CAROLINA: OR, Loyal Poems.  
By Tho. Shipman, Esq.  
LONDON, Printed for Samuel Heyrick, at Grayes-Inn-Gate in Holborn, and William Crook, at the Green Dragon without Temple-Bar. 1683.   

THE PREFACE.  
THis Preface wants the accustomed pretence for these Trifles appearing in Print. No Friends advised to it. It was merely in obedience to that Genius, which both bestowed and overswayed my Youthful Fancy. So that mine Excuse may th' easilier be admitted, since Duty and Constraint joined Forces against me. I must confess, I loved Poetry, not only then, but do so still; and am so loving a Soul, that I hate not even my Rivals. Let 'em woe and enjoy, I must love on. I know not, indeed, whether I should be so good natured, to continue constant after a dry beating or two, though even that cannot prevail with some of us. Not so much to have made Verses, as not to give over in time, leaves us without excuse, says an excellent 
* M. W.  Poet. I descent from his observation. Methinks it looks like the gelding of Fancy; and he might as well have set a time after which it should be criminal to lie with our Wives. Another, 
* M. D.  as eminent, calls them Fumblers who write after forty. But I hope he will fumble on still, having put us in expectation of an Epic Poem, which (like Solomon) must be the Darling of his Age, and out-wit his other Brethren. I see no cause but Dotage to make it be left off. Socrates and Solon practised it to the last; and one as wise as either of 'em left it for a Rule, Quomodo proficis, si jam tibi sufficis? S. Bern. The progressions of Fancy are to be waited on. Experience and repetitions of multiplied Acts being as necessary here as in other Sciences. Seneca tells us, Nihil est magnum re quod breve tempore.  
Yet some other Considerations prevailed; For, first, they were not made upon mine own account; I having no more concern than Master-Builders, whose pleasure lasts only in the Working. Nor shall the Reader or I hereby receive greater benefit than the freeing me from Transcribing, and him from Reading a bad Hand. Nor am I farther solicitous for them, since most of those for whom these were written are already satisfied. For, methinks, I ought not disparage their Judgements, there being rationally (or at least civilly) to be expected, from mine Acquaintance, as good judges as elsewhere. And I cannot but know, that as many things have been printed of this nature much better, so some a little worse.  
The name of Poet I neither slight nor covet. And may be one of the main motives to appear so, is, that I cannot avoid it; being already in Print recorded so by a 
* D. T.  Learned hand; though I am to expect as little credit thereby, as happily that Author has gained by his Work: Nor indeed could much be expected, where room was for such Trifles. Another motive was, my natural propensity to Love and Friendship; which in their several circumstances make up those curious lines that compose the beauty of Honour; whose charms are so far powerful, they have attracted regards from the Heroes of all Ages. Herein I have such a tenderness, I would gladly leave something of me surviving to record it. But this I would provide for in my Life-time, being little satisfied with posthumous Dedications; which serve but as Monuments raised by Executors, where their Names are sure to shine in the fairest Characters. That slender Estate of Repute I am able to compass, being too small for any to come in as joynt-purchaser: and I may be as far out in this bargaining as Captain Frobisher, who, after a long and chargeable Voyage, brought home worthless Stones, for precious Minerals; and what he hoped might have been graced as jewels for the Ears of Ladies, were used as Pavements for the Streets.  
Nor may my launching out into the wide World, and incountering the Tide of Critics, bring any solider Account than Caligula's Attempt upon the Ocean, when his Trophies were only a few Cockle-shells. Neither can I make a surer guess, whether in pruning or lopping many superfluous Branches, those that are left may bring me better Fruit. This may be believed; If my Soil had been improved equal to some others, it might have produced better things. But instead of that Encouragement, not only the Favour of the Sun, but the very Dew of the Night were denied me. 
Pectora nostra duas non admittentia curas;  
Magnae mentis opus, nec de Lodice paranda  
Attonitae, Currus & Equos, faciesque Deorum  
Aspicere.—  Such advantages might have bettered Nature. For though it agrees with the boasted Nobleness of a Poet's Soul to rest satisfied with his own Fame justly acquired; yet, 
Contentus fama jaceat Lucanus in hortis  
Marmoreis.—  Pleasant Retirements produce pleasant Thoughts, and noble Enjoyments heighten the Sentiments of any Writer. A fuller Stream than Helicon's may be drained that has no Showers to supply the Current; nor will it be worth the while, if we believe a sort of People, who enjoy so small a share of Wit to think they have enough. Some of these tells us, that the Muses, like Sirens, infatuate their Admirers, and charm them into Ruin; that Poetry softens our Minds, making them unable for more masculine Operations. Yet some of them show so much Inclination to the Muses, that they whistle out their Souls at the Plow-tail, having little more title to Reason than Brutes; who can judge only of a fat Pasture, chew the Cud, and batten. Their generous Educations may have raised 'em to read badly, and write worse. Hence are they capacitated to blot a Bond, and manage an Arbitration, until they swell and arrogate to themselves an Ability for Empire. If it were not lost labour to preach to such an Audience, they might be instructed, how in all Ages Philosophers, Priests, Lawmakers, and Kings, have sacrificed to the Muses: And in their time th' incomparable Verulam and just Hales, (to name no more) heightened their Thoughts by this way of writing. Here I could expatiate, but I purposely avoid it, it being in some sort a Disparagement to praise a celebrated Perfection too publicly. Nor shall I run into that arrogating Custom of judging others, and imposing Rules that neither we nor others endeavour to practise. Fancy should be unconfined as the Air, and the Muses, like Amazons, scorn the Rule even of a Cyrus. Helicon (like their Thermodon) being the Boundary of their Empire, not permitting any other Streams to imbody with its crystal Waves; but, like jordan, forces its shining Current quite through the Dull Sea of Pedantism, over-bearing all that restrains the Liberty of its natural Progress.  
Yet after all this, we must confess, that Poets would gladly be entertained in more profitable Employments; so to assert the bounty of Nature in bestowing upon them as vigorous Capacities as other People; and convincing the World they were capable of Affairs of moment, would it be so courteous to make Trial (may be) to both their Advantages.   

TO THE READER.  
Kind Reader,  
THE Ingenious Author of the following Compositions was a Man every way accomplished: To the advantages of his Birth, his Education had added whatsoever was necessary to fit him for Conversation, and render him (as he was) desirable by the best Wits of the Age. In the Calamities of the last Rebellion he was no small Sharer, the Iniquity of the Times having no power to shock his Loyalty, he very cheerfully underwent the Trials of unhappy Virtue. In that miserable Storm it was his good Fortune to retire from a total Ruin; and that quiet Recess gave the opportunity of these Papers, in which thou wilt find many troublesome thoughts well digested, and perhaps, at some time or other, well enough adapted to thy own uneasy Circumstances. If there be any thing meaner than may be expected from so polite a Pen, thy Candour must attribute it either to the hasty Efforts of his younger, or the too ponderous and overpowering Confusions which the Rebellion imprinted on his riper Years. He is dead, and happy out of the reach of thy Envy, and in no need of thy Pity; therefore (Good Reader) for Humanity sake be charitable to the Productions of a dead Author, who was worthily honoured and admired while he lived, and attained the desirable Satisfaction of living very easily in a troublesome Age, and carrying with him a good Conscience to his Grave.  
Tho. Flatman. Feb. 7. 1682/ 3   

A Modest Account of the too-certain Reasons that afforded time for the following Trifles. 1779.  
SOME Females are so early pregnant grown,  
They rock those Cradles lately were their own.  
Their Nurse's milk wants time, and scarce digests;  
And what they sucked, unturned comes from their Breasts.  
But soon, like Spanish Wives, they barren grow;  
Their Springs are drained when ours begin to flow.  
And happy 'tis— else we should be undone,  
And by our Native Vandals overrun.  
Although my Muse begun to bear betimes,  
Still at this Age her Courses keeps in Rhymes.  
What Pliny writes of Mares of Spanish kind,  
She's pregnant with no Stallion, but the Wind.  
When e'er that airy Pegasus but blue,  
My Muse more fruitful than 
* Of whom ('tis feigned) the Centaur was gotten.  Phillira grew  
Fruitful as Flies in Summer; though the gain  
Prove small, to boast these maggots of the Brain.  
Should all this Spawn of Helicon but live,  
The Frogs in Egypt did less trouble give.  
This Brood, like Coneys, hardly are destroyed;  
The Warren prospers on Parnassus' side.  
In whose increase small benefit is found;  
And little else thrives in the haunted ground.  
'Tis labour lost to till a barren Soil;  
When no Returns, but Weeds, requite the toil.  
Yet weeded well before the Seedlings shed,  
They make the Land more mellow, where they bred;  
And Vouchers are that other things than Weeds  
Would prosper there, if sown with better Seeds.  
Nature will work: and would not own a loss;  
The steril'st Soils unsown will bring forth Moss.  
If not improved, she's ruined; Truths confess  
That Canaan now is turned a Wilderness.   

