all.   

Yet if a sense of thy sweat fancy may  
Inspire a resolution to betray  
My want of skill, and choice in husbandry,  
To write my own, not read thy Poetry:  
Be it enough to draw the Reader near,  
While we but say the wit of Shirley's here.   

And though thy worthier friends their flowers bring,  
To set forth thy Odelia like the Spring,  
Men will with envy look upon the dress,  
That stays their eyes from the wished comeliness,  
And when they see her beauty to be such,  
Will say their love had shadowed it too much.   
ED. Powel.   

Amicissimo J. Sherleio, & Musae jam Reduci.  

QUid non, Te rediente, dulce sperem!  
Coelorum facies nova, & novus frons  
Antiquusque vigor recurrit omnis;  
Nympharum proprius decor, suusque,  
Fonte & Castalides suo replentur.   

Dignaris mihi, caeterisque grandem  
Impertire salutem, & ipse plenus  
Phoebi numine, Laeta Gratiarum  
Musarumque Cohors amoena, Circum  
Te (Sherleie) canunt, & ore captat  
Dulci Quae que tuo Jocosa Carmen.   

Sic optatus eras— abibit omnis  
Infoecunda & opaca nostra nubes  
Te Claro rediente sole: Noster  
Exul jam Genius redit; Poetam  
Arridente oculo jucundus ipse  
Musarumque suum Pater salutat.   

Tendunt jam vacuam Chelyn Camoenae,  
Cingit Laurea dum virens capillos:  
Nectunt Coelicolae ex Tuo coronam  
Horto (mellifluae Artifex Minervae)  
Aptant inque Tuum Caput Sorores—  
Tu illis dulce Levamen atque Amico   
GEO. HILL.   

When th' Age groaned out Thou and thy Must were gone,  
And Epitaphs each Wit was thinking on;  
When to bestrew thy grave, and stick thy hearse  
With herbs, or the more fragrant flowers of Verse;  
When to thy worth rich Trophies how to raise,  
Our fancies strove; The cypress then turned bays,  
Which on thy brow graced with poetic Rage,  
Secured Thee from the thunder of the Age.  
Thus the Springs warmth brings back by mild degrees,  
Raiment and food to th' leafless, sapless Trees:  
Thus the winged choir their vocal Lutes do string,  
And Turtles having found their mates, do sing:  
Thus like the quickening sun, thy flames do spread,  
And add new life to us, that feared thee dead.  
GEO. HILL.   


CUPIDS Call.  

HO! Cupid calls, come Lovers, come,  
Bring his wanton Harvest home:  
The West-wind blows, the Birds do sing,  
The Earth's enameled, 'tis high Spring:  
Let Hinds whose soul is Corn and Hay,  
Expect their crop another day.   

Into love's Spring-garden walk,  
Virgins dangle on their stalk,  
Full blown, and playing at fifteen:  
Come bring your amorous sickles then?  
See they are pointing to their beds,  
And call to reap their maidenheads.   

Hark, how in yonder shady grove  
Sweet Philomela is warbling love,  
And with her voice is courting Kings,  
For since she was a Bird, she sings,  
There is no pleasure but in men,  
Oh come and ravish me again.   

Virgins that are young and fair  
May kiss, and grow into a pair;  
Then warm and active use your blood,  
No sad thought congeal the flood:  
Nature no medicine can impart  
When age once snows upon our heart.    

To his unkind M.  
SUre thy heart was flesh at first,  
For what sin hath it been cursed  
Into that stubborn thing of late,  
Above the reach of wonder? what  
In some winter was it lost,  
And its blood drunk up by frost,  
Grew stiff, and so a rock became?  
Yet this would soften at a flame.  
Or didst thou bathe thy pretty limbs  
In some cold and fatal streams,  
Which turn what they embrace to stone,  
And by degrees thy heart grew one?  
I know not, but too true I find  
A Quarry of prodigious kind:  
Yet since I loved it, I will try  
From the warm Limbeck of my eye,  
In such a method to distil  
Tears on thy marble nature, till  
Their frequent drops by loves new Art,  
Write my Epitaph on thy heart;  
That men may know for whom I die,  
And say beneath that stone I lie.   

Good Morrow.  

GOod morrow unto her, who in the night  
Shoots from her silver brow more light  
Than Cynthia, upon whose state  
All other servile stars of Beauty wait.   

Good morrow unto her, who gives the day,  
Whose eyes preserve a purer Ray  
Than Phoebus, when in Thetis streams  
He hath new bathed himself, and washed his beams.   

The day and night are only thine, and we  
Were lost in darkness but for thee;  
For thee we live, all hearts are thine,  
But none so full of faith and flame as mine.    

To his Mistress.  

I Would the God of Love would die,  
And give his Bow and Shafts to me,  
I ask no other legacy:  
This happy fate I then would prove,  
That since thy heart I cannot move,  
I'd cure, and kill my own with Love.   

Yet why should I so cruel be  
To kill myself with loving thee,  
And thou a Tyrant still to me?  
Perhaps, couldst thou affection show  
To me, I should not love thee so,  
And that would be my medicine too.   

Then choose to love me, or deny,  
I will not be so fond to die  
A Martyr to thy cruelty:  
If thou be'st weary of me, when  
Thou art so wise to love again,  
Command, and I'll forsake thee then.    

To Odelia.  

HEalth to my fair Odelia, some that know  
How many months are past  
Since I beheld thy lovely brow,  
Would count an Age at least:  
But unto me  
Whose thoughts are still on thee;  
I vow  
By thy black eyes, 'tis but an hour ago.   

That Mistress I pronounce but poor in bliss,  
That when her servant parts,  
Gives not as much with her last kiss,  
As will maintain two hearts  
Till both do meet  
To taste, what else is sweet.  
Is't fit  
Time measure Lov, or our Affection it?   

Cherish that heart Odelia, that is mine,  
And if the North thou fear,  
Dispatch but from thy Southern clime  
A sigh, to warm thine here:  
But be so kind  
To send by the next wind,  
'Tis far,  
And many accidents do wait on War.    

To his Mistress confined.  

THink not my Phebe, cause a cloud  
Doth now thy heavenly beauty shroud,  
My wandering eye  
Can stoop to common beauties of the sky.  
Be thou but kind, and this Eclipse  
Shall neither hinder eyes, nor lips;  
For we will meet  
Within our hearts, and kiss, when none shall see't.   

Nor canst thou in thy Prison be,  
Without some loving signs of me,  
When thou dost spy  
A sunbeam peep into thy room, 'tis I,  
For I am hid within that flame,  
And thus unto thy chamber came,  
To let thee see,  
In what a Martyrdom I burn for thee.   

There's no sad picture that doth dwell  
Upon thy Arras wall, but well  
resembles me.  
No matter though our years do not agree,  
Love can make old, as well as time,  
And he that doth but twenty clime,  
If he will prove  
As true as I, shows fourscore years in love.    

love's Hue and Cry.  
IN love's name you are charged, oh fly  
And make a speedy Hue and Cry  
After a face, which tother day  
Stole my wandering heart away:  
To direct you, take in brief  
These few marks to know the Thief.  
Her hair a net of beams, would prove  
Strong enough to imprison Jove  
Dressed in his eagle's shape; her brow  
Is a spacious field of snow,  
Her eyes so rich, so pure a grey,  
Every look creates a day,  
And if they close themselves (not when  
The Sun doth set) 'tis night again:  
In her cheeks are to be seen  
Of flowers, both the King and Queen,  
Thither by all the Graces led,  
And smiling in their nuptial bed:  
On whom, like pretty Nymphs do wait  
Her twin-born lips, whose Virgin state  
They do deplore themselves, nor miss  
To blush, so often as they kiss  
Without a Man. Beside the rest,  
You shall know this felon best  
By her tongue, for when your ear  
Once a harmony shall hear  
So ravishing, you do not know  
Whether you be in heaven, or no;  
That, that is she; O straight surprise,  
And bring her unto love's Assize;  
But lose no time, for fear that she  
Ruin all mankind, like me,  
Fate, and Philosophy control,  
And leave the world without a soul.   

