Clarastella; Together with Poems occasional, Elegies, Epigrams, Satyrs.  
By Robert Heath, Esquire.  
LONDON, Printed for HUMPH. MOSELEY, and are to be sold at his Shop at the sign of the Prince's Arms in S. Paul's churchyard, 1650.   

THE STATIONER To the Reader.  
Gentlemen,  
I Presume upon your Candour in the Entertainment of these Poems; otherwise I should despair of the authors mercy; I confess my presumption great, that have ventured to the Press without his knowledge; but the ●allantness and Ingenuity of the Gentleman is so Eminent in every thing, that I could not imagine, but that the meanest of his recreations, (for such was this) might carry much in it, worthy of the public view: besides the approbation of some friends hath heightened my desire of publishing it; who (upon their revising of it) do assure me, that it is a sweet piece of excellent fancy, and worthy to be called the authors own issue. Upon this Confidence, I expose it to the world, and remain  
Your faithful servant in this or any other way, H. MOSELEY.   

To my honoured friend Mr R. H. on his rich Poems and Satyrs.  

THou'rt gone, and yet Thou'rt here, to let us see  
The power of verse, how't makes ubiquity:  
Thus th'husbandman away the Harvest bears,  
And leaves the Poor to glean some scattered ears▪  
Thus we enjoy the Tap-wort of thy Muse,  
Whilst others quaff off thy Diviner juice:  
That thou wilt drop these crumbs, 'tis Comfort yet  
To them that can't deserve thy Cates to eat;  
Thy Dainties are for foreign palates, we  
Are blessed with scraps, That too, no thank to thee;  
For had not Fate, or Providence thrown us These,  
Hunger had been our Fare— and without Ease.  
But I have seen thy choicest cheer, and wish  
Thy several Arts to th'making up one dish:  
Thy rich Composures. I have seen Thee Frame  
Variety in that, which was the same:  
But much-good-do't-you Friends! for we're not right,  
Either in palate, or in Appetite.  
Ne'er fewer Raptures in an Age, less wit,  
Less Judgement, fancy, Poetry, and yet  
Th'unthrifty science ne'er more credit gained,  
Nor poesy in greater triumph reigned:  
The Laurel fades on Mercenary brows,  
But on the neck of Honour spreads her boughs.  
When Salary and profit ruled the Age,  
Some few, would, now and then, ride post, a stage;  
But Now 'tis otherwise— the Nobler steed  
Fame's fleetest Coursers, Pegasus own breed  
Do stately prance 'bout Helicons loved Brink,  
And at the Muses-Well would daily drink.  
The Alteration of the Times is such,  
Great ones turn Poets now— and so grow rich.  
All wit at Livery stood before, but now  
The Gentry are at leisure, a Lord too▪  
Can spare his great attendance, whilst he sits  
And Votes— Happy the man' Can live by's wits.  
And such art Thou—  
Hadst thou breathed, then, thine airs, so pure and free  
Th''ve won the wench, that now enjoyest the Tree;  
Apollo, then, would ba' been forced t' resign,  
His Courtship (friend) would have come short of Thine:  
The greater favour, thine, I take to be,  
While he grasps Her, she twines Her Arms 'bout Thee.   
G. H.   

POEMS, &c.  

The Temple of Virtue.  

REach me an eagle's plume! or take  
From Mercurie's Aethereal wing  
Some high-born quill my pen to make,  
Whilst I of Virtue sing!   

Th'Imperial Bay which Poets wore  
In Saturn's age, and humbly grew  
From base ignoble earth, is poor;  
My Temples some more new   

Unheard-of garland shall invest;  
One of Apollo's burnished hair  
Twisted with threads of life, and dressed  
With Sol's bright rays, I'll wear.   

Hence all profaner ears! my Lyre  
Exalted to seraphic height,  
Echoes strains worthy such a choir,  
And scorns a lower flight.   

Mounted methinks on Pegasus,  
From the despised world I fly  
Aloft in clouds, where soaring thus  
I view this deity.   

There sits she crowned in glorious state,  
And whitest robes of Innocence;  
Not in that poor despised estate  
As she was banished hence.   

I'th'midst of a fair▪ temple, there  
Unto her Honour consecrate,  
Her handmaids 'bout her Royal chair  
Adorned with Trophies wait.   

Oh did blind mortals but behold,  
How she dispenseth gifts each where  
To her attendants, I'd be bold  
They would with greater care   

Serve at her Altars! but alas!  
They fondly slight her here below,  
And think her nothing worth, because  
She doth so meanly go.   

They do not know what Conquest 'tis  
To have overcome one Rebel vice,  
What crowns of joy he purchases  
Who gets such victories.   

Virtue rewardeth sure, though late;  
Who grows soon rich by policy  
And thriving Arts, doth purchase hate,  
And robs his market, he   

Thus by forestalling it. Light gains  
Make heavy purses: honesty  
That doth itself reward, disdains  
Bones oft in modesty.   

For virtue's sake lets her affect  
And not for praise or benefit  
Accrueing thence, such by-respect  
Robs both ourselves, and it.   

Oh what a glorious Court doth there  
Of all the grace's Virtues too  
In female shape and dress appear!  
As if they would outdo   

The heaven's in splendour, and confine  
All worth unto that sex! behold  
Where modesty in blush divine  
With Roses set in gold   

Triumphant shines! and close by her,  
Silence that Pythagorean grace  
he taught his scholars, but by far  
More becomes female race.   

Next her sits Innocence arrayed  
In snow-white robes, and on her head  
A Chaplet wears of Love all made  
And lilies mingled.   

Hard by this Peer sits Chastiti●,  
Her ears close bound about, for fear  
(Though crowned with lilies too) lest she  
Should aught offensive hear.   

By her with book in hand, her eyes  
Fixed upwards sits true piety,  
As she with prayer could pierce the skies,  
Crowned with a galaxy.   

There Love, here affability,  
And by her, noble Gentleness;  
By whom sits faithful constancy,  
Each decked in several dress:   

Lowest of all humility  
Stands gravely by, as who would say  
(Though She were crowned too) that she  
Served waiting-maid that day.   

More do I Laureate view among  
These holy Nymphs: but oh! I see  
High above all this sacred throng,  
A richer deity,   

To whom these homage did, so fair,  
That I'll approach and nearer pry;  
Chiefly our eyes delighted are  
With curiosity.   

Nor is't enough one Grace to know;  
The way's all paved with stars, to bliss;  
We must from one to th'other go,  
And climb to perfectness.   

I'll through each glory then, and see  
What mighty goddess dwelleth there,  
Ruling with so much majesty  
In this diviner sphere.   

It must be she, and she alone,  
(Unless my dazzled eyes mistake)  
Whom all these Virtues wait upon,  
And their Queen Regent make.   

'Tis she: loved Clarastella, she  
These virtue's court: with whose fair store  
All mankind might enriched be,  
And yet not leave her poor.   

Thy pardon yet dear Quintessence  
Of all perfection! if I—  
In this thy holy conference  
Intruding press too nigh.   

'Twas Love did guide me to thy shrine,  
Where I'll adoring serve alone  
Thee, virtue's self, whose soul divine  
doth make these all, but one.    

On a dust got in Clarastella's eye.  

CAn I with patience this my rival see  
Courting those flames so long adored by me?  
Forcing her shut her eyes from me, and thaw  
A tear, which all my sighs ne'er thence could draw?  
Canst thou small crumb of earth eclipse my Sun,  
And make it set in clouds e'er day be done?  
Could aught but atoms to this Orb aspire?  
Durst aught but dust approach so great a fire?  
Hence thou unlucky beam, but more unkind,  
That mak'st at once me and my Stella blind!   

What have I said? my pious rage hath burned  
Too hot, and hath on the wrong object turned:  
Forgive me little moat; I know thou'rt free;  
How hath my angry zeal accused thee?  
'Las thou wast thither only sent by me,  
My guiltless loves unhappy Mercury.   

Wouldst know then (Fairest?) whence this dust doth rise?  
'Tis caused by th'flaming sparkles of thine eyes,  
Which like the lightning through my veins have shot  
Such ardent flames of love, so scorching hot,  
My heart's even burnt to ashes; hence it flies,  
Dust as you made it, back into your eyes.    

On Clarastella singing to the echo at Aythorn Church in Kent.  

'TWas when the Sun had purpled all the West,  
And newly stole into his rosy nest  
To bring the Tartars morn; our Nymph was grown  
Weary with walking, and did lay her down  
Upon the tender trefoils, glad to yield  
Unto so soft a pressure, in a field  
Near Aythorn's holy Church, to satisfy  
Our joint requests with her sweet harmony;  
In a serene still summer's evening,  
Fair Stella did exalt her voice and sing.   

And as the torrent of her melody  
Did gently flow in new variety  
Of melting strains, in whose swollen rhapsodies  
She cooled the day's heat, and thus fanned the skies,  
Her Zephyre breath no sooner whispered to  
The sacred walls, but straight was answered too;  
As if her Angel voice had echoed been  
By the blessed music of some Cherubin:  
Whilst from the Church the listening Spirit there  
Through envy of her fancies chirped to her,  
And with distinguished tones in every mood  
And skilful accent made her murmurs good.  
'Twas in the Church this Rival dwelled; 'tis there  
A better echo will our sighings here  
And answer too, though ne'er so softly groaned:  
(Where live thou still in this thy sphere enthroned)   

Soon as she did perceive her Art outdone  
By the invisible division  
Of the Reporters voice, she stretched her throat  
And warbling danced on a treble note  
In loftier measures. These th'Eccho likewise sent  
More perfect back, than from her first they went.   

Shame now twixt grief and anger placed, did raise  
Our Stella, and provoke to second lays:  
One whiles she soars like the morn's Lark on high,  
As with exalted voice she'd pierce the sky,  
Then with a sullen flat and deeper base,  
As she would marry her Immortal lays  
With her diviner Odes, she humbly dwells  
O th' Gamut. Th'Eccho too this lesson spells,  
And thus repeating descants▪ on each strain  
Much more distinctly relished and more plain.  
How have I loved church-music e'er since I  
First there heard this so heavenly harmony?   

Thus by alternate strivings as they had  
Even sung the Sun asleep, and made us sad  
In their behalf, scarce knowing which t'admire,  
And count the Mistress of this holy choir:  
Our Stella did attempt it once again  
To get the conquest; but alas! in vain  
She striving tired, and tired was fain to yield,  
While the Church-Saint was heard the last i'th' field.    

On Loving at first sight.  

SO smiles the Sun indeed with cheerful eye  
On the bright gold his rays informed; and so  
Doth that its borrowed beams reflect. But why  
Our hearts turned Solar, should each other woo  
In silence by aspect, I wonder, I.   

The Heliotrope that marks with watchful eye  
His Sol's beloved face, and gathers thence  
Those amorous features which he there did spy,  
Preserving them by secret influence,  
Waits on him with religious loyalty.   

By sighs and groans so woo the Turtles, and  
Thus do the Mutes by signs articulate  
Mysteriously each other understand;  
And in this brachygrapy can relate  
Their wills, with only help of eye and hand.   

Nature and Art doth these instruct, but we  
Led with more reason do our loves express  
By louder organs tongues: though the eye be  
The souls true speaking index I confess,  
Yet do we more believe the ear, than eye.   

Our forms in mirrors weep with us, or smile;  
So at these crystal casements of the eyes,  
Our other selves are represented, while  
Each visual beam by repercussion is  
First met, and so retort by joint recoil.   

Thus from the sparkling beam of either's eye,  
Fanned by their medium air, their hearts prepared,  
Like tinder, catch love's fire by sympathy,  
And mingle flames. Let Lovers than award  
Cupid his eyes, since theirs so well can see.    

On a black mole on Clarastella's fair check.  

HOw fair a Character hath Nature wrote!  
And printed on her cheek in black and white!  
While this i'th' fairer copy is no blot,  
But a full period; that the Reader might  
The better understand the sense, and know  
That here she stopped, and could no further go.   

As when the skilful Artist hath expressed  
With lively colours a fair countenance,  
Yet he at last doth shadow forth the rest,  
And so with shades the beauty much advance:  
So Nature having drawn this lovely piece,  
With this last shade perfects her Artifice.   

'Tis like the mark o'th' richer text: or hand  
O'th' margin leading to some Paradise,  
where't points at some choice flower i'th' garden, and  
Bids you there fix, and feast your greedy eyes:  
This molehill's Cupid's throne, on which he sits,  
And with his love-armed shafts each breast he hits.   

Let meaner beauties patch their painted faces,  
Studying the black art of complexion,  
Nature hath here without Arts helping Graces,  
Firmly engraved all perfection.  
Stella's the pattern which they imitate;  
They have no form but what they do create▪    

Bleeding at the nose at Clarastella's approach.  

SO at the murderers approach we see  
The corpse weep at its wounds again;  
And I who first was slain  
And robbed of reason's soul by thee,  
Walk but a living corpse, and drawing nigh,  
Thus doth my guiltless blood thy murder cry,  
From my dead heart it flows, and boldly there  
It stares thee in thy guilty face  
(Fair cruel murderess!)  
Soon as I thee approach more neat:  
While thus the spirits all emitted are,  
And for thee blushing in my face appear,  
Yet back thou small remainder of my life  
And bid my drooping heart revive  
Which thus again may live,  
Could it but some remorseful grief  
Raise in thee at this horrid sight, that then  
You may be quit, and I no Ghost again.    

Seeing Her Dancing.  

RObes loosely slowing, and aspect as free,  
A careless carriage decked with modesty;  
A smiling look, but yet severe:  
Such comely Graces 'bout her were.  
Her steps with such an evenness she weave,  
As she could hardly be perceived to move;  
Whilst her silk sails displayed, she  
Swam like a ship with majesty.  
As when with steadfast eyes we view the Sun,  
We know it goes though see no motion;  
So undiscerned she moved, that we  
Perceived she stirred, but did not see.    

To her having got a great Cold.  

WHat blasting dews are these  
That on thy active spirits seize?  
And tie that tongue, did make  
Music to all that heard it speak?  
As by the fire Ice is  
Made by Antiperistasis;  
So doth thy heart's flame within  
And th'warm air ambient 'bout thy skin  
And colder self, congeal it  
To such a coldness you scarce feel it.  
'Tis so: the heat is more intense  
And glows by th'numbness of each sense.  
But oh! that vital part  
Kill not (thou cruel frost!) her heart!  
May th'Elemental fire  
That burns there purely through desire,  
Scorch, like our fires below  
More fiercely, for the frost and snow!    

The Invocation to Cupid.  

OH do not look me dead, fair eyes!  
Do not allure and then despise!  
Be kind but as your picture! that  
Will look and smile, though you will not.  
Ye Gods! or women make less fair!  
Or else less cruel than they are!  
Or strike me Cupid blind like thee,  
So I my torment shall not see.    

To one blaming my high-minded Love.  

TOo great? wherein? is it in wealth or blood?  
Or is she any way too good?  
The sacred treasure that I bring, is Love,  
Angels enjoy nor wish no more;  
'Tis Sovereign too, and sans allay will prove  
As rich as both her Indies doubled o'er.   

Love makes equality; nor will admit  
Finites should bound an Infinite:  
Who sets no value on himself, shall ne'er  
By others much esteemed be.  
Blind Cupid doth assist the bold, while fear  
Unman's the heart, and shuts the lover's eye.   

But she is high and well-descended; true;  
My birth styles me as freeborn too;  
No peasant blood doth stein or chill my veins,  
And the proud Youth that warms them, he  
Was of a goddess born, and thus disdains  
I should adore less than a deity.   

My loves diviner flames do upwards fly  
By nature like their sparks on high;  
Base heavy things do only downward tend  
To the dull centre gave them birth;  
But heav●n-deduced spirits there ascend:  
Whilst low ignoble minds fix to their earth.   

Man's sight erected looks to heaven, that so  
His thoughts he there might level too:  
She is the Empyraeum of my love;  
Whose Glories though they blast mine eyes,  
Yet shall my Eagles singed feathers prove  
Bright Trophaees of a gallant enterprise.    

On Clarastella's Picture drawn very like her.  

FAir shadow of a fairer substance! when▪  
Thy lively second self I see,  
Nature doth blush that by Arts powerful pen  
Stella again create should be.  
See where She all identified appears  
Except that soul we cannot see!  
Whilst this, her eyes, form, shape, and colour wears,  
And' cud it breath, would say 'twere She.  
Bright Image of my Saint! to thee I'd bow,  
Were it not flat idolatry,  
To think thou'lt hear what scarce deaf she will do,  
In hope thy lips can answer, I.  
Yet will I make this holy use of thee:  
The looking oft on thee may mind  
Me of that more respectful deity  
That to my prayers may be inclined.    

On Mrs. E. H. having red hair on her head, and on her left side a pure white lock▪ growing.  

TEll me no more of Helen fair,  
Of Daphne, or that famous pair▪  
Of lovely Dames whom Jove did court  
And tempted to his bed of sport.  
Such a fair wonder I shall tell  
The Golden age can't parallel:  
Her hair the richest Metal yields,  
Whilst she like Ceres gilds the fields:  
And her smooth flesh with red and white  
So fitly mixed, so purely bright,  
While the choice flowers there smile so gay,  
She's fair as Flora fresh as May.  
Lily and Rose dwell in her face,  
In every look and smile a Grace,  
And in whom all is understood  
What we count either Fair or Good.   

As is the Saints more precious head  
With gilded rays environed;  
So 'bout this Comet you shall see  
The emblem of her deity.  
Such light surrounds, that all may say  
'Tis she not Phoebus rules the day;  
While those loose flames about her spread,  
Irradiate, not shade her head.  
Let me adore this saintlike Shrine,  
there's treasure in this golden mine:  
It was not Jason, no; 'twas She  
That got the Golden fleece, not he.  
She whose sweet looks and glorious hair  
Dart like warm lightning through the air:  
That in this golden shower of love  
She seems like Danae fit for Jove;  
And the gilt threads which twisted lie  
Wreathed with Arts embroidery,  
About her Temples, in her praise  
A Garland and a Crown do raise.  
Why should fond fancy then compare▪  
The sadder with the brighter hair?  
Black tresses' come the browner hue  
To set it off the better: you  
Need no such foil; your Angel face  
Wants neither beauty, worth, nor grace.   

But here! behold a silver beam  
Which from this Blazing-star doth stream,  
And in such curling waves doth flow  
About her Ivory breast below;  
White as the soul she wears within,  
Doth speak her pure and free from sin!  
Not the blanched snow or Pearly dew  
Of Morn, affords a brighter hue.  
Here is that crystal milky way  
Which leads (like morning to the day)  
To heaven: oh thither let me come  
And climb to loves Elysium!  
So fitly on her left side placed,  
And with such beauty it is graced,  
That Nature sure when this she gave her,  
Bid her there wear it as her favour.   

As in our Heraldry we deem  
These colours of the best esteem,  
With Sol and Luna blazing forth  
The nobler Arms of higher worth:  
So Nature having drawn this piece  
(Than which was never artifice  
So neatly penned and polished o'er  
With skilful art and beauty more)  
Resolved for its great worth and fame,  
To put it in a Golden frame.  
If in these outward parts we find  
Such worth; what bears her richer mind?   

May this fair grove than never fade!  
Or be by blasting time decayed!  
May age ne'er hoar that lovely hair,  
Or leave that golden mountain bare!  
May not thy envious comb presume  
To pluck from thee one precious plume!  
But if you shed a hair let't prove  
A chain to lead thy captived love  
Or let 't a holy relic be  
Preserved to after ages free.  
That the succeeding times may tell,  
This from the Queen of Beauty fell.    

Amoris Somnium. To Clarastella.  

LOve is a waking dream, where both the mind▪  
And all the senses drowned in sleep we find:  
Only the fancy worketh, that doth range  
And to a thousand strange ideas change.  
For as in dreams we often turn, and sigh,  
And groan, as if we were about to die,  
Sometimes we startle as we were afraid,  
Then breathe distracted words, and cry for aid:  
So in a trance true Lovers restless are,  
Fraught with disordered thoughts, and full of care,  
So speechless too, when they with grief oppressed  
Speak somewhat, and in sighs do vent the rest.   

Stella! when thus you see me, wake me pray;  
You know what ails me, though I nothing say.    

On Clarastella singing.  

YE that in love delight  
Approach this sacred choir, and feast your ears!  
Whilst she the sweetest Siren sings,  
Whose music equals the harmonious spheres,  
And perhaps richer pleasure brings!  
The dying Swan or Philomela  
O'th' wood, not warble's half so well;  
Observe the cadence where each dying sound,  
Creates new echoes to a sift rebound.  
Here's music to the sight:  
She looks and sings with such majestic grace,  
That when I Clarastella hear,  
She more than woman seems, her voice and face  
Taking at once both eye and ear,  
That which of these two senses may  
Be most refreshed, is hard to say.  
To glorify her after death, she'll ne'er  
Need change; She's Angel now, and heaven is here.    

A Love Dialogue between Damon and Stella.  Dam. 

I Prithee Stella why so coy?  
Be free as fair, and we'll enjoy  
New pleasures to eternity.   Stel. 
— O no: I dare not, I.  Dam. 

Nature's Apostate wilt thou prove,  
That cements all with love?  
When all her creatures coupled are,  
Will you be singular?   Stel. 

Though all were Male and Female made,  
Yet none shall me in vade.   Dam. 

View but our mother earth whose fruit  
Adds all the glory to it!  
Where all things generate with delight,  
And feeling appetite.   Stel. 

I don't abjure society,  
'Tis fate commands antipathy.   Dam. 

The Sun whose powerful influence  
Actuates each soul with sense;  
Inflames chaste Turtles with desires;  
And can you want such fires?   Stel. 

Yes: and that bird shall imitate  
That lives without a mate.   Dam. 

Th' Arabian foul is chaste alone  
Because it is but one:  
For had wise Nature made them two,  
They would like Doves and Sparrows do.   Stel. 

Yet the chaste phoenix is admired,  
And thought the rarest bird.   Dam. 

No: she is nature's wonder, 'cause  
She only breaks her laws;  
For which a Martyr in desire,  
She penance doth in fire.   Stel. 

But I shall die with cold. Dam. How then  
Can you inflame us men?   Stel. 

Although mine eye may sparkle, yet  
My heart is frozen quite.   Chorus. 

With warm embraces, hot desires,  
And with loves soft yet active fires,  
Let's warm each other till we prove  
One flaming sacrifice to Love.    

Clarastella playing sweetly on the Lute.  

THat empty guts of beasts, and hollow wood,  
So rare a sound should make, what mortal would  
Believe? did he not see what heavenly hand  
Made the strings move and breath, at whose command  
They died, or echoed from the sacred choir  
Lays, did our souls as well as them, inspire?  
His lost Eurydice when Orpheus won,  
Alas, his skill compared with thine, was none:  
He only taught the rocks to dance, you move  
Each stony heart, inflamed by you, to love;  
Then with your powerful and enchanting hand  
Turn us to stones again, and make us stand  
Like unmoved Statues, whilst amazed we  
Attend the voice of heaven's blessed harmony,   

How the Gods listen to her graceful airs  
Attentive as to Saints devouter prayers?  
Wishing she'd in those dying sounds expire  
In swan-like ecstasy, to fill their choir!  
Hark how she whispers from that holy bower,  
An Ep'taph for each wounded auditor!  
While from her sweeter hand the warbling lyre  
Borrows that sweetness we so much admire.  
Touched by her quickening joints the active strings  
Leap to express their joys, whilst the sound brings  
Such new delight; I could but wish this bliss,  
That hearing her, I had no sense but this.    

To Clarastella. love's entertainment.  

WHen Love was exiled heaven, and to and fro  
For want of friends did here a-begging go,  
To seek relief, in this sad pilgrimage  
I entertained the Youth my maenial page.  
And though he was of many held in scorn,  
Yet knew I he was of a goddess born.  
For whose fair sake I took him home, and laid  
Him in the fairest lodging that I had.  
I clothed the hungersterved wretch when he  
Was almost dead for cold and misery:  
Daily I fed him with my sighs, and in  
My tears he quenched his thirst and bathed his skin.  
Encouraged thus the lad grew saucy, he  
Would from a servant now a Master be.  
First he enticed my thoughts and cunningly  
Wrought their consent to the conspiracy;  
Then he fast bound my senses by surprise,  
That so he might at th' Porthole of mine eyes  
Bring in's Associate; then set th' fort on fire,  
Having betrayed the breastworks to desire.   

You are that goddess hatched and sent this spy,  
I therefore do forgive his treachery.  
(Fair Empress) now y'have got it by a wile,  
I'll teach you how to keep it: with a smile.    

On Clarastella walking in the Snow that dissolved as soon as it came near her or the ground she trod on.  

WHen heaven's Mercurial drops flew gently down,  
As they would clothe not pierce the ground;  
Yet they no sooner landed and fallen near  
Her Glories, but twixt grief and fear  
Lest by her candour theirs should be outvied,  
In envy's tears dissolving died.  
So have I seen bright falling Stars in show,  
Quench in dark jellies here below,  
When they false Meteors did (descended) spy  
A truer light in Stella's eye:  
Thus not hearts only when her warmth is felt  
But Snow and fire itself do melt.    