The ROYALIST.  
Upon Creswick Dean of St. J. C. C— ordering Verses for the Victory at Worcester. 1651.  
IS't not enough to make our Purses pay,  
Assessments on our whole Estates to lay?  
But Taxes must on our Opinions ' rise,  
Nay, and our Wits be forced to pay Excise?  
Harsh Laws! since Sack pays Custom when't comes in,  
Distilled in Verse, must it be taxed again?  
But now a Victory is got; what then?  
Must we write Ballads at the death of men,  
Like London-Wits? who deck each Tyburn-Herse,  
And execute men o'er again in Verse?  
Are we Death's Chaplains, that we must be pressed  
To give thanks after such a bloody Feast?  
In Baal's new Priests that Office only lies,  
Where Blood is mingled with their Sacrifice.   

The Royal MARTYR.  
Upon the Martyrdom of that Glorious Prince Charles the First, King of Great Britain, etc. Who died Jan. 30. 1648.  
Written Jan. 30. 1652.  

GReat Solomon, not circumscribed to Rules,  
Freed from the slavish Method of the Schools;  
No more than Air (that Libertine) confined,  
And no less comprehensive was his mind;  
The shining fruit of Eden was his meat,  
Which without curse, or surfeit he did eat.  
In Proverbs he his wisdom often shrouds:  
As Phoebus sometimes wears a Cloak of Clouds.  
Their knowledge wisest Nations thus conveyed,  
And in such Cabinets their Jewels laid.  
And these are some of Ours—, viz. Night follows Day  
And purest Gold is lessened by Alloy.   

Both of the Morals are but one great truth,  
Being fully proved i'th' fortune of my Youth:  
For when great Charles fell, by untimely fate,  
The glorious Martyr both of Church and State;  
His Sacred Blood, by basest Rebels spilt,  
Besprinkled all the Nation over with guilt.  
Some with that scarlet Sin are spread all o'er:  
As Plagues are known by the inflaming Sore.  
Nor stays it there— like to the leprous Jew,  
The infection creeps into their Houses too.  
'Twill moulter them to dust! the spreading Stains  
Flow (with the Seed) into their Child's Veins.  
By some notorious Brand upon them shown,  
The guilt will be to future Ages known.  
More than from Sin, none from the guilt is freed;  
On every head the Crimson shower does bleed.  
This Scottish Mist wets all of us to th' skin;  
Some are so reigned on they are doused within.  
A blessed shelter yet my Youth does bring:  
Rains seldom fall, or gently in the Spring.  
Yet from some share of guilt, I can relieve  
Myself no more, than from the crime of Eve,  
But like original Sin, It less appears;  
Long since baptised, and washed away with tears.  
My innocent youth, like to the springing Day,  
Disperses all despairing shades away.   

The first part of the Proverb's so far right.  
But now, alas, I am overwhelmed with night!  
Thus in a harmless state of youth I stood;  
I did no harm, but, ah! I did no good.  
My influence, like to Winter Suns, did show;  
They scorch not, but yet nothing make to grow.  
To th' Solstice of my strength I may arrive;  
And th' operations of my Soul will thrive.  
If I to 
* Brutus slew the Tyrant; and  Brutus' glory may not come;  
I dare, with 
‖ Curtius to expiate Rome's guilt, leapt into a Gulf.  Curtius, tempt a noble doom;  
And plunge into the Gulf to rescue Rome.  
Caesar's return we faithfully must wait,  
That time shall come, I prophesy the fate  
The Prince of judah shall return with praise,  
Our Temples found, and sacred Altars raise.  
No more, till then, my mournful Muse shall sing,  
Her Harp untuned shall on the Willows hang;  
Unless it be to sound some doleful Airs;  
To which I'll tune my Sighs, and teach my tears  
A mournful cadence; until th' art be found,  
To form such Waterworks into a Sound.  
Ne'er juster cause! to see the Rabble run,  
Like steams from Dunghills raised, to hide the Sun.  
To see rank Poison work in every part,  
Until at last its Venom seize the heart.  
To see our royal Oak, (alas!) cut down,  
And cleft with 
‖ Witness E. Essex, Sir Hen. Mildmay, etc.  wooden wedges of its own.  
To see great Charles before his Palace lie:  
Like fate had once the Sun, when crowned on high  
Arrested in his very Court, the Sky.  
But that was done by no ignoble hand;  
It was at Ioshua's suit the Sun did stand.  
But ours eclipsed by hellish Vapours, stood,  
And (as at th' end o' th' world) did set in Blood.  
Behold a mighty Monarch there lies dead  
Without his Crown, and (ah!) without his Head!  
Expiring Muse! with him receive thy doom,  
And die, like Indian slaves, upon his Tomb.  
It is enough thou'st thither him conveyed,  
And in a Tomb of thine own framing laid.  
All Monuments decay, and Marbles rot,  
Compared to th' Quarries in Parnassus got.   

Thus the great Pompey, (who the World subdued)  
By Rome's ill fate, and Tyrant's force pursued,  
Did to a barbarous Nation seek for aid;  
By them, to murdering Villains, was betrayed:  
Headless exposed on the Pelusian shore  
The World's Head lay, and all defiled with gore!  
By the dear Body faithful 
‖ His Slave.  Codrus stood,  
And with his flowing tears washed off the blood.  
Then did inter the sacred Relics safe;  
Whose Piety is his best Epitaph.   

Heroic Lucan has preserved his fame,  
Which bears an equal date with Pompey's name;  
Well known to all that World he did subdue,  
Flying as far, as Pompey's Eagles flew.    

The GOWN.  
Upon Sir Ward, borrowing my Gown. 1652.  
ay, Like Philemon, may Jove's Favourite be,  
In shelt'ring thus his darling- Mercury.  
And yet I hated am, as once was Lot,  
When Angels under his blessed Roof he got.  
Some think it thy disparagement, to see  
The Lord of Wit clothed in my Livery.  
But here thy Worth unjustly they upbraid;  
Since Kings sometimes are seen in Maskarade.  
Nay 'tis well known, that heavenly Forms appear  
In mortal shapes, or seem such Veils to wear.  
When next I put it on, for aught I know,  
I may infected be, and witty grow.  
Some influence must be left; thus precious Gums  
Taken from Boxes leave their rich perfumes.  
And I have read— He that did once inherit  
Elija's, Mantle, got Elija's Spirit.   

MODEST WORTH.  
Upon the Death of Mr. R. Winterburn, B. D. 1652.  
FOR floods of tears this mournful fate does call;  
'Tis Egypt where (they say) no showers fall.  
Melt then your beams to tears, my thawing Eyes,  
And Heaven dissolves in Dews, when Phoebus dies.  
Alike they were; for he long time did sway  
The Muse's Sceptre, they did him obey.  
Nay he excelled in this— for he was free  
From any thought of Daphne, but her Tree.  
His Gold lay close in 's Mine: His Helicon  
Was full and deep; and so did silent run.  
This made some slight him: Stars seem Motes i' th' Skies;  
Height lessens Objects to imperfect Eyes.  
Yet none more lowly thought, or spoke than he:  
So rich men's clothes persuade a Poverty.  
Plain Scutcheons Heralds look upon as best;  
And Maids lose credit that go lightly dressed;  
diamonds in barren Mountains are enshrined;  
And Popes their Sackcloth wear, with Velvet lined.   

The Royal MOURNER.  
Upon the Princess Elizabeth's Death. 1652.  
NO Prophet's tongue should this sad loss condole,  
Unless first heated by the Altar's coal.  
Nor Poet to an Elegy aspire.  
If not enlightened with Apollo's fire.  
But yet my Zeal is warmer than his flame,  
And I more nobly influenced by her Name;  
How, with more joy, had I employed my hours  
In writing of her Sunshine, than her showers?  
Ah! who would think such Sunbeams should be known  
To dry all Springs of tears, unless her own?  
Or rather, that her Suns, (with all their beams)  
Should be extinguished by those native streams?  
When the World's Eye its proper safety found,  
And yet its Body was i' th' Deluge drowned;  
With quickening smiles it did recruit the Earth,  
Making it pregnant with a second birth;  
But hers (like Nature in her last extremes)  
Melted a way, by weeping down their beams.  
Such dashing rains, and Tempests often rage  
I' th' Winter Solstice of afflicted age.  
Experience then of woes occasion brings  
To open the Floodgates of our flowing Springs.  
Wet seed-times oft are crowned with fruitful years;  
And they shall reap in joy that sow in tears.  
Her highest Region was free from the powers  
Either of sighing storms, or weeping showers.  
Like powerful Cynthia, there her Soul did show,  
Ruling the Tides of raging Seas below.  
For she (like Venus) amidst Seas was born;  
And her short life, alas, one rainy morn!  
Thus early Lilies (Virgins of the year)  
Ne'er ope' their wakeful Eyes, without a tear.  
Too moist a Season makes 'em droop and die,  
And in their native winding-sheets to lie.  
A common grief may common tears extort;  
But hers were blood-drops of a weeping heart.  
Those Rubies from her dying Father's Head,  
Were not more fatal, than the tears she bled.  
Thus Flora's justest Pride, the Rose, appears,  
Produced not only, but nursed up with Tears.  
All its short time with the like drops 'tis fed,  
And tears each Night bedews its fragrant Bed.  
At last, being tortured by unnatural heats,  
Dies as 'twas born, and weeps away in Sweats.   