Good-night.  
BId me no more good-night; because  
'Tis dark, must I away?  
Love doth acknowledge no such laws,  
And Love 'tis I obey:  
Which blind, doth all your light despise,  
And hath no need of eyes  
When day is fled:  
Besides the Sun, which you  
Complain is gone, 'tis true,  
Is gone to bed:  
Oh let us do so too.   

WOuld you know what's soft? I dare  
Remit you to the Down, or air:  
The Stars we all acknowledge bright,  
The Snow too is exceeding white:  
To please your scent, 't will not be hard  
To present you bruised Nard:  
And would you heavenly music hear,  
I'll call the orbs to take your ear,  
If old Pythagoras sing true.  
But Ambrosia, heavenly dew  
Divinely must affect your taste,  
And Nectar is your drink at last.  
But would you have all these delights in one,  
Know but the fair Odelia, and 'tis done,   

A fairing.  
A fairing if you ask, I will next day  
Bestow upon you the new puppet play:  
The children made in wax, I dare not try,  
For I confess, the models at your eye  
Will melt themselves away, and then you know  
The man will be undone, and lose his show.  
What monsters would you see? I'll bring a man  
Has been in France or Italy, that can  
Play his deformities with all the fair.  
we'll for the cloisters, where the pictures are,  
The King and Queens, the Princes, all the babies,  
The paper Lords, and all the painted Ladies,  
The men of gingerbread, what art can do,  
You shall see cannibals will eat them too.  
we'll to the horse that dances, and ('tis said)  
Tells money and which Virgin is a maid.  
This beast must be an understanding creature,  
For he will snort you by instinct of nature:  
If you but name the Pope, there's something in't,  
That a wall eye should read Geneva print.  
These are but half the knacks we'll see, and buy,  
If you will walk into the fair with me:  
But you are angry, Mistress, troth, I meant  
A jest, in answer of your merriment;  
For sure you cannot mean, with hope to gain  
That gift from me is worth your entertain.  
For whatsoever is not I, must be  
Trifles, and empty things bestowed on thee;  
And you may thank your beauty for't, I am  
So poor, I have not left myself a name,  
Or substance, not translated thine before,  
He that bestowed his heart, can give no more.  
If thou wilt have a fairing from me, then  
Give myself back, I'll give it thee again.   

To L. for a wreath of bays sent.  

SOul of my Muse! what active unknown fire  
Already doth thy Delphic wreath inspire?  
O'th' sudden, how my faculties swell high,  
And I am all a powerful prophecy!  
Sleep ye dull Caesars, Rome will boast in vain  
Your glorious triumphs, One is in my brain,  
Great as all yours, and circled with thy bays,  
My thoughts take Empire o'er all land and seas:  
Proof against all the Planets, and the stroke  
Of Thunder, I rise up Augustus' oak  
Within my guard of Laurel, and made free  
From age, look fresh still as my Daphnean Tree.  
My fancy's narrow yet, till I create  
For thee another world, and in a state  
As free as Innocence, shame all poet's wit,  
To climb no higher than Elysium yet,  
Where the pale lovers meet, and teach the groves  
To sigh, and sing vain legends of their loves;  
We will have other flights, and razed such things  
Are only fit for Sainted Queens and Kings.   

Musaeus, Homer, and ye sacred rest,  
Long since believed in your own ashes blessed,  
Awake, and live again, and having wrote  
Our story, wish your other songs forgot,  
And yourselves too, but our high Subject must  
In spite of death and time, new soul your dust.   

What cannot I command? what can a thought  
Be now ambitious of, but shall be brought  
By virtue of my charm? I will undo  
The year, and at my pleasure make one new:  
All Spring, whose blooming Paradise, but when  
I list, shall with one frown wither again.   

Astrologers leave searching the vast skies,  
Teach them all fate, Odelia, from thine eyes;  
All that was earth resolves, my spirit's free,  
I have nothing left now but my Soul and Thee.    

To the Painter preparing to draw M. M. H.  

BE not too forward Painter: 'tis  
More for thy fame, and art, to miss  
All other faces, then come near  
The Lady, that expecteth here:  
Be wise, and think it less disgrace  
To draw an Angel, than her face:  
For in such forms, who is so wise  
To tell thee where thy error lies?  
But since all beauty (that is known)  
Is in her Virgin sweetness, One,  
How can it be, that painting her,  
But every look should make thee err?  
But thou art resolute I see;  
Yet let my fancy walk with thee:  
Compose a ground more dark and sad,  
Then that the early Chaos had:  
And show, to the whole sex's shame,  
Beauty was darkness till she came:  
Then paint her eyes, whose active light  
Shall make the former shadows bright:  
And with their every beam supply  
New day, to draw her picture by:  
Now, if thou wilt complete the face,  
A wonder paint in every place.   

Beneath these, for her fair necks sake,  
White, as the Paphian Turtles, make  
A pillar, whose smooth base doth show  
Itself lost in a mount of snow:  
Her breast, the house of chaste desire,  
Cold, but increasing others fire.   

But how I lose (instructing thee)  
Thy pencil, and my Poetry?  
For when thou hast expressed all art,  
As high as truth, in every part,  
She can resemble at the best,  
One, in her beauty's silence dressed,  
Where thou, like a dull looker on,  
Art lost, and all thy art undone:  
For if she speak, new wonders rise  
From her teeth, chin, lip, and eyes:  
So far above that excellent  
Did take thee first, thou wilt repent  
To have begun, and lose i'th' end  
Thy eyes with wonder how to mend.  
At such a loss, here's all thy choice,  
Leave off, or paint her with a voice.    

To a L. who had courted a Lady of much perfection, and after offered his Service to another of an inferior Beauty and Parts; in confidence that the first would reaccept him.  

ANd can thy proud Apostate eyes  
Court her again, with hope t' entice  
One gentle language, or a smile  
Upon a Renegade so vile?  
Thing called a Lord, forbear; 'tis fit  
Ambition leave thee like thy wit.  
Send for an Exorcist from Rome,  
And let him with full orders come,  
To dispossess thy wanton sense  
Of this grand devil, Impudence.   

Can she, in whom shines every grace,  
Loves wide fancy can embrace,  
Forget her nobler soul, to be  
Upon thy pride retriv'd by thee?  
She hath let fall too many beams;  
Thus heaven upon corrupted streams  
Hath dropped transparent dew, which shows  
The Spring is clear, whence crystal flows.  
Enjoy thy madness, or what's worse,  
Thy new made Mistress, 'tis a curse  
To be in hell, but thine is more,  
Whose eyes have witnessed heaven before:  
Th' Hesperian apples thou Mayst see  
Hereafter, but ne'er climb the tree;  
For rather than thou gather fruit,  
The Plant will wither at the root.  
Dote still upon the Dragon, she  
Is fierce, and formed enough for thee:  
And if thy own ill can dispense,  
Kiss there, and suck more poison thence.    

A Lover that durst not speak to his M.  

I Can no longer hold, my body grows  
Too narrow for my soul, sick with repose,  
My passions call to be abroad; and where  
Should I discharge their weight, but in her ear,  
From whose fair eyes the burning arrow came,  
And made my heart the trophy to her flame.   

I dare not. How? Cupid is blind we know,  
I never heard that he was dumb till now;  
Love, and not tell my Mistress? How crept in  
That subtle shaft? Is it to love a sin?  
Is't ill to feed a longing in my blood?  
And was't no fault in her to be so good?  
I must not then be silent, yet forbear,  
Convey thy passion rather in some tear,  
Or let a sigh express, how much thy bliss  
Depends on her, or breathe it in a kiss,  
And mingle souls; loud accents call the eyes  
Of envy, and but waken jealousies:  
Then silence be my language, which if she  
But understand, and speak again to me,  
We shall secure our Fate, and prove at least  
The miracles of love are not quite ceased.  
Bar frowns from our discourse, and every where  
A smile may be his own Interpreter.  
Thus we may read in spite of standers by,  
Whole volumes, in the twinkling of an eye.    