To Clarastella. love's Silence.  

AY me! when I  
Am blind with passion why  
Should my best reason speechless prove?  
Doth joys excess  
(Which words can ne'er express)  
In silent rhetoric speak my love?  
If so; each smothered sigh will vent my smart,  
And say, I love not with my tongue, but heart.  
But oh! if She  
(Blind boy!) should chance to be  
As deaf, as my discourse is dumb,  
I'll never more  
Thy deity adore,  
Or to thee 'ere for refuge come.  
O when thou seeest me stand thus mute and blind,  
For pities sake (my Stella!) then be kind!  
Know that such love  
Like heavens' comes from above,  
And is beyond expression large;  
Language is weak,  
And should I strive to speak  
Words would but lessen not discharge.  
My love's deep Sea's as silent as profound:  
Full casks stand mute, only the empty sound.    

Clarastella distrusting.  

YOu say you love me, nay can swear it too,  
But stay Sir 'twill not do;  
I know you keep your oaths  
Just as you wear your clothes;  
Whilst new, and fresh in fashion;  
But once grown old you lay them by,  
Forgot like words you speak in passion,  
I'll not believe you, I.    

To Clarastella affrighted at the sight of a Cats fiery eyes in the dark, which caused her to shriek.  

THy shrill voice pierced each apprehensive ear  
Deep, as thy heart could smitten be with fear;  
That, if I had not known the tongue, I could  
Ha'wisht it out: but since fate pleased I should  
Be thus o'th' sudden thunder-stricken, why  
Saw I no lightning from thy troubled eye?  
Forewarned thus had I been forearmed, and though  
Prevented not, I had foreseen the blow.  
Ne'er weeping Stag, thus frighted, cried so loud  
Though by his thirsty foes so close pursued,  
As thou (fair) Stella at the sight of that  
Some Heathen worship as their God, a Cat,  
Whose glaring eyes did unexpected shine  
But with like wonder for to gaze on thine.  
And as they at full Moon increase: so now  
The fullness of your glory swelled them too.  
Since lightning flew from each amazed eye,  
I mar'le not such a clap did follow, I.    

On a Fleabite espied on her fair hand.  

BEhold how like a lovely fragrant Rose  
Midst a fair lily bed,  
Or set in Pearl like a bright ruby shows,  
This little spot of red!  
Art could not die a Crimson half so good  
As this was made by th' tincture of her blood.   

The cunning Leech knew that the richest blood  
In azure veins did lie;  
Choosing thy young soft tender flesh for food  
Resolved thus to feed high:  
Thus being nectar-filled and swelled with pride,  
He thinks he's now to you by blood allied.   

O how I envy thee small creature, and  
Even wish thy shape on me,  
That so I might but kiss that sacred hand  
That giveth life to thee!  
That which I hardly now can covered kiss,  
Than I might naked touch and taste my bliss.   

And though for drawing so much guiltless blood  
Thou well deserv'st to die,  
With a gold chain about thy neck, I would  
Have thee kept daintily  
As Scaliger's was in a box; and shown  
As Stella's gentle fairy up and down.    

On the taking of an amethyst ring from off Clarastella's finger as she was sleeping.  

THou sacred stone whose native heat preserus  
Man as he was created, rational,  
Infuse thy virtues through my optic nerves!  
Thus while thy temperance I behold, I shall  
In stupid draughts my health and reason ne'er enthrall.   

Rubies that most resemble flames, are so  
Devoid of heat no fire can warm them, wine  
Thus though this cheerful stone resembles too  
Scorns yet to stoop to Bacchus reeling Vine  
Or let his Oppium prey upon his spirit divine.   

Thou more enchanted than was Gyges' ring  
Keep then my souls eyes open while others lie  
Steeped, or transformed in wild Lyoeus sing  
Jo's to madness, yet do thou let me  
Unseen but to myself approach this deity.   

How't blushes for me at the guilt of this  
High sacrilege! Yet though from her I got  
This virtue sleeping, she not plundered is.  
Fair Stella wears a better Antidote  
Both for and 'gainst the falling sickness: wot you what?    

love's Expiration.  

BY custom who so bold as he  
That cannot see?  
Yet I by sad experience find,  
My love's most modest when mine eyes are blind:  
Why should my coward tongue else fear to tell  
My she Physician I'm not well,  
Whose only art  
Can cure the passion of the heart?   

Why dost thou show such cruelty  
(Young Boy) on me?  
Wast not enough to wound my heart?  
Then to add blindness to my former smart,  
But make me speechless that I can't complain?  
Thus hopeless to be well again?  
What punishment  
Is grief that cannot find a vent?   

Ah Cupid! if thou wilt that I  
For her must die  
Let me but tell her first 'twas she,  
She only that did cause my malady.  
Assist my tongue with so much courage, I  
May tell her 'tis for her I die!  
Perhaps my grief  
May thus discharged, find some relief.    

On a crystal Watch presented to Clarastella.  

THou careful Steward of my precious time  
I now transmit thee to a hand sublime  
And heavenly, that will guide thy measures well,  
See that to her thou truth dost always tell.  
When she lies down to rest, then Watch to choose  
Let thy soft motion quiet sleep infuse.  
But when she waking turns her in her bed  
Then be thou nimbly busy 'bout her head.  
Put her in mind of me! and to her say  
Though she lies still, yet the time posts away:  
Charge her not lose it then! but to her show  
When it is time to love! then let her know  
That as thou so I restless watch her, and  
My watchful thoughts a guard about her stand.  
Stand, at that happy hour, I find her kind,  
Then let thy speedy wings no motion find.  
Go only fast when she retards in love,  
Then post to short the time, then nimble prove!   

True Emblem of my love this Watch I send,  
Which to your careful keeping I commend:  
The balance like my heart, when that beats slow  
Then fast, doth my disordered passions show:  
The string that holds all, is from Cupid's bow,  
If that should break alas it would not go:  
The crystal case that keeps it, is mine eye,  
Through which you may the several motions spy.  
The Wheels are my affections which will stand,  
If you not move them with your gentle hand:  
Oh when it slowly goes then raise it higher,  
That from thy touch it may new life acquire!  
'Tis in your power to make it by a trick  
Go fast or slow, by turning of the nick.  
Let it not once go down! Watches you know  
With little rest they oft forget to go:  
Love like the Sun should ever active be,  
Which when 't declines, it riseth instantly.    

Of Love and Liking.  

TO like or not to like, doth lie  
In the election of a curious eio:  
But should I only what I see approve,  
This were but liking and not love.   

Or 'twould be general, as Boys  
At the first sight long for their glorious toys,  
Which they embrace till fresh variety  
Shows fairer objects to the eye.   

Go Muse! and let my Stella know  
I like her person well: but tell her too!  
I love her soul with mine, and thus I find  
When out of sight she's in my mind.    

Dialogue between Sylvio and Mirtillo.  Syl. 

Tell me (if ever you did feel  
The power of Cupid's fatal steel)  
Why the young Tyrant adds disdain  
Thus to complete a true love's pain?  
Why faithful Lovers seldom prove  
Beloved again of those they love?   Myrt. 

Oh 'tis because true Lovers are  
Too servile fond, and Women care  
For things though good if easy, lest:  
The dear and hard to get please best.  
For should we them but less adore,  
They'd punish less and love us more.   Syl. 

But when the Amorist doth find  
His love rebuked by some unkind  
Repulse, why doth he yet admire?  
And with sick hopes still feed desire?  
Himself afflicting thus in vain  
With hopes of what he can't obtain?   Myrt. 

Ah Sylvio! Love is a disease  
That doth o'th' vital spirits cease,  
Whose dregs time only must expel:  
Hunger in sick folks doth foretell  
Death's sad approach; so love-sick men  
When that's a dying rave again.   Syl. 

Why doth he not then struggling try  
Or to shake off this lethargy,  
Or as some peevish sick men use,  
Denied what they would have, refuse  
All comfort, and with like disdein  
Since She despises hate again?   Myrt. 

True love's not like an Ague fit  
That doth of cold and heat admit;  
'Tis a quotidian fever that  
With constant heat doth thirst create.  
That with its warmth doth make each day  
Summer, and knows no Month but May.   

Repent not then thy well placed love, though she  
With the like coyness slight its modesty!  
For who asks doubting lest he should obtain,  
Instructs his Mistress to a coy disdein.    

To Clarastella. love's constancy.  

'TIs no terrestrial fire  
Doth with such heat my breast inspire,  
For then your beauty's Sun  
Had looked it to pale ashes long agone.   

'Tis a Promethean flame  
Bright as the Orbs from whence it came,  
So heavenly and divine,  
Immortal too, that feeds this heart of mine.   

Think not (fair Stella) then  
That I can be inconstant, when  
That love can never die  
That borrows flames from your celestial eye.    

To Clarastella upon a favour received from her which she tied in my hat.  

MAdam! the favour I received from you  
I have it in such high esteem  
That men might justly deem  
Me proud of it, 'cause to the open view,  
I wear it always in my hat,  
There to be wondered at.   

Ruling in chief there in bright majesty  
It doth command all caps to veil  
And say to it, all hail:  
As if they spied in that some deity,  
The colours they are so divine  
And with such rays do shine.   

As foreign ships yield homage whey they see  
Great Britain's streamers spread on high  
And purpling all the sky:  
So when these rosy royal colours be  
Displayed, than each spectator knows  
That they are yours, and bows.   

Juno's gay bird boasts not so brave a plume  
Nor in its greatest pride doth shine  
Like this fair flower of thine.  
Me thinks I look like Memnon, could assume  
A general's place and overthrow  
England's resisting foe.   

A Hector fit for Mars or Venus war  
Under these colours I could fight  
Me thinks both day and night;  
Attempt bold deeds, kill those my rivals are,  
And through revenge on each black tongue  
That shall thy honour wrong.   

Wonder not at this valour! for I know  
Under your favour, I would conquer you.    

Clarastella's Indictment.  

MY heart was slain when none was by  
But only you and I:  
Durst itself do this act?  
No: a strange hand did shoot that dart  
Which pierced so deep my heart,  
Nor could I do the fact.  
Then I'm o'th' fact acquitted, now  
The guilt must lie on you;  
I will inquire no further;  
The proof is plain, the Boy that lies  
Hid in your cruel eyes,  
Did do this wicked murder.   

Witness your lips all stained with red,  
They speak who did the deed,  
The Crimson blood sticks there,  
And makes them at each blush confess  
(For they dare do no less)  
And ory we guilty are.  
Your pale and self-accusing look  
As soon as ere he struck  
Proclaimed you accessory:  
And your distorted angry brow  
Your full assent did show,  
To make my death a story.   

In your hearts trembling doth appear  
Your more than guilty fear:  
You're by your tongue bewrayed,  
Which silently accusing, tells  
That 'twas by you, none else,  
My heart was first betrayed.  
By signs thus murther's oft revealed  
Though it lie long concealed:  
This doom I wish you then,  
If still a cruel mind you bear,  
May each man prove, when e'er  
You love, unkind again.    

On the loss of a Gold-open-ring in which some of Clarastella's hair was enclosed.  

DEar Gold not in thy own self precious now,  
But for that more intrinsic value thou  
Enclosest, which rich treasure makes thee more  
Refined, and hallowed than thou wast before,  
(Though had that finger dropped, thou once didst grace,  
I had sustained that fatal loss with less  
Regret) farewell! Yet thou dear relic that  
Liest here entombed and buried in this vault  
Of Indian clay, which now thy corpse must hold,  
Thou didst deserve a richer urn than gold.   

May then that happy he shall find thee, kiss,  
And then adore this unknown Shrine of bliss!  
Whose worth, since he can never know, but fear  
Some magic spells within, and so not dare  
To wear thee: thus afflicted, may he bring  
It back to me, and I'll uncharm the Ring.   

But thee in vain on earth, I hope to see,  
I'll search the Heavens, for there thou next wilt be:  
And whereas Berenice's hair was cut,  
And at the lion's seven-starred tail was put,  
Thy hair shall shine yet higher in his head,  
And's neck shall with this Ring be collared.    

To Clarastella saying she would commit herself to a nunnery.  

STay Clarastella, prithee stay!  
Recall those frantic vows again!  
Wilt thou thus cast thyself away  
As well as me in fond disdain?  
Wilt thou be cruel to thyself? chastise  
Thy harmless body, 'cause your powerful eyes  
Have charmed my senses by a strange surprise?   

Is it a sin to be beloved?  
If but the cause you could remove  
Soon the effect would be removed:  
Where beauty is, there will be love.  
Nature that wisely nothing made in vain,  
Did make you lovely to be loved again:  
And when such beauty tempts, can love refrain?   

When heaven was prodigal to you,  
And you with beauties glory stored,  
He made you like himself for view,  
To be beheld, and then adored:  
Why should the Gold then fear to see that Sun,  
That formed it pure? why should you live a Nun,  
And hide those rays heaven gave to you alone?   

Oh do not exile nature's bliss!  
Do not Eclipse so great a Sun!  
Imprison not a Paradise  
In a Religious dungeon!  
Let the foul witch laze in her smoky cel;  
Only black toads in recluse vaults do dwell:  
Fair Angels live in light, the foul in hell,   

I know 'twas you fair thief that stole  
My heart away; nor thus content  
Your cruel eyes then picked a hole  
In that which ne'er before was rent.  
And dost thou now this heart hence think to carry?  
Or being guilty dar'st no longer tarry,  
And so to shreeve thee, fliest to sanctuary?   

Nor is this all; your theft was higher  
Than was Prometheus, who did take  
From heaven that quick inspiring fire,  
Of clods, us, living men to make:  
You to heaven's treasury did find a way  
Where all the Beauties and the Virtues lay,  
And thence by rapine didst them all convey.   

Guilty of which high sacrilege,  
Dost thou now mean to satisfy  
The Gods, and give thy body pledge  
To expi'ate thy soul's thievery?  
Stay votress! enter not this nunnery!  
For thus thou wilt but draw more guilt on thee,  
By tempting others to idolatry:   

For when thy Glory they shall see,  
Either they'll all forget to pray;  
Or what's as bad, they'll pray to thee,  
And turn devotion to play:  
Nor will the Gods unto thy prayers incline,  
If thou shouldst still continue deaf to mine.  
Stay then fair Saint! and make my bed thy shrine!   

Thyself a holy Temple art  
Where Love shall teach us both to pray,  
I'll make an Altar of my heart,  
And Incense on thy lips will lay.  
Thy mouth shall be my Oracle; and then  
For beads we'll tell our kisses o'er again,  
Till they breathed from our souls, shall cry Amen.    

The Quaere. What is Love?  

'TIs a child of fancies getting,  
Brought up between Hope and Fear,  
Fed with smiles, grown by uniting  
Strong, and so kept by Desire:  
'Tis a perpetual Vostal fire  
Never dying,  
Whose smoke like Incense doth aspire,  
Upwards flying.   

It is a soft magnetic stone,  
Attracting hearts by sympathy,  
Binding up close two souls in one,  
Both discoursing secretly:  
'Tis the true Gordian knot that ties  
Yet ne'er unbinds,  
Fixing thus two lovers' eyes  
As welll as minds.   

'Tis the spheres heavenly harmony  
Where two skilful hands do strike;  
And every sound expressively  
Marries sweetly with the like:  
'Tis the world's everlasting chain  
That all things tied,  
And bid them like the fixed wain  
Unmoved to bide.   

'Tis nature's law inviolate,  
Confirmed by mutual consent  
Where two dislike, like, love, and hate,  
Each to the others full content:  
'Tis the Caress of every thing;  
The turtledove;  
Both birds and beasts do offerings bring  
To mighty Love.   

'Tis th'Angels joy, the God's delight, man's bliss,  
'Tis all in all: without love nothing is.    

To Clarastella on St. Valentine's day morning.  

HArk how the lyric Choristers o'th' wood  
Warble their cheerful notes! which understood  
Would make us think they wooed and spoke  
In pure Tibullus phrase, when he did take  
His Lesbian to him! how they sing  
And chirp it merrily  
To welcome in that verdant spring.  
Which makes our blood run high;   

Arise then heavy Muse! now winter's done  
And the warm pleasant Summer is begun;  
Arise! and charge Aurora wake,  
And wear her best array for this day's sake!  
Salute her first whom I'd enjoy,  
And then let all the nine  
To their sweet music dance and sing  
That this days Valentine.   

Great Bishop! whose more sacred memory  
Crowns this blessed day with due solemnity,  
Let me invoke thy holy Shrine  
To guide me to another Valentine!  
Lend me thy urns fair light awhile  
With the morn's brighter eyes,  
To find that happy she, and steal  
Upon her by surprise.   

Assist me Jove! in thy gilt showers convey  
Me to the bed to my bright Danae!  
Lest I be blasted or betrayed  
By the quick eyes of some cracked chambermaid,  
Got up on purpose to be seen;  
And though she stand i'th' way,  
Blind me t'all but my Valentine!  
Till I approach her day!   

Or lend me Gyges old enchanted ring  
That I may walk invisible! and bring  
Me thus locked up in close disguise  
To the blessed place where this fair beauty lies!  
Thus undiscerned I'll pass the street,  
Nor see, nor yet be seen  
Of any until we two meet  
(My dearest Valentine.)   

Some draw their Valentines by lottery  
Whom they perhaps ne'er saw before, but I  
Make a far wiser choice in mine,  
Where Love elects discreetly by design:  
Some on their hats in wafer scroll  
Their names have charactered,  
I on my heart thy name enrol,  
More easy to be read.   

See the true windows of the perfumed East!  
Breathing such odours that each sense may feast  
To luxury! oh 'twould suffice  
To live but one hour in this Paradise!  
Then haste to kiss her balmy hand,  
To kiss her shall I fear?  
I'll gently draw the curteins, and  
Let the bright day appear.   

Behold where Innocence herself doth lie  
Clad in her white array! Fair deity!  
I'll only print upon her dewy lip  
One loving kiss and so away will part.  
She wakes, and blushes on each cheek  
So red, that I may say  
There on each side doth truly break  
The dawning of the day.   

Startle not Fairest! It is I am come  
Like th'Persian to adore the rising Sun:  
I'm come to view that sight would make  
The good old man even for thy only sake  
Wish him alive again, to see  
Such a fair Saint of's name,  
Whose virtues propagate in thee  
To his eternal fame.   

'Tis I am come, who but a Friend before  
Am haply now by fate adopted more,  
A brother or what else you deem  
To be more near, or of more high esteem.  
I'm come to join in sacrifice  
To our dear Valentine;  
Where I must offer to thine eyes,  
Knowing no other Shrine.   

Large Hecatombs of kisses I will lay  
On th'altar of thy lips, that men may say  
By their continuance we are true,  
And will keep so this year, nor change for new.  
The birds instruct us to do so,  
The season too invites;  
When spring comes they a billing go,  
As we to our delights.   

Each amorous Turtle now his Mare doth choose,  
Whom Nature for that year by powerful use  
Taught to be constant: shall not we  
Who love with reason be as firm and free?  
Here then our league let us begin,  
And from this minute count  
Thousands of kisses that within  
This year shall thus amount.   

How sweet she breathes! the Zephyre wind that blows  
Fresh fragrant odours on the modest Rose  
Sends forth not half so pure a smell  
As that which on thy chaster lips doth dwell:  
Here in this holy Temple I  
Could fix eternally,  
And pay these vows until I die  
Pitied of none but thee.   

Me thinks my arms now grasp a treasure more  
Worth than both Indies valued double o'er.  
'Tis pity we should ever part,  
I should be poor, if robbed of thee my heart:  
The tother kiss, and though I surfeit on  
The sweetness of thy breath,  
The blame shall lie me on alone:  
Who'd not die such a death?    

To Clarastella in a storm at Sea.  

BE not afraid (fair Venus of the Sea!)  
These waves but haste to view thy majesty;  
Glad to receive thee thus in shoals they crowd  
With plaudities expressing joys aloud:  
Neptune results and with his watery dip  
Gladly saluteth that more happy ship  
That bears so rich a treasure; knowing that  
He a more precious gem did ne'er create:  
Thus Triton and the Seagreen Gods do wear  
Their fresh and best array when you appear;  
As virgin's welcome spring; whereas before  
With sad still blackness they stood clouded o'er:  
Thus the proud billows come but to admire,  
To raise thy worth and thus advance thee higher;  
While they obsequiously about you throng  
To guard your person, not to do you wrong:  
Thus they approach with pure affection  
Offering their backs for you to ride upon;  
Where if the waters troubled do appear  
'Tis 'cause they in your brow suspect a fear.  
You great Commandress both by Sea and Land,  
Why should you then fear aught? at whose command  
Rough Boreas and the Ocean doth obey,  
And to its Queen thus tribute strives to pay.  
I am this Ship tossed in the waves of fear,  
You the polestar by which I only steer:  
Love the unskilful Pilot cannot sail  
Homewards if you not blow a gentle gale  
From your sweet Zephir breath and send relief,  
'Twill suffer shipwreck in a Sea of grief.  
In your smooth face let but a calm appear,  
Both shall be happy and both free from fear.    

To her, the Storm ceasing.  

HOw Neptune smiles to view this deity  
Which all the hoary Gods amazed to see,  
Are at a stand and cannot move  
When they behold this Queen of Love!   

Thy brow not wrinkled now with fear, the sea  
Resumes its smoothness by a sympathy:  
And whilst thou smilest the rougher main  
Is leveled to a verdant plain.   

A happy Halcyon calmness sits upon  
The equal face of all the Ocean:  
And not a wave his head dares show  
While thus in triumph you do go.   

With such fair Wind and Weather, oh let me  
Sail always! and I ne'er shall sea-sick be!    

On Clarastella walking in her Garden.  

SEe how Flora smiles to see  
This approaching deity!  
Where each herb looks young and green  
In presence of their coming Queen!  
Ceres with all her fragrant store,  
Could never boast so sweet a flower;  
While thus in triumph she doth go  
The greater Goddess of the two.   

Here the Violet bows to greet  
Her with homage to her feet;  
There the lily pales with white  
Got by her reflexed light;  
Here a Rose in Crimson die  
Blushes through her modesty;  
There a Pansie hangs his head  
'Bout to shrink into his bed,  
'Cause so quickly she passed by  
Not returning suddenly;  
Here the currants red and white  
In yond green bush at her sight  
Peep through their shady leaves, and cry  
Come eat me, as she passes by;  
There a bed of camomile,  
When she presseth it doth smell  
More fragrant than the perfumed East,  
Or the Phoeaix spicy nest;  
Here the Pinks in rows do throng  
To guard her as she walks along;  
There the flexive Turnsole bends  
Guided by the rays she sends  
From her bright eyes, as if thence  
It sucked life by influence;  
whilst She the prime and chiefest flower  
In all the Garden by her power  
And only life-inspiring breath  
Like the warm Sun redeems from death  
Their drooping heads, and bids them live  
To tell us she their sweets did give.    

On the loss of Clarastella's black fan.  

Tell me (fair wonder!) when the gentle air  
Courted your wanton hair,  
And hou'ring 'bout your face did beg a kiss,  
Proud of so great a bliss,  
Why did your envious Fan to it deny  
So chaste a liberty?  
Nor yet contented only thus to do  
Why did you hide it too?  
Why did you blind those lamps which both adorn,  
And can mislead the Morn?  
Believe me 'twas unkindly done to screen  
That light was to be seen.  
Though the bright lustre of your orient eyes  
Like the more powerful skies  
Or dazzles me or sets my heart on fire  
When I so high aspire,  
Your Bas'lisk look with its bewitching art  
Though it strike dead my heart,  
And I stand Planet-struck when e'er I view  
So fair a star as you;  
Yet do I languish like the drooping night  
In absence of your light:  
(For by your beams such warmth I do receive  
By which alone I live)  
That if you draw a cloud before this light,  
'Tis with me darkest night.  
When Morpheus once had on my drowsy bed  
His sable mantle spread  
And drawn the curtains of heavens' canopy,  
Had veiled the starry sky,  
In this Cimmerian slumber as I lay,  
Me thought I wished for day,  
Expecting when the rosy-fingered Morn  
Should the black earth adorn;  
When with his early rays he should affright  
The misty shades of night,  
At last he came, and I beheld his steeds  
Decked in their Royal weeds,  
And fair Aurora purpling all the sky,  
Enlightened every eye,  
How glad was I? and wished that never night  
Might mask so great a light.  
You were that Phosphor I thus longed to see  
Hid in obscurity;  
And now your lustre breaks forth like the day  
Clad in her best array.  
Oh happy loss! by which I gain a sight  
As precious as the light!    

To Clarastella on a Nosegay of flowers which she wore at her bosom.  

IF Bees extract their sweetness from each flower,  
As these, theirs, from your breast; I thee devour  
Alive then (Stella!) when I honey eat;  
Rare food! than Attic flow'rmel far more sweet!  
Yet as robbed flowers preserve their smell, still fair,  
So these fresh in thy bosom's garden are,  
Though blown on, whose sweet dews and Sun above,  
Make them grow there feed us, still fragrant prove.  
There's scarce a sense, but those thy flowers delight,  
They please the touch, the taste, the smell, the sight;  
Yet thou the choicest dost this all, and moe,  
Thou sweetly dost our hearing ravish too.   