The Good BISHOP.  
Upon Bishop Hall's Balm of Gilead, presented to my Uncle Mr. Griff. Divall, 1652.  
AGainst the pains, and multitude of cares  
That bring on age, and Silver all our hairs  
By Nature's Chemistry; no means can add  
More help, than Hall's rich Balm of Gilead.  
Other old men, like common Trees do bear;  
He's fruitful (like that rare one) 
* Called the Deuce An.  twice a year.  
All others blossom in the Spring; but he  
In Winter too, like th' 
‖ As the Monk's fable one did there every Christmas-day, as well as in May.  Glassenbury tree.  
Winter yields Fruit; and in himself he shows  
The place where all the year an Harvest grows.  
His judgement's brighter than the Sun'suprise;  
Yet scorns to hide itself in Evening-skies.  
Unchaste, intemperate Youth not seldom meets  
An aged Penance nightly in the Sheets.  
Lameness crawls after Lust; Disease, and Pain  
Are all the Bedfellows that now remain.  
Rottenness waits on Lux'ry; its perfumes  
Are putrefied Lungs, its Baths are Rheums.  
He's troubled with no Rhewm but that of's Pen;  
Always o'rflowing, and yet full again.  
Whose Springs are rarer than the Spaws; wherein  
You may wash off the Leprosy of Sin.  
His Ink's a Medicine, if used betimes,  
To cure the Tetters of our spreading Crimes.  
His Pen dropped daily at the Nose indeed;  
But then each drop turned Balm of Gilead.  
What are his Words? To speak Diviner sense,  
Angels blest Food distilled to Eloquence.  
Had then that 
‖ S. Hierom.  Father known so great a Light  
Would shine to make the World's last Evening bright;  
Who wished he had lived Christ in the Flesh to see,  
And Rome's great Empire in its Majesty;  
And Paul i'th' Pulpit; thus his wish had run,  
Paul in the Morn, Hall in the Afternoon.   

To Mr. T. S. The Toothache cured. 1652.  
OH, how it stings! Peace Gouty Sir, you're blest  
In such a Pain, as forces you to rest.  
Mistake not, Madam, Childbirth is a toy;  
Nay, by your longing for't, it seems a Joy.  
Hanging itself is not so sad a thing;  
Else at the Gallows they would never sing.  
Blessed they, whose Mouths hold nothing but their tongue!  
'Tis this sure makes our Granam's live so long.  
Thrice happy they, who are o'th' horned crew;  
They've but one row of teeth, and full enough.  
If Cuckolds had that privilege by right,  
I'd have a Wife myself before 'twas night.  
Now AElia's Fate I wish, which I did flout,  
Who with two coughs blew all her tusks out.  
I sadly find their reason is not bad,  
Who hold 'tis Toothache makes our Dogs run mad.  
Tormented still! no ease? pray, let my alone;  
I've tried all Remedies I've heard, but one.  
That is— as old-wifes' say, in ancient time  
They cured the Toothache with some Charms in rhyme,  
Divine Apollo, then vouchsafe me ease.  
Wondrous effects of Verse! my Pains now cease.  
Thanks, great Apollo! thanks! I find it true,  
thou'rt God of Poets, and Physicians too.   

The BEADSMAN.  
To M. J. T. sending begging Verses. 1652.  
I Thank you for your Rhymes; there cannot be  
A surer voucher of your Poverty.  
Verse shows a swelling mind, but a lank Purse;  
This makes me answer you again in Verse.  
But to the purpose, Sir; alas! my fate  
Fits me to pity, not to help your State.  
And pity, without help, is just as good  
As much-good-doe-you, when a Man wants Food.  
God-help-you will not do; 'tis of no force;  
Prayers can do much; these are but Words of course;  
A civil no: a skilful Beggar swore  
That godly-talkers seldom help the Poor.  
Alas! I cannot help it, I use wit  
Sometimes like you, to bribe a benefit.  
So that to beg of me is but to call  
For Alms, at th' door of some poor Hospital:  
I'm but a Beadsman, of the better note;  
Like them in every thing, but Beard and Coat.   

The SEAL. 1652.  
To Fr. L. Esq  
THEIR costly pride I hate, who did invent  
These Silver Seals; 'twere better they were spent  
In Sprightly Sack, than commonly to hang  
By th' neck, at some old-greasie Purse's string;  
Or chained to rusty Keys: thus Vulcan joined  
With Venus, and black thighs with snowy twined.  
As odd a Match, as when our Sires convey  
Soft Silver Curls, to Beards of Irongray.  
Poison, like Hannibal, in Rings we wear;  
And, like to Anchorites, our Coffins bear.  
To set ourselves i' th' stocks is an odd jest,  
As to turn Bailiffs, and ourselves arrest.  
Seals are for nothing good but to convey  
Our Land (that clog of rising Souls) away.  
No feats of Chemistry like this are told.  
Nor sooner drossy Earth can turn to Gold,   

The PROMISE.  
To F. L. Esq with Crashaw's Poems. 1653.  
THESE as I promised, Sir, I send.  
'Tis the chief duty of a Friend  
(If that great honour you'll allow)  
To owe his Life, and pay his Vow.  
He that to's Promise does not stand,  
Is Knave and Fool under's own hand.  
Yet 'tis not wisdom to appear  
In Rhyme, when witty Crashaw's near.  
A Fool that talks in a wise throng,  
Libels himself with his own tongue.  
A Face with native blackness tanned,  
Dares not before a Beauty stand.  
My Muse is very black and low,  
And yet not proud, as Proverbs go.  
Nor, like the Gallants of her Sex,  
Does she at greater Beauties vex.  
She does not with pale Envy frown,  
Because she wears the worse Gown.  
Yet when her Service she expresses  
To you, she'd wear her richest Dresses.  
Alas! that makes her Wants seem more;  
So Beggars richest rags are poor.   

Forced ABSENCE. 1654.  
To T. H.  
WHat keeps thee, Tom, from visiting thy Friend?  
I guess the cause, & doubt thou canst not mend.  
Thou art quite out of Robes, hast no clothes new,  
But what thou vapourd'st with in fifty two.  
Thou comest far short of Horses; they appear  
More modish, and their coats cast twice a year.  
But one whole week abstain from tempting Ale;  
'Twill be apparent by thy little Stale;  
'Tis ten to one thy Dad will not deny  
Any thing, if thou ask him not to die.  
And that he'll scarcely do, (his Conscience such)  
Until thy Trapstick turn unto a Crutch.  
O! that thou hadst a conscientious Father,  
Whose Eyes and Beard would kindly out together;  
Whose watchful Providence such care would keep,  
To die whilst thou hadst Moisture left to weep.  
But if he rub on still a few more years,  
Rhewm will have spent the Stock of all thy tears,  
And Coughs so waste thy breath, all will be gone,  
Not any left thee to create a Groan.   

The SHOWER. 1653.  
To Mrs. S. V. being in the Rain. raptim.  
THus looks a Sea-Nymph, when she leaves  
Her Bed, and riseth from the Waves:  
Thus Flowers we in Water steep,  
That so they may their freshness keep.  
Your Tresses are like Sol's bright Rays,  
When he appears in rainy days.  
Diana when she did appear  
I' th' Fountain, was not half so fair;  
Her ruddy Cheeks deserve a Scoff,  
Although a blush did set 'em off.   

The Short ENJOYMENT. 1653.  
To the same.  
HEnce flattering Fate, with hypocritick wiles!  
Thou that didst cheat me with Sardonic smiles!  
Didst mount me to receive the greater Fall?  
And give me Honey thus to swallow Gall?  
Thou showd'st a cheerful Countenance, as they  
Who lavish Smiles, but Smiles that will betray.  
Though one Look from her can enrich my fate,  
There is no man but would increase his State.  
Alas! like Sunshine seen in cloudy days,  
I only saw a glimmering of her Rays.  
Fortune on some bestows a happy fate,  
Only to make them more unfortunate.  
Beasts for the Sacrifice were crowned with Wreaths;  
And sometimes men are brisk before their deaths.  
Deceiving twilight! chequered with the powers  
Of Light and Darkness! thus the April-showers  
Drowned the faint Sunbeams: Midwives daily try,  
We're born no sooner than have cause to cry.  
Thus did I see her, but soon lost her sight;  
She, and the Sun withdraw their Beams at night.  
She, like a fatal flash of Lightning, shined  
With sudden glance, only to strike me blind.   