To one that said his Mistress was old.  
TEll me not Time hath played the Thief  
Upon her beauty, my belief  
Might have been mocked, and I had been  
An heretic, if I had not seen,  
My Mistress is still fair to me,  
And now I all those graces see  
That did adorn her Virgin brow;  
Her eye hath the same flame in't now,  
To kill or save, the chemist's fire  
Equally burns; so my desire:  
Not any Rose-bud less within  
Her cheek, the same snow on her chin:  
Her voice that heavenly music bears,  
First charmed my soul, and in my ears  
Did leave it trembling, her lips are  
The self same lovely twins they were:  
After so many years I miss  
No Flower in all my Paradise.  
Time, I despise thy rage, and thee,  
Thieves do not always thrive, I see.   

Upon his M. Dancing.  
I Stood and saw my Mistress dance,  
Silent, and with so fixed an eye,  
Some might suppose me in a trance,  
But being asked why,  
By one that knew I was in love,  
I could not but impart  
My wonder, to behold her move  
So nimbly with a marble heart.   

Upon his Mistress sad.  

MElancholy hence, and get  
Some piece of earth to be thy seat,  
Here the air and nimble fire  
Would shoot up to meet desire;  
Sullen humour leave her blood,  
Mix not with the purer Flood,  
But let pleasures swelling here,  
Make a springtide all the year.   

Love a thousand sweets distilling,  
And with pleasure bosoms filling,  
Charm all eyes, that none may find us,  
Be above, before, behind us:  
And while we thy raptures taste,  
Compel time itself to stay,  
Or by forelock hold him fast,  
lest occasion slip away.    

A Gentleman in Love with two Ladies.  
IF Love his arrows shoot so fast,  
Soon his feathered stock will waste,  
But I mistake in thinking so:  
Loves arrows in his quiver grow;  
And it appears too true in me,  
Cupid wants no Artillery,  
Two shafts feed upon my breast,  
Make it a mark for all the rest:  
Kill me with love, thou angry Sun  
Of Cytherea, or let one,  
But one sharp golden Arrow fly.  
To wound that heart for whom I die.  
Cupid if thou be'st a child,  
Be no god, or be more mild.   

Melancholy converted.  
Welcome, welcome again to thy wits,  
This is a holiday;  
we'll have no plots, nor melancholy fits,  
But merrily pass the time away.  
They are mad that are sad;  
Be ruled by me,  
And never were two so merry as we.  
The kitchen shall catch cold n● more,  
we'll have no key to the buttery door,  
The fiddlers shall sing,  
The house shall ring,  
And the World shall see  
What a merry merry couple we will be.   

To a Mistress in whose Letter some Tears were dropped.  

THink not my dearest Mistress, that I can  
Forget my vows to thee, and be a man:  
Love is for more than life, that's but a span.   

Those drops which on thy Letter did appear,  
At once both stained and made thy paper clear,  
I would have read thy eyes, and not thy tear.   

Yet I'll not chide thee for it, it may be  
To make me rich thou sent'st those pearls to me:  
Alas, I must be poor in wanting thee.   

Had I a thought about me did not lay  
Thee up a treasure to my love, I'd say  
Thy tears were sorrow for my sin, and pray.   

But knowing myself thine, how e'er thou do  
An act to grieve my love, and thy own too,  
Myself I'll flatter by not thinking so.   

Examine thy own soul, and if thou find  
Faith there, it was but coppyed from my mind;  
Which may be wounded, never be unkind.   

So farewell my Odelia, be thou just,  
For when I die, I'll love thee in my dust;  
And when I fail thee most, secure thy trust.    

Presenting his Mistress with a Bird.  
WAlking to taste the welcome Spring,  
The Birds which cheerful notes did sing  
On their green Perches, 'mong the rest,  
One whose sweet warble pleased me best,  
I tempted to the snare, and caught,  
To you I send it to be taught;  
'Tis young, and apt to learn, and near  
A voice so full of art, and clear  
As yours, it cannot choose but rise  
Quickly a Bird of Paradise.   

Upon Scarlet and blush coloured ribbons given by two Ladies.  

LEt other servants boast a snowy glove,  
Or glory in their Mistress hair,  
Or think they straight immortal prove  
If they once obtain to wear  
A Ring enameled, by her finger blessed,  
Wherein the Rainbow is expressed,  
In whose circle Cupid dwelling,  
Doth offer a sweet poesy to their smelling.   

Not all the orient beauties that embrace  
Fair Venus' neck, nay grant that she  
Deign to disfurnish her own face,  
And bestow her Mole on me:  
Not this, nor those are half so rich, so fair  
As these two silken ribbons are;  
Favours Juno might have given  
The Graces, on her wedding day in heaven.   

Mysterious Colours! carrying more than show,  
For you express in your rich dye  
Rare virtues, which the givers owe,  
Constant love, and modesty:  
To which when I prove false, my blood be cursed,  
To satisfy the injured first:  
Shame be next reward, and then  
I forfeit Blush, and Scarlet back again.    

To his Mistress upon the bays withered.  

FAir Cruel, see the bays which thou  
Didst send to crown my verse:  
How well with cypress, and sad Ewe  
Would it become my hearse?   

'Tis thy unkindness that doth kill  
The leaves, which fade like me,  
Yet on the wreath but cast a smile,  
'Twill seem another Tree.   

Such shine will quicken what is dead,  
Then send it me again,  
Which shall have virtue on my head,  
To make the wearer green.   

Thus in a frost I'll meet a flame,  
And Phoebus' Priest am made,  
And Thee, I growing fresh, will name  
My Nymph, my light, my shade.    

Strephon, Daphne.  S. 
COme my Daphne, come away,  
We do waste the Crystal day;  
'Tis Strephon calls.  Da. 
What would my love?  S. 
Come follow to the myrtle grove;  
Where Venus shall prepare  
New chaplets for thy hair.  D. 
Were I shut up within a tree,  
I'd rend my bark to follow thee.  S, 
My shepherdess, make haste,  
The minutes slide too fast:  D. 
In those cooler shades will I  
Blind, as Cupid, kiss thine eye.  S. 
In thy perfumed bosom then I'll stray,  
In such warm snow who would not lose his way?  

Chor.  
we'll laugh and leave this world behind,  
And gods themselves that see,  
Shall envy thee, and me:  
But never find  
Such joys, when they embrace a Deity.    

Taking leave when his Mistress was to ride.  

HOw is it my ungentle fate,  
When Love commanded me to wait  
Upon my Saint, by break of day,  
I brought a heart, but carried none away?   

When we joined ceremonious breath,  
And lips, that took a leave like death,  
With a sad parting thought oppressed,  
Did it leave mine, to glide into her breast?   

Or was it when like Pallas she  
Was mounted, and I gazed to see,  
My heart then looking through mine eye,  
Did after her out at that window flie?   

'Twas so, and cause I did not ride,  
My heart would Lackey by her side,  
Or some more careful Angel be,  
To see my Mistress safe conveyed for me.   

Nay then attend thy charge, nor fear  
Storms in the way, and if a tear  
By chance, at looking back on thee  
Bedew her eye, drink that a health to me.   

But smile at night, and be her guest,  
At once her music and her feast,  
And if at any mention made  
Of me, she sigh, say all thy travel's paid.   

But when she's gently laid to rest,  
Oh listen softly to her breast,  
And thou shalt hear her soul, but see  
Thou wake her not, for she may dream of me.   

But what's all this, when I am here,  
If fancy bid thee welcome there?  
Heart, this last duty I implore,  
Or bring her back, or see thy Cell no more.    

Love for Enjoying.  

FAir Lady, what's your face to me?  
I was not only made to see,  
Every silent slander by  
May thus enjoy as much as I.  
That blooming nature on your cheek,  
Is still inviting me to seek  
For unknown wealth, within the ground  
Are all the Royal metals found,  
Leave me to search, I have a thread  
Through all the Labyrinth shall lead,  
And through every winding vein  
Conduct me to the golden Mine;  
Which once enjoyed, will give me power  
To make new Indies every hour:  
Look on those jewels that abound  
Upon your dress, that Diamond  
No flame, no lustre could impart,  
Should not the Lapidaries Art  
Contribute here and there a star,  
And just such things ye women are,  
Who do not in rude Quarries shine,  
But meeting us y'are made divine.   

