SOMNIUM CANTABRIGIENSE, OR A POEM Upon the death of the late King brought to London,  
By a Post to the Muses.  
LONDON, Printed by Matthew Simmons next door to the Golden Lion in Aldersgate Street. 1649.   

To the famous Dreamer JOHN QVARLES, Ordinary Poet to CHARLES the SECOND.  

GEntleman Poet come of Sire,  
Who to the Muses was a Squire;  
In Verse thou very Natural,  
And no way Artificial  
John Quarles, I the Muse's post  
Implore thine aid, (who rul'st the roast,  
Helps the Kitchen Maids to Papers  
To cover it, and set up Tapers,  
Who lest a Vacuum should be,  
Ballads forbidden in Poetry,  
Hast in spite of Angry Times,  
Published many dreaming Rhimes)  
To assist with might and main,  
Me in such a dreaming Vein.   

The Daughters of Mnemosyne  
Can help no more than they did thee; 
a The 〈…〉   
For hardly either thou or I,  
Can sleep so many Maids being by,  
How should we dream then? and I fear  
Can we, it would be of them were there.  
Apollo is the God of Day,  
And so assist me neither may,  
Nor will; for fear Diana might  
Sue Him for trespass on her right,  
And the Man is so unruly  
In the Moon she cannot truly.   

None better therefore than thyself,  
Can I invoke, Thou Rhimeing Elf;  
Come a Dreamer can infuse,  
Virtue into a Sleeepie Muse.  
Then if Thou hast any pity,  
Teach me how to dream a ditty,  
Let my Verse be like my Theme  
Dull, and heavy, such as thy Dream,  
Which such due proportion kept,  
We are covinced, thy wit too slept:  
That all who read me may protest,  
I dream in earnest too, not jest  
But if thou dost deny me, Know  
Thy Book shall never say me no.   

The Apology.  
GEntlemen, sure 'tis neither Law nor Reason,  
A man should be attaint for dreaming Treason;  
But if it should, 'tis nothing unto me,  
Another dreamt, and told it as you see:  
Yet both have more than dreamt, (you say) this Act  
Hath changed the dreaming of it into fact:  
'Tis true we writ, and published this story,  
Good cause we knew we should be accessory  
Should we conceal it: Thus to clear all doubt  
Of our Integrities, we put it out  
You see; if any danger's in the thing,  
Who can run fastest may acquaint his King.    

The Character of the Dreamer, and your Friend the bringer of it in Verse  

THe Dreamer is a man of some degree,  
A Bachilar of Art, past Sophistry:  
An able disputant, you need not fear  
A fallacy in what's presented here:  
Had 
b Two Fellows of Keyes College who pretend to Revelations.  Philip's seen as much, or Harrington,  
They would have cried a Revelation.  
But he averred it nonsense, for to write,  
That he (when fast asleep) saw a new light:  
He is so Orthodox, he'd rather be  
A Dreaming fellow thought, than Sectary;  
All such he hates more, than he loves a King,  
Or Bishiop, never doubt then what we sing:  
He deeply swore all true, and I am loath,  
To have him put to dream another Oath,  
He bid me tell you too, if any do  
Doubt it or me, They may to Cambridge go,  
To him; but sure you may believe your eyes  
As soon as ears, 'tis cheaper; then be wise.   

And I your Verser, Gentlemen believe't,  
For Age and standing too might have morewit.   

Yet by the way know this, when first I saw  
That Reverend utter Barrister at Law;  
Height William Prynne was turned an arrant Poet.  
I thought no wise man ere again would do it:  
Would he in Lawyer's Latin Verse as much;  
He might do wondrous Service 'gainst the Dutch;  
How would he yoke 
c Who hath written most dull verses against the State.  Salmasius, and that fool?  
Who sure mistook, and slept on Mount 
d The Castle Pryn was Prisoner in.  Orgule  
Instead of Mount Parnassus, and of Rhine,  
Or buttermilk hath swiled, for Hyppcrene.  
But Pryn's on their side, and against the State  
You say, let him deplorethen Charles his fate,  
And verse so like himself; that all may swear,  
He is to Ignoramus lawful Heir:  
Thus he, and his Dutch dullmen may perchance  
(If Fortune favour fools) Themselves advance.   