Since like those subtle chemists then, you take  
Sweetness from them too, one more exact to make,  
thyself, which Nectar art, oh hived might I  
Feed on thy Honey, and there melting lie!    

Song.  

INvest my head with fragrant Rose  
That on fair Flora's bosom grows!  
Distend my veins with purple juice  
That mirth may through my soul diffuse!  
'Tis Wine and Love, and love in wine,  
Inspires our youth with flames divine.   

Thus crowned with Paphian myrtle, I  
In Cyprian shades will bathing lie,  
Whose snow if too much cooling, than  
Bacchus shall warm my blood again.  
'Tis Wine and Love, &c.   

Life's short, and winged pleasures fly;  
Who mourning live, do living die:  
On down and floods then swanlike I  
Will stretch my limbs, and singing die.  
'Tis Wine and Love, and love in wine  
Inspires our youth with flames divine.    

On Clarastella discovered sleeping in her bed.  

SLeep gentle soul! and may a quiet rest  
Crown the sweet thoughts that harbour in thy breast!  
Keep her ye powers divine! let no foul sight  
Afflict her mind! no horrors of the night,  
No fearful shapes or Apparitions  
Disturb her slumbers through sad visions!  
I charge thee Morpheus thou pale God of sleep,  
See thou from her distempers, startings keep!  
Let all her dreams be Golden! let them taste  
Of heavenly pleasures! let them all be chaste  
Delights, Embraces, Wishes, and such new  
And prosperous hopes, as may at length prove true!  
Show her rich Crowns and Garlands! then let love  
Chaste as her sleep, such as the Gods above  
Enjoy, steal in her mind, and represent  
The perfect Image of her blessed content!  
There let her fix and entertain awhile  
A parley with her thoughts! then let her smile  
As pleased at th' conference, or some other way  
By a soft sigh let her her love betray!  
Thus please each sense with various delight  
And with fresh sights prevent her appetite!  
Thus let her sleep secure, that she may find  
At once both ease in body and in mind!   

I charge you wake her not! no noise draw near  
Her bed to whisper in her quiet ear!  
See how my charms have worked! behold she lies  
Like Innocence herself in white! her eyes  
Shut 'gainst all worldly vanity, do show  
How little she regards this earth below:  
Her soul within, though active, yet is still,  
Which speaks the calmness of her inward will.  
The Zephyre wind doth not more gently blow  
Nor with so soft or still a motion slow  
As her sweet breath from her; here we may find  
The even pace of a well-tempered mind.  
Bless me! what thoughts possess my ravished soul,  
And stir my blood, I can them not control!  
I'm all inflamed; and yet I dare not do  
What the fair harmless object prompts me too.  
She stirs; Oh! I must vanish quickly hence,  
Lest I should wake her, with some violence.    

To her at departure.  

THey err  
That think we parted are  
Two souls in one we carry,  
Half of which though it travel far  
Yet both at home do tarry.  
The Sun  
When farthest off at Noon  
Our body's shade draws nigher:  
My soul yours shadow, when I'm gone,  
Waits closer through desire.  
Dear heart  
Then grieve not 'cause we part,  
Since distance cannot sever:  
For though my body walks apart  
Yet I am with you ever.    

Elegiac Song.  

LEnd me ye floods your tears! oh more!  
Lend me all Neptun's watery store  
When he drowned all mankind! that I  
May in this deluge drown and die!  
She's dead to me: unhappy fate,  
That love, which burned so clear of late,  
Is now extinct: oh help! and I  
Will weep hers and mine obsequy.    

To Cupid. Song.  

THou that hast shot so many hearts  
With thy enchanted darts!  
(Young Archer!) if thou hast one more  
In all thy store,  
Send it, oh send it to my Love,  
Winged with the feathers of thy mother's Dove!   

Or head it with the same desire,  
Thou didst my shaft inspire!  
Or take thine arrow back from me!  
'Tis cruelty  
Sometimes not to be cruel: Oh!  
Or smite both hearts, or else unbend thy bow!    

To a Lady wearing a Looking-glass at her girdle.  

GAze not on that fair mirror, where you see  
Nought but the shadow of your frailty lie;  
Where beauty stays no longer than you look  
On the gilt outside of that rotten look  
Yourself; where all's but dust without, and such  
Foul leaves within: why then admired so much?  
Since nothing can be loved but what hath been  
Known to the sense, or to the eye been seen,  
Why should you dote upon that face which you  
Never yet saw, nor have the power to do?  
Whose very shape when you have often pried  
And reexamined every part, and spied  
With strictest eye each line, and symmetry,  
Is clean forgot, when you remove your eye:  
Which usual instance may instruct you not  
To study that, which is so soon forgot.   

Since you nor see yourself, nor look upon  
That form but thus by mere reflection:  
How know you? or why think you are fair?  
Is it, 'cause fond admirers say you are,  
For want of judgement? or some flattering ass,  
Or this a great deal more dissembling glass  
Tells a fair story to your credulous eye,  
Will you believe such Romance history?  
When the spruce gallant courts your hand, and vows  
Saluting it, he nothing whiter knows,  
Then gazing upward on that heavenly sphere,  
Swears you are Angel-like beyond compare,  
Excelling all your sex; can you conceive  
That to be true, which he did least believe?  
When th' amorous youth looks Babies in your eyes  
And through love's flattering optic he espies  
At the wrong end a world of beauty there,  
Blinded with passion thus twixt hope and fear,  
When he protests he thinks he sees in you  
Some godlike form, can you believe it too?  
When knowing men dissemble truth; alas!  
Will you then trust a dumb deceitful glass?  
Embrace yourself? and like Narcissus poor  
Upon that crystal till you start a flower?  
(Which fades as soon as blown,) admiring more  
That part yourself, than others all the store?  
Then quit that cozening beam! nor imitate  
The Mermaid to be only upwards neat  
With comb and glass in hand, when we all know  
you're either fish or what is worse, below.   

The blanched Swan with whitest plumes arrayed  
Till by her own black skin and legs betrayed  
Did think herself the fairest bird, do you  
But look about you, you'll appear so too.  
What boots a comely presence, graceful eye,  
If all be foul except the physnomy?  
Wise men admire not beauty, birth or blood,  
How rich or fair, they ask not, but how good?  
First dress your soul! see that be fair and clear,  
And then you'll truly beautiful appear.    

To Clarastella.  

'TIs not your beauty I admire,  
Nor the bright starlight of each eye,  
Nor do I from their beams take fire  
My love's torch to enlighten, I:  
No: 'tis a glory more divine  
Kindles my taper at your shrine.   

Your comely presence takes not me,  
Nor your much more inviting mien;  
Nor your sweet looks; the Graces be  
(Fair Creature!) in your picture seen.  
No: 'tis your soul to which I bow,  
'Tis none of these I love, but you.   

How blind is that philosophy  
Doth only natural bodies know?  
That views each Orb o'th' glorious sky,  
But sees not him that made it so.  
I love thy informing part, i'th' whole  
And every part, thy all; thy soul.    

The farewell to Clarastella.  

PAssion o' me! why melt I thus with grief  
For her whose frozen heart denies relief?  
Find out some other way to punish me  
Ye Gods! and let me not the Author be  
Of mine own death! make me forget that e'er  
I loved! at least that e'er I loved her!   

Yet I must love her still: O cruel Fate!  
That dost true love so ill requite with hate!  
Why e'er I saw her didst not make me blind?  
Then had she as before continued kind  
Without power to displease, her charity  
Warm as my Love, and I had still been I:  
But now alas! my distant bliss I see,  
Which like my courted shadow flieth me  
As fast as I pursue: ay me! she's gone,  
And with her all my winged hopes are flown.   

But oh! if you one drop of mercy have,  
Let me request you shed it at my grave  
When y'hear I died for you! Oh let there be  
One tear at least shed from your pious eyes  
In memory that I fell your sacrifice!  
Where though I cannot, yet my marble will  
'Gainst these soft showers for me some tears distil.   

Fairest farewell! and by my living love,  
Mayst thou to me when dead thus loving prove!  
Shed from your eyes perhaps one faithful tear  
May make my ashes quick again, how e'er  
My shipwrecked love in these drops bathed, at last  
May drowning grasp what's next, and hold thee fast,  
Which whilst I lived it could not; thus I will  
Alive and dead (my Stella!) love thee still.    

On the Report of Clarastella's death.  

She dead? forgive me heaven! I''ve almost swore  
That she 'bout her had nothing mortal wore:  
Her soul's immortal, and her body too  
Since't knew no actual sin, must needs be so.  
Our sins do drag us to our graves, but she  
Had no such harbingers; her piety  
Made her a Monarch in divinity,  
And taught her how to live eternally.  
It is not likely, guilty death should take  
Such Innocence away from us, or make  
Immortal Virtue die: old Adam sure  
Had lived till now, could he have lived as pure  
And free from either act or thought of vice,  
He had survived this age in paradise.  
Our sins are our diseases; only they  
Invoke pale death, whom we all must obey  
When he arrests us for these debts, we know  
Life's the cheap ransom for the sums we owe,  
Which she ne'er forfeited 'cause no disease  
Upon her body or her soul could seize,  
She was so sound and perfect: why should I  
Believe that Clarastella then could die?  
If wantonness durst steal into her mind  
'Midst her sweet dreams, leaving a touch behind  
Of fancied pleasure, yet she waked a maid,  
And blushing, that she should be thus betrayed,  
By her own guiltless thoughts, she feared to tell  
Even what her visions were; nor knew she well  
What was their pleasant meaning; or if she  
Did but by chance two Lovers kissing see;  
She thought they did but imitate the Dove  
Thus to affect with chaste Platonic love.  
Her salutations decked with modesty,  
Did like her smiles express humility.  
Thus was she perfect Virgin, whilst her love  
Knew 'nother object but the Gods above.  
How then durst death, towards her his dart advance,  
Whose only sin was harmless ignorance?  
Why should I fondly drooping let mine eyes  
Yield at the news, a liquid sacrifice?  
Or let her dying rumour wound my years  
Whose virtue did deserve a Nestor's years?   

I'll not believe than she is dead, since I  
Know she hath merited eternity:  
For were't, as envious Fame reports her gone,  
'Twere but a happy transmigration,  
To heaven; where still she lives a Saint, and we  
Do still adore her living deity.    

To a Painter limning a courtesan.  

LEave off fond Artist, can't your wanton eye  
Glance on a pleasant face, but presently  
You must go court her with your pencil, and  
Thus spoil th'invention of a witty hand?  
What need you paint her when the wicked elf,  
Fearing no colours, daily paints herself?  
What mean those naked dresses silks and lawn?  
When she's much fitter to be hanged then drawn?  
Wouldst thou express thy art and judgement? say  
Wouldst thou be famed? I'll tell you; thus you may.   

Paint me to life, a chaste and virtuous Dame,  
Whose spotless honour speaks her still the same,  
In whose smooth forehead let there be expressed  
What Virgin thoughts she harbours in her breast!  
Set forth her several Graces! and her eye  
Make to betray a cheerful modesty?  
Her sober looks, and her aspect is free,  
Let them both innocent and simple be!  
Then in her cheeks express that blushing grace  
Which Vestal vows have printed in her face!  
Then let thy fancy through her purer skin  
Transparent make her chaster soul within!  
When you have drawn this piece, than Painter see  
You not expose it to each common eye  
That cannot judge! to Lovers only those,  
And not to lustful eyes this piece expose?    

On the young and fair Mrs M. H. her hair being unfortunately burnt by chance in the candle as she was Combing her head at night.  

Unlucky traitor! could thy greedy flame  
Feed on such fuel, and not devour the same?  
How durst thy dull pale flames so high aspire,  
And mix its lazy heat with Vestal fire?  
Oh how I grieve this direful chance? to see  
These fresh leaves falling from the blooming tree,  
And that the spring which was but now begun,  
Should thus o'th' sudden into autumn run!  
Ah cruel Atropos! why so soon would you  
Thus rudely cut those threads of life in two;  
Those neat dishevelled locks whose every grace  
Scorning arts help, set forth a neater face?  
With what pale horror do I wondering see  
This sight, and fear what the event will be!  
Methinks it now portends some overthrow,  
Threatens some great man's ruin, and doth show  
Like lightning 'fore the thunder, bidding all  
Be armed against the stroke: or now I call  
To mind fair Helen Troy did so admire,  
Me thinks it represents that town on fire.  
Had this but lily seen he would have said  
It was some blazing Comet; and that head  
Which was thus crisped o'er with purest rays  
Was all a heavenly Meteor, that did blaze  
Her Virtues forth to the world's open eye  
As Emblem of her rare divinity.  
Or had mistook thee in this borrowed light  
For brightest Phoebe Mistress, of the night,  
By those bright Star-like tapers of thine eyes.  
Oh may another lovely Phoenix rise  
From these sweet ashes, whose sad funeral pile  
With fragrant odours thus perfumes our Isle!  
But thou cursed light that wroughtest this tragedy,  
In thy own flames Mayst thou a martyr die.    

Writ on Clarastella's Busk.  

MIght I o' nights in thy room lie  
twixt Stella's warmer mounts of snow,  
So near her heart dissolving, I  
No higher Paradise would know:  
Such envied bliss would make me stray,  
Wither the Gods themselves would bow,  
And leave heavens upper milky way,  
To breathe in happier shades below.    

Deploring Clarastella's inconstancy.  

FAir and yet cruel? strange methinks that art  
Should act amiss, where Nature plays her part!  
Can you a gentle Saint, a Tyrant prove?  
Can your diviner soul forget to love?  
Can Winter set in such a love-warm breast  
Which was with so much heat but now possessed?  
Are the flames dying, and loves active fires  
Congealed to frosts, and freezed to cold desires?  
And those fair Violet veins the verdant Spring  
Did so enliven now no heat can bring?  
Can you that carried Summer in your lips  
Red as the cherry suffer an Eclipse?  
That in the Apples of your cheeks did wear  
A fertile Autumn now no fruit can bear?  
All heat extinguished? not one spark of fire▪  
Now left, but to enkindle new desire?  
Strange mixture this, when I at once may view▪  
All the four seasons of the year in you!  
Some health for pity to my hopes restore?  
Or love me not at all, or love me more!  
Under this Equinox my shadows are  
Quite round me; whilst I live in black despair;  
Frigid nor torrid zones can I endure:  
They bred cold Agues, these a Calenture.    

love's hesitation. To Clarastella.  

WHy should I love that thing  
Can no affection bring?  
Since reason doth from liking draw  
Reciproque friendship, shall I thaw  
When her love freezeth? tel me why  
When she disdaineth, should not I?   

Yet Loves Religion  
Bids me love, though she frown;  
By whose more sacred law's heaven knows▪  
We are enjoined to love our foes:  
Though she reject me then, yet I  
Must love my Stella, till I die.   

Love! I your powers obey  
True love can ne'er decay:  
And since that Virtue lives in you  
Which made me like, and love you too  
At first; I am obliged, and I  
Must love thee to eternity.    

To Clarastella admiring her black eyes and Hair.  

LEt others Court the Cyprian Queen,  
Gilt tresses, or the Amber skin!  
Give me black eyes and hair,  
Presumed the face be fair,  
And a seraphic soul within!   

The Swan though black below, above  
Is the white object of our love,  
So is Juno's prouder bird,  
For her black eyes admired  
And 'cause they are so; I yours approve,   

Apelles limning a fair maid,  
Let fall by chance his pen, and said  
That though he meant it not,  
Yet could not mend the blot,  
It did express so rare a shade.   

If shadows best set forth a face,  
Adorning it with beauty's grace,  
Then are you only fair,  
Whose form beyond compare,  
Excels the birth of human race.   

In your bright eyes deciphered are  
The evening and same morning star,  
Sole glory of the Night,  
Decked with such rays of light,  
No day can boast so rich by far.   

The lover's Torch doth burn most bright  
Like Comets in the darkest night;  
And the black Boy still roves,  
In sap and shady groves,  
And like you crowns love's sweet delight.    

To Clarastella complaining of my long kisses.  

MAdam! I vow I never knew  
One creature of your sex till you,  
Find fault with what was long in men,  
Oh do not geld my fancy then!  
Nor blame my pleasure's ecstasy,  
That when each sense is feasted, I  
Thus taste each pure ambrosiac kiss,  
And by degrees melt down my bliss.   

Oh those smooth, soft, and ruby lips,  
That fright the Sun to an Eclipse,  
Whose rosy and vermilion hue  
Betray the blushing thoughts in you:  
Whose fragrant aromatic breath  
Would revive dying Saints from death,  
Whose siren-like harmonious air  
Speaks music and enchants the ear;  
Who would not hang? and fixed there  
Wish he might know no other sphere?  
Oh for a charm to make the Sun  
Drunk, and forget his motion!  
Oh that some palsy or lame gout  
Would cramp old times diseased foot!  
Or that I might, or moult or clip  
His speedy wings, whilst on her lip  
I quench my thirsty appetite  
With the life honey dwells on it!  
Oh for a Crane-like neck that may  
This Nectar slowly thence convey!  
Then on this holy Altar, I  
Would sacrifice eternally,  
Offering one long continued mine  
Of Golden pleasures to thy shrine.  
I mean not Pompey's biting kiss  
Flora did so commend: nor his▪  
Venereous sip Catullus used  
Where lip-salve was from each infused  
No: a more holy chaste impress,  
May th'image of each mind express  
As perfect as the wax the seal:  
Such kisses do not wound, but heal.   

Kissing, thou sacred kissing art,  
Only the intellective part  
Of pleasure; by which union  
Our soul's discourse and meet in one  
Fixed centre, whilst in a full kiss  
Each amorous line concentred is:  
Nor doth it violate chastity,  
Or forfeit like adultery.  
The dowry now, as heretofore,  
(When but to speak, or see, was more  
Immodest deemed, at least as much,  
A Woman; as 'tis now to touch.)  
Thus with chaste lips we blow love's fire  
To a live coal; thus fan it higher:  
Thus do we seal affections band,  
Which only death can cancel: and  
whilst both our hearts and lips do meet  
Thus do our souls each other greet:  
Thus we engender speaking Love  
Peculiar only to the Dove:  
Whereas all other body's heat  
Of Lust doth them incorporate  
But only in the act; yet we  
Thus renew love t' eternity  
With fresh unsated appetite,  
And without shame or sad regret;  
Which true experience doth prove  
The difference betwixt Lust an Love.  
Then let us kiss like Turtles, close  
Until we both seem one: till those  
That see our hearts saluting thus  
Shall not disturb, but envy us.  
Coyness in women makes men more  
Suspect they'll do behind the door:  
If thus you think I kiss too much;  
Know that my love to you is such,  
That whensoever it pleaseth you  
I'll closer kiss, drink deeper too.    

To Clarastella. Why Lovers walk round.  

'TIs oft observed that those who are in love  
Do, when they walk, in spheric circle move;  
A motion to its nature genuine:  
So move the heavens' and Love that is divine  
And heau'n-deduced draws like that his gest  
A round, because that figure is the best.  
Love is a Labyrinth wherein wandering men  
Tread the same pensive measures o'er again:  
The Soul her feet th' affection guides, and moves  
To the same object that she truly Loves.  
Thus when I walk so often round, I move  
To thee the centre Nature bids me love.    

A Pastoral Protest of Love by Damon to Stella.  

WHen I thee all o'er do view  
I all o'er must love thee too.  
By that smooth forehead where's expressed  
The candour of thy peaceful breast:  
By those fair twin-like-stars that shine,  
And by those apples of thine eyn:  
By the Lambkins and the Kids  
Playing 'bout thy fair eyelids:  
By each peachy blossomed cheek,  
And thy satin skin more sleek  
And white than Flora's whitest lilies  
Or the maiden daffodils:  
By that ivory porch thy nose:  
By those double blanched rows  
Of teeth, as in pure Coral set:  
By each azure rivulet,  
Running in thy temples, and  
Those flowery meadows twixt them stand:  
By each pearl-tipped ear by Nature, as  
On each a Jewel pendent was:  
By those lips all dewed with bliss,  
Made happy in each others kiss:  
By those pure Vermilion cherries  
Thy red nipples, and those strawberries  
Swimming there as set in cream:  
By those two curled locks, that seem  
To wreathe thy Lover in waved art  
That from thee he ne'er should part:  
By those silk tresses soft as down  
Of tender eunuchs newly blown,  
That veil your body round when e'er  
In your own shades you'd less appear:  
By that silver stately neck  
Doth thy gems more grace and deck  
Then they can it: by those two  
Soft and wool-warm mounts of snow:  
By each alabaster hand,  
And those slender joints that stand  
So straight and closely set, each palm  
Seems a young tree, distilling balm:  
Midst that pregnant hemisphere  
By the fair knot that's planted there:  
By those moving columns bear  
This Globe and the loved frame uprear:  
By those pretty nimble feet  
Wont in skilful measures meet:  
By the neat fabric of the whole,  
Fair as the world from either Pole,  
Whose each part is Paradise,  
And heaven both in, and round, it is.  
By thyself, when thee I view  
I love thy all, and each part too.     

Occasional POEMS:  
By Robert Heath, Esquire.  Majores majora sonent, mihi parva locute Sufficit, in vestras saeperedire manus. Mart. li. 9 Ep. 1. 
LONDON, Printed for Humphrey MOSELEY, and are to be sold at his Shop at the sign of the Prince's Arms in S. Paul's churchyard, 1650.   

Occasional Poems.  

To an old Gentlewoman that would have her Picture drawn.  

WHat strange impossibles are those  
That one famed Myron you impose?  
Drawn to the life you'd be you say,  
When you are dying every day;  
In colours too, when there's but one  
All o'er your face, and that is dun.  
he'll draw 'tis like thy shadows true,  
For thou art all but shadowed blue.  
If fair then thou wouldst counted be  
His pigments let him lay on thee,  
And with a trowel daub and sleek  
The wroughcast of each wrinkled cheek,  
Else but in vain he shall on you  
Spend both his oil and labour too.  
Drawn with black lead or with a coal  
Over some Alehouse chimney wall,  
Thy picture best will semble thee  
By some rough Dialler; when he,  
Shall underwrite in meeter, this  
The widow of Sarepta is.  
Or 'twill show best through lattice-work,  
Here an old woman, there the Turk.  
Yet if thou needs must have it done  
Let me say this in caution  
Unto thy Painter, that he ply  
And speed his work, or thou wilt die  
Before the third days sitting: when  
(If thou canst live so long) that then,  
(Because thou'lt ne'er be at th' expense  
To take thy ill looked figure thence)  
He would but send the piece to me;  
I'd rather have it far than thee,  
To hang up 'mongst my Sibyls, or  
Foul Hags, lest some mistake thee for  
One of the Fatal Destinies  
Or hellbred Furies worse than these.  
But I'm afraid 'tis his design  
To sell thee for some Tavern sign,  
(If he not hang thee out a loof  
Oth' back o'th' Change as weather proof)  
And I shall see thee thy ruined face  
Hang out in Southwark, old Queen Bess.    

Epithalamium Amatorium To Aurora.  

WHy peeps the envious morn so soon upon  
The pleasures of our bed?  
Pull back thy fiery coursers Phaeton!  
And drive not till I bid!  
And lest thy headstrong steeds their reins should break,  
That Virgin girdle take  
I now untied! too soon for you it is  
And me, our rosy. nests to leave, and rise.   

Have I so many tedious Suns beheld  
And nights in sighing spent,  
E'er to temptation I could make her yield?  
And would you now prevent  
The long-wished harvest of my joys delight?  
Nor grant as long a night?  
Go back to thy loved Thetis bosom! go!  
Whilst in our beds we'll sport it longer too.   

I'd have the world till we our curtains ope,  
Expect the Morning star,  
And from my glorious Darlings blushes, hope  
The Day may once appear:  
'Tshould be then always night she says, that we  
Might ne'er discovered be.  
So might it be! for whilst she's in mine arm,  
In her Suns shade I'd keep me ever warm.    

On the strange unfortunate breaking of a Glass in a Tavern.  

HAppy mischance! if happy I may call  
What by so strange misfortune did befall!  
The Ganymede that had performed its trust,  
Discharged so many healths and them so just,  
Broke of itself, and falling to the ground,  
Foretold our fortunes if we kept the round.  
Had it survived the Nectar thence did flow  
Our brains had cracked or else we fallen as low.  
But tell me little glass my quondam friend!  
How didst thou come to this untimely end?  
Did any fatal or unlucky hand  
Throw thee to ruin 'gainst thy Jove's command?  
No: 'twas a stranger full; I rather think,  
The wine did make thee fall which thou didst drink.  
Though the diviner sack Immortal be,  
The glass that holds it yet may die I see.    

Drinking on a rainy day.  

OH: 'tis a rainy drinking day!  
Come let it power  
we'll drink these clouds all dry away  
Suck every shower  
The envious Earth shall not drink all, for we  
Our plants will water too as welll as she.  
The clouds that fatness drop from heaven  
Descend to us  
Even to invite us reach them to enliven  
Our spirits thus:  
Then sink or swim, we'll moisten thirsty care,  
And though the weather's foul, we'll▪ drink it fair.    