The CONVEYANCE. 1654.  
To Mrs. S. V.  
Madam,  
MY thoughts were vain, as well as high,  
To hope the favour of your Eye.  
You shed your Beams on Objects fine,  
On such as do deserve your shine.  
Your Rays live at a higher rate  
Than Sol's; who does debase his State  
In gilding Dirt; all must confess,  
In seeing us, you do no less.  
Yet, since we Rustics justly may,  
In Harvest, wish a Sunshine day;  
'Tis not a crime to wish you here;  
For without you no days are clear.  
This Paper rhymes,— because 'tis meet  
A Lackey should not want his feet:  
Such is my Muse; who comes to day,  
Only this Letter to convey.  
Acceptance almost is its due;  
Since, Madam, it was born for you.  
'Twill ne'er appear, unless it be  
Adorned in your rich Livery.  
For Wit and Fancy grow so scarce,  
Your Name must bring 'em into Verse.   

The FROST. 1654.  
To Mr. W. L.  
THE streams are fettered, and with us as rare,  
As Fountains in Arabian Deserts are.  
No tears in Woman's Eyes; their skill is crossed,  
And that most ready Fountain now is lost.  
Our Nose-drops freeze to Pearls, and jewels there,  
Like savage Indians, we are forced to wear.  
Bracelets may now be cheap; our Lasses try—  
They can spit forth as good as they can buy.  
Glass-Fornaces are needless; he's an Ass  
That will buy any, when he pisses Glass,  
Surgeons, with all their Lancets, do no good;  
Our Veins are stuffed with Coral, not with Blood.  
To be i' th' Rain the Service now's as hot,  
As 'twixt two Armies joined; each drop's a shot.  
Each Hail a Bullet, shot with rattling noise;  
And Snow (white-Powder) silently destroys,  
If now our sheep lie down upon the Grass,  
You'd swear how each a 
‖ Plantanimal.  Boronetho was,  
And there took rooting: for thus fixed they show  
Like snowy Hillocks, or like breathing Snow.  
Fish freeze i' th' Deeps, and think't a happy lot  
Now to be caught and put into a Pot.  
And Hares even frozen in their Forms do lie,  
As they had put themselves into a Pye.  
Nature's enslaved; her very Breath confined,  
Her Lungs are stopped, and cannot gather Wind.  
Sometimes she's raging mad, and fiercely blows,  
Foaming and Froathing all the Earth with Snows.  
Those downy showers appear (which Boreas brings)  
As though the moulting Clouds had mewed their wings;  
What else is Snow but feathered drizzel, blown  
Fro' th' Sky, where their swift Pinnions late had flown;  
No other flights than these now haunt the Air,  
Till limed with frost, they're forced to tarry here.  
The Air's so thick it does like th' Dead-Sea flow  
Where Birds, with feathered Oars, can scarcely row.  
And hollow Clouds, rammed full as they can bear,  
Discharge Hail-shot in Volleys through the Air.  
Those Dew-drops that upon the Earth are found,  
Right Pearls they are, and pave the glittering ground.  
Wherever any grassy Turf is viewed,  
It seems a tansy all with Sugar strewed.  
The Sea is one great Blister, till the Sun  
Pierce the thick skin and make the Water run.  
'Twas ne'er the Sun's right Looking-Glass before;  
Ice is the Crystal, lined with silver Oar.  
Bold Britain (if but to herself a Friend)  
All the World else seeks vainly her t' offend.  
Safe-bulwarkt with two Walls that fates do grant;  
With those of Wood and these of Adamant.  
Lady's now testify what Poets told;  
True Pearls they weep, Silver they void and Gold;  
But, ah! for all these Comforts they are cold!  
We Men grow stiff! no punishment is worse,  
When former blessings turn a horrid curse.  
Love cools; nay burning Lust is frozen dead,  
As cooling Metals lose their shining Red.  
The Nuptial sheets even freeze into a Tomb;  
And Lovers, their own statues there become.  
If some small Thaw from Nature's warmth appears,  
The aid is comfortless that ends in Tears.   

The SHRINE. 1665.  
Upon seeing her in a Scarlet-Velvet-Mantle.  
AVrora thus begins to rise,  
When she with Crimson trims the Skies;  
But her weak beams are conquered soon;  
Yours, Madam, triumph o'er the Sun.  
Too fiercely they our Eyes assailed,  
If Moses-like you were not veiled.  
Enfolded there, your sweets make good,  
You are a Damask-Rose i' th' bud.  
Roses, when they lay by their leaves,  
(Those Velvet-Mantles Nature gives)  
Lose their chief Virtue; all confess,  
You are most sweet without your Dress.  
Yet since we use with reverence,  
A Carcase, when the Soul's flown thence;  
And when obedience here was shown,  
They honoured Courts, though Kings were gone;  
Let us, when we her presence want,  
Adore the Shrine that held the Saint.  
Divines affirm our Churches are  
Sacred for th' Service offered there.  
Rich Mantle! when thou her dost fold,  
Thou art the Mine, and she the Gold.  
Nature's Exchequer, where does lie  
The total of her Treasury.  
The Zodiac never did intwine  
More Beauties, than are closed in thine,  
From her it takes the dazzling Grace:  
The Sunbeams shine so through a Glass.  
Thus the expanded Crystal Skies,  
That both inlight, and bless our Eyes;  
Yet serve but as a glorious Screen,  
For greater beauties are within.  
Nor is it vain to praise the Shell,  
And not the Pearl that there does dwell;  
It is enough, if here my Muse  
Can do, but as our Lady's use,  
When they on Lemons set their minds,  
And only Candy o'er the Rinds.   

The KISS. 1656.  
To Mrs. C.  
HOLD not your Lips so close; dispense  
Treasures, Perfumes, and Life from thence.  
Squeeze not those full-ripe Cherries; this  
Becomes a Simper, not a Kiss.  
There's danger to lock up your Breath,  
It Cousin-German is to Death.  
None bags up wind, the Merchant swears,  
Unless some wrinkled Laplanders.  
What needs this Guard; it is small sense  
Thus to hedge in a double Fence.  
Closed Lips express but silent Blisses,  
And at the best are but dumb Kisses.  
You are with Cupid little kind,  
To make him Dumb as well as Blind.  
Such Smacks but show a silent state;  
Kisses should be articulate.  
An openmouth Kiss speaks sense,  
It is the Lover's eloquence,  
Let yours speak out then; there's no Bliss  
To th' Pronunciation of a Kiss.   

The SCANDAL. 1656.  
Upon Mrs. K. C. raising one.  
HOW now, mad Kitling, peevish Brat!  
Canst thou no sooner see, than scrat?  
That all who see thee, justly doubt  
Allecto in her Swathing-clout.  
Feat early Mischief! tell me why  
Thou soughtest to wound me with this lie?  
What's my offence? is it not this,  
Because I do no oftener kiss?  
What Fool would do himself the wrong,  
To venture half so near thy Tongue?  
Far worse than Snakes, or Adders are;  
Thou dangers dost at both ends bear.  
thou'rt worse than Scorpions, who bring  
A cure themselves for those they sting.  
But thou'rt all o'er with Venom smeared;  
Thy very Looks are to be feared;  
Not that thy Glances have a spice  
Of Venus, but of Cockatrice.  
Nor boast thy Flaxen Curls; they be  
As well signs of a Leprosy.  
That Rock of Tow upon thy Head,  
Prove there are Poyson-pates, not Red.   

The Virtues of CANARY. 1656.  
Tune Isaac's Balls. To Mr. G. H.  

SAck will make a Coward Fight,  
And his Humour vary;  
It will infuse a Nobler Spirit,  
Than great Hector's did carry:  
Nay it so will play its part,  
He had rather spill a Quart  
Of Blood, than of Canary.   

Sack makes the daring Seaman wise,  
And resolute as Photion;  
Not all the Artillery of the Skies,  
Can make him alter his brave motion;  
Tho' Tempests rage, and Thunder crack,  
Let him be drowned first in Sack,  
And a Fico for the Ocean.   

If you would have a Doctor wise,  
Bestow on him a Pottle.  
All Wisdom in the Bottom lies,  
No Helicon unto the Bottle.  
And when he can pour down no more,  
He will upon his Knees adore  
Bacchus, above Aristotle.   

Sack can make an Alderman wise,  
And venture at a Ditty:  
'Twill make a Beggar's thought to rise  
Let his shirt be ne'er so Nitty.  
It can make sweet the crabbed face  
Of Sergeants, and control their Mace,  
And melt the Rogues to pity.   

If one have but a spark of Wit,  
Sack will quickly show it;  
And in troth I think it fit,  
By my example you should know it;  
For, as once my Lord Grace said,  
I this fine new-sing-song made,  
But Sack made me the Poet.    