I say when first I saw pryn's Mount 
f His Poem he thus styles in honour to that place where he writ it.  Orgule.  
To which no Man can Rhyme, nor word but Foole.  
And he must be an arrant one too, who  
In English Verse like William Pryn shall do.  
I was let blood in the Poetike Vein,  
And drenched for ever swallowing Verse again.  
And so remained, till of a versing kind,  
A dreaming Poet rectified my mind,  
And so inspired my Breast, I could not choose,  
But here present you with a dreaming Muse:  
The Dreamer too besought a friend to write  
For him, whose Brains were troubled to indite    

The Dream.  

THe World's bright eye had in its lid the West  
Closed all Beams, and night inviting-rest  
Had drawn her sable Curtains round the sky,  
And spread abroad her star decked Canopy.  
The God of sleep had summoned every Breast,  
On its Allegiance to repair to rest.  
But this most sorrowful Sir would not obey,  
He heard the King had lost his Head that day:  
Frantic with rage and grief he thus replies;  
How can we sleep dull God without our eyes?  
Which we have lost in losing of our Head  
Thine Empire is expired now CHARLES is dead,  
And we Death's Conquest, whose keen Axes edge  
Will vindicate thy breach of privilege.  
This said, he takes a bottle, sorrow's dry,  
And drinking, vowed to write an ELEGY.  
Then cries (his bottle plying still) divine,  
And mighty sack no fancy can decline  
So low, but Thou canst raise it, only Thou  
Canst give a dumb Muse voice; O do then throw  
So rich infusion through my heavy Brain,  
That I revived may reach as high a strain  
In Verse as Thou canst give, and here I vow,  
Fresh Laurels shall impale thy sparkling brow,  
And the wide world shall know only thy Might,  
Can make a Poet loftilie Indite.  
Thus spoke He, and then drinks; Morpheus stood by,  
And smiling to himself did thus reply:  
Fondling alas! dost think that sack can make  
Thee find thy feet, which doth from others take  
All use of Legs? but thou shalt quickly feel,  
Our Maze as soon as Sack can make thee reel;  
And since thou art so saucy, thou shalt know  
Our power, and what the God of sleep can do:  
This said, he laid his Mace upon his Head,  
Who straight sank down asleep into his Bed.   

His senses thus fast bound Morpheus commands,  
A nimble dream to lose his fancies bands,  
Which freed a rambling went, and made no stay  
Until a Troop of Soldiers stopped its way.   

This Troop besmeared, with blood & dust thus cried  
England is free, great Jove be magnified,  
And our just cause exaulted, thus they went,  
Until they came, where sat the Parliament,  
And England's Genius in the midst enthroned  
Whose Temples were with Verdant Laurel crowned.   

The Soidiers seen stand! England's Geniuss cries,  
Your Servants, their brave Chief bowing replies,  
Whose lives attended on your high command,  
To know your further pleasure here do stand.   

Welcome, thrice welcome, says he, to these arms  
Are you, whose courage hath preserved from harms  
Your Country, and her freedom; t' you I own  
This Laureate wreath, which now empales my Brow,  
Take then the Palm and Laurel from these hands  
Which your high valour hath redeemed from bands;  
And you grave Senators, who have endured  
The trial, and by these have been secured  
Embrace them, go ye on both hand in hand,  
Your Counsel, and their Swords must save this I and.  
Thus linked march, whilst I shall Io's sing  
Unto your Triumphs, which through Europe ring,  
That Warlike Europe which stands doubting now,  
Wither to smile, or knit an angry Brow,  
On you were best; whose Tyrants though they hate  
England's example, yet fear England's State.  
For I am now in a poetike vein,  
This Laurel hath so wrought upon my Brain:  
And my first Subject (sigh some Royal Slaves  
In verse, & print have played the flattering knaves)  
Shall be of that just Act, whereby you durst,  
Make him drink blood, who so for blood did thirst.  
This said, he pawsed a while, then round did look.  
And rising, thrice his comely tresses shaken.   