Come let us mix ourselves, and prove  
That action is the soul of Love;  
Why do we coward-gazing stand,  
Like Armies in the netherlands,  
Contracting fear at either's sight,  
Till we both grow too weak to fight?  
Let's charge for shame, and choose you whether  
One shall fall, or both together;  
This is love's war, who ever dies,  
If the survivor be but wise,  
He may reduce the spirit fled,  
For tother kiss will cure the dead.    

Upon the Prince's Birth.  

FAir fall the Muses that in well-chimed verse  
Our Prince's happy birth do sing,  
I have a heart as full of joy as theirs,  
As full of duty to my King,  
And thus I tell  
How every bell  
Did ring forth England's merry glee,  
The bonfires too,  
With much ado  
It were great pity to belie her,  
Made all the City seem one fire,  
A joyful sight to see.   

The graver Citizens were foxed that day,  
With beer and joy most soundly paid,  
The Constables in duty reeled away,  
And charged others them to aid:  
To see how soon  
Both Sun and Moon,  
And the seven Stars forgotten be;  
But when 'twas night  
Their heads were light,  
To which they did exalt their horn,  
Because a Prince of Wales was born:  
A joyful &c.   

The Dutchmen having drunk so much before,  
Could not so well express their joy:  
The French condemned not to be sober more,  
Drank healths unto the Royal Boy,  
In their own wine,  
Neat, brisk, and fine:  
The valiant Irish, Cram-a-Cree,  
It pledged hath  
In Vsquebagh,  
And being in this jovial vein,  
They made a bog even of their brain,  
A joyful &c.   

The Welsh for joy her x Prince was born,  
Was mean to change S. Tavie's day,  
Swearing no leeks was be hereafter worn  
But on the twenty nine of May:  
None so merry  
Drinking Perry,  
And Metheglin on their knee;  
Was every man  
A Trojan then;  
Thus armed the Tivel her defy,  
And dare tell Beelzebub her lie.  
A joyful &c.   

The Scots in bonny ale their joy did sing,  
And wished the Royal Babe a man  
That they might beg him but to be their King,  
And let him rule'em when he can:  
The Spanjard made  
A shrug, and said  
After my pipe, come follow me,  
Canary Sack  
Did go to wrack,  
Some merchants went to Malago,  
Some drowned in good old Charnico,  
A joyful &c.   

And now let all good subjects' prayers ascend,  
That heaven with milk would swell their breast  
That nurse the babe, may Angels still attend  
To rock him gently to his rest.  
Let his glory  
Raise a story  
Worthy an immortal pen:  
So Charles God bless,  
Our Queen no less,  
And in conclusion of my Song,  
I wish that man without a tongue  
That will not say Amen.    

To his honoured friend Tho. Stanley Esquire, upon his elegant Poems.  

A palsy shakes my pen, while I intend  
A votive to thy Muse; since to commend  
With my best skill, will be as short of thee,  
As thou above all future poesy.  
Thou early miracle of Wit and Art,  
That hath prodigiously so got the start  
Of Ages in thy study; Time must be  
Old once again in overtaking thee.  
I know not where I am, when I peruse  
Thy learned loves, how willingly I lose  
Myself in every grove? and wish to be  
(Might it contribute to thy wreath) a Tree,  
Carew, whose numerous language did before  
Steer every genial soul, must be no more  
The Oracle of Love, and might he come  
But from his own to thy Elysium,  
He would repent his immortality  
Given by loose Idolaters, and die  
A Tenant to these shades, and by thy ray  
He need not blush to court his Celia.  
Thy numbers carry height, yet clear, and terse,  
And innocent, as becomes the soul of verse:  
Poets from hence may add to their great name,  
And learn to strike from Chastity a flame.   

But I expect some murmuring critic here  
Should say, no Poems ever did appear  
Without some fault, this I must grant a truth,  
And Sir, let me deal plainly with your youth,  
Not error-proof yet, something may admit  
A censure, if you will secure your wit,  
I know the only way to bring't about,  
Accept my love, and leave this copy out.    

To the E. of S. upon his recovery.  

MY Lord, the voice that did your sickness tell,  
Struck like a midnight chime or knell;  
At every sound  
I took into my sense a wound,  
Which had no cure till I did hear  
Your health again  
Restored, and then  
There was a balsam poured into mine ear.   

It was my wonder first, what could invade  
A temper was so even made;  
Then fear stepped in,  
Lest nature should commit a sin  
By yielding to resign your breath,  
Upon whose hearse  
All tears and verse  
Would fall, but not enough lament your death.   

But hymns are now required, 'tis time to rise,  
And pay the altar sacrifice,  
My heart allows  
No gums, nor amber, but pure vows,  
There's fire at breathing of your name,  
And do not fear,  
I have a tear  
Of joy, to curb any immodest flame.   

In you, since honour is restored, oh may  
Health in your noble bosom stay,  
And with your blood  
Move in a Circle all that's good;  
And though Time sicken with his years,  
And winter's come,  
Let your Age bloom,  
And look as fresh as when the Spring appears.    

One that loved none but deformed Women.  

WHat should my Mistress do with hair?  
Her frizling, curling, I can spare;  
But let her forehead be well ploughed,  
And hemp within the furrows sowed.   

No dressing should conceal her ear,  
Which I would have at length appear,  
At which should hang with a device,  
The wealthy pearls of both her eyes.   

And such a Nose I would desire  
Should represent the Town a fire;  
Cheeks black, and swelling like the south,  
No tongue, nor mark within her mouth.   

Oh give me such a face,  
Such a grace,  
No two should have sport,  
Or in wedlock better agree:  
The devil should into the bawdy Court  
If he durst but Cuckold me.    

The commonwealth of Birds.  

LEt other Poets write of dogs,  
Some sing of fleas, or fighting frogs,  
Another's Muse be catching fish,  
And every Bird cook his own dish.  
The commonwealth of Birds I bring  
To feast your ears: then hear me sing.   

A Buzzard is the Major o'th' Town,  
And Gulls are Brethren of the Gown,  
Some Widgens of the Peace and Quorum,  
Commit all that are brought before 'em.   

Cocks are the under-men of trade,  
Within whose Hall a Law is made,  
That every Spring each Citizen  
Shall march, to bring the cuckoo in.  
Every Constable has a claw,  
A head of Batt, and brain of Daw;  
And as wife as these, you will  
Know the Watchmen by their bill;  
Who take no wandering owls by night  
But they convey them to the Kite  
Who keeps the Compter, where together  
They laugh, and drink, and moult their feather.   

If you come to Court, there are  
A Robin redbreast, and a Stare;  
Canary Birds do sigh, not sing,  
The Larks have quite forgot the Spring.  
What should harmonious birds sing there,  
When a Rook's master of the choir?   

They that do practise Common-pleas  
With greatest art, are Goldfinches:  
And crows by physic, plump, and thrive,  
Men die, that birds of prey may live.   

If for the Church you look, sad age!  
You'll find the clergy in a Cage:  
Faith and Religion declines,  
When good wits are no more Divines:  
For Lapwings everywhere you'll see  
Perch up, and preach divinity;  
Who sing, though every soul be vexed,  
Here 'tis, when farthest from their Text.  
But what most admiration moves,  
The soldiers are all fighting Doves;  
And no reward for Prose, or Verse,  
The Scholars are turned wood-peckers.  
So fast the various birds intrude,  
Art cannot name them; To conclude,  
Every wise-marris a wrens,  
And black-Swans the honest men.   

A wonder in the close I bring,  
A Nightingale to these is King,  
Who never (sweet Bird) goes to rest,  
But has a thorn upon his breast.    

To the Excellent Pattern of Beauty and virtue, L. El. Co. of Or.  
Madam,  

WEre you but only great, there are some men  
Whose heat is not the Muses, nor their Pen  
Steered by chaste truth, could flatter you in prose,  
Or glorious verse, but I am none of those:  
I never learned that trick of Court to wear  
Silk at the cost of flattery, or make dear  
My pride, by painting a great Lady's face  
When she had done't before, and swear the grace  
Was Natures; Anagram upon her Name,  
And add to her no virtue, my own shame.  
I could not make this Lord a god, then try  
How to commit new Court idolatry;  
And when he dies, hang on his silent hearse  
Wet Elegies, and haunt his ghost in verse:  
These, some hold witty, thriving garbs; but I  
Choose to my loss a modest poesy;  
And place my Genius upon Subjects fit  
For imitation rather than bold wit;  
And such are you, who both in name and blood  
Born great, have learned this lesson to be good.   