The DELUGE. 1657.  
Upon the Death of R. Sanderson Esq by the Eruption of a Vein.  
SAD Deluge, this! what could no Art restrain,  
Nor stop th' o'rflowing Chanal of a Vein?  
A Flood in Harvest thus destroys the hopes  
Of all the Year, and spoils the fruitful Crops.  
Blessed Nilus! thou deserv'st immortal thanks;  
Thou profit bring'st, when thou o'rflow'st thy Banks.  
Of all sad Deluges this was the worst,  
And little less destructive than the first.  
Where's Surgery become, that boasted Theme?  
No Sluice, no Floodgate that can turn this Stream?  
Shall the dull Dutch dam up the Springs o'th' Sea,  
And fetter Neptune, till his Tides obey?  
Yet our famed Artists study all in vain  
To stop the little Torrent of a Vein?  
Let us confide no more in erring Dust;  
That great Physician may command our Trust,  
Who stopped, by touching of his Garments him,  
Th' unruly Current of a Bloody Stream.  
Nay more; by virtue of his sole command,  
And sacred Power allowed to Moses' Wand,  
Stopped the Red-Sea, and checked the foaming Tide,  
Roaring and swelling with impetuous pride:  
And made the crowding Waves, on either hand,  
Like shining Walls of polished Crystal stand;  
He! he alone! such Miracles can show,  
And stop those Fountains who first made 'em flow.   

The RECOVERY. 1657.  
To my dear S. Mrs. S. S.  
SO you recruit, tell me no more  
Of lesser beauty than before;  
Yet where's the loss? since still I'spy  
Those Arched Brows, that sparkling Eye,  
Wherein such contradictions fix,  
That Sun and Clouds together mix.  
Though neither conquer, yet both fight;  
No Cloud so black, no Sun so bright.  
A Sun with no Eclipses harmed:  
A Cloud with Lightning ever armed:  
Then is not here each charming grace  
That formerly shined in that Face?  
Those modest smiles, whose native slight  
At once denies, yet does invite?  
Like a Gilt-harnest-valiant Foe,  
Whose Arms cry, Take me, Sword says no.  
What Parts then do these wants disclose?  
Because each Cheek has lost its Rose,  
Your Lips their Cherries? never fear;  
Tho ' th' Seasons past, they'll spring next year.  
Your Sickness did this Autumn bring;  
But Health will soon create a Spring.   

The POET. 1657.  
Upon that incomparable Euthusiast Mr. Jo. Cleveland.  
whoever reads Cleveland (Leader of the Pack)  
Carouzes Essences, and spirit of Sack.  
For what he drank, it was for public use;  
And, in his Brains, he did preserve the juice.  
Where heated in his Head (that Chymic Still)  
Wits-Essence flowed fro' th' Spout of his rich Quill.  
The Sun thus moisture sucks, and after pours  
From cloudy Limbecks all the fruitful showers.  
His wit was universal: like the Sun,  
It gilded every thing it looked upon.  
Some (as poor I) rich Subjects do debase;  
He (like great Monarches) did the poorest grace:  
By his rare faculty our Times were moved  
To think that barren Forests might b' improved.  
Each matter hits aright to his desire;  
His conquering flame converted all to fire.  
The highest things did to his fancy stoop;  
The Scythian so proud Bajazet did coop.  
His wit was free, not to set-rules confined;  
But clear, and ripening like the Summer-Wind.  
Pleasure and profit he from thence did bring;  
As it makes Corn to grow, and Flowers to spring.  
He made the Company where 'ere he came;  
And warmed the coolness, or else quenched the flame.  
Nor did he owe one help to any man,  
Like those first Heroes who all Arts began.  
His thriving thoughts no Foreign Aids did need,  
But on their fruitful Soil alone did feed.  
He ne'er the way of our new Rhymers chose,  
In racking, or (at best) Translating prose.  
To force his Fancy he did never use,  
Like some who ravish an unwilling Muse,  
Was big with thought, yet happy in his choice,  
Like the smoothed tuning of a natural Voice.  
The Subject known, he did the humours hit;  
First chose the stuff, than did the Ribbons fit.  
His Fancies jostled, were together pressed;  
Puzzled he was to choose, not make the best.  
His Refuse would enrich us all; the poor  
Thrive thus by raking at the rich Man's door.  
He was more than us all! Imagine what  
He could say of himself, and Cleveland's that.   

DISCREET LOVE. 1657.  
To M. S.  
PEace, Sirens, Peace! experienced harms  
Serve but to antedate your Charms.  
The World's more wise now, than to seek  
Roses and Lilies in a Cheek;  
Coral in Lips; himself he mocks  
That looks for Sunbeams in her Locks.  
Or he who fancies those blue stains  
Saphires or Violets, but Veins.  
None trusts an amorous Muse, that sings  
His Mistress Breasts two Nectar springs,  
Locked up with Rubies, that there grow,  
Soft Marble Quarries, and warm Snow;  
That she sweats Amber, breathes sweet Gums,  
Voids Marmalade, and vents Perfumes.  
Beauty's the Sauce, that brings delight  
To Love, which is the Appetite:  
But Wealth's the Food; 'tis a sad pause,  
When hungry, to have only Sauce:  
Thus foolish Boys neglect their meat,  
So they may red-cheeked Apples eat.  
Beauty is only in the Skin;  
The worth, and substance is within;  
'Tis spoiled when used; now Gold's more bright  
With time, and use; Aurora's light  
Improves thus till the Sun does rise;  
(That twenty-shillings-piece o' th' skies)  
Talk then no more of loving faces,  
Of outward parts, and inward graces;  
Since Cupid's self can strike no heart  
In love, without his golden dart.   

The Resolute COURTIER. 1658.  

Prithee say I or no;  
If thou'lt not have me tell me so,  
I cannot stay;  
Nor will I wait upon  
A smile, or frown.  
If thou wilt have me say;  
Then I am thine, or else I am mine own.   

Be white or black; I hate  
Dependence on a chequered fate,  
Let go, or hold;  
Come either kiss or not;  
Now to be hot,  
And then again as cold,  
Is a fantastic Fever you have got.   

A tedious Woo is base,  
And worse by far than a long Grace:  
For whilst we stay,  
Our lingering spoils the Roast,  
Or Stomach's lost;  
Nor can, nor will I stay;  
For if I sup not quickly, I will fast.   

Whilst we are fresh, and stout,  
And vigorous, let us to't:  
Alas, what good  
From wrinkled Man appears,  
Gelded with years;  
When his thin wheyish Blood,  
Is far less comfortable than his Tears.    

Right COURTSHIP. 1658.  

SHould I kiss every one that's fair,  
Or marry all I court;  
I like the Captain should appear,  
That conquered every Fort,  
And nothing left for those that love the Sport.   

What matter I though Rumour snarl,  
That I took not the Town:  
Since I did bring her to a Parle,  
It is as much renown,  
As If I knocked, and beat her Bulwarks down.   

Self-int'rest is the safest claim,  
Let Wealth, and Worth be had;  
To levelly there's the surest aim,  
And he the wisest Lad  
Who makes no Match, but by a Match is made.    

The PLAGIARY. 1658.  
Upon S. C. a Presbyterian Minister, and Captain, stealing 48 Lines from Crashaw's Poems to patch up an Elegy for Mr. F. P.  
MOnstrous! and Strange! & scarcely heard of yet!  
A Presbyterian, and pretend to wit!  
Steeled arrogance! to nibble at the crime  
Of Verse, and meddle with that Dagon-Rhyme!  
Tremble, great Dogril Sir, at what I say;  
For Verse is Cousin German to a Play.  
But Poets may with Churchmen well agree:  
David did Verses make, and Prophecy.  
This is his canting Plea; but soft, Sir, stand;  
You are arraigned for Theft, hold up your hand.  
Impudent Theft, as ever was expressed,  
Not to steal Jewels only, but the Chest  
Not to nib bits of Gold from Crashaw's Lines,  
But swoop whole Strikes together from his Ours!  
Unconscionable thief! than 
* A famous Robber.  Hind far worse;  
To rob one both of Money and of Purse.  
Thou, of thy Brethren-Taxers, gettest the start,  
In taking more than th' five and twentieth part:  
Like to those Fiends we Sequestrators call,  
Thy stretching Conscience goes away with all.  
Arch piece of Robbery! Gigantic knack!  
To take both Goods and House too on thy back;  
Quote Scripture for't, as for Rebellion, say;  
Samson in Gaza took the Gates away.  
Thy Muse, Philira like, is turned a Mare;  
And by his Pegasus is covered here.  
unnatural Coupling this as e'er did pass;  
As if his Pegasus should leap an Ass!  
Like a Drum-major, he with Zeal appears,  
Beating his Pulpit to get Volunteers.  
Thy Black-coat, furious jehu, most men think  
Takes colour from thy Powder, not thine Ink;  
And thy Dragooning Genius has a share  
More in Saltpetre than Saint Peter's Chair.  
How much the Cause owes to this Braves command,  
Who taught Rebellion both with Tongue and Hand;  
As Balaam of his Ass, he learned this Trick  
Of some such Colt, both for to whee and kick.  
A Preacher! Captain, Thief, and Poet view!  
A jack of all Trades, and of all Sides too.  
But Mar-text, how dost thou declare thine hate,  
In joining Poets with the Bishop's Fate?  
To rail at Poets, but to steal their strains,  
To hate the Bishops, but to love their means.  
Did parted Souls (as some have held) but know  
Those things are done by their left friends below;  
Think'st thou deceased Pierpont likes such Verse  
As thou hast filched here to adorn his Hearse?  
Judge but how such an Act thyself would scan,  
A Thief subscribe thee for an Honest Man,   

The OLD MAN. 1658.  
An Epitaph upon my Gr. Mr. T. S.  