Admitted Ovid thus affirms his Jove,  
Having conveen'd a Parliament above  
Of Gods and Goddesses, before he spoke  
To them did thus his dreadful tresses shake.  
Thus dance the Oaths in circular careers  
At the Celestial music of the Spheres:  
And thus Prophetic Sibyl when she sung,  
Inspired Lays about her head she fling:   

Mock not malignants then, for no way fit  
It is the Tongue should run before the wit:  
Nor Solecism can you it ever prove  
To see the head at the tongues motion move,  
Which shows that reason from her throne assents;  
To that the tongue by vocal accents vents,  
And that the soul Qneen Regent doth confer,  
On it the office of Interpreter.  
This gesture with the Subject suiteth well  
Jove of Lycaon, He of Charles doth tell;  
And do but you what he enditeth read,  
I'm confident it will make you shake the Head,   

Which was, if you or We the Dreamer may  
Believe, even word for word with this we say.   

Be free my fancy, for the Tyrant's dead,  
And find thy feet now he hath lost his head.  
The shackles are filled off, England is free,  
And as my Country, my invention be:  
In sacred Numbers, equal Acts rehearse,  
And as they are divine, so be my Verse.   

Astraea is returned, and whence she came,  
Celestial justice doth aloud proclaim.  
Caligula's! hast underneath your beds  
It Thunders, hid, or you may lose your heads,  
The Godlike Senate here, great Jove above,  
Accept not persons if they guilty prove.  
That juggling Tyrant, 
Salmoneus King of Elis, who making a brazen bridge, and riding in his Chariot to counterleit Thunder, was slain by a Thundorbolt.  was from's Chariot thrown  
By the revengeful bolt, nor could the Crown  
Of stately Elis free him from his fate,  
Who proudly durst the Thunderer imitate.  
Ixion's Sceptre could not scotch the Wheel,  
Nor Belieshazzer's Cups make justice reel.  
Proph ets as well as Poets, let's us see,  
That Kings from Heaven high justice are not free.  
A triple Crown's not bail for CHARLES his Head,  
Who murders men, by men his blood is shed:  
The twice two Lions can't defend the Throne,  
When he turns Tyrant that doth sit thereon. 
Philip Father of Alexander the great, who said, he would make an Ass laden with gold march into the strongest holds.   
Thou subtle Father of a va liant Son  
Had such men lived then? Thou hadst been undone.  
Gold-bearing Asses could thee nought avail,  
When golden Lions before these turn Taile.  
The Rampant Lion gules couchant lies,  
Yea dead before his wont sacrifice.  
Nor can the Harp enchant which Poets say,  
Made the unbridled Destinies obey,  
Yea Atropos to lay aside her knife, 
One of the three destinies which cuts the thread of life.   
And help rewinde a then unravelled life.  
Can Orpheus with a sound so easily bribe,  
That before thought inexorable Tribe.  
'Tis Heaven's High Court of justice only can  
And England's claim the style impartial than.  
But most conceive CHARLES fingered ill the Harp.  
And triple murders made it sound too sharp  
He ran too much division to appease  
Incensed Heaven, whom Concord best doth please.  
This made the Lilies fade, and Roses lie  
Withered i'th' Field of England's Heraldry.  
And though they nor the Thistle never bud,  
Which have been watered with such showers of blood.  
Yet Gules on Argent will enough dispense,  
Both England's valour, and her innocence,  
For her renowned cross is farther known  
Than Rose or Thistle, though when broadest blown:   

Her justice now Fame's Trump shall louder sound,  
And this great blow the earthly Globe surround:  
Just, potent Senate! your victorious Arm,  
Shall give remotest Nations the alarm;  
And your loud Thundering sentence shall awake  
The drowsiest slaves, whilst proudest Tyrants quake.  
Thus when high Jove, his threeforked lightning flings,  
Th' oppressor trembles, but the oppressed sings.  
Let Rome now cease, to boast her Erutus name,  
And her bold Senate lackey to your fame;  
Set her proud Tarquin lower on Record,  
His petty Tyrannies can naught afford  
May equal Charles? whose licentious reign  
Outwent what he durst wish, or Rome could feign.  
Tullia ascended by her Father's Tomb  
And poisoned James for Charles, and George made room.  
She drove her Chariot o'er the murdered King,  
The Parliament's dissol'vd for questioning  
Endeared Buckingham. Was Charles too nigh  
In blood to James, even in his Tragedy?  
Who could have thought but justice would be done  
The Father murdered, and the Judge the Son:  
Poor Cobweb Laws! The Son whom you juge fit,  
To follow the indictment, hindered it.  
But this was like the rest, an Act of grace,  
And Charles would not be judge in his own case.  
Lest truth unveiled, prerogative might mar,  
And George call Charles along unto the Bar.   