Armed with this knowledge, Madam, I not fear  
To hold fair correspondence with the year,  
And bring my gift, hearty, as you are fair,  
A servants wish, for all my wealth is prayer,  
Which with the year thus enters. May you be  
Still the same flowing goodness that we see.   

In your most noble Lord be happy still,  
And heaven chain your hearts into one will!  
Be rich in your two darlings of the Spring,  
Which as it waits, perfumes their blossoming,  
The growing pledges of your love, and blood;  
And may that unborn blessing timely bud,  
The chaste, and noble Treasure of your womb,  
Your own, and th'Ages expectation come!  
And when your days and virtues have made even,  
Die late, beloved of earth, and change for heaven.    

To the H. Lady, D. C. at his departure.  

MAdam whose first stile is good,  
Great in virtue as in blood,  
For my entertainment, take  
This warm sacrifice, I make  
In wishes, which flow best, which art  
Hath little traffic with the heart.  
May every Sun that rises, pay  
You pleasure long lived as the day,  
And at night the silent streams  
Of pious thoughts fill up your dreams:  
For him, to whom your heart is tied,  
Keep it still Virgin, and Bride,  
That often as you go to bed,  
You give and take a maidenhead.  
Never sigh, but when you pray,  
May your Husband smile all day:  
And when clouds make dark his sky,  
Strike new daylight from your eye,  
And if e'er he think amiss,  
May you cure him with a kiss!   

But to keep his heart at home,  
Be rich in treasures of your womb,  
And taught by examples of your love,  
With every Olive-branch a Dove.    

A Letter to the Lady D. S. sent with a New Comedy.  
MAdam, who make the glory of your blood  
No privilege at all to be less good;  
Pardon the rudeness of a Comedy,  
That (taught too great ambition) would fly  
To kiss your white hand, and receive from thence,  
Both an authority, and innocence.  
'Tis not this great man, nor this Prince, whose fame  
Can more advance a Poem, than your name,  
To whose dear virtue truth is bound, and we,  
That there is so much left for history.  
I do acknowledge custom, that to men  
Such Poems are presented, but my pen  
Is not engaged, nor can allow too far  
A Salic law in Poetry, to bar  
Ladies th'inheritance of wit, whose soul  
It active, and not able to control,  
At some usurp the chair, which write a stile  
To breathe the Reader better than a mile;  
But no such empty titles buy my flame,  
Nor will I sin so much to show their name  
In print; some servile Muses be their drudge,  
That sweat to find a Patron, not a Judge.  
To you great Lady then, in whom do meet  
Candour and Judgement, humble at your feet  
I throw these papers, wishing you may see  
Joys multiplied, to your eternity.   

To the never enough Honoured E. of St. on new-year's day at night, after other entertainment.  

SIr, give me leave to Court your stay,  
There is something I must pay,  
Due to your greatness, and the day,  
Which by a revolution of the Sphere  
Is proud to open the New-year,  
And having looked on you, hath hid his face,  
And changed his robe, with stars to grace  
And light you going to bed, so wait  
With trembling lustre on your state.   

Shine brighter yet, y are not the same,  
Clear Lamps you were, shine like the name  
Of him I bow to, while a flame  
Active and burning here with pure desires,  
Shall equal your best borrowed fires.  
May health, the bosom's friend stream through your blood  
And know no end of the chaste flood:  
And though time shift, and years renew,  
May yet the Spring be still in you.   

May she, whom heaven hath sweetly graced  
And in your noble bosom placed,  
Whose heart, by only you embraced  
Hath made one true, and holy Gordian prove  
Fruitful in children as in love:  
And may that fair top branch, whose early bloom  
Doth promise all the fruit can come  
To virtue, and your name, be blessed,  
And live a story to the rest.   

All honour with your same increase,  
In your bosom dwell soft peace,  
And Justice the true root of these.  
Wealth be the worst, and outside of your fate,  
And may not heaven your life translate,  
Till for your Royal Master, and this Isle.  
Your acts have filled a Chronicle.  
In all that's great and good, be bold,  
And every year be copy of the old.    

To W. M. of N.  

HAil great Preserver of the King  
And your own honour; such a thing  
At Court but rare appears;  
And when in calmer years  
So much virtue, so much crime  
Shall be read both at one time:  
Treason shall want a Child, and your worth known,  
Posterity shall thank the Kingdoms groan.   

When I before did fancy Men  
Of a most glorious soul, my pen  
Did prophecy of you,  
To whom so much is due,  
That each Patriot must rise  
To court you with a sacrifice,  
And boldest Writers telling ages, why  
Need fear no fiction in their Poetry.   

Great both in Peace and War, thus fame  
Did honour Sidney; on your name  
Two Laurels grew, and they  
That speak them both, may say,  
Thus the fluent Ovid wrote,  
And thus too, wise Caesar fought;  
For when your story shall be perfect, you  
May both deserve, and have their envies too.    

To M. Phil. Massinger on his Renegado.  

Dabblers in Poetry, that only can  
Court this weak Lady, or that Gentleman  
With some loose wit in time;  
Others that fright the time  
Into belief with mighty words, that tear  
A passage through the ear;  
Or nicer men  
That through a perspective will see a play,  
And use it the wrong way,  
(Not worth thy pen)  
Though all their pride exalt them, cannot be  
Competent Judges of thy lines or thee.   

I must confess I have no glorious name  
To rescue judgement, no poetic flame  
To dress thy Muse with praise,  
And Phoebus his own bays;  
Yet I commend this Poem, and dare tell  
The World I liked it well;  
And if there be  
A Tribe, who in their wisdom dare accuse  
The offspring of thy Muse;  
Let them agree,  
Conspire one comedy, and they will say  
'Tis easier to commend then make a Play.    

Io.  

YOu Virgins that did late despair  
To keep your wealth from cruel men,  
Tie up in silk your eareles hair,  
Soft peace is come again.   

Now Lovers eyes may gentle shoot  
A flame that won't kill:  
The Drum was angry, but the Lute  
Shall whisper what you will.   

Sing Io, Io, for his sake,  
Who hath restored your drooping heads,  
With choice of sweetest flowers make  
A garden where he treads.   

Whilst we whole groves of Laurel bring,  
A petty triumph to his brow,  
Who is the Master of our Spring,  
And all the bloom we owe.    

To a L. upon a lookingglass sent.  
WHen this Crystal shall present  
Your beauty to your eye,  
Think that lovely face was meant  
To dress another by.  
For not to make them proud  
These glasses are allowed  
To those are fair,  
But to compare  
The inward beauty with the outward grace,  
And make them fair in soul as well as face.   

A Song in a Play called Hyde-park.  

1.  
Come Muses all that dwell nigh the fountain,  
Made by the winged horses heel,  
Which firked with his Rider over each mountain,  
Let me your galloping raptures feel:  
I do not sing of fleas or frogs,  
Nor of the well mouthed hunting dogs;  
Let me be just, all praises must  
Be given to the well-breathed Jilian thrust.   

2.  
Young Constable and kill Deers famous,  
The Cat, the Mouse, and Noddy Gray,  
With nimble Pegabrig you cannot shame us  
With Spanjard nor with Spinola:  
Hill climbing whit-erose, praise doth not lack,  
Handsome Dunbar, and yellow Jack:  
But if I be just, all praises must  
Be given to the well-breathed Jilian thrust.   

3.  
Sure spurred sloven, true running Robin,  
Of young Shaver I do not say less,  
Strawberry Some, and let Spider pop in,  
Fine Bruckly and brave lurching Bess,  
Victorious too was Herring Shotten,  
And spit in his Arse was not forgotten,  
But if I be just, all honour must  
Be given to well breathed Jilian thrust.   

4.  
Lusty George, and Gentleman hark yet,  
To winning Mackarel, fine mouthed Freak,  
Bay Tarral that won the cup at New-market,  
Thundering tempest, black dragon eak,  
Precious sweetlips I do not lose,  
Nor Toby with his golden shoes;  
But if I be just, all honour must  
Be given to well-breathed Jilian thrust.    