To one that hearing I had some faculty in poesy, simply requested me to write somewhat on his dear wife lately dead.  

HAd I so well but known thy Ligbie, as  
Sire Adam once his Eve did know  
Then I might say thy wife a good one was:  
But I ne'er saw, nor knew her so.  
Wouldst ha' me then extol her beauty's fire?  
Most say she looked, and painted well!  
Should I her unknown secret parts admire,  
Or hidden qualities sorthtel?  
Troth I ne'er heard one good she had, for what,  
Thou falsely thoughest one, loving thee;  
Now's out of fashion, and esteemed a fault.  
Then in her praise, 〈◊〉 silent be;  
Since Silence best suits me as each of them:  
For womens' pride aftecteth such  
Gross flattery, that who undertakes the theme;  
Speaks both too little, and too much.    

On Copernicus his opinion of the earth's turning round.  

COpernicus was of opinion  
That the earth's globe by spheric motion  
Turned round, and that the heavens' were fixed: the man  
Was drunk sure or on shipboard, when his brain  
Hatched this Maeander; for to such the land  
Doth only seem to move when they do stand.  
When Noah's flood had turned the land to Sea  
And the earth seemed one floating Isle to be,  
The world then rid on waves indeed, and then  
Ith' Ark there was no terra firma seen:  
Yet true we find what was but fancy then,  
(For th' world if we but understand the men  
That live therein) for they alas turn round  
And scotomized sail on firmest ground:  
Or drunk with madness, with their purblind eyes  
Think States well settled totter though they rise.  
A strange Vertigo or Delirium,  
Oth' brain it is, that thus possesses'em;  
Whilst like to fashions grown Orbicular,  
Kingdoms thus turned, and overturned are:  
Nothing but fine Eutopian worlds i'th' moon  
Must be new formed by revolution.  
Nor doth the State alone on fortune's wheels  
Run round, alas our rock Religion, reels:  
We have sailed so far the Antipodian way  
That into darkness we have turned our day.  
Amidst these turnings 'tis some comfort yet,  
Heaven doth not fly from us, though we from it.    

To one that was so impatient with the toothache that he would not rest till all his teeth were drawn forth.  

HOw! branch and root? that's too severe,  
Let penal laws suffice! howe'er  
Do not extirpate the whole breed,  
Which one day you may so much need!  
That is the last and worst extreme  
To 'stroy all, cause some are too blame.  
If your right hand offend, I know  
You may cut off, your right eye too  
If that offend, pluck out: but' sooth,  
I find not so you may one tooth:  
Unless perhaps in drink and heat  
With pots or candlesticks y'have beat  
Teeth out of this or that man's head,  
Then eye and tooth, for tooth indeed  
Should be repaid. But tell me when  
Your teeth are gone, what will you then  
For grinders do? you'll' learn to chew  
The cud, drink, and eat spoon-meat too?  
Suck again will you not? I'm sure  
That self-preservation Nature  
Commands: what should we more preserve  
Then teeth, whose want would make us starve?  
Do we not live by them? who would  
Deprive himself of's livelihood?   

But since you have an aching tooth  
To leave no jacks within your mouth,  
And are so far run mad with pain  
You are resolved to have all drane:  
Let not the barbar-surgeon set  
Them stringed on scarlet forth, but let  
Them in a box be kept, and shown  
For those that fell from that jawbone  
That Samson fought with; and I'll swear,  
That they the very Asses were.    

On Whip the Preaching Coachman.  

DRive right thou furious Jehu! that hast stepped  
From the square coach-box and profoundly leapt  
To a round Preaching tub! O how he feels,  
With learning that he rubed from horses heels,  
Himself inspired o'th' sudden! now for th' cause  
And overthrow of all good human laws!  
So Phaeton drove his car, which overturned  
Through headless fury, thus, the world it burned.  
What a strange Metamorphosis is this?  
A frock turned to a linen Ephod is;  
No tailor John of Leiden exstant now  
To consecrate this groom a Prophet too,  
As Becold did Tuscoverer? that then  
He in reward may crown him King again?  
Like as Caligula when he did feign  
Himself a God, his great horse did ordain  
His Priest; a God and Prophet much alike,  
Both might have learned of Baalam's Ass to speak.  
Yet see how Muncers spirit reigns in him!  
And like fanatic Phifers makes him dream  
More revelations in one night, than th' old  
Patriarchs and Prophets visions did behold!  
Which fancied novels he doth oft obtrude  
To the weak faith o'th' giddy multitude.  
Rotman or Cniperdolin never knew  
Such marks o'th' godly as this Saint can show:  
Whilst thus like John Mathias, he contemns  
All books except the Bible, and condemns  
Each human author to the flames, that all  
Ith' mist of ignorance may prove mystical.  
Polygamy of Churches he doth call,  
A fornication spiritual:  
When he expoundeth oh 'tis strange to see  
After large sighs, in what an ecstasy  
He speechless prays! just as the Darvises  
Amongst the Turks, so in a trance he is;  
These Prophets as they style them, having run  
Round till they lose their breath, fall senseless down;  
And after some short sleep awaking tell  
Their studied dreams as from an Oracle.  
So this Enthusiast after many sighs  
And turnings of the eggs of his twinkling eyes,  
Straight epileptic in this rapture grows,  
Where after many yawns and feigned shows  
Of a transported mind, at last the Elf▪  
Delivers nonsense like the mouth of Delft.   

Leave, leave thou russet Rabbi! leave for shame!  
And do not thus abuse that holy name  
And function of a Preacher! drive again!  
Currie thy horses and not Christian men!  
Else profane huckster with thy whip thou Mayst  
E'er long be scourged, and forth the Temple cast.    

On the unusual cold and rainy weather in the Summer. 1648.  

WHy puts our grandam Nature on  
Her winter coat, e'er summers done?  
What hath she got an ague fit?  
And thinks to make us hovering sit  
Over her lazy Embers? else why should  
Old Hiems freeze our vernal blood?  
Or as we each day, grow older,  
Doth the world wax wan and colder?  
'Tis so: See how nakt charity  
Starves in this frozen age! whilst we  
Have no other heat but glow-worm zeal  
Whose warmth we see but cannot feel.  
All changed are Ceres golden hairs  
To clouded grey, and nought appears  
In Flora's dress: our hopes do die  
And o'th' sudden blasted lie.  
Heaven's glorious lamps do wast away,  
The Elements themselves decay,  
And the mixed bodies mutiny  
By a rebellious sympathy;  
Whilst the distempered world grows pale,  
And sickening threatens death to all:   

So in an instant waters swept  
The old world's monsters, whilst they wept  
its funeral: but the new world's sins  
Are so deep died no flood can rinse.  
Nothing but lightning and heaven's fire  
Can purge our pestilential air.    

Farewell to passionate Love.  

Farewell fond Love! I'll never bow  
Slave like unto my fetters I,  
Fair Sex! I'll not adore you now  
Yet love you as my liberty:  
Love grown adust with Melancholy,  
To madness turns or extreme folly.  
About and with your fires I'll play  
But with as lose and gentle touch  
As boys from hand to hand toss away  
Live coals, lest they should burn too much.  
Too ne'er his heart who lets love come  
Suffers a wilful martyrdom.  
Stout soldiers in an enemy's land  
March not too far sans fear or wit,  
E'er they resolve or to withstand,  
Or wisely make a safe retreat.  
Bodies when joined engaged are,  
Piqueering's better sport by far.    

The Excuse. To the Lady E. B.  

YOur lovely fair did first invite  
Me to that strange demand,  
Your wanton eye big with delight,  
Made me to understand  
You pleasant as your looks, where every glance  
Did raise and court my warm blood to advance.  
Then blame not me for loving you,  
Who if allowed would not do so?  
Henceforth I'll sit demure by you,  
Nor speak when you would hear,  
Just as I would your picture view,  
Behold you and admire.  
For if I speak, you prompt my tongue with love,  
And 'cause I tell 't you, you unkind reprove.  
Then blame not me for saying so,  
Since 'twas your beauty bid me woe.    

Equality To two fair Mistresses.  

Shall I freeze between two fires?  
Or doth a numbness cease on me?  
Each star inflames me with desires,  
Yet which to choose I cannot see  
Since reason admires equally.   

Then give me both  
For faith and troth  
I should be loath  
Each should not pleased be.   

Or you who so perfect are,  
That nature hath herself outdone  
In making you bright lights so fair!  
Rule by your turns! that so each one  
May cool the heat o'th' tother Sun!   

And Love me both!  
For faith and troth  
I should be loath,  
Each should not pleased be.    

To a friend. Ode.  

AFfect not airy popularity  
But what thou wouldst be thought, that strive to be!  
Praise is but virtue's shadow; who court her  
Doth more the handmaid than the Dame admire.  
Who only doth well, well spoke of to be,  
Studies the praise and not the virtue, he.  
To blaze thy virtues ne'er bespeak thy friend!  
If good, they speak thee and themselves commend.  
Now men but judge by hearsay, thus, they'll know,  
And see thy worth, and judge it greater too.  
True worth is best displayed by modesty  
The greatest rivers slide most silently,  
Only the shallow brooks do prattle, they  
Make a great noise and go but little way.  
Fame that doth feed o'th' vain applause of men,  
Gapes to its echo to be heard again:  
And like this, lives awhile by others breath;  
Which being stopped is hushed to silent death.  
Good actions crown themselves with lasting bays,  
Who deserves well, needs not another's praise.  
Virtue's her own reward; though, Eug●, none  
Will cry, 'tis Guerdon yet to have well done.    

A sudden fancy at Midnight.  

HOw is't we are thus melancholy? what  
Are our rich ferkins out? or rather that  
Which did inspire them, the Immortal wine,  
That did create us, like itself, divine?  
Or are we Nectar-sated to the height?  
Or do we droop under the aged night?  
If so: weelvote it ne'er to be eleven  
Rather than ●●us to part at six and seven:  
Moult then thy speedy wings old Time! and be  
As slow-paced as becomes thy age! that we  
May chirp awhile, and when we take our ease,  
Then fly and post as nimbly as you please!  
Play the good fellow with us, and sit down  
A while, that we may drink the tother round!  
I'll promise here is none shall thee misuse,  
Or pluck thee by the foretop in abuse.  
Time says he will nor can he stay, 'cause he  
Thinks him too grave for your young company.   

It makes no matter— Sirs  
How say you yet toth'tother subsidy?  
Yes yes: And let our Ganymede nimbly fly  
And fill us of the same poetic sherry▪  
Ben-Iohnson used to quaff to make him merry.  
Such as would make the greybeard bottles talk  
Had they but tongues, or, had they legs, to walk:  
Such as would make Apollo smile, or would  
Draw all the Sisters to our Brotherhood.  
And though the bald Fool stays not, let him know  
we'll sit and drink as fast as he shall go.  
So as the salt Anchovis swam in oil,  
we'll make them swim again in sacks sweet spoil.    

On a Map of the World accidentally fallen into the water and spoiled.  

THe world drowned once again? sure holy text  
Says it should be by fire dissolved next.  
Deucalion then weeps for this world, as much  
As once for th' old he did, its sins are such:  
And as before he drowned a world of men,  
In figure thus by chance it sinks again.   

Who Plato's book of Commonwealth did view  
By mice devoured and thought thence would ensue  
A fatal Period of the public State;  
Would ha' presaged the like unhappy fate  
(Had but he seen this) were attending us,  
And construed this dire chance as ominous  
I'll not obtrude for truths prophetic dreams;  
Yet Mara's waters like Nil's seaunfold streams  
‛ Tofore that gently did but wet this Land  
Now in a purple lake of blood do stand  
And quite overwhelmed: and which is worse we fear  
No Olivebranch will e'er again appear.  
The microcosm of individual man  
See how that wavers in an Ocean  
Of perilous inconstancy! whilst phlegm  
And crude raw humours quench the fires in him;  
That his split-sails bear not the gentlest blast  
See how the Moral world in strife doth wast!  
And by like jarring doth decay! whilst we  
From ill to worse still slide, and in a sea  
Of Error drown at last! Since than we see  
Both these and the material world must be  
I'th' end dissolved: I g●ieve the less for thee,  
That art all theirs but thin epitome.    

Upon the sight of an old but very deformed woman.  

I Saw a woman: Bless me! did I say  
A woman or a Witch? or what you may  
Or can more horrid think, a fury; she  
Was more deformed than death's anatomy  
Nor the black ink, nor this more ragged quill  
Can daub her forth, she looked so monstrous ill.  
A Camel-back with a crooked baker-knee,  
Bowed like a token for the earth was she:  
Her eyes two inches buried in her head  
Like leaden bullets seemed, they looked so dead:  
Her nose did like a promontory, threat  
With its appendent drop the chin to meet.  
Her eye brows hairy, and her rougher brow  
Furrowed with wrinkles did like trenches show;  
Her parched hair did hang like withered hay,  
About her ears, it was so dry and grey:  
Her lean chops rough and hollow as the earth  
When chopped for rain in a dry summer's dearth:  
The mark was out of her coney-mumping mouth,  
Where if a tongue yet was there ne'er a tooth;  
Which when she oped, 'twas but to fart a cough,  
Where who stood by would wish him farther off:  
Her lips like th' monkey's hairy hard and thin  
And in her bosom hung her forked chin.  
Thus monstrous ugly and deformed was she;  
From such a wainscoat face, Deliver me!    

On the late Sect of the Adamites.  

A Sect of Adamites of late's revived,  
Who seem more innocent than e'er Adam lived.  
Such as will naked go, and think't a sin  
To wear a garment, they're so hot within  
With Lust, that they all clothing do disdain;  
Aaron's old Vestments they account profane,  
Elisha's double mantle when they hear  
But named, they sweat again: they nought will wear,  
Not holy lawn to keep them from the air,  
Nor St. John's raiment, made of Camels heir:  
These Vestal garments though they holy be,  
Yet they do smell of strong hypocrisy,  
Demas must leave his cloak, not any thing  
Must here be worn, no not a wedding ring,  
Nor fig-leaves, such as Adam wore long since,  
When he had lost his Robe of Innocence.  
The whore of Babel's smock they all detest,  
All Antichristian relics with the rest.  
All must be barely naked▪ 'cause they say  
Truth itself naked goes, and so should they.  
Naked as from their mother's wombs, they wear  
Nothing that covers only skin and hair;  
Thus marching naked Sister, with a brother,  
For want of clothes they cover one another  
In some dark Grange thus meet they, where 'tis fit  
That they the deeds of darkness should commit:  
The candles are put out, because they say  
They are enlightened all, and so they pray;  
Here they begin; and thus divide the text,  
Handling in order whosoever comes next.  
They feel a woman's faith, tell by th'spirit  
(Which doth possess them) which shall heaven inherit.  
Each Saint his fellow-feeler chooseth there,  
As at the spring each bird doth choose his Peer.  
And when they all grow proud with hot desires,  
Thus they correct and quench the rising fires.    

To a Lady on the Death of her little Dog.  

MAdam, that any dog should die,  
I not at all do wonder, I;  
Nor can I yours bemoan indeed,  
Since like itself a dog it died.  
Yet 'twas a pretty dog, I vow,  
Descended well, well-favoured too;  
Kept clean, and cleanly with the maid  
Ayr'd itself every day, 'tis said:  
Then it would smiling fawn, and at  
Your trencher with much duty wait;  
Bark when it wanted chicken, and  
Would take no meat but from your hand;  
And like your shadow follow you  
Close wheresoever you would go:  
Then to your bed 'twould duly come  
And lick you where you pleased, whose room  
Many good Christians would have ta'en  
With willing hearts, and there have lane.  
Lastly (which must not be forgot)  
'Twas good conditioned; was it not?  
A Dog of wax as soon it was;  
It did not Tobits dog surpass,  
In mood and form that waged his tail  
As 'twould ha' said to his master, hail!  
When bold u●●sses after ten  
Whole years to Ithaca again  
returned his dog yet him did know  
And welcomed home; your dog had no  
Such memory I think; nor would  
Ha' shown such dainty tricks as could  
The tinker's cur of Wapping, that  
Did pray and dance on two, and what  
More wondrous is, with tail in's mouth  
Trip the Canaries round forsooth.  
Your dog I grant was better bred,  
Brought up at hand; and better fed  
Then taught, for this same stately wretch  
Scorned aught to carry or to fetch.  
What worth was in it then, that you  
So much should prize and love it too?  
For I'll be bold the last great fall  
Of men where Death had conquered all  
The field almost, and you did loose  
On each side friends, that none of those  
Nor, all so much afflicted you  
As your dogs fatal end doth now.   

Oh! it did love you: well it might,  
So 'twould whoever made much of it.  
But let me tell you by the way  
(Not to offend you) I heard say,  
Your dog so fed with sweetmeats was,  
Cakebread, and Almondbutter, as  
its breath did shrewdly stink: but let  
That pass; t''ve a worse quality yet,  
'Twould still be barking with itself,  
That I have joyed to see the Elf  
How finely it would turn, when down  
It rolled itself upon the ground:  
For than 'twould quiet lie awhile.  
But since 'tis now more quiet; I'll  
Not pity it, but you, to grieve  
'Cause your dog could not ever live.  
Dogs have their days, 'tis true: and though▪  
A dog-star shins above, below  
They die. Yet since you loved its sight  
we'll pourtrayt e'er you bury it:  
And for his Epitaph shall be  
This underwit in memory;  
His Mistress chiefest joy and grief,  
Loved too almost as her own life;  
Here lies the best of Dogs, and lest,  
That Album Graecum made the best  
To cure sore throats with; for 'tis said  
The Isle of Dogs such never had.  
But dead doth now so worthless prove  
His skin will hardly make one glove  
For a child's itchy hand: yet he  
Lives famous in effigy.    

In Crumenâ Vacuum an non?  

NAture as says philosophy  
Admits no vacuum; yet I  
(O the sad fate of Codrus curse!)  
Find there's a Vacuum in my purse.  
Or Nature errs sure, or the gold  
Which my now empty purse did hold.  
When the last mite's exhausted, wou'll  
You then persuade me yet 'tis full?  
When Taverns and the mercer's book  
Have picked my pocket, shall I look  
Then for gold there? I can't I trow  
Both eat my cake and have it too?  
Yet to make good this axiom,  
Here's one in charity throws some  
Small crumbs of comfort in: he tells  
Me its full of air, but nothing else:  
Alas! I'm no Chamoelion,  
Nor can I live by air alone.  
If all thy gold dissolved be  
To liquid and Pota●ile;  
Will not your strings stretch for one pint  
Of Sack? all gone? is nothing in't?  
Oh thou my dear and quondam friend  
That in my need didst money lend,  
How do I grieve thy skeleton  
Reduced thus soon to skin and bone!  
Sure some will think that see thy thin  
And airy corpse, that thou hast been  
Some poet's purse, thus made refine  
By th'Alchimie of wit and wine:  
And that thy Angel gold may be:  
Still there, though it we cannot see,  
It is so sublimated, and  
So pure; for since we understand  
The Angels to be Spirits, then  
Thou'rt become spiritual again.   

Well then philosophy in truth,  
I find thou speak'st the naked truth;  
For though for coin it empty be  
Yet there is no vacuity.  
Though no bright Angel do appear  
In this despised hemisphere;  
Yet the diu'ls in't without all doubt  
There's ne'er a cross to keep him out.   
De sunt nonnulla.   

To a Friend wishing peace.  

LEt's all be friends! a happy peace  
Would make us prize that 'bove our ease:  
Then we would home, and marry too,  
To keep that corner of the house  
Yet left unsacked by civil foe,  
And drink a round in dear carouse.   

Oh what a happy thing it were,  
To live secure, and free from fear  
Of plunder! when the dull hind may  
With pig in hand his yearly rent  
To his old Landlord justly pay  
In stead of King or Parliament!   

No hurry then of dread alarms;  
From sleep should fright us into Arms:  
Gaols should stand empty then, and we  
Enlarged as the winds may breathe  
Each where, and as in Jubilee  
Live free from fear of sudden death.   

The Trumpet than shall only blaze  
In Christmas or at Puppet plays;  
Or serve the Clowns to summon o'er  
To wait o'th' Judge, at grand Assize;  
And the drum only beat before  
A muzzled Bear, or harmless prize.   

Then shall we see no arms, but such  
As in the great Hall hang o'th' crutch  
All rust with cobwebs, which to clear  
The Grooms and Coachmen, (as you know  
It was the custom) once a year  
Must at the County training show.   

In the King's highway then we'll ride,  
(Not skulking lest we should be spied  
In private lanes or byways cut  
By hardy Pioneer) a gentle pace,  
In stead of marching to a hut  
Or hedge, unto some warmer place.   

O'th' weekdays then we'll bowl and chat  
Of our dear loves, and you know what,  
But not one syllable of State,  
Amidst our pleasant mirth; and then  
(If that Religion bear date)  
we'll pray on Sundays once again.   

If olived peace should once more smile  
And say, be happy! to this Isle,  
(Dear friend!) as who knows but she may?)  
I dare presume that you and I  
Shall kiss her feet, and wish her stay;  
And he that doth not, may he die!    

Song in a siege.  

Fill, fill the goblet full with sack!  
I mean our tall black-jerkin Jack,  
Whose hide is proof 'gainst rabble-Rout,  
And will keep all ill weathers out.  
What though our plate be coined and spent?  
Our faces next we'll send to th' mint:  
And 'fore we'll basely yield the town,  
Sack it ourselves and drink it down.   

Accurst be he doth talk or think  
Of treating, or denies to drink,  
Such dry hopsucking narrow souls  
Taste not the freedom of our bowls.  
They only are besieged, whilst we  
By drinking purchase liberty.  
Wine doth enlarge, and ease our minds,  
Who freely drinks no thraldom finds.   

Let's drink then as we used to fight,  
As long as we can stand, in spite  
Of Foe or Fortune! who can tell?  
She with our cups again may swell;  
he neither dares to die or fight,  
Whom harmless fears from healths affright:  
Then let us drink our sorrows down,  
And ourselves up to keep the town.    

On the cripple soldiers marching in Oxford in the Lord Thr. Cottington's company.  

STay Gentlemen! and you shall see a very rare sight;  
Soldiers who though they want arms, yet will sight:  
Nay some of them have never a leg but only Will:  
Their governor, and yet they'll stand to it still.  
The birds called Apodes they resemble, and seem  
To be without either wing or leg, like them.  
Oh the courage of a drunken and valiant man!  
For each will be going when he cannot stand!  
Then room for cripples! here comes a company,  
Such as before I think you ne'er did see:  
Here's one like a pigeon goes pinioned in spite  
Of old Priapus, the birds to affright:  
Another limps as if he had got the Pharse,  
With his half leg like a Goose close up to his arse:  
Yet mistake me not! this is no Puppet play;  
You shall only see the several motions to day.  
run: tan: tan: with a spanish march and gate  
Thus they follow their Leader according to his wonted state.  
A snail or a Crablouse would march in a day.  
If driven as led with the white staff as far as they.  
What I should call them I hardly do know,  
Foot they are not as appears by the show:  
By the wearing of their muskets to which they are tied,  
They should be Dragooners had they horses to ride.  
And yet now I think on't, they cannot be such;  
Because each man hath his rest for his crutch,  
To these their Officer need not to say at alarms,  
Stand to your Colours, or handle your arms:  
Yet that they are soldiers, you safely may say,  
For they'll die before they will run away:  
Nay, they are stout as ever were Vantrumps,  
For like Widdrington they'll fight upon their very stumps.  
They have keen ostrich stomachs, and well digest  
Both Iron and Lead, as a Dog will a breast  
Of Mutton. But now to their Pedigree;  
That they are sons of Mars, most writers agree;  
Some conceive from the Badger old Vulcan they came,  
Because like him they are Mettle-men and lame,  
The moderns think they came from the Guys of Warwick; and  
Some think they are of the old Herculean band:  
For as by his foot he was discovered, so  
By their feet you their valour may know.  
And though many wear wooden legs and crutches,  
Yet, by Hercules, I can assure you, such is  
Their steeled resolution, that here  
You'll find none that will the wooden dagger wear.  
They're true and trusty Trojans all believe me;  
And stride their wooden palfreys well: 'twould grieve me  
To see them tire before they get  
Unto the holybush; but yet  
If they should faint, at that end of the town,  
They may set up their horses and lie down.  
Most of these fighters, I would have you to know,  
Were our brave Edgehil Myrmidons awhile ago.  
Who were their limbs like their looser rags  
Ready to leave them at the next hedge, with brags,  
That through the merit of their former harms,  
They die like Gentlemen though they bear no arms.   

Nowsome will suspect that my Muse may be,  
'Cause she is so lame, of this company;  
And the rather, because one verse sometimes,  
Is much shorter than his fellows to hold up the rhythms;  
I confess before cripples to halt is not good:  
Yet for excuse she pleads, she understood  
That things by their similes are best displayed,  
And for that cause her feet are now jambick made.    

Refrigerium.  

NOw through each vein my blood doth run  
Hot as the summer's scorching Sun,  
Whilst on what side so e'er I turn,  
With double frying flames I burn.  
To cool both Aelna's first I'll have  
An Arbour cool as is the grave,  
And with green shady branches weave  
As covert as Dodona's grove.  
So that the Sun may not appear  
At all in this close Hemisphere.  
With Curran-bushes I'll have't made  
Veiled o'er with Sycamores cool shade,  
And mixed with Rasps and Cherrytrees,  
Whose choice fruit may my palate please.   