HERE lies an aged Corpse, which late  
Incaged a Soul; whom neither fate,  
Nor Times, could change from its first State.   

Oppressed more with Age than cares:  
Respected more for Silver hairs  
Than Gold; for Wisdom more than Years.   

Happy in every Child he had;  
Happy in self, and only sad,  
Being born in good days, but deceased in bad.    

The MOURNER. 1659.  
Upon the Death of my dear Father, Mr. W. S.  

LET not the ranting Crew explode my Tears;  
Nor stop my sigh with their Mocks and Jeers:  
Such as lament in Sack for Father's dying,  
Till Eyes look red, then swear it came with crying:  
Who to the Church such modish Mourners come,  
As if they meant to revel o'er the Tomb.  
I leave that road, so that I now forbear  
To strew his Grave, but with a gaudy tear.  
For Drops of Ink are so that do distil  
From a luxuriant, or too trim a Quill.  
Nor let some think the grief is small, where time,  
And such Composure is to build a Rhyme  
Since David's Muse did never higher rise,  
Than when it took its fountain from his Eyes;  
And if in these Lines any Life can be,  
Or can transmit it to Posterity;  
'Tis but a just endeavour Life to give  
To that loved Person, who did make me live.  
Not that I think this power in my Verse,  
(The common Hatchment now of every Hearse)  
But in his Virtues, which they would declare;  
These give the life of which those hope a share.  
For thus a Pen that limbs a good man's story,  
Improves its own, well as the subjects glory.  
So every Duty is a Benefit,  
And gains a blessed reward for doing it,  
I wish I could his Virtues imitate,  
And praise together; such a lucky fate  
Befell that Orator, who as he stood  
Praising his virtuous Friend, himself turned good.   

His Zeal to God and Church glowed with that heat  
First Christians used, without the modern cheat.  

* Imprisoned long by the Rebels at Nottingham. vid.  Loyal to's Prince without the hope of gains,  
And constant too in midst of loss and chains.  
His Prayers were fervent, and his Faith was strong,  
Still hoped, although Rebellion prospered long.  
At length the storm blew o'er, the skies did clear,  
And light begun to gild our Hemisphere.  
His breast with public joy so overflowed,  
His Soul was forced to leave its old abode:  
Yet like the dying Swan he tuned his knell,  
And with old Simeon sung his own farewell.  
Thus the long looked-for Prospect Moses gained;  
He saw, but ne'er enjoyed the Promised Land.    

Wit's EPICEDIUM. 1659.  
Epitaph upon Mr. J. Cleveland.  
HERE lies great Cleveland! whom 'tis fit,  
To name the Phoenix of true Wit.  
His Fate suits sadly with the name;  
Since he expired in a Flame.  
A Fever! hence this fate did come,  
The Muses suffered Martyrdom!  
He like the Phoenix died! Alas!  
Not like the Phoenix buried was!  
Since with the Gums of his own Style,  
He did not build himself a Pyle.   

The DIVINE. 1659.  
Upon Dr. Huits Death by Cromwell.  
RAsh times, and men, to hurry hence  
What Ages cannot recompense!  
For by his timeless death we lost  
The rarities of holy cost.  
He tried all Learning, and from thence  
Did cull the perfect quintessence  
Hence was his Tongue with Essence tipped,  
His Lips in heavenly Nectar dipped.  
He pleased the Mind, and eased the Heart;  
His Sermons twisted Grace and Art.  
His Zeal was learned he could entice  
A man, with pleasure, from a Vice.  
Those who did hear his Sermons right,  
And practised, grew good with delight;  
He heard his Sentence with that cheer,  
That upstart Lords their Titles hear.  
Let Traitors quake with crimes oppressed;  
Let guilt raise Earthquakes in their Breasts;  
Let a rebellious Ague seize  
Their bloods, and Horror turn disease;  
Let such ones tremble: Glorious Soul!  
Thou dost thine envious fate control:  
What Coward armed with thy sure Ward,  
Need fear a Tower or a Guard?  
Halberds and Troops (ta●n in right sense)  
Served but to guard thine Innocence.  
Thy Cause, and Spirit makes us vow  
Thy judges suffered, and not thou.  
Their bloody Sentence (to their spite)  
More than their Pardon, did thee right;  
The Axe cut them; and once they'll know  
They had by far the worse blow.  
Thy rising Soul was then more tall,  
When others stoop, just at thy fall;  
Sol biggest is, when he does come  
To rest thus in his Western home;  
In Seas he sets, and thou in tears;  
Thine Ocean far more deep appears.  
And when thou dost in Glory rise,  
Thy beams will daze their bloodshot- Eyes.   

The ADAMITE. 1659.  
Upon the loss of a Lady's Linens; all her Shifts and clothes being stolen.  

ADam of tempered Clay was raised;  
His Body with rich Linen cased;  
An earthen Vessel finely glazed.   

But Eve was of a purer frame;  
She from completed Adam came:  
From the young Sun so shined the Flame.   

To him she seemed a glorious sight;  
Her very Nakedness was bright:  
Thus is the Moon skinned o'er with light.   

Her Innocence no Cover had;  
'Twas Gild did cause the Fig-leaf shade:  
As Beams are hid by Clouds they made.   

Besides, the Springtime now invites  
Nature, to bless our wondering sights,  
With her rare Closet of Delights.   

Lilies (those Virgins of the year)  
Their Snowy Bosoms now appear;  
Each opening her laced Stomacher.   

Tulips start from their Winter-beds,  
Unfolding their thick Coverlids;  
Lie bare, and show their Maidenheads.   

Roses although with blushes born,  
Their green-silk Plackets now are torn,  
And show their beauties to the Morn.   

Your Hand fair Lady, then hold by,  
Or kindly let my searching Eye  
Through th' Lattice of your Fingers pry.   

The Russian Empress need not fear,  
If Cold or shame would Cover wear,  
She's clothed with native 
* A rich sort of Furr.  Miniver    

The ARCHTRAITOR. 1659.  
Upon the Death of Oliver Cromwell.  

THE Muses, like the Cavaliers, confined,  
(For Wit and Loyalty are best, when joined)  
Have now their liberty: the time affords  
Poets to use their Pens, and those their Swords:  
The Tyrant knew by both he might be harmed;  
So Plays he voted down, and them disarmed.  
For he did doubt whether more hurt might rise,  
Or from the Standish, or the Mortar-piece.  
Armed against Swords, but not against Cleveland's Quill,  
More sharp than Porcupines, it pierced his Steel.  
'twas tried of old when feathered Arrows flew,  
They far more Foes than all our Cannons, slew.  
'Twas this made him so cautiously severe;  
Poets and Soldiers tamed, he did not fear.  
But all his cruel Policies were vain;  
Mastiffs are much the fiercer for the Chain.  
Helicon rougher runs when 'tis disturbed,  
And Pegasus kicks more for being curbed.  
Who did his Provant, and his Curb neglect;  
Nor would those clear Streams his grim looks reflect.  
'Tis true, a Slave or two, to show his face, 
Let some of our famed Poets and their Consciences be here examined.   
Made Styx, not Helicon his Looking-Glass.  
Their Turkish Souls and fancies were so vain  
To serve as Footstools to that Tamberlane.  
Their mercenary Bays as largely spread  
Upon the Tyrant's as the Prince's head. 
One noted Poet, his Panegyric upon Oliver.   
Base! that in verse Rebellion should appear;  
As though Apollo were turned Presbyter.  
As th' Muses (stirred up by zealous wrath)  
Should lend their Treasures to the Public Faith.  
Wretches! who if they live to better days,  
May merit Hempen Wreaths, instead of Bays.  
Wit, like true Courage, never should abate,  
But bravely stand unmoved in spite of Fate;  
Confront the Tyrant in his guarded Den,  
And, like bold Brutus, stab him with a Pen.   


* He fired it, and then laid it on the Christians.  Nero set Rome on fire, a crime Severe!  
Noll fired three Kingdoms, and then warmed him there;  
Played o'er the Flames, and long exulting stood;  
Then strove to quench them with the Natives blood.   

Nor was't enough to make our Purses pay;  
But Taxes on our Consciences to lay.  
We might connive not only at his Gild,  
But take on us the blood the Tyrant spilt.  
The Commons did it; he like Pilate, stands;  
And we the Water hold to wash his hands.  
Prodigious arrogance! he did defy  
The chiefest powers both of the Earth and Sky!  
Against both God and Church he stood alone;  
Thrust one fro'th ' Church, the other from the Throne.  
His sacrilegious hands at once plucked down  
The sacred Mitre, and the regal Crown.  
The Graces, and the Muses he accused.  
Because by's lust they would not be abused.  
And yet this devilish Hypocrite would pray,  
Hyena like, would cry, and then betray.  
With counterfeiting groans he did his wiles,  
Like to the treacherous sobs of Crocodiles.  
His Tears, like those of baneful Yew did trill,  
Whose baneful drops their neighbouring Trees do kill.  
His whining always did portend some harm:  
So hardest Marbles weep against a Storm.  
His Trulyes' cheated, and his Smiles betrayed;  
In Velvet-skabbard lay his murdering blade.  
His poisonous heart in Beds of Flowers lay;  
Like Quagmires into which their Greene's betray.  
A Sodom-Apple, rotten at the Coat;  
A Pestilential Bubo plastered o'er.  
But now the Botch is broke; his Reign is done,  
And he himself into Corruption run.    