Epithalamium.  
1. OH look anon, if in the seeded sky  
You miss no stars, here I did spy  
Two gliding by.  
2. Did not thy trembling sense mistake the shine?  
Which from the flaming marriage Pine  
Shot like divine.  
1. No, no, oh no, within his stock of light  
Hymen was never half so bright;  
2. Behold the Nuptial Train  
Come smiling back again;  
Hymen, hold up thy Torch.  
1. Now, now I see  
The Virgin Bride, fair Willoughby,  
From whose fair eyes  
This day did rise,  
2. Whilst her chaste blushing strews  
Fresh Roses on the morning as she goes.  
1. What music have they?  
2. None,  
But what's the bridegroom's own:  
See where he follows to supply  
All that a well tuned ear  
Can wish to hear,  
Being himself a walking Harmony.  

Chorus.  
HEaven on this Payr drop all the joys  
Of Love, Health, Fortune, Pleasure, boys.    

A Mother hearing her child was sick of the smallpox.  

WHat hath my pretty child misdone?  
That heaven so soon,  
(As if it did repent  
The sweetness it had lent)  
Making so many graves, mistook the place,  
And buried all her beauty in her face.   

But it foresaw if she remained  
Fresh and unstained,  
So blooming in each part,  
She might take every heart,  
Charm all the Muses to forget their verse,  
Or name no beauty in their song, but hers.   

But this is still my sorrow child,  
With which turned wild,  
I send my tears to seek,  
And bathe thy withered cheek:  
Which could my kisses reach, with warm supplies,  
I would leave thee no spots, or me no eyes.    

Epithalamium. To his Noble Friend, Mr. I. W.  

ADorn the Altar, many come to day  
To sacrifice:  
But first upon't let me presume to lay  
My grain of Spice;  
'Tis all I have, though others bring  
Rich gifts, mine is the offering.   

Live one in heart so long, till time forget  
You have been two,  
Upon your bosoms, joys more frequent sit  
Then Pearls of dew  
On the green check of earth, but may  
No Sun kiss one of these away.   

Plenty your Tables, chaste desires still meet  
To crown your beds;  
And may the Bridegroom the first night beget  
New Maidenheads.  
I could say more, but Verse is tied,  
Wild joys in Prose are best supplied.    

A Catch.  
COme let us throw the dice who shall drink,  
Mine is ⚅ ⚅ and his ⚅ ⚄  
⚅ and ⚃ is a cast, ⚅ and ⚂ not too fast,  
Come aloft ⚄ ⚂, ⚅ ⚀ fair Play.  
⚃ ⚁ is your throw sir, ⚃ ⚀ they run low sir  
⚁ ⚁ we see ⚁ ⚀ is but three,  
Oh where is the Wine, come fill up his glass,  
For here is the man that has thrown ⚀ ⚀.   

On a black ribbon.  

THough Love, and Honour take a pride to dress  
Their servants in these silken liveries,  
But choose the colours always gay, and bright,  
Excluding black, as the dark child of night,  
(Which constant to its own complexion, knows  
Not how to blush, nor one Indulgence owes  
Either to Beauty, or the gift of Kings,  
This jealousy, and that vexation brings)  
Give me the black embracement on my arm,  
Which like a potent Amulet, or charm,  
Shall countermand all magic, and defy  
The smiles of love, and snares of Majesty.  
Of this, I'll be more proud, than when the fair  
Odelia once gave me her wreath of hair,  
Wherein, her fingers taught by love, had wrought  
A Net, to catch, and hold each subtle thought.  
This mourning bracelet is to me above  
All ribbons, which the Robinhoods of love  
Are tricked withal, who but present at Court  
Which are the Race-nags for the Lady's sport.   

Give me that sable Ornament, that may  
Vye honour with the Nova Scotia:  
Or Crimson Bath; and still reserved to''th' King  
My reverence, who is the soul, and spring  
Of English Honour, for the Garters sake,  
I should not mourn, although the blue were black,  
And 'tis within his breast, when Charles will please  
To create one of black, to outshine these,  
For what bold Antiquaries will deny,  
Of Colours, Sable the first Heraldry?   

All Orders have their growth, and this, when sent  
To me, had something that was glorious meant,  
From One, whose blood writes noble, but his mind  
And souls extraction leave that stream behind:  
And this who knows in calmer time may thrive,  
And grow into a Name, if Arts survive?   

Till when, to this black armelet, it shall be  
My Honour to be called a Votary.    

To Gent. that broke their promise of a meeting, made when they drank Claret.  
THere is no Faith in Claret, and it shall  
Henceforth with me be held Apocryphal.  
I'll trust a small-beer promise, nay a Troth  
Washed in the Thames, before a french wine oath.  
That Grape, they say is binding; yes, 'tis so,  
And it has made your souls thus costive too.  
Circe transformed the Greeks, no hard design,  
For some can do as much with Claret wine  
Upon themselves, witness you two, allowed  
Once honest, now turned air, and alamode.  
Begin no health in this, or if by chance  
The Kings, 'twill question your allegiance;  
And men will after all your ruffling, say,  
You drink as some do fight, in the French way;  
Engage and trouble many, when 'tis known,  
You spread their interest to wave your own.  
Away with this false Christian, it shall be  
An excommunicate from mirth, and me;  
Give me the Catholic diviner flame,  
To light me to the fair Odelias' Name:  
'Tis Sack that justifies both man and verse,  
Whilst you in Lethe-Claret still converse.  
Forget your own names next, and when you look  
With hope to find, be lost in the Church-book.   

Upon a Gentlewoman that died of a Fever.  
DEath, time, and sickness, had been many a day  
Conspiring this sweet Virgin to betray;  
At last impatient, vowed ere the next Sun,  
To finish what their malice had begun.  
Sickness went slowly on, but time, apace,  
Death laged behind, by night all reached the place.  
But when resolved of a surprise, they came,  
They found her guarded by a holy flame  
Her waking Fever kept, this did affright  
The thieves, who are still fearful of the light.  
Time stays without; but sickness, by the sin  
Of bribing a false servant, was let in:  
Death followed the advantage, and did creep  
Into her chamber, where though in her sleep,  
Sickness faint-hearted could not stop her breath,  
But she soon found the icy hand of death.  
Her groan awaked some friends, and the maid killed,  
With sighs, and clamours all the air was filled  
Fearing a swift pursuit, Time ran away,  
Sickness no longer had the heart to stay,  
Death with his prey soon hid him under ground,  
Not since by any living creature found.   

Upon the death of G. M.  

I loved him, and I lost him too, then why  
Should others weep their farewell, and not I?  
If souls know more by being body free,  
He'll know from all the rest, these drops from me.  
Then flow apace, I see where store of rain  
Is met, and swollen itself into a Main,  
Go lose yourselves in that, it cannot be  
In vain, to add some water to the Sea,  
Since heaven, whose glorious Constellations are  
So many, hath yet took another Star.   

If any think my grief has but a face  
Of mourning, and my tears a common place.  
Be judge yourselves, that know what 'tis to leave  
A friend, then wisely teach me how to grieve:  
Be judge you that did want him, while he lived,  
But more now, since he than your lives reprieved,  
Forfeit to miseries, and let me know  
What height and method you'll prescribe your woe!  
Be judge that were companions of his wit,  
And knew with what wise Art he managed it.  
When nature's darling bleeds, who can be found  
Whose heart would not drop balm into the wound?  
Last be you Judges, who best teach the way,  
And steer our erring souls to heaven, then say  
How much Divinity is gone, and by  
Your grief I'll learn to write his elegy.    

Upon the death of K. James.  

WHen busy Fame was almost out of breath,  
With telling to the world King James his death,  
I gave the voice no credit; not that I  
Believed in Law, That Kings can never die:  
For though of purer mould, at last they must  
Resolve to their cold principle, the dust,  
Distinguished only from the common men,  
That being dead, their dust is Royal then.   

What though the King were old? as soon must they  
Be at home, whose journey's downhill all the way.  
But I would trust my eye, not every sound,  
The ear oft catches things at false rebound.   

To clear my doubts, some told me, that did bring  
By torchlight, the dead body of the King:  
When every star, like kinsmen to the dead,  
That night close-mourners, hid their golden head,  
And had reposed that Royal burden, where  
His people might embalm him with their tear.   