But Gossip Truth leave prattling: Doctors say  
Charles never murderer pardoned, and pray  
Dare the Lay-animals from their rules swerve,  
When the Priests lips all knowledge must preserve?  
Or dare thy boldest Sons believe this deed?  
And so deny one point of the Cabs Creed.  
O! Infidels who will believe their eyes  
Befre these Ghostly Father's fopperies.   

O for a Cloud! 'tis ignorance only can  
Preserve devotion in the English man.  
This light of truth quite spoils the trade of Rome,  
And robs Charles of the Crown of Martyrdom, 
Which adjourned be-because of the plague at London.    

The Parliament's broke up; they could not shun  
Their fate though they had unto Oxford run,  
Oxford is part of England, there they fall;  
Charles reigned, the plague was Epidemical.  
One City is to narrow for to mourn  
The Nation must attend on James his Urn,  
And London's plague (which never English eye  
Equalled beheld until his Tyranny)  
To the three Nations the Almighty sent,  
To typify the following punishment.  
The hundred thousands, which these seven years fell  
Five thousand in seven days did then foretell;  
That England, Scotland, Ireland now may say,  
Thousands the plague, ten thousands Charles did slay.  
Nor could an Ocean bound him, France must feel  
In Rochels' bowels, Charles his treacherous steel:  
There were not Protestants enough at home,  
To state his fury, he abroad must roam;  
And as if England's earth could not suffice,  
To drink the blood spilt by his Tragedies;   

Both Cales and Re, the French and Spanish Sword,  
To murder Englishmen must help afford.  
At last Charles, who so prodigally spent  
His! Cannon to beat down a Parliament,  
Roused justice with his Thunder, who thought good,  
He who in slaughter lived, should die in blood.  
Now you much inju'rd souls, who did so long  
About Astraea's Throne for justice throng:  
Now cease complaints; for Charles hath paid that due  
By the keen Axe, which he did owe to you.  
Revenge with leaden feet may slowly come,  
Her arms are steel, and when she strikes, strikes home.  
And thou much angreed Heaven, accept his head,  
As his Souls ransom for the blood he shed.  
And let this corporal punishment suffice,  
That blood may ne'er in judgement crying rise.  
Then shall this sentencefull as gainful be  
To Charles, as England, which seemed just to thee.  
This said, the Genius ceased, The Soldiers make  
A mighty shout, Then did our Dreamer wake.    

A POSTSCRIPT To the Reader.  
THat thou mayest be the better confirmed of the reality of this relation, I shall present thee with a Copy of verses I had begun, but was stopped by the arrest of sleep (who presented this dream to me that time) from going forward; I have left them, as sleep found them, and would neither erase or add one tittle: if they are abrupt, you had best quarrel with Morpheus, yet take heed he serve you not as he did me: if this Relation please thee, I am sorry thou hadst it not sooner: if thou be peevish and incredulous, I leave thee to the dull Gentleman, to have this or the like knocked into thy pate with his leaden Mace, the only argument able to convince those, whom truth and reason cannot conquer. But I hope the best therefore farewell.  
Cambridge early in the morning. Thy friend, or foe, choose thee whither. Sir, The Dreamer.   

THE ELEGY The Dreamer was making.  

COuld Charles expire, and yet no Comet burn?  
Or blazing Star wait on him to his Urn?  
To tell the wand'ring world his fall drew nigh:  
And with him too the fate of Monarchy.  
Had sable weeds so totally o'er spread  
Heavens mourning face? no Star could show its head.  
Was moisture so predominant above?  
No fire could through airs weeping regions move?  
And so their moister influence cause to expire,  
Old loyal flames, which Subjects hearts should fire.  
O ye-O ye-   
FINIS.