The APPARITION. 1659.  
Upon Cromwel's burying (by Ireton) in Westminster Abbey.  

PArdon, great Souls, if I presume  
So near, as your Withdrawing room;  
Your royal Wardrobe, wherein rests  
Your Garniture in Marble Chests.  
Safely locked up, to make more gay  
Your second Coronation day.  
Then will those mouldy Garments shine  
Like that pure stuff, which them must line.  
Aired by the influence of a Ray,  
Stronger then what gives life to Day.  
Which will new clothe that Beldame Night  
With robes, spun of eternal light:  
Will make the Sun in Cinders lie;  
That Phoenix in its Nest to die.  
For it would be a needless sight,  
When every object is more bright.  
That shining time we once must know,  
If't be allowed to call it so,  
When no degree nor space is found,  
But an immortal Nunc goes round.  
This thought such deep impressions makes,  
My muse with awful reverence shakes.  
Methinks I hear the Trumpet's sound;  
An Earthquake strikes the palsyed ground.  
The Marbles now discharge their trust,  
And faithfully return their Dust.  
Behold the quickening Atoms play,  
Invited by an heavenly ray.  
In close embraces dancing round,  
Till each its old position found,  
Uniting then with joy, they rest;  
Formed to a Temple fitly dressed  
To hold the bright descending Guest.  
Who will not lose by changing place,  
Conveyed into its shining Case;  
As Sunbeams into Crystal pass.  
Thus animated from above,  
Look how the rising Monarches move!  
With lofty mien they Earth despise;  

‖ King's are esteemed Gods, but die like men.  Gods now indeed, and worthy Skies!  
Attended by a fitting Train,  
Which humbly at their feet had lain.  
No Subject boasts a nobler state,  
Than on his Prince's dust to wait.  
King's honour bring where they resort,  
Making even Golgotha a Court.  
From Heaven amongst the Angels came  
A glittering Waiter called Fame;  
Breaking her Trumpet with a blast;  
For what needs Fame when time is past?  
Here other Heralds than appeared,  
Those Poets that were there interred:  
'Tis fit they should some glory share,  
Who did so much advance it here.  
Just as all these prepared to fly  
To the shining Rendezvous i' th' Sky;  
Two Monsters from their filth did craul;  
Offering to rise, still down they fall.  
Their bloodshot eyes, with gloating shame,  
Too weak to bear the heavenly flame  
Of such a Presence dazzling bright,  
With glory crowned and robed with light.  
One of 'em with a glaring look,  
Swelling with spite, and fury spoke.  
" These are but Kings, and Cromwell, I!  
" They at my Genius used to fly.  
" Death (that great Tyrant) being dead;  
" Why should we petty Monarch's dread?  
" What makes us so dejected lie?  
" Those vainly fear that cannot die.   

" Yet die we will rather than shun  
" To act what we before have done;  
" Quoth damned remonstring 
* That Villain drew the Army's Remonstrance, which was the moving cause of the KING's Death.  Ireton.  
" Let's charge their Troop, and both prepared,  
Red fury from their Beacons glared;  
Their heads the grovelling serpents reared.   

— Fame then replied—   

" Avaunt, thou odious spawn of Night;  
" Thou Beam i' th' very Eye of Light!  
" Were't not enough you did defile  
(" Nay worse, profaned) this hallowed Soil;  
" Reducing it to so vile price,  
" Like Egypt's it may turn to Lice?  
" Were't not enough you did invade  
" Their Throne, but you usurp their Shade?  
" Pursuing them even to the Tomb,  
" And now dare in their Presence come?  
" You ought to be (for this bold crime)  
" Damned down to Hell before your time.   

Like red-hot Iron than Cromwell glows,  
Yet nothing shined unless his Nose.  
Of red and blew mixed was the flame;  
As it from Fire and Brimstone came.  
The Angel shunning further stay,  
His Heavenly Banner did display;  
Such power i'th' sacred Cross did dwell,  
Struck with its Lightning, down they fell,  
For aught I know, as deep as Hell.  
Humbly the shining presence bowed,  
And Hallelujahs sung aloud.  
All ravished with the heavenly noise.  
Amazed I opened my wondering Eyes.  
When nothing did to them, alas! appear,  
But all these Glories vanished into Air.    

The ABSENCE. 1660.  
To Captain Ben. Marshal leaving Newark.  
GOod-Fellowship begins to mourn,  
And in thine absence, finds its Urn.  
When now we meet, 'tis to condole  
Our Bodies robbed of thee, the Soul.  
And since thou art from Newark fled,  
Both Sack and Ale for grief are dead.  
Thus standing Brooks begin to stink,  
When Sol is absent, or does wink.  
Excise men much thy fitting curse,  
Since lesser Income swells their purse.  
For what thou drank'st, by some is said,  
To make ten of 'em thrive o'th' Trade.  
In vain Town-Musick seeks to cheer  
Our griefs, whilst sprightly Ben's not here.  
For without thee the Boy that sings  
Is hoarse, his Fiddle wanteth strings.  
All that to Church on Sundays come  
Wish thou wert there, or all else dumb;  
Since without thee they howl, not sing:  
Like jangling Clowns that cannot ring.  
They aim at Psalms, as do the Chymes,  
And spoil 'em worse than Hopkin's Rhymes.  
When thou wert here all did admire,  
To hear, both Organs and the Choir.  
Thy Voice formed theirs: when thou didst sing,  
Thou wert both finger and the string.  
Thou mad'st the Tune; and all men say  
Thy breath did make their Pipes to play.   

The PEEK of Tenariff. 1660  
To my dear Br. Mr. W. Shipman, Merchant.  

TAlk not of Mount Parnassus! since I write  
Of such a subject as transcends its height.  
Where th' Muses cannot mount; their winged Steed  
(Tho Fame and Lightning cannot reach his speed)  
Must flag below, when he would try this Cliff,  
And soar up to the Pike of Thenariff.  
Some Hills are Perruked o'er with Trees and Snows,  
Others wear wreaths of Clouds about their brows;  
But thou, imperial Mount, art more renowned;  
Since thou art only with the Heavens crowned.  
Olympus and the hills of Arrarat,  
Compared to thee, seem as a lowly Flat.  
Pelion and Ossa (though they proudly bear  
Their heads) poor Dwarves, yet but as Footstools are.  
Other great Mountains (though not half so high)  
Weary the Foot, whilst thou dost tyre the Eye:  
Thou art 
* On its Summit is a hollow fire Called Celdico.  Sol's Furnace, where he lights his Torch  
When he first peeps from out the Eastern porch.  
Had those old Giants known thee when th' assailed  
The Gods, their Palace they had easily scaled,  
Had Nimrod ever of thy tallness known,  
His Babel never had been thought upon.  
Had Noah of this Mountain e'er heard tell,  
The Ark had useless been, and he as well.   

Was now my Muse as quick of foot as you,  
(Who here climbed high as ever Eagle flew)  
She then would trace your steps; and in the Story,  
Prove that high Peek some leagues below your glory.  
Hannibal's march o'er th' Alps needs no such stir;  
Since it was feazible with Vinegar.  
Sack here was requisite; which Poets sing  
Can mount one higher, than an Eagles Wing;  

‖ A flying Horse.  Astolfo's Horse (which Ariosto quotes)  
Was fed with Grapes (no doubt) instead of Oats,  
That gave him Wings! my Pegasus might dare  
To mount as high with the same Provender.  
And since such store does from your Islands come;  
If you would see him soar, pray send him some.    

An Hystorick Poem. 1660.  
Upon the blessed Restauration of his Sacred Majesty Charles the Second, etc.  

The PREFACE.  

THough these Thoughts gain not Charles his sight,  
To give him his, gives me my right.  
And yet now to approach so near,  
May rather dazzle me, than clear.  
Since Mercury is scarcely known  
(Though Prince of Wit) when near the Sun.  
Loyalties due, although not heard;  
And, Vertue-like, brings its reward.   

From Mount Parnassus, my desire  
To Zion sometimes does aspire.  
I thought it but a fitting state,  
That Muses on the Grace's wait.  
From hence let not the Reader fear  
I am a rhyming Presbyter.  
As though my Muse (when but a Child)  
Did go to School to Robin Wild.  
Or that my Pegasus would stoop  
To ride in 
* A Rhymeing Presbyterian.  Captain Wither's Troop.   