Sorrow finds quick direction: I came  
To a fair House, I cannot give't a name,  
It had so many, only this I know,  
It might be aptly called the House of woe,  
Death's inn of late for Princes, who there lay,  
As taking but a Lodging in their way  
To the dark Grave. Entered the Court, I see  
Many attired in black, but this might be  
Their abstinence for Lent, for who is there  
That cannot fast from Colours once a year?  
After some justling with the guard, I came  
Tothth' presence, which but mocked me with a name,  
For it presented nothing to my eye  
But blacks, and tears for absent Majesty.   

Thence to the privy-chamber I did pass,  
In hope to find him there, but there, alas!  
I found new shapes of sorrow, Men whose eyes  
Drunk up by tears, showed life in a disguise:  
The mourning state here did renew my woe  
For the lost Presence, Velvet hangings too  
Made sorrow of more value, which beheld  
The' Scutcheon Royal in a Sable Field.   

To the bedchamber, than (the shrine some said,  
Where the pale body of the King was laid)  
My wild devotion brought me, This sad room  
At first did fright me, opening like a Tomb,  
To show me death, where Tapers round about  
Flameles, would tell me that our light was out:  
But by that melancholy day was lent  
I might discover on his monument  
A King, with subtle Artifice so set,  
My sense did stagger at the counterfeit.   

Alas, was this the way to gain belief  
That he was dead, to paint him now to life?  
As if, when we had lost him, it had been  
Enough to have thought him but alive again:  
But to these sad Remonstrances I give  
No faith, the King I sought, might be alive,  
For all these figures, and their Makers be  
(At least as my soul wished) more dead than he.   

From thence to white-hall, when I came, with wing▪  
Nimble as fear could make, I found the King,  
I triumphed here, and boldly did revive,  
King James not dead, he was in Charles alive.    

Upon the death of Sr. Th. Nevil.  
SWelling Eyes forbear to weep,  
Can the marble that doth keep  
So rich a Nevil, not appear  
Full of cold drops without your tear?  
Or the Earth beneath his tomb  
Not feel a labour in her womb,  
When with her profaner dust  
His ashes mingle? Sure it must  
Break with burden of new pain,  
And from her root he grow again.   

An elegy upon the honourable, fair, and virtuous M. Borlase.  
COme hither Virgins that are good, and fair,  
Instead of flowers, here careless strew your hair,  
Pay down the tribute due from all your eyes,  
For underneath this dewy Marble lies  
One, worth you all; although you cannot make  
Her live again, 'tis justice for her sake  
To weep yourselves blind, for in vain you keep  
Your eyesight, while Marya's gone to sleep,  
That was your path and Leader: but away,  
You are but common mourners, for this day,  
Hid in a storm of tears doth wait the name  
Of great Borlase, wounded, and led by fame.  
The mist is blown away, I see it come  
With tempered haste to look into her Tomb  
To find an arm, which from his body rent,  
Does lie enbalmd in this white monument:  
Forbear chief mourner, and consent to be  
Without this limb, more must be torn from thee,  
And kept by death, till the whole body meet,  
And sleep together in one winding sheet.   

Upon the Death of C. D. engineer, who died upon service to which had no command.  
IF we those men for gallant justify,  
Who when they are commanded on, dare die:  
Tell me, how glorious shall their valour stand,  
That dare like Dalby, die without command?  
Though order be the life of war, the sword  
And bullet will not ask us for the word:  
Nor did his courage know to make a pause,  
When honour called so loud, and such a cause  
As would untame a Hermit, and make room  
With his own fire to meet the martyrdom.  
All that the sons of phlegm and fear can say,  
Is, that he might have lived, and so will they,  
Like earthworms, safe in their own slime, and sleep  
Till the last Trumpet wake'em, and then creep  
Into some Blind, and wish this worthy then  
Alive to hide them in some turfs again.  
But his soul, winged with nobler flame, found out  
Not to be active, is the way about  
To Glory, which he being fond to taste,  
They are too wise that blame him for his haste.   

Epitaph On the Duke of Buckingham.  
HEre lies the best and worst of Fate,  
Two Kings delight, the people's hate,  
The courtier's star, the kingdom's eye,  
A man to draw an Angel by.  
Fears despiser, Villiers glory,  
The Great man's volume, all times story.   

An elegy upon the truly Honourable Tho. Viscount Savage  

IS Savage dead? and can the Rock which bears  
His Name, not straight dissolve itself in tears,  
And weep into the Sea? where it may have  
A Burial too, whilst every frighted wave  
At this new guest may raise his curled head,  
And in a storm tell all the world who's dead?  
But here's no want of Flood, for every eye  
Conspires in melting to an elegy.   

But first, see where the King and Queen are come  
To pour their grief into their servant's tomb,  
Let public sorrow be first served, 'tis clear,  
The Kingdom weeps in every Prince's tear,   

And now his children drop their pious rain,  
(Though none can soften his stiff clay again)  
And sigh, they had a Father, from whose care  
And wealth in virtue, every Child's an Heir.  
Their Tribute paid, close not the shrine, see where  
The Treasure of his bosom doth appear.  
Now coming to her Saint with her drowned eyes,  
(For sorrow leads her where her dead Lord lies)  
To whose pale relic she devoutly pays  
A kiss, as holy as his life, and prays  
With many tears, till quite dissolved in them,  
She seems contrived into a walking stream,  
As Destiny had meant her to descend  
From Rivers, but to satisfy this end.   

More sorrow doth attend this hearse, for here's  
A train of Lords that follow, though no Peers,  
For all the stock of honour is too low  
for competition, yet upon this woe  
Wait all that in Nobility are good,  
And he that weeps not, hath no gentle blood.  
Nor are these all the Mourners, see how fast  
The rear advances, I suspect their haste  
And weight may overbear his sepulchre:  
Friends to the dead, contain yourselves, nor fear  
You that were servants, crowding to the urn  
Of your dead lord, but you'll have time to mourn  
This your immortal loss. But why among  
Set shapes of mourning, suffer ye to throng,  
Those that profane his monument, the poor?  
What make they at his tomb, and leave his door?  
He was their bread, and miracles not gone,  
They hope to find it in his Funeral stone:  
He gave the blind men eyes too, and they can  
Do no less now, then weep them out again.  
Be sorrow free for all men, since he dies  
Worth love of heaven, and the world's sacrifice.    

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

The Passing Bell.  
HArk, how chimes the Passing bell,  
There's no music to a knell;  
All the other sounds we hear,  
Flatter, and but cheat our ear.  
This doth put us still in mind  
That our flesh must be resigned,  
And a general silence made,  
The world be muffled in a shade;  
He that on his pillow lies  
Tear enbalmed before he dies,  
Carries like a sheep his life,  
To meet the sacrificers knife,  
And for eternity is pressed,  
Sad bell-wether to the rest.   

Et longum Formosa vale.— FRIENDSHIP, Or Verses sent to a Lover, in Answer of a copy which he had writ in praise of his Mistress.  

O How I blush, to have adored the face  
Of any Mistress, when I gave the grace,  
For which I robbed the flowers. How I did swear  
Her eyes were stars, and loves soft nets her hair?  
Disgraced the chiming of the Spheres, to tell  
Her voice: and in her breath, professed to smell  
The Eastern spices on the Phoenix pile:  
And for her Chin, and Forehead, did beguile  
Heaven of his milky way: these trimings must  
Be paid again, they're taken all on trust.   

But let the Mistress thou dost serve, be fair  
With her own beauty, as some such there are  
Compound with the whole sex, to make a mind  
Include the Graces of fair womankind;  
I shall not think her worth my praise, or smile,  
And yet I have a Mistress all this while,  
But am a convert from that Sex, and can  
Reduced to my discretion, love a man,  
With Honour, and Religion; Such a one  
As dares be singly virtuous 'gainst the Town;  
A man that's learned too, and for his parts  
Is held a prodigy of all the Arts;  
A man of a clear soul, bold, temperate, free,  
Fortune and Passion wear his livery,  
And do obey; and when he will resign  
To mirth, is in at all things, but the Wine:  
Of an extraction Noble, and to do  
Him and the wonder right, he is young too:  
As handsome as thy Mistress, more divine,  
And hath no fault but that I call him mine:  
My jealousy doth cloud his name, 'tis fit,  
Nor art thou ripe for thy conversion yet.    