I'th' midst of which next shall be spread  
Upon a large and spacious stead,  
A frost-upon-green tabby Quilt  
Watered, as if't had there been spilled,  
Strewed o'er with Roses where I may  
Naked my lazy limbs display;  
And underneathed a crystal stream.  
Of fresh Rose-water stilled from them  
Through th'limbeck of my body, that  
My smelling Sense may recreate.  
A marble Fountain next I'll have  
Close by in a large hollow cave  
Springing with Nilus' sevenfold streams,  
Till they all meet in one fair Thames:  
Washing in whose pure waters we  
Diana and her Nymphs may see:  
With other lively Pictures, that  
My Seeing sense may recreate.  
Next I will have Arion play  
Upon a dolphin's back, whose lay  
Shall teach each bird to chirp and try  
How to excel his harmony.  
Orpheus' his harp, Apollo's lyre  
Shall with the Sirens fill the choir.  
With other sorts of music, that  
My hearing Sense may recreate.  
A Mirmaid next I'll have in stead  
Oth' Barber for to comb my head:  
All the four Winds too shall conspire  
With gentle breize to cool my fire  
Till I being fanned with Lady's love,  
Then their cold Sex shall colder prove.  
Last, because nought cools better than  
A Maid who warms and cools again.  
I'll have a young plump amorous Queen,  
Ripe though she be not yet fifteen.  
twixt whose close arms and snowy breast  
I may diffuse my heat, and rest:  
Then bath myself in kisses, that  
My Feeling Sense may recreate.  
Thus when at once I all my Senses please,  
Me thinks I feel myself in Paradise.     

ELEGIES.  
By Robert Heath, Esquire.  
LONDON, Printed for Humphrey MOSELEY, and are to be sold at his Shop at the sign of the Prince's Arms in S. Paul's churchyard, 1650.   

Elegies.  

On the Death of the young and pious Lady Mrs C. P.  

SO young and ripe in judgement? fit for heaven  
A Saint she was on earth, before eleven.  
What Virtue was there lodged in this small world,  
Whose soul grew faster than the body could?  
Sins she had none, but what cursed Nature gave,  
Yet e'er she knew't, she longed this world to leave,  
Where but new entered, she with pious rage  
Her Prologue spoke, doth bravely quit the stage.  
Oh happy growth, that in so short a time,  
This early blossom thus to heaven could climb!    

Epicedium On the beautiful Lady Mrs A. K. unfortunately drowned by chance in the Thames in passing the Bridge.  

Drowned? and i'th' Thames? oh how I grieve to see  
Such fair streams act so foul a tragedy!  
Not all thy main which twice a day doth flow,  
Can wash this guilt from off thy conscious brow.  
Like the dead sea thou look'st; whilst every wave  
Thou wear'st, now seems to be another grave.  
Forgetful Lethe, or the Stygian Lake,  
As thou foul Tiber, looks not half so black.  
How horrid thou appearest! and thou dost taste  
Sour, and not half so pleasant as thou wast;  
Rome now will fear to drink thee, since thou'rt died  
With such chaste guiltless blood, and none will ride  
More on thy ruder waves, thy cruelty  
Since 't would not spare so fair a Saint as she.  
How I could flow with anger! chide thee too,  
But thou art innocent, as pure, I know:  
'Las 'twas her Fate, unhappy destiny!  
Thus to thy streams, to add more purity.  
Thou'rt become white again; an Element  
Fit to receive a soul so innocent;  
Whose body buried in thy crystal tomb  
Transparent lies, scorning earths baser womb.  
Gilt Tagus banks, nor the Pectalian  
Can boast such Golden treasures as you can.  
Thou didst but lend her to the Earth awhile,  
Thou hast thy Pearl again, now Thamis smile.  
'Tis fit such gems should by the maker's hands  
Shine thus transplanted to their native sands.    

On the Death of the excellent fair Lady, the Lady A. R.  

HOw blindly erting were those Painters, that  
Did without eyes grim Death delineate?  
Did he not aiming shoot, and shooting hit  
'Midst the Arcadian Nymphs this fairest white,  
This whitest Venus Dove? without his light  
How had he found this mark, or shot so right?  
Thus as he aiming stood, and in his heart  
Relenting doubted, whether his fell dart  
He should or spare or send, so long he gazed  
Upon her beauty's splendour all amazed,  
That the bright rays she darted, did so shine  
And dazzle the beholding Archers eyen,  
That whilst he trembling shot and made her light  
Extinct, the beams of that put out his sight.  
And so e'er since Death hath been blind indeed;  
On her fair Tomb this Epitaph shall be read:  
beauty here on Death revenged, Triumphant lies,  
Whose Glories won all hearts, put out all eyes.    

On the loss of Mr N. W. his three finggers cut off at the battle of Edgehil, he being both a Poet and a musician.  

BY some it hath been said,  
That the best music is by discord made;  
But here, (I grieve to see)  
By discords we have lost our harmony.  
How cruel was that hand  
Deprived thee of thy cunning fingers? and  
At one unhappy▪ blow  
Cut off an Orpheus, and a Poet too?  
How sadly the strings rest  
E'er since those fingers which before expressed  
On them such lively art,  
Were thus dissected from their constant part?  
Yet though these joints be gone  
To quiet ease, two fingers still are on,  
Which with dexterity  
Can write the Epitaph o'th' tother three.  
And though you cannot play;  
Yet still both sing, and versify you may.    

Naenia Upon the death of my dear friend T. S. Esquire, slain at the first fight at Newberry, 1645.  

PAle Ghost! I weep, not 'cause thy precious blood  
Honoured when spilled, a cause so just, so good;  
Nor grieve I 'cause so much that suffered too,  
I'th' loss of such a Champion as you:  
This makes my heart afresh with thy wounds bleed,  
A Loyal Subject, and my friend, is dead.  
One, whose unborrowed native Wit proclaimed  
Him sole Apollo's heir; whose virtues famed  
Him with Pandora's gifts endowed; whose parts  
Did style him Master of all noble Arts.  
One whose Youths sprightful valour did incline  
To acts heroic without help of wine,  
One who preferred the cause he had in hand  
Above his life, before his father's land:  
One that was forward, yet not desperate bold,  
A coward in ill acts, yet durst behold  
Death in his ugliest vizard. This was he  
Who loved his friend, and feared no enemy.  
Who nobly thus did seek an early grave,  
Because he scorned to live a subjects slave.  
Wide was the Orifice sure of thy large wound,  
Else had thy great and gallant soul ne'er found  
So easy passage thence to sally out,  
And leave her so loved seat to range about  
Th'Elysian groves. My soul's best part adieu,  
I'll bathe thy wound in tears, though wounded too.  
Dry eyes forbear this urn! oh come not near  
To read this Epitaph without a tear.  
Spirit of Wit and Valour here doth lie  
Doubly entombed i'th' Readers heart and eye.    

Upon the lingering death of the Virtuous Mrs L. H.  

DEath! I not blame thy subtlety  
In cutting off this Happy she:  
Ne'er didst thou yet in thy black list enrol  
So fair a soul.   

Thy envy snatched her hence, lest we  
By her example taught, should be  
Immortalised by virtue, and live still  
Against thy will.   

For hadst thou spared her yet awhile,  
And not prevented by this wile  
Our grand design, thou'adst lost thy sting, and we  
Not feared thee.   

Coward thou didst by slow degrees  
Upon her Vital spirits cease,  
Else had she summoned power, enough to stand  
Thy armed hand.   

Subtle and envious Coward, thus  
Thou've spoiled Nature, robbed us:  
Yet I not blame thee, thou'adst no other way,  
To get thy prey.    

Upon the Death of the truly valiant Sir Bevil Grenvil slain.  

SEE where in Western clouds our Sun is set!  
Whilst those thick groves of Pikes of him beset  
To guard his Valour, trembled all and shook  
With Aspen fear, soon as this stately oak  
Was cleft with fatal thunder! every head  
Droops like pearled Violets now Grenvil's dead.  
We need no Gods of Egypt to exhale  
Salt rivers from our eyes, and force us wail  
His sorrowed absence; no sour peel, or Rue  
To damp our looks to Pharisaic hue.  
From Grenvil's hearse each cheek is watered,  
And scorns to wear a smile now he is dead.  
Did I not view heavens' great unarmed bow,  
I might suspect Deucalion would overflow  
The drenched world again, and in his name  
Erect a new eternal Ark of Fame.  
What sudden inundation else could thus  
As in a second deluge bury us  
Alive? and waft us by a quick return  
To shades? what fire but that of his bright urn  
Could melt each Muse to liquified verse,  
And thus dissolve in elegiac tears?  
What Ocean but his Virtues could have drunk  
So many floods from weeping eyes, or sunk,  
So many drowning hearts? at whose sad fall  
A deep groaned Diapason drowneth all,  
And blends at once our harmony—  
Oh I could curse that Planet that did reign  
At thy first birth, and e'er since smiling shine  
Till this unlucky hour it frowned on thee,  
Prompting our Stars to bode us misery.  
For if our hopeful cause should gasping lie,  
I'd swear it languished, since she saw thee die.    

Upon the unfortunate death of the truly gallant and noble Gent. Ed. Sackvil, Esquire.  

THy power pale envious death I now defy,  
Thy rage is spent in this one tragedy.  
Thou've purloined our chief wealth, and in one hour  
Robbed honour's Garland of its choicest flower.  
Now do thy worst! thy life-depriving dart,  
Can no more Conquest bring, nor deeper smart.  
Oft his tried Valour in the open field  
Dared thee, where since thou couldst not make him yield,  
Now by a weak and clandestine surprise  
Thou smitest him unawares by cowardice.  
Yet went he armed against that fatal blow,  
Which sin did print upon his flesh, not you.  
Then be not proud of this thy spoil, since he  
Did wish to, more than you could make him, die.  
For now he lives famed to posterity,  
Both for his Virtues and his loyalty.  
The gallant spirit of whose youthful heat  
Doth with his urns clear oil perpetuate.  
We weep not then, because he died; but thus;  
The strange chance, doth strange wonder claim in us.  
He that but newly changed his mortal life  
In sacred wedlock, with a happy wife,  
Is forced by th'ignorant malice of worse men  
To change it for a happ'er once again:  
He whose rich Virtues gained each man his friend  
That knew them both, to his untimely end  
Thus brought by foes (if any he could have)  
Hath with his precious corpse enriched the grave.  
He, he, is gone: and nought but sorrow left  
To mind us of the good we are bereft.  
For 'tis not only he; we all are dead  
As when the Sun sets flowers seem withered:  
Nor doth his Fam'ly only lose a stem,  
The kingdom suffers in the loss of him.  
More I should say; but sullen grief denies,  
I'll sigh, and vent the rest with weeping eyes.    

Elegy Upon the death of that thrice valiant Lord, the Lord Bernard Stewart, slain in the fight near West-chester.  

BOast not proud death of this thy victory!  
In killing him who thus resolved to die!  
Hadst thou a life to lose, I would on thee  
Revenge his too too early destiny.  
But Coward! thou nor spirit hast nor heat;  
Else thou wouldst near ha' smit so brave, so great  
A Person, that on thy dread tragic stage  
Fought on thy side, and in that bloody rage  
To thy black shades so many breathless sent.  
Perhaps thou fearedst his high-born fury meant  
With fierce assault thy conquering self disarm,  
Sans fear of death he fought so; at which alarm,  
Lest he thy territories should invade,  
And so usurp thy power, thou wast afraid,  
So' Cause thy jealous fear would admit none,  
A Rival in thy Empire, thou so soon  
Didst cut him off. Happy unhappy he  
Right noble born, and dying; here doth lie,  
Whose single Death-despising Valour made  
His greatest enemy, Death itself afraid.    

On the Death of that most famous Musician Mr W. Laws, slain in this unhappy Civil war.  

SUch is the strange antipathy between  
The wolf and sheep; that a Drum with Wolves skin  
Headed and beat, the parchment bottom breaks,  
And soundless to the stick no answer makes:  
So the wolf's by, the Lambstrings break; so 
* Ideoque Lupinas fides si sungas agninis, illas dissilere scribit Martinus del Rio. lib. 1. Disqui Magic. c. 4.  dumb  
Is th'other, when you sound a wolves-skinned Drum.  
By Wolves our Orpheus thus opposed was slain;  
His Lyres offended strings thus cracked in twain,  
At their harsh foes approach, and rang his knell.  
Such untuned souls, who discord loved too well,  
Knew not the heaven of music's harmony  
(And who not loved dull or ill-natured be.)  
But more enraged grew. Else like those  
Wild beasts Amphion tamed, they would ha' rose  
Inspired with love, and kissed those hands, whose airs  
Ravished the birds, and taught the heavenly Spheres  
To move in pleasing consort. But e'er sin'  
Our laws expired, this commonwealth hath been  
Quite out of tune. Could his surviving lays  
Yet' suage our Genius (as Pythagoras  
with his soft accents, and sweet strains subdued  
And well appeased a mad-brained multitude)  
I'd swear they were Divine, whose powerful breath  
Could echo his rare concords after death,  
And in love's symphony unite each part.  
This had been done by laws his hand and Art,  
(Had he but lived;) e'er now. Melpomene,  
Mourn then! for earth hath lost her harmony.     

EPIGRAMS.  
The first Book.  
By Robert Heath, Esquire.  Quam nihil, hoc aliud, vel malé, praestat agam. 
LONDON, Printed for Humphrey MOSELEY, and are to be sold at his shop at the sign of the Prince's Arms in S. Paul's churchyard, 1650.   

To the Reader.  
Gentle Reader,  
SUspect yourself, and not me, I am no wild satire, no Rhinoceros, cui nasus suspendet aduncus: if you make not yourself the greater monster, and by a guilty application think yourself pointed at. Though the title Epigram seems to carry a sting in the tail: yet the harmless Bee will not wound, unless you first provoke it. Indeed an Epigram should be aculeatum in caud â, where the whole force of the argument {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} should be syllogistically summed up in the conclusion. This Lesbian rule, I have endeavoured to keep, where perhaps I conclude sometimes with gall enough, but no spleen. I not personate thee, but thy follies (if thou hast any.) Such general censures are not scandalous, but useful, and therefore pardonable. If thou seest then thy imperfections in any of these ideas as in a mirror represented to thee, blame Nature and thyself, and not the glass that shows them. All that I shall say to excuse these illepidas ineptias, in that they are not all alike salted, is what the best of epigrammatists said of his own long since.  

Sunt bona, sunt quaedam mediocria, sed mala plura:  
Quae legis hic aliter non fit Avite, liber.   

Some good there are, some mean, though most be bad,  
N● book was otherwise (Good Reader?) made.    

Epigrams. Lib. 1.  

To the Reader of my Epigrams and Satyrs.  

REader! that we may still be friends be wise!  
And read no more of me, I thee advise!  
Somewhere thou'lt find thyself abused, and hate  
My naked truths, and so repent too late:  
Some saucy line, if they, not give offence,  
The duller yet, will vex thy patience.  
Why wrote I then, methinks I hear it said,  
If I not meant the Satyrs should be read?  
Read on then at your peril! but see you  
Read as I writ, having nought else to do.    

To a lascivious blackamoor Woman.  

'tIs Night in thine, in my face day: but yet  
Should we join; we might mongrel twilight get;  
A tawny-moor that would of both partake:  
Haunt me not Shade! I'll no new monster make.    

To Cosmus.  

WOuldst know who 'tis that makes his knife his plough?  
Reaps with increase, and yet doth never sow?  
That hath no granary to inn an ear,  
And yet 'tis harvest with him all the year?  
That without fear of Statute, doth engross  
All th'corn he can, and lives by others' loss?  
Nor buys nor sells, nor eats it? then know (Sir?)  
'Tis Gemurcide, your humble Corn-cutter.    

On Lieutenant Catch.  

CAtch brags much of his learning; and how well  
In letters versed, he many doth excel:  
Thou wert indeed a cunning lettered knave,  
Thy learning from the gallows thee did save:  
No Samian e'er so lettered was, as you,  
Twice thou wast burnt i'th' hand, and once i'th' brow.    

To one that after ten years' study, brought forth a lamentable work.  

TEn years you say 'tis, since you 'gan to write:  
So long in bringing forth so little wit?  
So after ten years' siege the Grecians won  
But a dry ravished Helen, and burnt town:  
So Elephants bring forth, having ten years gone,  
A foetuqus monster, such as you have done.    

On rich Lock.  

RIch Lock's maids stay not long with him, yet they  
Laden all, though not Maiden, go away:  
Some to his tenant's eldest sons are wed,  
Some to his menial servants married;  
With th' first he gives some money, and to these  
A Rent-free farm or Copyhold he gives.  
Well their short service thou rewardest Lock:  
Young Tenants can't begin without a stock.  
Sure a more gracious Landlord ne'er was known  
Lock's now more like a father to his town.    

To the Printer.  

I Prithee spoil-sheet! through resolved mistake  
Don't in my book more new erratas make!  
And force, i'th' latter sheet thy Reader so  
With thy faults and small sense more penance do!  
he'll not forgive thee, since he knows full well  
You made them now, that it might better sell.    

On Galla her going to a nunnery.  

E'er her Probation year was finished,  
She not approved that life; Improve she did:  
The first year Galla only said she meant  
To prove: She proved indeed, with child, and went.    

On Marcus.  

Homers' Stentorian that had the voice  
Of fifty men, made not so great a noise  
As Marcus, when he pleads; no Judge can sleep  
Or Officer, he doth such bawling keep.  
Who but loud Marcus the Court practice hath?  
His client's cause he carries with a breath.    

To Sullen.  

SUllen, when it is vexed' will angry sit,  
'Twill neither eat nor drink, but pout and fret:  
Fast! you do well, in Galen I have read  
Such scurvy humours should be sterved, not fed.    

On Cleombrotus.  

SOon as Cleombrotus th' Ambraciot read  
Grave Plato's Phaedo that discoursed how dead  
This life is; after which the soul should be  
Clothed with a robe of immortality.  
Mistaking him; himself did fondly drown,  
And cried thus changed my crook is for a Crown.  
Alas! poor blind deceived Mortal▪ he  
Made too much haste to immortality:  
Who'd take by force what may be given him? since  
Heaven ne'er was purchased by such violence?    

To a traveller.  

YOu talk of Silarus that turns wood to stone;  
Of a Fount flows with wax, and then of one  
That streams with pitch; and of the Andrian spring  
That store of wine and oil doth daily bring;  
All this I'll first believe, then travail I,  
To see how wide you and your fountains lie.    

On the Lady Seem-pol.  

Dressed like herself, her feat discourse is drawn  
Latinified in fine spun Cobweb lawn;  
Each flatuous word swells with verbosity,  
And speaks how skilled she is in sophistry:  
How wise your babes would be, if they, so young,  
Should learn from you to speak their mother tongue?  
Nay she learned Aristotle; dares confute  
Or, with Bengeli, of the Stars dispute?  
Far above human, much more, woman's reach  
Or laugh at him that did o'th' Sunday preach:  
Thus at her tongue most rarely good is she:  
She's at her tail as good, or fame doth lie.    

On Sir Gervas' lofty.  

WHat what a Spanish gate this portly tall  
And glorious Ship doth through the Ocean sail  
Of its vast boundless pride? at which the small  
And weaker pinnace must or break or veil?  
He will know no man; this the cause may be,  
He hardly knows himself, for every day  
He or his garment's not the same, whilst he  
Turns shapes like Proteus, looking big and gay.  
Poor ship although your sails so wide you bear,  
I know there's twenty have in thee a share.    

To the Reader.  

DOst wonder Reader why my Satyr-Muse  
Hath got no lines i'th' front as others use  
To set her forth, and so conceive her poor  
'Cause friendless as not worth the reading o'er?  
Why I bespoke not other men to write  
Encomium's there, whose empty praises might  
Make the enlarged Preface swell and look  
Like Mindus' porch, as big as all the book?  
She scorned to beg applause, or trouble friends,  
Except those she gets: Good wine it self commends.  
Why should a stranger at her feast say grace?  
She bids you welcome, fall to, if you please!    

Epitaph on a Poor alchemist.  

THe ashes of a Golden Ass,  
Not worth a monument of brass,  
Or chemist subtle as his gold  
Reader this earthen urn doth hold;  
Who, his gold vanished all to air  
And dear-bought cinders, through despair  
And Deaths more certain chemistry,  
The Quintessence of Fool did die,  
Thus sublimated and cal●in'd  
To nothing, but poor dust refined.    

Why men are so unlike.  

WHy one man is not like another', this;  
No one is like himself, and so it is.    

To Madam Moil on her Picture.  

MAdam! their judgements I commend who said,  
Your picture's like yourself, for it is made  
Of fading colours which will wear away,  
To be gazed on a while, and then decay;  
An empty shadow with a rolling sight,  
Looks wantonly on all that look on it;  
A well dressed statue, yes; and painted too;  
'Tis very like you, Madam! so are you.    

Epitaph on a very fat man.  

UNder this pebble stone,  
Here fast sleepeth one,  
And that is not two;   

Yet was without doubt  
Far bigger about,  
Then both I, and you.   

His kidneys increased  
So much, that his wast  
Was hooped all round:   

So his girdle Death cuts,  
And down fell his guts,  
'Bouts heels to the ground.    

To Clois.  

I Know you rich; you are an heir,  
You're courteous, liberal, and fair,  
You're wise too, as most women are,  
Jolly, and friendly, debonair:  
I like this freedom; but they say  
You are to free another way.  
Clois farewell! your gold's too light;  
And so I may too dearly buy't.    

On the English Mounsieur.  

AN English Mounsieur lately came from France,  
Where he had learned to make a leg, to dance,  
To kiss his little finger, ride the barb,  
And wear his clothes in the authentic garb.  
Seeing him thus i'th' mode, I did demand  
In French, how long 'twas since he came to land?  
He answered not, but said he had been long  
In France, but never cared to learn the tongue.  
How many are there whom we thus mistake,  
That travel only thus for fashion sake?    

On Phylautus.  

PHilautus thinks each woman that doth view  
His proper person, straight must love him too▪  
Alas Town cladder thou'rt mista'en I see,  
Thou lov'st thyself, and them, they laugh at thee.    

On Nab and Plodwel.  

NAb gone to Sea two years or more, and dead  
Reported since, his wife did Plodwel wed:  
Returned Nab found his wife with child, and though  
Her he must keep, the child he would not too.  
Plodwel ejected of's new home and wife,  
Laid the case thus: Tenant for years or life  
When that his time expires, what e'er he leaves  
Unto the Freehold fastened, the Law gives  
All to the Landlord; and who ploughs, and sows  
Another's ground, at his own peril does  
The same, and loses all the crop: since I  
Have trespassed, reap the same! he made reply,  
The barn and ground's your own; good land should not  
Lie fallow. Nab thus gained what Plodwel got.    

To Lupa.  

THy daughter-Whore, begets a Bawd her mother,  
As Ice and water each engender other:  
Though thy age freeze with her salt mixed like snow  
Before her lustful fires, it thaweth too  
By the same heat inflamed: when she grows ice  
So you can warm her blood with bawd's advice.    

On Priske and Galla.  

SOme think Prisk's great with Galla; but say I,  
She is grown great with him, or fame doth lie.    

To a fat Usurer.  

FAt folks we say by nature are most free:  
You and your purse are fat, and yet I see  
Your hand and that still shut, the reasons this;  
In costive flesh thy lean soul buried is.    

On wild.  

HIs father sick and dying, wild mourned sore,  
But 'twas because he died not before:  
At's burial he in mourning weeds was clad,  
This was cause th' Mother was not also dead:  
She dead, sad soul! he clothed himself in Sack  
(cloth I not mean) for th' belly, not the back.  
Oh Viperous age! when children shall so soon  
Through envy wish their parents dead and gone!    

On Smart.  

A Puritan once; Smart, since conformed did bow,  
Wore a canonic cassock to his shoe:  
Turned with the tide he rails 'gainst Bishops now;  
This for a quiet living Smart can do:  
Instead of Cassock now a cloak he wears,  
A broad hat with short hair and longer ears.  
As th' Sun moves he sets his Horoscope:  
Smart's both a turn coat now, and Heliotrope.    

On Brisk.  

BRisk braged of's ready wit; I tempting him  
But for one distich, did propound this theme,  
Nothing: It cannot be, he wondering said  
That out of Nothing aught should e'er be made.  
Dull Brisk thou ne'er couldst tune Apollo's lyre:  
A puresteeld wit, will strike Mercurial fire  
Out of the flintiest subject: but thy head  
Is all composed of softer mettle, lead.    

On Mopsa a chambermaid.  

MOpsa advanced from th' dairy to her Dame,  
With her black bag concealed from whence she came:  
Mopsa o'er her body had a tanned goose-skin,  
Yet her clothes hid it, so that was not seen:  
Mopsa her face was chinked and ugly too,  
Yet that she salved with Arts adulterate hue:  
Mopsa's pretended simpering modesty  
Hid her foul thoughts: still good she seemed to be:  
Mopsa's wemb swelled, that fault was also hid  
By th' Chaplains cassock whom she married:  
But Mopsa's child did like her Master grow:  
Alas! poor Mopsa was discovered now.    