The Garden.  

THis Garden does not take my eyes,  
Though here you show how art of men  
Can purchase Nature at a price  
Would stock old Paradise again.   

These glories while you dote upon,  
I envy not your Spring nor pride,  
Nay boast the Summer all your own,  
My thoughts with less are safisfied.   

Give me a little plot of ground,  
Where might I with the Sun agree,  
Though every day he walk the Round,  
My Garden he should seldom see.   

Those Tulips that such wealth display,  
To court my eye, shall lose their name,  
Though now they listen, as if they  
Expected I should praise their flame.   

But I would see myself appear  
Within the Violets drooping head,  
On which a melancholy tear  
The discontented morn hath shed.   

Within their buds let Roses sleep,  
And virgin lilies on their stem,  
Till sighs from Lovers glide, and creep  
Into their leaves to open them.   

I th' centre of my ground compose  
Of bays and Ewe my Summer room,  
Which may so oft as I repose,  
Present my Arbour, and my tomb.   

No woman here shall find me out,  
Or if a chance do bring one hither,  
I'll be secure, for round about  
I'll moat it with my eyes foul weather.   

No Bird shall live within my pale,  
To charm me with their shames of Art,  
Unless some wandering Nightingale  
Come here to sing, and break her heart.   

Upon whose death I'll try to write  
An Epitaph in some funeral stone,  
So sad, and true, it may invite  
Myself to die, and prove mine own.    

C●rse  
WOman, I cannot call thee worse,  
For thy vow-break, take this curse,  
May that man whom thy embrace  
Shall make happy in my place,  
At a time when all thy blood  
Lust hath poisoned, and no good  
Left in a thought, strike with that air  
He breathes upon thee next, despair,  
Some death in his curled forehead fit,  
And every kiss more cold than it:  
Yet live, and my revenger be;  
For when thou dost this Gorgon see,  
Betwixt thy horror, and no doubt  
But that thou art a stone throughout;  
With some knife or poniard wound  
Thy heart, till falling to the ground,  
And pale, the world believe thee dead,  
But not one tear upon thee shed.  
No matter where thy spirit flies,  
Or whose pity close thine eyes.   

To the proud M.  
PRoud woman, know I am above  
As much thy anger as thy love:  
I did once think thou hadst a face;  
But when next thou tak'st thy glass,  
If thou canst see through so much paint,  
Pray to thy own; no more my Saint;  
Thy eyes, those glouring twins, shall be  
No more misleading fires to me;  
Nor hope they shall continue bright,  
For I will curse out all their light:  
But this would show that I were vexed,  
And so thy Tryimph might be next  
That thou shouldst force me into rage:  
No, I will laugh thee into age,  
Strike wrinkles on thy brow, and not  
Discompose my pleasant thought,  
Till thou, thy Witches face despise,  
And grow angry with their eyes,  
Thus wretched thou shalt wish to die,  
But late obtain it; and when I  
Have j●erd thee into dead and rotten,  
I'll throw thee into quite forgotten.   

Cupid ungodded.  

WHy how now Cupid, grown so wild?  
So great a Tyrant, and a Child?  
What wert thou but an empty shade,  
Until our superstition made  
Thee first a God? Blind, young, to be  
A soft and harmless deity.  
Our Fancy gave thee that rich pair  
Of Wings, to wanton in the air:  
Thy gaudy Quiver, and thy Bow,  
And golden shafts we did bestow,  
But for no other exercise  
Then to kill Bees, or Butterflies.   

But since thou hast employed thy darts  
Only to wound thy maker's hearts,  
And that thy wings serve but to fly  
From Lovers, when they bleeding die;  
Thy blindness used but to invite  
Our pity, till we lose our sight,  
Thy weakness, not through want of years,  
But from the surfeit of our Tears;  
Stoop to the Justice of thy fate,  
We can unmake that did create.   

And first give back (ingrateful Thing)  
To us that made thy glorious wing  
Those painted feathers thou shalt find  
Contemned, and tossed by every wind,  
Till wandering in some night, they are  
The mark of a prodigious star,  
And blasted; these the world shall name  
The spotted wings of evil fame:  
Next, give thy arrows back, which we  
Did mean for Love, not Cruelty.  
That rich enameled bow is mine,  
Come, that gay quiver too resign,  
And shining Belt; These will I burn,  
And keep their ashes in some urn,  
Till opened on that solemn day,  
When men to souls sad requiems pay:  
Lovers shall curse, and sigh, and make  
A new litany for thy sake.   

But thou art still alive; and be;  
To murder, were to pity thee.  
Know wretch, thou shalt not die, before  
I see thee begging at some door:  
And taken for a Vagrant stripped,  
Then by a furious Beadle whipped,  
No more with Roses, but with Thorn:  
To all the world thus made a scorn,  
I'll give thee Eyes before we part,  
To see thy shame, and break thy heart.    

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

To a Beautiful Lady.  
A Way with handsome faces, let me see  
Hereafter nothing but deformity;  
Ill-favoured Ladies may have souls, and those  
In a capacity to be saved, who knows?  
All that are fair are false, and if you find  
A middle essence here of womankind,  
Party par pale they are, and cursed to be  
Halting betwixt mishap and perjury.  
Madam, put on your mask, your eyes have lost  
Their charm; your beauty be at your own cost.  
I am ashore, go muster up the Train  
Of Mermaids, I am deaf to every strain;  
And will so voice their story to wise men,  
They shall not spawn upon the Land again.  
Farewell fond love for ever! but to be  
Safe in my soul, I could want charity.   

Dialogue.  

1. I prithee tell me what prodigious fate  
Hath discomplexion thee of late?  
2. Love that doth change all minds and men,  
Hath thus transformed me, and when  
Thou seest her heavenly face. 1. Describe her then.   

●. Her Hairs are Cupid's nets. which when she spreads,  
She catches hearts and maidenheads;  
Her Forehead the white Alps doth show,  
Or rather 'tis a shrine of snow,  
To which with fear approaching Pilgrims bow.   

Her eyebrows are loves bows, from which her eyes  
Do never shoot, but some man dies:  
Her cheeks like two fair gardens rise,  
With the choice flowers of Paradise.  
Her lips disclose where music's Temple is.   

Her Tongue I call love's Lightning, but the Throne  
Of Graces is her Neck alone,  
Or Poets may inspired say  
There the wanton Doves do play,  
When Venus means to make it holiday.   

1. No more for shame? how hath thy fancy strayed;  
What a chimaera hast thou made  
To dote upon? what would I give  
Old Michael Angelo to revive?  
Make Titian, Vandike, or bold Reuben live?   

But suppose one of them, or all their Art  
Should paint this darling of thy heart  
A net, a rock, a shrine of snow,  
A Church, a garden, and a bow,  
Is't not a pretty face compounded so?   

Or if a Pencil, and their hand should make  
A flame of Lightning, who will take  
This for a tongue? Or if men see  
A Throne, Doves billing two or three,  
Who will commend this for a neck but thee?   

Collect thy scattered sense (poor man) be wise,  
Love, but first give thy reason eyes;  
Thy fancy bears all like a flood;  
Reduce them to their flesh and blood,  
And Women than are hardly understood.     

A Postscript to the Reader.  
I Had no intention upon the birth of these Poems, to let them proceed to the public view, forbearing in my own modesty to interpose my Fancies, when I see the World so plentifully furnished. But when I observed most of these Copies corrupted in their transcripts, and the rest fleeting from me, which were by some indiscreet Collector not acquainted with distributive Justice, mingled with other men's (some Eminent) conceptions in Print, I thought myself concerned to use some vindication, and reduce them to my own, without any pride or design of deriving opinion from their worth, but to show my charity, that other innocent men should not answer for my vanities.  
If thou be'st courteous, Reader, there are some errors of the press scattered, which thy Clemency will not lay to my charge: Other things I remit to thy judgement: If thou be'st modest, I repent not to have exposed them and myself to thy censure.  
J. S