To fat Apicius.  

A Picius leave! scratch thy bald pate no more  
Hark how thy Muse supine doth sleeping snore  
In thy diseased and bedrid soul! She lies  
Slumbering resolved neither to wake or rise.  
Not all thy sprightly Sack or far fetched cheer  
Can help as midwives to deliver her.  
The fumes from thy full paunch ascending fill  
Thy head with vapours, whose dull mists do kill  
And suffocate thy vitals, hurt thy brain,  
Where all thy genitive faculties are lane.  
The Muses live in hungry air, feed clean,  
So must you; else your wit will ne'er be keen.  
As 'tis in Nature so in poesy,  
Seldom or ne'er fat bodies pregnant be.    

On a deaf man and his blind wife.  

THe husband's deaf, the wife can't see a wink  
She's ears to him' and now he's eyes to her:  
Which hath the happier time on't do you think?  
He; since her perilous tongue he cannot hear,  
Her noise 'tis thought deafed him; howe'er it be,  
Happy is that loss that made them thus agree.    

On Lena.  

LEna a virgin was so pure,  
So holy, sober, chaste, demure,  
So all o'er mild, as in good sooth  
Butter would hardly melt in mouth.  
But Lena married grew a scold  
Outrageous, impudent, and bold;  
And when her lustful fires went out,  
A Bawd, she threw the sparks about.  
Her early goodness did presage  
She would degenerate with age.  
The double blossomed appletree  
Never bears any fruit we see:  
And a forward promising Spring,  
Doth but a sterile autumn bring.  
The Proverb thus she verifies,  
A young Saint an old devil is.    

Why Justice is painted blind.  

WHo painted Justice blind did not declare  
What Magistrates should be, but what they are;  
Not so much 'cause they rich and poor should weigh  
In their just scales alike; but because they  
Now blind with bribes are grown so weak of sight,  
They'll sooner feel a cause then see it right.    

Of Love. Sonnets.  

WHy love so often themes each writer's pen  
Is this: 'tis spreading Love overcomes all men:  
Which sickness though most would hide from their friends,  
Like Agues, yet 'twill work at th' finger's ends.    

To Sir Gregory Nonsense.  

WHen you to little purpose much do talk  
Repeating still the same thing, and I balk  
Your weaker argument to avoid delay;  
Angry you'd have me hear you out, you say,  
I'have heard thee out too long, where you ha' been  
Wide from the purpose, now let's hear thee in.    

To spend-fast a gamester.  

THe famous Lers of Belestat that flows  
And for four months doth ebb each hour, shows  
What tides thy wavering fortune bears, whilst you  
By play wax rich, and wain as often too.  
But Spend-fast this hath a full Sea to feed  
It's thirsty current when it stands in need:  
You han't an Ocean of wealth I think,  
When all your bags grow dry to make them drink.    

To the Ingenious Reader.  

REader be wise! and don't abuse the Poet!  
Say not his wit is old, stole; or, I know it!  
If nought worth praise you here shall find or see,  
Be silent then; he'll do as much for thee.    

On Sullen.  

Sullen will eat no meat but peevishly  
Replies I care not nor I will not, I:  
Troth I commend his abstinence, 'tis great,  
When having such a stomach he'll not eat.    

To Pistor.  

WHen Pistors' bread is found too light, 'tis sent  
To the poor Prisoners for his punishment:  
I not approve't, 'tis Charity mista'en,  
Pistor youar' Still an errant Knave in grain.    

On a fruitful merchant's wife.  

A Merchant newly married went to Sea;  
Returning after three years' voyage, he  
Found his wife busied midst her children two,  
And with a third as big as she could go.  
She to prevent a storm said husband! you  
By Sea, and I by land have travailed too.    

To a painted Whore.  

AS rotten worms do breed in gilded books,  
So thrives thy carcase under painted looks:  
Who reads thy sou I shall find that too within  
In every line and letter black with sin.    

To Brisk.  

BRisk when thou'rt drunk, then in thy own conceit,  
Thou'rt Valiant, Wise, Great, Honest, Rich, Discreet.  
Infused at once so many qualities?  
Oh Virtuous sack from whence all these arise!  
Troth! Brisk be always drunk! for well I know  
When you are sober you are nothing so.    

To Jeffry the King's dwarf.  

Small Sir! methinks in your less self I see  
Expressed the lesser world's epitome.  
You may write man, i'th' abstract so you are,  
Though printed in a smaller Character.  
The pocket volume hath as much within't  
As the broad Folio in a larger print,  
And is more useful too. Though low you seem  
Yet you're both great and high in men's esteem.  
Your soul's as large as others, so's your mind:  
To greatness Virtue's not like strength confined.    

To Overwise.  

BEfore a feast is cracked he laughs and swears  
Good before— oh apprehensive ears!  
That do like lightning thus prevent the stroke  
And conceive thunder e'er the cloud is broke.    

On Mounsieur Finedress.  

SR. do but mark yond crisped Sir you meet!  
How like a Pageant he doth stalk the street?  
See how his perfumed head is powdered o'er!  
Twued stink else, for it wanted salt before.    

On Phylautus.  

PHilautus with himself is much in love,  
Doth his own actions ever best approve;  
Nay his own picture he doth look upon,  
('Cause 'tis like him,) with admiration:  
How well may he be said and truly too  
To court a shadow? he himself is so.    

To Gripe.  

GRipe to me all when he is dead will give,  
Will part with nothing whilst he is alive:  
What thanks is that to gape for dead men's shoes?  
To give them only when you cannot choose?  
Give now; 'tis left then 'gainst your will I know:  
It is twice given, what living we bestow.  
He leaves a good name who givs whilst he lives,  
And only carries with him what he givs.    

On Lurch the match-contriver.  

LUrch th' old matchmaker with his hunting nose  
All the young Heirs both Male and Female knows  
In town or Country, widows too, or men  
Once married, he can help to wed again:  
Saves them the labour too of wooing, whilst  
He bids the bans, and sends them to the Priest  
For further copulation: thus doth Lurch  
Prey on each party that he brings to Church.  
But oh how oft this marriage-Pimp is cursed!  
'Fore I'd grow rich thus, I'd be hanged first.    

To the Reader.  

REader! my Muse thinks not as beggars do,  
Boldly with importunity to woo  
A farthing worth of praise, no: her desire  
Is only, passing, that you'd look on her.  
She proudly says on alms she scorns to live:  
And as good as you bring she back will give.    

On Proud.  

PRoud swells like Boreas, with face red as fire,  
And keeps a blustering stir in fuming ire,  
So Rubies; do resemble flames, and yet  
Are neither hot or capable of heat,  
Since there's no fire can warm them: So art thou  
As cold with inward fear, as hot in show.  
'Tis but false fire thy seeming Passion givs;  
Then thine, there's not a tamer spirit lives.    

To his dear friend H. N.  

WIth what strange Philtrum's thou didst charm the wine,  
Whose powerful influence made our souls combine  
And melt into our loving cups; or how  
First thou didst win me to thee, I not know;  
Wast 'cause thou'rt pleasant thinkst thou? with discreet  
And harmless mirth setting an edge to wit?  
Or 'cause thou'rt liberal, courteous, and free,  
The friend and Genius of the company?  
Was't for thy person, wealth, or valour I  
So loved thee? or was't only sympathy?  
Was't this, or altogether made me dote  
Upon thee first? no sure, nor this nor that:  
I can no certain cause assign thee why,  
But this, I love thee without reason, I.    

To Gripe and Holdclose.  

GRipe says Rags clothes are lousy, but Holdclose  
Says they're so poor, they are not worth a louce:  
Though your phrase differ; thus agree you may,  
Give him fresh clothes, he'll shift his lice away.    

To Gallus.  

WHat's in three bellies in one day, wouldst know?  
'Tis the new egg thou eatest, each morning to  
Thy breakfast: first 'twas in the hens, and then  
In thine, at night 'tis in thy hen's again.    

On Bib.  

BIbs in a fever always, hot and dry,  
Yet I ne'er saw him sick: the reason why?  
Life's liquour sack he drinks, whose healthful spirit  
Expels both sickness, death, and fear of it.  
Oh never dying juice of th' powerful vine!  
Thou mak'st men like thy Immortal self, divine.    

Of Loving Husbands.  

WE observe each loving Husband when the wife  
Is labouring, by a strange reciproque strife  
Doth sympathising sicken, an't may be:  
In Law their one, and in Divinity.    

On Luscus.  

LUscus is never well, but changing still,  
And though he lose by th' bargain change he will:  
No marvel he's grown so poor, how should he else?  
Too dear he buys repentance when he sells.    

On Stut.  

THe more Stut strives to speak, he stams the more;  
But his cold tongue well oiled, and hot with store  
Of wine, he speaks not like an Oracle then,  
But much, and loud, and plain as other men:  
Such Eloquence hath powerful wine: but he  
Drinks oft till he can neither speak nor see.  
The remedy here is worse than the disaese,  
Better than none, a tongue imperfect is.    

On the strange Death of Eschylus. a Poet.  

ESchylus foretold by a diviner, he  
By th' downfall of a house should ruined be:  
Fondly that day to 'void this destiny  
Did keep the field, not yet resolved to die:  
There, as he stood, a falcon in his beak  
Having a tortoise which he meant to break,  
Supposed his bald pate, as he barehead stood,  
To be a stone, on which to get his food  
He let it fall: the tortoise did remain  
By this chance safe, and Eschylus was slain.  
Oh the unaltered Persian Laws of fate▪  
Whose fixed decrees none can anticipate!  
Bald Poets hence prove mortal, whilst that crown  
(Whose radiant temples, laureate with renown▪  
And decked with tresses like Apollo's brows)  
Is safe from envy's crack, or death's fell blows.    

On Cob.  

FRom th' College Cob sent to the Ius of Court  
Half coddled, would seem wise though he pay for't:  
A pretty study he hath filled with books;  
Yet he in that or them but seldom looks.  
Not to him but his heir▪ Cob learning buys:  
These are Cobs new Fee simple purchases.    

On Cleopatra.  

RIch cleopatra striving to outvie  
In luxuries excess Mark Anthony,  
A Pearl in value worth three hundred crown  
Dissolved in vinegar first did swallow down  
At one proud draught; and but prevented would  
At the next draught have swallowed one as good.  
Oh monstrous stomach that could in one hour  
Consume an Empire, and a State devour?    

On an Inveighing Poetaster.  

SEe where a snarling scribbler doth inveigh  
In toothless jests against my poesy!  
The toothache sure torments his head and wit;  
Which makes him show his teeth that cannot bite.  
Bees when they wound, disarm themselves: this Ca●●  
So breaks his teeth when he doth biting snarl.    

The Dedication to Momus.  

I To Maecenas dedicate my book,  
he'll read it with no supercilious look;  
To each Ingenious Reader I transmit  
The same, he best knows how to judge of it;  
To th' simple that he may admiree, I give,  
Whom 'cause he understands not, I forgive;  
To all my poetising friends I send it,  
But to you only (Momus) I commend it.    

On Dul.  

Dull readeth much, many a leaf turns o'er,  
Yet grows no wiser than he was before;  
Can tell you many author's names by rote,  
Which upon all occasions he will quote:  
Forgets the text, which he ne'er understood,  
Thus he eats much, but can't digest his food.  
Be not too greedy dull! first learn to spell!  
Who rides too fast, at first, he rides not well.    

On Accismus.  

FOolish Accismus hath a quality  
To deny offered things in modesty:  
By chance one offered him an injury,  
He took it: Bless me! what a fool was he?    

On Tucca.  

Tucca e'er while went to a Bawdy house,  
Where for his entrance he not paid a sous:  
Oh conscience Tucca! 'las! it is their trade;  
I care not he replies, I'm sure I'm paid.  
'Tis just; who e'rs caught stealing in the act  
If he scape death, should be burnt for the fact.    

To Rash.  

RAsh swear not! think not 'cause you swear that I  
Believe you! no: he that will swear will lie.    

To Crispinus.  

CRispinus 'cause you lately writ a play,  
And then didst put't in print the other day,  
You think yourself to be a professed Poet,  
And where you come, believe, that all men know it:  
By which small work you now are grown so proud,  
That now you dare amidst the homer's crowd;  
And 'cause yohave sipped a little, think youare free  
Oth' learned Arts, and of their company:  
Intrude not yet Crispinus! thou'rt not fit  
For th' muse's choir, thine is but suburb wit.    

On Howdee.  

WHen at the Court a fashions quite wore out,  
And come to Longlane walks the town about,  
Then doth my Ladies Howdee get intoied,  
And thinks him gallant in this new old suit:  
No matter Howdee, thou'rt in fashion yet,  
For though a great way off, thou followest it.    

To Brave.  

Wher'er he comes, Brave like a Valiant Scot  
Freely discharges all, and pays the shot;  
Else none would care for's idle company;  
When th' reckoning comes, then Brave, I'll send for thee.    

On Venterwit.  

HE scrapes up verses, shows them up and down,  
And where they are liked, he says they are his own:  
If none commend them, than he swears he found  
Them by chance, walking in the Temple round.  
He by chance met with some of mine, which he  
Had spoilt with interlining ribaldry:  
Who showing asked we how I liked the strain?  
I told him 'twas a poor and empty vein:  
He wondering at my censure, boldly said  
They were the best lines that he ever made.  
Yes: so they were I told him 'fore the text  
Was by his comment thus perplexed.  
Fool thou'rt discovered; therefore take advise!  
Spoil mine no more, or I'll proclaim thy lies!    

On Braggadochio Cit.  

CIt now he's rich doth boast his Pedigree  
How he's allied to this great family  
And tother, whom as customers he knew;  
Thus both his kindred and acquaintance grew.  
Peace Cit! or I'll proclaim thy stock; I know  
That no more arms (poor thou) than legs canst show.    

On wild.  

wild drinks to drown his sorrows, an't may be,  
The more he drinks, the more foregetful he.    

On Childish love.  

CHildren their mothers more than father's love.  
The cause is plain: the fathers often prove  
Uncertain and unknown, and so it is:  
For who can love what he nor knows, nor sees?    

On Mr Spendall.  

I Asked Spendall why he spent so fast?  
Why he his coin did so profusely wast?  
He replied moneys were but crosses to him,  
And gold a gilded bait that would undo him:  
Why he sold all his land, I asked again?  
Hang't 'twas but dirt, why should he keep it then?  
To purchase heaven he would sell that and moe,  
Where till he left his earth, he could not go:  
Then, why he sold his bed? troth he did tell  
Me, whilst he kept his bed, he ne'er was well:  
At last, I asked him why his clothes he sold?  
All to his naked shirt? he was, he told  
Me now about to bid to every friend  
And th'world good-night, and so he made his end.  
Troth Spendall, I do like each smart reply,  
But not thy witty foolish poverty.    

On Lawyer saymuch.  

SAymuch by chance in's feet had got the gout,  
Yet pleaded still; there he would ne'er be out,  
But talked apace, though his feet gouty be,  
Yet he may have a running tongue I see.    

To Medicus on Tucca.  

WHen Tucca's sick, then straight he sends for thee,  
Look to his water! he'll give nothing, he.    

To Vetus an old Antiquary.  

VEtus upon a Manuscript doth poor,  
Tiring himself in reading history o'er;  
What Noah eat before the flood, or how  
Learning increased, is all his care to know:  
Out of Troy's ashes here he rakes a story,  
Makes him admire its strength, & Priam's glory:  
Tells you who Athens built, than talks of Rome,  
How many Consuls she hath had, and whom;  
The oldest books and writings him best please,  
As many love to feed on mouldy cheese:  
Thus he remembers things forgot, doth know  
All that is past, but knows not what is now.  
'Troth now 'tis time to know thyself; go die!  
Converse with th'dead! here's none can make reply.    

On Fine.  

FIne carries 'bout him strong perfumes to please  
The Ladies sweeter company, nothing else?  
Yet: his breath stunk before of's old disease,  
Hoping to hide which, now as strong he smells.    

On the drunkard's lavishness.  

I'll tell you why the drunk so lavish are,  
They have too much, nay more than they can bear.    

On poetising Momus.  

MOmus when any Poem he doth read,  
Though it deserve just praise, and doth exceed  
In wit and judgement; yet he sighs it o'er,  
Saying he has read as good as it before:  
Will ne'er commend it; and if any by  
Ask how he likes it? then he makes reply,  
'Tis good, indifferent; there's something in't,  
Or it may pass, but 'tis scarce worth the print.  
Thus though his wisdom can no fault espy,  
Yet he denies it praise, in policy:  
'Troth Momus if thou hadst, no better friend,  
None would thy verses read, much less commend.    

On Linus.  

LInus his Peruque's made of womens' hair,  
Thus what was lost by women, they repair:  
But not long after Linus nose did drop;  
'las! that was such a breach they could not stop.    

On Gallus.  

TRoubled in conscience Gallus weds his whore,  
Hopes she'll as honest prove as she was poor;  
What skils says he? 'tis but as 'twas before,  
I kept her then, and now I do no more:  
For better and for worse our wives we take,  
A Whore perchance an honest wife may make.    

On Histrio.  

THough Histrio on the stage doth often die,  
Thus put in mind of his mortality,  
Yet reclaims not, but lives licentiously,  
As if he were to act eternally.  
Believe me Histrio death at last will come,  
Though for a while he keeps the tiring room.    

To a Tobaccoseller.  

MEn buy thy smoke, but leave it all behind,  
Thou sellest nought, growest rich, 'cause fools are kind.    

To the Reader.  

REader! I am no epigrammatist,  
No carping Momus, or fell satirist:  
I touch no man, but in the general,  
And modest look, like equal day, on all;  
I personate none; if you then guilty bee  
'Tis your own fault t'apply it; I am free.    

To banks.  

WHen Spendall asks to borrow, you reply,  
You know not when he'll pay you▪ troth nor I.    

To the Physicians.  

OF all the several Professions  
I best approve the wise Physicians,  
You can kill men, nor fear a Jury for't,  
And get experience by another's hurt;  
You can take fees, whether you cure or no,  
And large ones too; few other trades do so:  
Your shop is always open in war or peace,  
All times alike conspire to your increase:  
Then y'have the opportunity you know  
To feel a Ladies tender pulse, or so:  
Thus you both purge the purse and body too,  
Are counted wise, 'cause fools makes use of you.    

To Lupa.  

YOu are a meddler Lupa, rotten too,  
That's 'cause you are an open-arse you know.    

Epitaph on Bibulus.  

HEre, who but once in's life did thirst, doth lie,  
Perhaps the dust may make him once more dry.    

On Histrio.  

HIstrio would needs go write a play of's own,  
But could write nought but what's already known,  
For he like th'leaden cistern held no more  
Water, than what the Poet dropped before.    

To Gut.  

GUt eats and drinks, doth nothing else but swill,  
His teeth do grind, his mouth's the water-hill.    

To Simple.  

SImple you know I gave you good advice;  
Little to say, that men might think you wise;  
If you'll proclaim yourself a fool you may:  
I only tell you now what others say.    

To Brisk.  

BRisk is in love, yet says a single life  
Is best and freest from sorrow, care, or strife:  
What e'er you think, believe't 'tis true you say,  
Marry! you'll find it so another day.    

On Nano being angry.  

HOw Nano swells? how big he looks and high?  
What a large spleen he bears? so hath the fly.    

To my Reader.  

WOnder not why I humbly do not write,  
Flattering encomiums to this Lord, that Knight▪  
And each known friend, as hungry Poets use!  
Mine is a substantive unpensioned Muse;  
Nor e'er was hired to write an Epigram  
In praise of this fool Lord, or that proud Dame.    

To one that asked me why I would write an English Epigram after B. Johnson.  

HOw! dost thou ask me why my venturous pen  
Durst write an English Ep'gram after Ben?  
Oh! after him is manners, though it would  
'Fore him, have writ, if how, it could have told.    

On Galla.  

GAlla Hobgoblins fears, she says, at night,  
And Ghostly Sprights, yet nought can her affright  
When any man is with her; she's afraid  
More by the next day's light to be betrayed.    

To Nab.  

NAb! thy small wits still shrink i'th' wetting, why  
Then drinkst thou so? I'd have thee sow up, I  
Thy lips, but that thy tongue's the fiddle to  
The company, drink then! so that but go!    

Certain modest deprecations against my malevolent detractor.  

MAy he be proud, yet poor against his will!  
May he be forked, and yet jealous still!  
May his wife beat him sober, when he's drunk!  
May his Xantippe prove, what's worse, a punk!  
May not the King reign in his purse a day!  
May he have ne'er a cross when he should pay!  
May no man mind him what he says! and he  
May he have neither friend or enemy!  
May no man read his lines! may none at least  
Commend, or laugh, when e'er he breaks a jest!  
May he eat much, and yet still hungry feed!  
May no man lend him, when he stands in need!  
May he be deep in love, and ne'er obtain!  
May all his hopes be frustrate, and in vain!  
May his horse in his haste of business tire!  
May he be envious still, and yet admire!     

Epigrams. Lib. 2.  

To the gentle Reader.  

'cause second thoughts are best, perhaps you'll look  
For higher Gusto in this second book:  
If so; read on! fine stomachs pleased are  
Better with second cates, though lighter fare.  
Sauce here perhaps you'll find unto your meat,  
I'll bring the Tart, if you'll but make it sweet.    

To the Lady Phanton.  

MAdam! you wear a feather in your head,  
Your face is all mosaic, coloured  
With shining unguents; next your linen's white,  
Your garments too are, as your carriage, light;  
Your heels are cork you walk on: I'll avowed,  
That Madam! now y'are light from head to foot.    

On Lying.  

POets and Painters by authority  
As well as Travellers we say may lie:  
Peripatetics lie, few know 'tis so;  
Painters for lying have some colour too;  
But Bolder Poets when they falsify,  
They do't as neatly, they in Print do lie.    

Epitaph on John Newter.  

REader! John Newter who erst played  
The Jack on both sides, here is laid,  
Who like th'herb John Indifferent  
Was nor for King or Parliament;  
Yet fast and loose he could not play  
With death, he took him at a Bay;  
What side his soul hath taken now  
God or Div'l? we hardly know:  
But this is certain, since he died,  
He hath been missed of neither side.    

A Question about Law.  

ONe asked why th'Law was now so much neglected!  
Marry (said I) it never was respected,  
But still declined e'er since the Judges ruffs  
Were turned to little falling bands and cuffs.    

To my bookseller.  

I'Ave common made my book; 'tis very true;  
But I'd not have thee prostitute it, too;  
Nor show it barefaced on the open stall  
To tempt the buyer: nor post it on each wall  
And corner post close underneath the Play  
That must be acted at Blackfriars that day:  
Nor fee some herring-crier for a groat  
To voice it up and down, with tearing throat.  
Nor bid thy apprentice read it and admire,  
That all i'th' shop may what he reads inquire.  
No: proffered wares do smell: I'd have thee know  
Pride scorns to beg: modesty fears to woo.    

On Mr Fanning the Engastrometh.  

TO speak within, and to one's self, and yet  
Be heard, is much, yet Fanning doth it:  
So tall and stout a man, 'tis strange to see't  
So like a coward should his words down eat:  
The belly hath no ears they say; yet his  
Hath ears to hear, and tongue to talk, I wis.    

On the Invention of Printing and Guns.  

A soldier found at first the way to Print,  
And 'twas a German Munk did Guns invent:  
Thus like armed Pallas, learning doth depend  
On arms, nor can they without this, defend.    

To Megaera.  

MEgaera! since thy ugly face would fright  
The Div'l himself, and all that look on it;  
Prithee why dost thou wear a lookingglass?  
I cast a figure for that cause, she says,  
To fright him from me, and each lustful eye:  
Feared not! I'll warrant thee none shall tempt thee, I;  
For he that should on thy face dote, I'd swear,  
Both blind, and mad, bewitched indeed he were.    

On Plot.  

PLot now he's married, and keeps house, I hear  
Is like his butter, mad but twice a year:  
In Hymen's sheets good-fellowship may lie  
Thus bedrid, and in time expiring die.    

To W. B. a small Poet.  

ONe distich well-made's worth two Poems ill;  
Prithee contract than thine to distiches Will.    

The stony Age.  

tofore there was a Golden Age, next that  
A Silver one, but now 'tis Iron all:  
To what I tro wilt next degenerate?  
To stone I think in stead of mineral.    

To Captain Nym.  

BEtimes thou findest me e'er I stir, and sayest  
Thy morning's draught o'er night thou promised wast,  
But thou nor carest so much for that or me,  
My breeches in the chair thou com'st to see;  
Thy plot prevented thus thou fliest hence,  
In haste to th' next friend with the like pretence,  
Whose pockets, you surprising, borrow there  
Without his leave a crown perhaps, for fear  
More mist, might be discovered, for thy friend  
Shouldst thou but ask it, would not six pence lend▪  
Thus each friends hinder Phob thy want supplies,  
Whence thou dost raise thy daily subsidies,  
And pick some crumbs of comfort; but alas!  
Nym th'other night by Festus cozened was,  
With whom he needs would lie; for Festus did  
Not think his money safe though under's bed,  
But hid it in Nym's pocket: thought he, ne'er  
Will, shifting Nym, look once for money there.  
Thus Nym protected, what he else had stole;  
Better to venture thus, then lose the whole.    

To Mutus.  

MUtus where e'er he comes in company  
Sits still, observes, speaks not a word to any:  
Are you a spy or State-informer grown?  
Set to pick treason, when we are high flown,  
From out our harmless mirth? forgive me pray!  
I'ave wronged you Mutus, you can nothing say.    

To Jealous.  

JEalous if any laughs is angry straight,  
Suspects they jeer at him; oh foolish Wight!  
Because another smiling wries his nose  
Wilt thou betray thyself, and so expose  
Thee to more laughter? though you guilty be,  
Yet I dare say there's no man thought of thee.    

On Taurus.  

I Taurus told that his wife many loved;  
He loved her better 'cause she was approved:  
I said they used her; then he made reply,  
I care not so they use her well, not I.  
Oh wilful Cuckold! who will pity thee,  
That when you're told, won't believe till you see?    

On Swill.  

ON fasting-days Swill eats and drinketh fast,  
Plays fast, hopes thus the world will always last:  
Thus swill doth fast, while the rule Fast and Pray,  
He only changes into feast and play!    

On Resolute Bat.  

AS rough as bear-skins for behaviour,  
A biscuit face as hard for favour,  
As blunt as back of knife, as dull  
As whetstone, or cramed capon full,  
His talk as women backward flat,  
And though laughed at, he's Resolute Bat;  
he'll to the Club, and prate his share  
Or more, pay less than any there;  
Oh what a pretty thing is it  
To be but bold though without wit?    

To Veta an old Shrew.  

YOur husband musters old things quite forgotten,  
As men eat meddlers when they are quite rotten:  
All th'rags of time he hangs up, he can see;  
Keep out of's sight! or else he'll hang up thee!    

To Big.  

BIg why hast got so small a wife? 'tis best  
Thou sayest, of evils we should choose the least:  
Thou hopest to overlay her, that's thy plot,  
Kill her and get another, is it not?    

To Maechus.  

TO be most idle thou Mayst well be sed,  
Whilst lazily thou dost thy work a-bed.    

On Captain shark.  

sharks Creditor promised oft, at length did say,  
He now begun to fear he ne'er would pay:  
You need not fear it Sir! shark made reply,  
I ne'er intended to repay it, I.    

To Boldface.  

BOldface I wonder at thy impudence,  
That dar'st affirm things so against all sense:  
For shame be ned impudent and foolish too!  
And think all men are fools 'cause you are so!    

To Phydias a Painter.  

I Phydias asked how he could paint a maid?  
Find me but one! I'll paint her than he said.    

On Choeril.  

CHoeril because his wife is somewhat ill,  
Uncertain in her health indifferent still  
He turns her out of doors without reply:  
Wondering at which, I asked the reason why?  
In sickness and in health says he, I'm bound  
Only to keep her, either weak or sound;  
But now she's neither, he replies: you'll see,  
she'll quickly now or mend or end, says he.    

On Stupro.  

STupro on horseback says he'll ride no more,  
'Tis 'cause he hath been jaded much before:  
he may the Trojan Palfrey now bestride,  
The living jades are fiery hot, to ride.    

On Swillmore.  

SWillmore grown dry with talking, drinks till he  
Was got so drunk he could nor speak nor see:  
His windy words soxed him; some drunk have been,  
As well by letting out as taking in.    

On Brave.  

braves' money melt's in's pocket, 'tmay be so  
'Twas warm before, but now 'twill colder grow.    

On Pure.  

HIs text no sooner named, but Pure inveighed  
'Gainst Rome, and run quite from't as one afraid:  
A sudden rapture 'twas; his text and he  
I fear will ne'er again meet, or agree.    

On Dull.  

SO many men, so many minds there be;  
Yet in dispute Dull will not disagree,  
But always is on's neighbour's mind, 'cause he  
Cannot tell how to contradict, I see.    

On Sir Sullen haughty.  

WHen I thanked haughty for his courtesy,  
He said he not expected it from me:  
Nor I from him that kindness, wherefore I  
Thanked him 'cause't came so unexpectedly.    

To his worthy friend T. S. Esquire.  

IF to be mild be generosity;  
To scorn to give or take an injury;  
If to be patient, and yet valiant too  
Be truly noble, then (Sir!) you are so:  
Virtu's the best nobility is known,  
You're virtuous noble too, in this alone.    

To Pantagus.  

NOne can say aught, but you'll say something to't,  
There's nought another doth, but you can do't:  
You're cunning Pantagus, and singular,  
Good at all things, but no particular.    

To Lautus.  

LAutus thy palate can be pleased with nought  
But the best cates far-fetched, and dearest bought;  
Sicilian Lampreys, and the Tuscan Boar,  
With witty dainties ne'er heard of before  
Vitellius' age, such as Minerva's shield,  
A dish made of Scares livers, and then filled  
With milt of Sturgeon, and with brains of rails,  
Pheasants and Peacocks, and Egyptian quails,  
With tongues of Nightingales, and those more rare  
And seld'-seen Crimson birds, his usual fare:  
Mullets and Celsey cockles, the Severn Trout,  
And what more dainty novels can be bought:  
Botargo, Anchovois, Puffins too, to taste  
Thy Maronaean wines, at meals thou hast.  
Thus all thy lands thou eatest and drinkest down,  
In thy fair Boggards buried lie, thus grown  
With dear-bought soil so rich, to dung the small  
Acre that's left unsold, and that is all.    

On profane.  

profane ne'er speaks of God, but in his oaths,  
Which he doth change more often than his clothes:  
Nor thinks he on him when he vainly swears,  
Oh Atheist, that nor God, nor Devil fears.    

On Bib.  

Wisdom doth teach us silence, now Bib is  
With drink made speechless, is he not then wise?    

The effects of Brainsick's letters.  

YOur lines were all so sweet, and worked so well,  
So purged me too, that I can hardly tell  
Whether they wrought on my affections more  
Or on my body, I drew thence such store  
Of precious elixir, and so much  
Compounded Cates, whose quality was such,  
That where my physic promised me but seven,  
By virtue of your lines I had eleven.  
But yet I'll tell you; troth 'twas e'en forgot  
It purged and scared and wiped off you know what;  
It grieved me your fair hand should undergo  
So foul an office as to wipe it too;  
But rather than your hand or paper be  
Stained with this act, let the guilt lie on me.  
I did it 'cause I know that you could write  
Such lines again as fast as I could—  
Write to me oftener pray! so I may save  
Physicians fees, and may bum-fodder have.    

On Mr Ap-Taffie Shentilman of Wales.  

THe way to make proud Taffie down on's knees  
Is tell him that the Moon's made of green cheese;  
He then in heaven would be, and will desire  
Nought but to tossed his bobby by her fire.    

To an Irishman.  

WHen I do sneeze, God bless you, you do say,  
Why not the same when I do fart, I pray?  
Are not both sudden ruptures that do make  
As with an earthquake the whole body shake?  
To break before, at Irish, you do find  
To be less dangerous than to break behind;  
Besides, this brings a good report you see,  
Why is not this as welcome then to thee?  
When I break forward, you (Christ help you) say,  
But when I backwards break, you backwards pray.  
Pardon me Sir! 'tis my infirmity,  
'Tis the wind-colic that thus troubles me.    

To Spruce.  

SPruce wears a comb about him, always he  
To prune and smooth his polished hair:  
The Cock's ne'er too without his comb you see,  
Spruce 'tis a Coxcomb than you wear.    

To Formall.  

WHen Formal knows not what to say, than he  
Oh Lord, Sir! cries with much tautology:  
Now the Lord help thee Formal, 'twas well meant,  
Though you but spoke of him in compliment.    

On Swift.  

SWift though h'has been but once 'mongst Gentlemen,  
And hath learned what their Christen names are, than  
He speaks to them in such familiar phrase,  
As if th''ve long acquainted been, and says,  
If any speak of them, he knows 'em well,  
And calls them Jack, Dick, or the like, will tell  
You when, and where he saw them last, and how  
Their intimate acquaintance first did grow.  
Swift thy too much familiarity  
May breed contempt. Believe't they know not thee.    

The wisdom of this age.  

THe Wise-men were but seven: now we scarce know  
So many fools, the world so wise doth grow.    

On Priscus.  

PRiscus doth poetize now he's in love;  
Strange each blind Lover should a Poet prove!  
He is inspired sure, how else could he  
Be such a chemist in love's poetry?  
He courts his Mistress out of Ovid's art  
Has th' Amadis and Spencer all by heart,  
Whence he extracts his sonnets, and his rhyme,  
And speaks them, dreaming, in and out of time.  
Such sudden raptures seldom constant be,  
His love is blind, and so's his poetry.    

On Proud.  

PRoud quarrels in his cups, and then will fight,  
Is beaten sober, 'troth he is served right.    

On Doctor empiric.  

WIse empiric can all diseases cure,  
His physic though't be strong it worketh sure:  
A little mors in ollâ which expels  
Disease and life together, nothing else.  
Happy thy patient, you dispatch him quick;  
Your mighty art won't let him long be sick.    

On Bib.  

TO quench his sorrows Bib drinks very free,  
Sorrow is dry, he says, and so is he.    

On Nokes.  

ONe asked why Nokes discoursing shaked his head?  
A Rattle-head 'twas 'cause he was, I said:  
Therefore he shaked his empty sconce, to find  
Whether within with any brains 'twere lined:    

To his friend and Companion Mr H. N.  

WIt's all the younger sons inheritance,  
A small estate, which cannot much advance:  
Virgil may talk of Bees, and dunging land,  
But 'tis the Heir that has them in his hand:  
To him th'indulgent father all doth give,  
While they alas have nought wherewith to live  
But what Dame Nature, like a careful mother,  
Laid up, and said 'twas for a younger brother.  
A store of Wit, heaven knows 'tis all she gave,  
And yet you're rich enough, while this you have.  
A Fico for thy brother's lands! thou've more  
In Mount Parnassus, than is all his store:  
There with Apollo thou Mayst sit and dine  
With heavenly Nectar, sup with th'Muses nine;  
The lusty Gods and Goddesses will be  
With all the Graces there in company:  
There we have fields to walk in; oh what fine  
Mirth there is in good company and wine!  
Lastly to make you fully happy, Be●●ie;  
Will meet i'th' arbour; oh she's wondrous pretty!  
Now tell me friend, is not this better sport,  
Than to have money, and no pleasure for't?    

To Levinus.  

Ine lent shark moneys, which Levinus, you  
Persuade me, long put off, he'll pay me now:  
When tro? at the Greek Calends? when the Fleet  
Wants guests? when he and I; two Sundays meet?  
If he solve he, deceives me, if not, he  
Cousins me worse; still I deceived must be  
Whither he pay or not: I''ve rather tho  
Be thus deceived then cozened: tell him so!    

On Vulpe.  

AS Ravens 'bout the breathless carcase fly,  
So swarm Vulpe's friends, now he but seems to die:  
Each greedy angler hook and line doth lay;  
Baited with gifts to catch this Aurata  
Which swallows both, escapes, takes all they give,  
Thus old get heirs each day, and still doth live:  
Vulpe preys o'th', living, he most vulture is;  
These Harpies hope for prey, but when Vulpe dies,    

Blessed Ignorance.  

He is most happy sure that knoweth nought,  
Because he knows not that he knoweth not.    

To a poor beggar.  

IF thou hadst said th''ve had no money, I  
Would then have thee believed, but now you lie,  
'Cause you do say you want it, for 'tis mad  
To say one wants that which he never had:  
A word well placed may serve one at a need,  
Learn to beg right, or you may want indeed.    

On Thais her Bastard.  

THais the mother, but the father who?  
Thais herself nor any else doth know:  
Can th' son o'th' people want a father? when  
For parents he can claim so many men?    

On gamester.  

PLay fair and swear not? burn the tables! I  
Will neither th' one nor th' other by this die:  
Gamester I'll now believe thee valiant too,  
'Cause you'll not swear less than you mean to do.    

Epitaph on the Preaching cobbler How.  

TRanslated here lies cobbler How,  
Who, when he lived could rip and sow▪  
Divide and stitch a text together  
Just as he used to spoil his leather.  
Or rather here he's underlayed,  
Who oft o'rlay two chairs and prayed,  
That his inspired tongue might mend  
More souls than e'er his cobbler's end  
Or hands could cure: he often said  
Walk ye uprightly in your trade!  
And when your soles do tread awry  
Bring them to me I pray! and I  
will set them straight: be mending still  
As I am! 'Tis God's heavenly will.  
Many were wrought on thus, but th' time was past,  
And so he finished when death brought his last.  
Cobbler thou hast set up enough  
That since can prate like cobbling How.    

On Sir John Lackland.  

JAck Lackland bringing gracious news to Court,  
The King was haply pleased to Knight him for't:  
He proud of's honour writes to all his friends,  
And with— Yours Sir John Lackland— Knight— he ends.  
'Tis fit he should, for were't not under's hand  
None would believe him Knight, that had no land.    

On Cosmo.  

COsmo in's new and holiday array,  
Then to be sure he walks abroad that day;  
Goes to a play, will stand i'th' pit, and talk;  
Whiff smoke, or to be marked, out often walk.  
'Tis pity Cosmo wears no oftener new,  
For than he oftener would appear in view.    

On Lowsi-Patch.  

WHo says Patch lousy vestments weareth, when  
They are so threadbare that no vermin can  
Upon them stick? Yes: though that they be thin  
His loving lice stick closer to his skin.    

On Light.  

LIght steals a jest, and then to make't his own  
He walks from one to th' other, up and down;  
By oft repeating thus he prostrates it;  
Light hath a common, though a running wit.    

On a fire in a Town.  

ONe night through all the streets the men did cry  
Fire fire! at which I waked and wondered by;  
Not that dry wood should burn, but because all  
Did cry fire, when they should for water call.    

Epitaph on Hocas Pocas.  

HEre Hocas lies with his tricks and his knocks,  
Whom Death hath made sure as his juggler's box:  
Who many hath cozened by his leaguer demein,  
Is presto conveyed and here underlain:  
Thus Hocas he's here, and here he is not,  
While death played the Hocas, and brought him tothth' pot.    

To one that talked finely.  

HOw prettily it talks as you would say  
His speech did wear her holiday array?  
With fine spun language dressed is his discourse,  
It talks in print where not a word of course  
Drops from his tongue, but all so finely weave  
So smooth so soft as you would swear he strove  
To outdo the silkworm, whilst each word he says  
Was studied for before, for th' better grace.  
Speak like a man ● still to be neatly dressed  
Is womanish: your homespun cloth is best,  
Because 'twill longer last and finer wear,  
Laboured invention holds not out the year.    

To Cosmo on his fair scolding wife.  

Smoke makes one fair, yet says the Proverb, where  
It always smokes, 'tis a foul sign that there  
A dangerous Scold doth dwell, whose fiery tongue  
Outdo's the fire and draws the smoke along.  
The troubled house. Cosmo th' haste light upon  
A fair scold to thy wife, the Question  
Whither her tongue, that charmed these clouds to rise,  
Or the smoke, cause so many crying eyes.    

On Silly.  

SIlly observes the company and hears  
How each man throws about his jests and jeers,  
Lest any spy him he about him looks  
And forth his pocket steals his table-books.  
To glean those crumbs which wise men throw away,  
With which he feasts himself another day.  
Silly by chance did lose his diary  
Of wit, which he had got o'th' company:  
No marl he now so mute and pensive sits,  
How can he choose, since he hath lost his wits?    

To Momus.  

BEcause I no Maecenas get  
To patronize my verse as yet  
Nor wooing e'er bespok my friend  
To swear them witty or well penned;  
Momus dares say they're poor, not worth  
The owning, silly, and so forth:  
Ingenious Readers are my Judges here,  
But Momus you are none of those I fear.    

On Bib.  

A Drunken man can catch no harm they say,  
How then came drunken Bib so poxed I pray!  
He was not drunk enough when that he caught,  
He could not so have done or suffered aught.    

To Moor.  

A Pockhold-lean-swarth-face with ugly hair  
And yet be trimmed each morn to make thee fair?  
If 'bout that face thou'lt keep so much ado,  
Get thee a barber, a Facemender too?    

To Madam Cr. wearing a lookinglass at her Girdle.  

MAdam! you look so often on your glass,  
I fear you doubt whither or no your face  
Be still your own, or the same yesterday  
It was: for colours change or fade away.  
Then view no more thy own fair phisnomy!  
Because I'd have thee look the more on me.    

On Squire huff.  

SQuire huff had got a vapouring trick to talk  
High ranting words, than 'bout the room to walk  
Like bold Andrea acting on the stage  
Often in speech would personate his rage:  
Sometimes he grew satiric and would strain  
To jeer each man in King Cambyses' vein.  
Blunt being touched grew angry, made reply  
Though I can't prate yet you shall find that I  
Can fight, and beat him soundly: 'tis the way  
Thus to cure madmen, as I have heard say.    

On Philip Soupe and Joan his wife.  

LO I the tragic story sing o'th' life  
And death of Philip Soupe and Jone his wife;  
A friendly pair of Turtles that did love  
Good fellowship and lusty ale above  
All earthly good: for why? they oft would say  
'Tis high and mighty Ale doth griefs allay,  
And when 'tis nappy and spiritual,  
Ale is both meat and drink, and cloth, and all,  
For all's included in this sentence Ale:  
Let's drink it than they cried, or new or stale.  
It happed these two once wanting company  
Which made them sad, and sadness made them dry,  
Set foot to foot, and tried the mastery,  
Each looked to th' tother too with narrow eye,  
Phil drunk to jug, and jug cried Phil again  
Till none could stand or speak one sentence plain,  
Filled up tothth' throat when both could drink no more  
And th' rest o'th' drink left running 'bout the floor,  
'Cause neither could the spicket wield aright,  
Resolving as 'twas time to sleep that night,  
They shok their clothes off both at last, and so  
Stumbled into their beds with much ado:  
But oh the sad disasters that befell them:  
At this encounter! You anon shall smell them:  
For when jug roused to buss her Philip, she  
Her stomach being o'r-charged did rain a sea  
Of powerful Ale in poor Phil's face and breast,  
Whose gaping mouth, and stomach thus oppressed  
With the receipt of his wives spewed-up liquour  
Grew sick, no vomit could have made him sicker,  
He turned and groaned as if he were to die,  
Then straightways faced about, and furiously  
Reversed, he charged her body with his rear  
On her right flank all-to-bedighting her,  
Than he drew up and spewed, than charged again  
Till he had routed all her body, then  
After a Parley sounded, jug did say  
Thou'rt pestilence hot, draw off now, Philip, pray;  
The place soon grew too hot indeed for them,  
For the foul Stygian lake did never steam  
With such gross vapours as did thence arise,  
Ready to choke them both in woeful wise.  
At last Phil reached for th' Jordan where he might  
Convert his Ale to Lees, but missing it  
He fell a ground: the like did jug betide  
Who reaching for the drink o'th' other side  
Fel down with th' chamberpot upon her head,  
Beside themselves, and both beside the bed;  
Naked and asleep i'th' morning both were found  
In pickle prostrate on the spawled ground:  
Sad chance! this loving couple never were  
Known until now to fall out anywhere:  
Oh cursed Ale could thus part man and wife!  
'Twas in their cups, let that excuse the strife.    

On Poet Cordus a rhymer.  

WHen Poet Cordus writes, he oftentimes  
Doth wire draw his matter to his rhymes,  
Provide but reason, rhyme will flow; but he  
Harps more upon the words, than sense, I see.    

On Fusk.  

WHy should Fusk of his wife so jealous be  
Unless his own sins taught him jealousy?  
(For we are often more suspicious far  
Of that wherein ourselves most guilty are:)  
Some rather think Fusk insufficient,  
And 'cause he cannot give his wife content  
Therefore he fears she seeks abroad, for why  
Women they will be satisfied, or cry:  
Some say he thinks she's wiser far than he,  
And so turns envy into jealousy:  
Still the fault lies in him not her, you see,  
While Fusk grows lean with triple jealousy.    

To an old deformed Woman.  

THou art a remedy for love, for he  
That thee beholds, in love shall never be.    

To Cit.  

I Wonder Cit thou art so confident  
Sure I ne'er gave thee such encouragement,  
I never borrowed of thee, nor was I  
Ever once drunk in thy base company,  
Nor did you e'er pimp for me, or bid me come  
To dinner with your friendly wife at home,  
You ne'er yet offered to be bound for me  
Nor canst claim kindred by affinity:  
How dare you then be so familiar  
With me? what▪ do you think because you are  
Free of the City, and in time may be  
The grave Cinquater of your company  
Or 'cause sometimes you walk in scarlet gown,  
Reverenced by boys and watermen o'th' town,  
Or 'cause your satin doublet's girt with gold,  
I'm therefore bound to you? are you thus bold  
Because you are grown rich by wicked gain?  
To your shop Squundrel! and your wares again!  
And converse there with thy Apprentices.  
If thou'lt oblige me with true courtesies  
And lend gently, than perhaps I'll own  
Thee for a friend, else thou'rt a Cit: be gone.    

To plagiary.  

FEloniously thou stealest another's wit,  
'Cause sure thou art to have thy book for it:  
Thou art no learned thief yet, for although  
Thou readest well thou canst not write well too.    

To Lysippus a Barber.  

LYsippus! some mista'en, have said that you  
Are a Barbarian, but I think a Jew,  
You circumcise so much, and for your ends  
So smoothly stroke the faces of your friends,  
Making young novices of all that you  
Can circumvent: thus you are a Barbarous Jew.    

To a corrupt Judge.  

WHy thou so dear dost law and Justice sell,  
Dost hear and take on either side so well,  
I wonder not: the Court Sejanus made  
Thee buy thy place so dear as some have said;  
Great reason then that who so dear doth buy,  
Should th' price enhance when he doth sell, as high.    

Lydia encountered.  

FRancis and Lydia in a jesting way  
Each other strove to jeer; he won the day  
At last, and silenced her; at which she grew  
So vexed, that in her passion she flew  
Upon young Francis, and twixt rage and fear  
Saluted him with a fair box o'th' ear,  
He threw her down o'th' bed, and kissed her 'til  
She cried again, for madness, 'gainst her will:  
Oh sweet revenge! who would not thus fall out  
If he might have but such a kissing bout?  
Kiss and be friends was the old way you know  
Of reconciling, so it seems 'twas now.    

On Gaming.  

SOme play for gain, to pass time others play  
For nothing, both do play the Fool I say:  
Nor time or coin I'll lose or idly spend;  
Who gets by play, proves loser in the end.    

On Brag.  

BRag his right glove draws often off and on,  
To show his wounds on each occasion:  
Tell not for shame, Brag, where thou got'st those scars;  
A tavern broil did mark thee, not the wars.    

To Cosmo.  

REading my verses Cosmo wonders why  
They swell not with poetic history,  
Why I not use their pretty fables, whence  
I may suck matter to enlarge my sense?  
As now to speak of Danae's golden shower,  
Then of Narcissus turned into a flower,  
Ixion's wheel, or Sysiphu his stone,  
Or how the Moon kissed loved Endymion;  
Then to display Medusa's snaky locks,  
Or talk of wise Pandora and her box,  
Or him that wished that all he touched were gold,  
And how this granted all his meat resolved  
At the first touch to gilded baits, and he  
Not able to digest them, forced to die:  
Then of slain Pelops Ivory shoulder, how  
Io by jove was turned into a cow:  
Of th' minotaurs born of Pasiphae  
And of Leucothee turned into a tree  
Of frankincense: or of Tiresias  
Who sometimes man and sometimes woman was:  
Then of Minerva born of Jupiter's brain  
Or by his wife how Hercules was slain  
With Nessus poisoned shirt: or of the maid  
Turned to a spider, how she first was said  
To invent spinning: these he did conclude  
With many more you may ofttimes allude  
Unto your purpose, where each fiction  
By allegorical allusion  
Becomes your own, and thereby also you  
Are both Historian and Poet too.  
Troth I will tell thee why I did omit  
Such fabulous fancies, first because I writ  
Not only to be read but understood;  
And next 'cause lies, down not with all, for food.  
The finest web is by the spider spun;  
He's poor that borrows his invention.    

On Mounsieur Congee.  

A Proper handsome courtly man indeed,  
And well set out with clothes, can for a need  
Discourse with legs, and quarter congees, and  
Talk half an hour with help of foot and hand.  
But when I viewed this Mounsieur clean throughout  
I found that he was only man without.    

On Gripe.  

GRipe to himself talks of the sums he lent  
And of the debts he owes, but to prevent  
Others from borrowing more; away you Jew  
Dost think I'd ask of such a knave as you?  
Besides if I of thee to day should borrow,  
I know th' whole town should hear of it to morrow.    

To Harsh.  

Music that once could move each rock and tree  
Not a whit moves thee Harsh, or pleaseth thee;  
Thy inharmonious soul how wilt thou bring  
To heaven, where Angels nothing else but sing?  
A Hellish sure and untuned soul hath he  
That is not rapt with music's ecstasy:  
Know'st not what evil spirits it expels?  
It cured afflicted Saul, and nothing else:  
It doth inspire the soul and heighten it;  
Tho' hadst better lose thy ears than once be bit  
By a Tarantula whose deadly wound  
Is only healed by soft music's sound.    

To Cupid. His arms blazoned.  

LUna he bears, in a cross Saturn plain  
A flaming heart transfixed Sol; thus slain  
In the wounds orifice it bleeds Mars, from whence  
Bloody drops flow, and under the pretence  
For Motto this inscribed more is,  
Sanat Amor vulnus armoris.  
Thy Arms do speak thee Noble, Cruel too,  
Else thou wouldst ne'er so many hearts undo:  
How much thou dost degenerate I find,  
For thy fair goddess Mother was more kind.    

On proud Mrs. Minx.  

PRide takes no cold, yet Pride oft takes a fall:  
Both which are true in this our finical  
Proud Mrs. Minx fair Madams waiting maid  
For though she went like her spruce Dame arrayed  
In her cast gowns, bare, all the neck and breast  
Down to the shoulders, and sometimes the rest;  
Yet took no cold, pride and lust kept her warm  
Though she went stripped up above half the arm.  
Yet did the pride of this She-goat at last  
Catch a shrewd fall, for by a stumbling cast  
I'th' Lobby room her heels flew 'bove her head  
And so she broke her elbow 'gainst the bed.  
Yet though she fell her belly rose: what else?  
Pride naturally when 'tis at lowest swells.    

On three Knights without spurs.  

SIr John in's spurs no rowels had, because  
There was no need, his horse twice roweld was:  
Sir George but one spur wore, for if one side  
Will go, tother will follow he replied:  
I asked Sir Lancelot why no spurs he wore?  
Because says he, a free horse needs no spur.  
If spurs show Knights and Horsemen; then I fear  
'Mongst them was neither Knight or Chivalier.    

On Copernicus his opinion who thought the earth went round.  

IN vain did Drake with pains the Earth sail round,  
Here's one could do it easier on the ground.    

On doctor Love-Self.  

LOve-Self when th' Plague in London reigned sore,  
Grown rich himself shuts up and would no more  
When most his help was wanted: it seems then  
he'll not his patients keep as married men  
Must keep their wives in Sickness and in Health,  
Such is the fearful cowardice of wealth.  
Though thou with th' Plague wouldst nothing ha' to do,  
A Plaguy cunning doctor yet were't thou.    

To my small friend with a great beard.  

THy face and self are small, but large thy beard:  
Lopped off! thy wood will hide thee I'm afferd.    

To Ignorant Zoile.  

ZOile I am told you pish and pough, when e'er  
You any do my lines commending hear:  
Pish on! 'cause you still in the wrong place pish,  
Aspersing most the best, as I could wish.    

To the Reader.  

IT is enough: but if you think too much,  
Then Reader! say you saw me not! for such  
As I for writing what is bad, will you  
By others be for reading counted too.     

SATYRS.  

satire 1.  
The Argument.  

Several fantastic humours here  
Of Sea-sick minds described are,  
Wedded to spend their time in vain:  
Whence th' author woos them to refrain.   

OH men! oh manners! what a medley's this  
When each man's mind more than face different is?  
For by forms only we distinguished be  
One from another: but! alas! to see!  
We vary from ourselves each day in mind,  
Nor know we in ourselves ourselves to find.  
Sure had Erasmus lived till now, he would  
Without an Oedipus ne'er have understood  
The riddles of this dark fantastic age,  
Where each Ape altars with the scene the stage.  
Had I thy razour Actius to dissect  
These Gordian knotty humours men affect,  
I'd sharp my pen, and after steep it all  
In wormwood vinegar and Stygian gal.  
Lend me thy whip Allecto! that I may  
Scourge the preposterous times, as Boys at play  
Do whip their eggshells! yet don't I well know  
Whether my anger they deserve or no,  
But rather pity; whether rather I  
Should with scorn laugh at them, or for them cry.  
Even Heraclitus spleen would tickled be  
To view Welsh bobby and garlic eat, or see  
A French grenovillio fricas with young mice  
And mushrooms mixed, or the low-dutch device  
Of roasted sprats and Herrings, or th' Irish  
Tough bonyclabber, or that German dish  
Of pickled snails and tender grasshoppers,  
Or the Jews Locusts with their Elder ears,  
As much as see an ass eat thistles; who  
Would not admire that every Country so  
Should vary fancies, and thus strangely affect  
A nouvell diet with their Dialect?  
But stomachs like our minds are sickly too,  
Both are best pleased with quelquechoses vain so new.  
So have I seen a travailed Squire discourse  
On several sauces, spin out second course  
With a picktooth in's mouth, and chafing-dish  
To stew his raw roast fowl and coddled fish,  
Till we had lost our stomachs, and new got:  
Learned in the art of eating was he not?  
Yet this at home most galls my patience  
To see so humorous a difference  
Of more fantastic giddy minds that draw  
Like Mules and Oxen each another way.  
Here's one writes more than some good Scholars read,  
And quotes more authors than Pryn ever did,  
Or in the whole world necessary be;  
Whilst in one Tome a Vatican thus he  
Erects; so have I seen a pamphleteer  
That rails 'gainst Bishops, make his margin far  
Exceed his senseless Thesis, whilst he swells  
His leaf with texts of Scripture little else,  
And those false cited or as heterogene  
And wide from's purpose as is Po from Seine.  
Such swarms of scribbled rhapsodies begot  
Ragmen to enrich, Typographers, and not  
The Understanding; since they more distract  
Each weakened judgement, would they were by Act  
Condemned to flames! Learning is more profound  
When in few▪ solid▪ authors 'tmay be found.  
A few good books digested well do feed  
The mind, much cloys or doth ill humours breed.  
Seempol sets down in his Ephemeris  
The trifles of each hours vain exercise,  
Toys that should be Ephemera indeed  
Dying the same day they were born and bred.  
Things of so small concern or moment, who  
Would stuff his diary with, or care to know?  
As what he wore, thought, laughed at, where he walked,  
When farted, where he pissed, with whom he talked.  
mementoes more ridiculous than those  
The City Chronicler made at Lord mayor shows;  
As who his henchboys were, who waved the sword,  
Who brought the Custard to his honour's board,  
What year a lion whelped i'th' Tower died,  
Pepper or corn was dear, whose child bestride  
Each gilt Colossus Pageant in Cheapside,  
Or in what year Bartholomy Fair forbid.  
(Whereas Historians only things of weight,  
Results of Persons or affairs of State,  
Briefly with truth, and cleverness should relate)  
laconic shortness memory feeds. I hate  
A long spun story of one drawn tothth' stake  
Would reach from Newgate to Smithfield, and make  
The martyred reader sweat as much or more  
Than Latimer i'th' flames, with a bald score  
Of pharsed (Quoth he's) in every page at least,  
As without them 'twere not to be expressed.  
But Dulman barren of invention, wears  
His time and books in reading only. Here's  
Squire Topas spends his days in killing flies,  
And like Domitian such a drone he dies.  
Rare was th' Italians Art, who writ so small  
Three pence hid Pater Noster, Creed and all;  
And made our Charles but half way drawn to shine  
With most majestic holiness when each line  
Of th' admired purtraict breathed such heavenly flames,  
That the small piece spoke all the Reading Psalms,  
Without a magnifying glass what eye  
Could yet discern the lettered phisnomy?  
Oh most laborious loss of time! So rare  
Callicrates his ivory Emmets were,  
With's elegiac verses writ so small  
That a Hart cherry-stone contained them all;  
As Homer's Iliads in a nutshell were;  
Th' whole world described in a young Orange sphere.  
Archytas wooden dove Agellius named,  
Or that same wooden Eagle 
* Bartas les ●our. 1. semain.  Bartas famed,  
Or th' Iron fly his Sallust mentions,  
Regiomontanus his Inventions:  
Aelians rigged ship or his {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} made  
So little that they each might be conveyed  
Under a Bees small wing unseen, what are  
They all but witty trifles? sans compare  
Industrious follies? who would lose so much  
Dear precious time to be accounted such  
A precious indefatigable ass?  
Pantagons' art sure no less subtle was  
Who muzzled fleas and gold chains made to lead  
Them captived in▪ But oh my sides and head  
Would ache with laughter▪ should I muster all  
Such vain Sysiphian toils. Yet must I call  
To mind Belanch, who as ill spent his time  
I'th' mystery of moustraps and birdlime.  
These fond {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} {non-Roman} labours were  
By Alexander witt'ly scoffed, where  
To one who on a needles point each time  
Could throw a pea, he gave a peck of them.  
Our time was lent us to be employed in high  
And nobler Projects, not thus fruitlessly.  
Yet better 'tis thus to misspend it still,  
Than nought to do, or what is worser, ill.  
Well then!—  
Since each man's humour is his mind's delight,  
Let him pursued! mine is to laugh at it.    

satire 2.  
The Argument.  

A Female Synod is convened  
Of holy Sisters that pretend  
To sanctity in dress and show,  
But are discovered nothing so.   

Hell and damnation! what Imposture's this?  
A She white linen Saint without, yet is  
Incarnate Devil: is't not that same Fiend  
Was found besieged by her Apostle friend  
In An●lin's porch the other morn? before  
The Sexton rose they' Add knocking forced the door,  
Had not the grave disturber of dead bones  
And bells, there stumbled o'er them both at once.  
Out you unhallowed whore! is this the way  
To enter heaven at thy straight gate I pray?  
D'ye sanctify your Cuckold dormant? must  
Your mother Church be bawd to goatish lust?  
Yet goes she in and sitting prays and hears  
With as observing eyes, attentive ears  
The Lecture, as the holiest Matron there:  
As though her cleanstarcht handkerchief was ne'er  
With close embraces rumpled. Oh what front  
Of impudence that sex can put upon't!  
As she'd suck in nothing that day but grace,  
Mark how she eyes the Preacher in the face!  
Able to stare suspicion thence! as I  
Have seen hoarse ranting Gape with steadfast eye,  
Boldly outface a petty jury, when  
The judge was after dinner sleeping Then  
She having gleaned in her spruce table book▪  
Such crumbs of comfort as the Caiaphas took  
First upon trust, with the next Sisterhood  
'Mongst marrow bones and other lusty food,  
She scatters them for breakfast, where must▪ be  
The moiling Priest (for 'tis not fit that he  
Should spend his lungs, oil, labour too in vain:)  
Great pleasures justly do attend great pain.  
Their bellies filled like windstuffed bagpipes, so  
Their squeaking Organs must be going too:  
Such strange disputes here controverted be  
Would puzzle a scotch-lay-presbytery.  
Whether that bigamy be n't as lawful now  
As 'twas' tofore? Speak Sister Ruth! we know  
You have two husbands now, besides that one  
Who next stands fairly in election.  
Truly and verily, I profess you may,  
How should the Church be built up else, I pray?  
Her doctrine Hannah did approve, and doubt  
Whether not in the Church as well as out  
Women might speak? the Priest resolved they should  
Speak out as much and often as they would,  
But never in. A Female Synod is  
Resolved on to convene: the way was this;  
Each truth-inspired She forthwith to meet▪  
Either in Marklane or near Cripplegate,  
In Eutichus the tailor's chamber, there  
Each Monday 'bout Religion to confer.  
Th' Assembly meets and sits: a pretty sight  
Fair smooth chinned gospelers in aprons white:  
Cathedral lawn not half so learned is.  
No prolocutor here was made, I wis:  
They were all speakers. First grave Abigail  
The sempstress having first pronounced them all  
A holy Convent: damned in one word  
Arminians with their books to fire and sword.  
Such tyrant's women are: when they in stead  
Of distaffs sceptres take▪ they'll rule their head.  
Peace! Peace! said busy Martha, we not know  
Nor the She-Burgers in Geneva how  
These scholars tenets to confute: let's talk  
Of things we better understand, and balk  
Their heathenish Problems! I had rather know  
Whether the world in ninety seven or no,  
(As Hoord affirms) shall be dissolved? for this  
More fit and to be known more easy is▪  
My husband's now about some land to buy  
And I'd not have him throw't away said she;  
By no means let him do't, said Sarah, no:  
But rather in Reversion let him' stow  
His money at that fatal period, when  
The world for certain must dissolve, for then  
Th' earth for a thousand years shall leased be  
To us the Saints for little, said She.  
To quit this was a learned Quaere made,  
By a thin antiquated Chambermaid,  
Run mad with reading Dod and Broughton, where  
She scruples whether Aaron's Ephod were  
Of the sky colour or seawater green;  
The dyers all of Amsterdam have been  
Long in dispute about the question.  
Next the point of predestination  
Was startled to perplex the more: in haste  
From this to freewill these heaven drivers past,  
And Squirrel-like as nimbly leapt from this  
As o'er one bog to another wild Irish:  
Like th' dogs that leapt at Nilus' sevenfold stream  
They lick the floods now they have troubled them;  
Or as young sceptics in philosophy  
From Air to Water, Fire to Earth will fly,  
Peripatetics in divinity  
O'er all its Elements thus they likewise high,  
As nimbly with their tongues, as standing still  
O'er th' world a man in a map travel will,  
With's eye in one short minute, yet not know  
Where the mogul's rich country stands, or how  
His own is ruled. In every doubt at last  
All unresolved each to their homes do haste,  
With their bossed Bibles trussed beneath their arms,  
Thumbed in the Revelation and the Psalms.  
Body O death! who should they meet at door  
But Grace the waiting maid that saltchined whore?  
Who before she the pedagogue had wed  
Took all preventives, and when e'er she sped  
Touched showbread, Gladdon used, and Savin, food  
To slink her spurious and abortive brood,  
Procured for her dear Madams daughters, taught  
Them to leap oft, soon as their wembs were fraught:  
Yet with her cloak as holy face now wears  
Where little hair much sanctity appears.  
Lord! how she sighs in direful accents, that  
Private affairs had made her come so late!  
What matter is't? How d'ye; her quondam friend  
Her Ladies gentle Go-before doth find  
Her there, renews acquaintance, and thence brings  
Her to his laundress private house and flings  
Her down on the refreshing mat: the bed  
Being ta'en away and nothing but the stead  
There lest to hold the sport up, since the poor  
Old Bawd her bedclothes found too fast were wore.  
Each met their comforters before they went  
To their tup Cuckolds: so the day was spent.  
But I am no Sir Pandarus of Troy,  
To sent each City stop or close decoy:  
I am no Pimp or Constable▪ if more  
Sinners you'd find, search Bridewell! there be store,  
Who though they be n't all sanctified alike,  
Yet are as right for the cause Catholic.    

satire 3.  
The Argument.  

The formal breeding of an heir  
I'th' City is described here,  
Where the more formal statesman his  
Admired creature portrayed is.   

MAn is a laughing Creature, who in this,  
And a soul rational distinguished is  
From brutish beasts: yet even they not have  
Like use of Reason seem they wise or grave.  
Follies in them pity or laughter move  
In men of wiser judgement: to reprove  
Whose open errors with as public smiles  
Is best: for silent pity but beguiles  
And hardens folly by connivance; we  
By precept and example taught must be.  
Yet both are scarce enough to instruct or wean  
Some from the Simples which they first sucked in  
With their flit nurse's milk: for sure it is  
Midwives and Nurses make men fools or wise.  
Why should not Cosmus else that City heir,  
Whose education was the only care  
Of his indulgent parents wiser prove?  
For see how like a Puppet he doth move,  
Or Quarter-striker turns upon his toe,  
As in a frame when he saluteth you!  
Good manners are not bought at th' change or Schools:  
Art's Nature servant; Fools will still be fools  
Yet wasters could he manage for Pruan's well  
At Islington on Sundays, and to tell  
You truth had learned to dance, but that his ear  
And he both so inapprehensive were.  
But he is rich, hath fined for Sheriff twice,  
And wears good clothes; yet out of them, or his  
Mean rabscab company, looks like what he was  
First born and bred, that is a precious ass.  
So there's a river in Boetia  
Wherein the fishes shine like gold they say;  
But taken thence look but as other fry.  
The City seldom breeds gentility  
Till three or four descents. No oak can be  
Upon a Peartree graft so contrary  
And wide their Natures are. But see his friend  
Whom he so often walks with to Mile-end,  
The Fencer Peregrin that brags he can  
Kill at Duello more than any man;  
Has rules to print the flesh, as the Stoccata,  
Passada, Punto, and the Imbroccata,  
With more Italian postures; by a groom,  
Yet was disarmed, beat and kicked out o'th' room,  
The other Morn at th'Trumpet: could not skill  
Guard him from such a saucy foot as well?  
Hang't, this is horseplay, says he; oh the sense  
Of discreet manhood valiant patience!  
Thus men discovered are by th'company  
They keep, and throughly known: else why would he  
Delight in Dabcok, that town-gull, whose nose  
And face are as ridiculous as clothes?  
Marry to laugh at; that himself might be  
Thought wiser, though God knows, but one degree.  
As ugly Ladies waiting faces get  
More ugly them the better off to set.  
Many o'th' City have such properties  
To worship them, and with forced laughter please.  
For is't not brave to be the best i'th' room,  
Pay all, have all respect, and after come  
To be admired by Squndrels? Formal I  
Am most incensed with yet, whose gravity  
Outweighs all other parts, his speech is cream  
Starched as his beard, takes his hat off by th'brim  
Methodically twixt two fingers, while  
His face of essays seldom deigns to smile;  
Like one i'th' Isle of eggs he nicely walks,  
Affects strange sauces, like a Sophister talks,  
Respects none that wear worser clothes than he,  
And thinks himself the rare academy;  
More proud of's little wit, neat hose, than e'er  
Incaeptor was of's gown the first whole year,  
Loves to be eyed, yet looks nor drinks below  
The salt, seems gravely wise, is nothing so.  
How practised is this policy? for most men  
Study more how to seem judicious, than  
To be so, herein whilst their best wisdom lies  
To hide their follies in scholastic guise:  
This is a fit companion, Cosmus wear  
This Bristol Diamond in thy copper ear!  
'Fore him, that young proud Statist I must hate,  
Whose face is all mosaic, intricate,  
And full of artificial gravity,  
Talks to himself where e'er he goes, with eye  
By speculation downward fixed, though he  
Looks higher than his foretop, hopes to be  
O'th' privy council: and will whispering tell  
News known as doubtful as an Oracle.  
This is that other earwig crept into  
Cosmus acquaintance, whom he graceth too;  
He only bids him welcome for his tongue,  
With which he feeds him all the dinner long;  
Lends what he asks, though he ne'er thanks him for't,  
And hardly owns him when he comes to Court.  
Yet oft his wife he visits, swears by Jove  
He'll place her at next Mask near or above  
The Maids of Honour, tells her too he'll get  
Her Husband Knighted; thus his debts he'll quit  
While Cos. buys honour. Oh what Emphasis  
And weight his words bear while 'mongst men he is!  
Each line he speaks looks like a pyramid,  
On whose three sides one undiscovered is.  
His Janus hieroglyphic double front  
Speaks him an Oedipus: oh out upon't!  
The Guelphs and Gibellines not so factious were,  
As the confused thoughts and projects here  
In's Machiavellian noddle; now he dreams  
Waking of Crowns and Kingdoms, Stratagems  
To subvert Mahomet, or for private gain  
Patents for Pins or soap, or else his brain  
Sweats with Monopolies of bones, or tough  
Calves-skins well dressed to sell for Irish Bust.  
Passant he deigned me once a nod and smile,  
To be but known to these Court earwigs, I'll  
Be sworn is even as great a grace or more  
Than had I kissed his Holinesses toe.  
His Caesar Hawks-nose his ambition shows,  
While thus like Nile's tall Crocodile he grows  
As long as e'er he lives: he'll surely sup  
With one o'th' Secretaries o'th' State, and up  
With some great Lord, or other at each word,  
To gain the audience of all the board,  
Whom he names as familiarly, as he  
Were his Compeer, and not his property.  
His footboy comes and whispers him in haste:  
The news? I'm set, so soon as supper's past,  
Go tell my Lord I'll wait on him. How now?  
A sweating Porter bring a Letter too?  
Directed to th'most accomplished Gentleman?  
Oh it's from the Lady— he replies, the hand  
I know, and business: well he might, he wrote  
The letter all himself, a pretty plot.  
E'er he goes thence a prentice with a note  
Sealed from his creditor finds him, he opes it not,  
But loudly tells the youth his Master's suit  
To morrow shall be granted, that he'll do't,  
Bids him be confident. Employed he is  
In every s●●ene thus with new business.    

satire 4.  
The Argument.  

A Silly zealot gets a living,  
Grows fat upon't: while Gripe by thriving  
Too fast and ill, doth dearly get  
His death; for such a halter's fit.   

GO search Nile's deeps, and find me if you can,  
A thing so ugly as this monster man!  
I mean that lean-chopped fellow, whose white face  
And nightcap make him look like th'Ace  
Of Spades, so formal is his pickdevant,  
While he so meager looketh, and as wan  
As Adam 'gainst the hedge in clay, when he  
Was set a drying fore the Sun, to be  
Inspired with breath: no Ananias e'er  
Painted on country tapestry could appear  
So Ghostly or precise; as he had fed  
On roots alone, for those he studied,  
As Hebrew with a Chaldee paraphrase,  
Or Syriack, while the Greek and Latin was  
Profane and modern language counted: but  
Behold his clean-starched ruff o'th' holy cut  
And pure Geneva set! whose every one  
With the bright steel of Revelation  
Was throughly opened: but to say no more,  
Most pure he was from head to foot all o'er:  
I could have wished this Hypocrite had been  
But half so pure, and so sincere within.  
Such hollow falsehood in a Prophet guide,  
Confirms the errors of the world beside.  
Did he not roundly pay for's Benefice  
By simoniac contract e'er 'twas his?  
Did he not wed his patron's niece? some say  
He sprung her mine too e'er the marriage day:  
And puts her portion now to usury.  
But oh! what an egregious dunce is he?  
And when ordained examining did fear  
More than a young thief caught, and made appear  
Before a Justice for his first offence:  
But his preventive wit and impudence  
Wrought well with th'bishops' Chaplain I believe,  
Whom he had fed on Ordination Eve  
To say as th'Ordinary to th' Judge is wont,  
Legit ut clericus, my Lord: though he don't  
One letter know. 'Tis usual this: while so  
By such cheats knaves and fools get livings too.  
But oh! how drunk for joy he got that night  
I'th' Bishop's cellar! now the thankful wight  
Having his fees discharged goes home, looks worse  
Austere and graver than his lordship's horse;  
Wrangles and sues his neighbours, keeps no house  
Of hospitality, nor gives one sous  
Throughout the year to th'poor. Gripe comes to be  
Resolved a case of conscience, if usury  
Of ten i'th' hundred may be lawful ta'en?  
Yes, yes: your talon must not up be lain  
But to the most improved. Hear you me!  
The tithe of all your coins increase must be  
Paid me your Parson! Nay, then Gripe replies,  
I'll rather let't at nine per cent. as is  
My usual course: my sows shall farrow too  
No more than nine at a time: I will go  
Sel all my land, and stock, and into gold  
Convert it for increase; all shall be sold  
Before I'll give one doit away: the King  
Shan't have a subsidy, the poor nothing  
For me. Thus Gripe is now a chemist grown,  
What he should eat, drink, wear the miching hound  
Turns into metal, whose each new Image  
He sacrificing doth adore: no Age  
E'er such a muckworm bred: he never will  
Marry; children are charges, Women ill.  
He buys bread, pares it, sends it back again  
For staler, for which cause the Baker's lain  
I'th' pillory: he ne'er at home will eat;  
But at another's board until he sweat  
Again, he swills like any thresher, and  
Communion wine he drinks till's neighbours stand  
Amazed, and think as if in stead of's own  
He drinking were his Saviour's health around.  
He won't part with a hair, and for that cause  
No Shaver near him comes; and hates the laws  
'Cause they forbid engrossing: and is dumb  
When Cosk would borrow; nay should Christ once come  
On Earth again, the Wretch would not lend him  
One tester, were't the whole world to redeem  
Without security of Angels. The Jew  
So circumcised his silver he was brought  
Before the Judge to answer for his fault.  
Hold up thy lean hand Gripe! guilty or not?  
Not guilty my good Lord: the jury that  
Shall try. These clippings all I found  
In's trunk. 'Twas but to make the money round,  
Gripe pleads, which first the coiners did neglect;  
Only Rix dollars which I did elect  
'Cause they were too square, and broad, for that respect.  
Hence take him jailor! oh the sad effect  
Of covetizing! Can't I ransomed be?  
Take all my goods! save but my life and me.  
No: sentence is past: how the hangman swears  
And curses 'cause no better clothes he wears.    
FINIS.   
 

 

 
* Sic Alciatus putavit in illo eleganti Emblemate. Coetera mutescent coriumque silebit ovillum Si confecta lupi tympana pelle sonent, &c. Tanta quippe est antipathia, ut ne morte quidem finiatur; sed vel tum quoque Lupus Ovi formidolosus existat.