But stay, 
‖ A Trumpeter to Rebellion, in his Nec habeo, nec careo, nec curo; a Book of his in Rhyme. Vid. his famous Panegyric.  amongst the Rhyming crowd  
I 'spy some Wits whom Fame makes proud.  

* A Rhymeing Presbyterian.  Whose Lawrel-wreaths on Cromwell seen  
(Though he be withered) are yet green.  
That Leprous Syrian they admit  
To wash i'th' jordan of their Wit.  
Not for to cure him, but to please;  
They made him proud of his Disease.  
Though some of these i'th' Front appear;  
I'll Muster too, if but i'th' Rear.  
And though their Cannons loudly roar,  
Some sound comes from my Pistol-bore.    

The Restauration and Welcome. 1660.  
An Historical Poem upon the Return of King Charles the Second.  

GReat Britain's Soil, like AEgypt's, fertile turned  
By overflowing of its Natives blood:  
Thus did the Compost of the Houses burned  
Fatten the ground where Priam's City stood.   

Her Bosom scarce was more bedewed with rain,  
Than with those precious dropsher Children bled;  
And manured with the heaps of Bodies slain;  
She grew so rank, that only Weeds she bred;   

Such Weeds as sucked the heartblood of the Land,  
Smothered each fruitful Plant and pleasant Flower.  
So did the thin bad Ears of Pharaoh stand,  
And all the full and hopeful ones devour.   

Nor could the Shrubs think much at such a blow,  
Or know how to divert the fatal stroke;  
When those cursed Rebels that brought them so low,  
Cut down, alas! Great Britain's Royal Oak.   

A Crime that blasts our former Laurels won,  
Sullies those Trophies that our Sires did yield.  
Saint George's bloody Cross we cannot own,  
Since now 'tis lost within a bloody Field.   

What hope of future Glory, or of Fame?  
For with the Sun the wasting light must go;  
And we have lost, to our eternal shame,  
Not only Honour, but the Fountain too.   

Success mean time did the bold Rebels crown;  
Success! too oft the thiefs, and Murderers boast:  
Prosperity brings seldom true renown;  
Since oft they merit least, who thrive the most.   

If Wrongs may be esteemed by their Success;  
Let us praise Caesar, who enslaved Rome,  
And think that richer Crowns their heads must bless,  
Who caused, than those that suffered Martyrdom.   

Worth, when oppressed, finds all its Solace here;  
This quickens Hope (that Shield against distrust)  
Without whose arguments, weak thoughts may fear  
There is no resurrection from the dust.   

Faith (that great Optic) whose quick piercing force  
Fixes the wandering glances of our eyes,  
And guides (like Gallilaeo's Glass) their course,  
To make Discoveries above the Skies;   

By whose clear evidences we possess  
Heaven in reversion, and despairing scorn;  
By whose Philosophy we surely guess  
The Sun, though set at night, will rise i'th' Morn:   

'Twas this kept us alive; for hopes that are  
Founded on reason, credit may obtain:  
Since to our Charles Heaven did such blessings share,  
We could not think that he was born in vain.   

We might as well conclude the glorious Sun  
Had, to no other end, his light bestowed;  
Then idly round about the World to run,  
And that his quickening Beams but vainly glowed.   

Although he from his Kingdoms were exiled;  
Foreign experience did increase his store:  
Thus in afflicting job was Hell beguiled;  
Since he at last was richer than before.   

Nor did it show as Heaven took not his part,  
Because his fortune before theirs did fall;  
Since he who shared in the Almighty's heart,  
Was persecuted by a wicked Saul.   

Most men did fear our happy days were done,  
Since Charles (our joy) was clouded from our sight;  
The World's end thus is guessed because the 
† Since Ptolemy took its height 1400 years ago, its height is declined 30 minutes.  Sun  
Grows lower than it wont, and less bright.   

But thanks to Heaven we happily mistook,  
And now rejoice in our deluded Eyes:  
The blessing came when we least fort did look:  
The Sun thus lowest seems just at its rise.    

§. 2.  

Man's life's a Sea; when fortunate, it's smooth,  
But when afflicted, than the Waves are rough:  
'twixt Storms and Billows tossed he scorned 'em both,  
Like a stout Friggat that is Weather-proof.   

Afflictions, on right objects well applied,  
Bring Crowns; as showers make our Roses grow:  
And like to Gold within a Furnace tried,  
His splendor's greater and his virtue too.   

Phoebus' eclipsed attracts the greater gaze,  
As though obliged more to his loss of light:  
Scorched with the fury of the Dog-star's blaze,  
The ground's requited by the dewy Night.   

Heroic Charles his crosses then esteemed  
As his Refiners, Lees purge richest Wines:  
Amidst his troubles he most glorious seemed:  
Encompassed thus with Clouds bright Phoebus shines.   

Enured to Affliction (virtue's School)  
For future Empire he was made more fit,  
Our Prince here followed his great Master's rule;  
Upon whose brows Thorns before Gold did fit.   

Nor can it as a banishment be said;  
He only travelled to increase his store:  
Flowrs so transplanted from their Native bed,  
Their beauty, sweetness, goodness is the more.   

Further that Rivers run they more improve:  
'Tis said that things far fetched our Ladies please,  
Nothing but worthless weeds do float above,  
We dive for Pearls into the deepest Seas.    

§. 3.  

England still senseless of that happy state,  
Which by a Prince so hopeful she might gain,  
O're-awed by fear, or overswayed by Fate,  
Like stubborn Atheists, will her crimes maintain.   

Scared by our Crimes, and blinded by our sins,  
We like those savage Indians appear;  
Adore the Fiend, ensnared by his Gynns,  
And pay him homage out of slavish fear.   

Thus have I sometimes certain flowers seen,  
Whose leaves were shut to th' Sun, but open to th' Shade:  
As more obliged to that kill Screen,  
Than to those beams, from whence they Being had.   

Rebellious Scotland first did open her Eyes;  
Scotland! the source of Treason, and our Woes:  
From Charles the Second she expects a prize  
As great as she in Charles the First did lose.   

In Selling him the price of blood she had,  
And now she sells to Second Charles his Crown.  
Too wily Scot 
‖ By trying him to hard and base Conditions, as to take the Covenant.  this bargain is as bad,  
Since now for that he must himself lay down.   

Too high a price for all the Crowns on Earth,  
Though all constellate in one Diadem;  
His Virtues well considered, and his Birth,  
They cannot him deserve, though he may them.   

But let not here Posterity mistake;  
Boast of her Heroes Scotland justly dares;  
Condemn not all the Twelve for judas sake,  
Heaven has its falling, well as fixed stars.   

Amongst which glorious Sparks in his high Sphere,  
Shines great Montross, the glory of his Age;  
Who brave, did like the Roman Curtius dare,  
Perished his Country's Judgements to assuage.   

His pious valour lasting glory got,  
When he alone, to aid his King durst come:  
Thus Decius did himself to death devote,  
And battled thousands to preserve his Rome.   

Heroic Soul! until all time be gone,  
His fame shall largely spread; until he come  
With his first Master to the justest Throne;  
And there receive their Crowns of Martyrdom.   

Though not with such Poetic fury fired,  
His vast heroic actions to rehearse;  
Yet with a rhyming guess I am inspired;  
And Prophecies themselves were spoke in verse.   


‖ Fulfilled truly and justly.  He who contrived thy death, (although Argyle  
That bloody Fox) before one year he see,  
Shall, like to Haman, both in fate and guile,  
Perish upon that Cross he reared for thee.    

§. 4.  

See now what Virtue in a King can do!  
His great example has made Scotland good.  
To cure her Leprosy she now will go  
To bathe in Iordans of her Natives blood.   

His goodness and his Royal parts have won  
More than whole Armies ever did before;  
All Scotland now does to his standard run,  
To help his other Kingdoms to restore.   

To England (his choice Vineyard) he is gone:  
Where though his faithful Servants murdered were;  
He thought they would not to such madness run,  
Or durst attempt to violate the Heir.   

But she, besotted with her slavish state,  
This blessed opportunity did shun;  
Stood idly, careless of a better fate,  
And though, in darkness, would not meet the Sun.   

Thus did she flight her glory, and her pride,  
And to that Idol-Cromwel still incline:  
So Christ was by the Gadarenes denied,  
Who valued him far lesser than their Swine.   

Though their vast odds, and usual success,  
Sufficient were to cool a Caesar's blood  

* At the Battle of Worcester.  So undauntedly he charged that all confess  
Nothing but England's Sins his Arms withstood.   

Oh! that I had now an heroic Vein,  
His brave heroic Actions to relate:  
Although his Army lay about him slain,  
His Virtue yet did triumph o'er his Fate.   

Horatius thus withstood Porsenna's Host;  
Such was his valour, such his love to Rome;  
And leaping into Tiber, well might boast  
To make Retreats so was to overcome.   

Through Troops of foes he undiscovered rides,  
Till unto blessed Boscabel he got:  
To little Zoar, with his heavenly Guides,  
From blinded Sodom so escaped Lot.   

To him, as to God's Israel, was allowed  
A sure defence against th' Egyptian spite;  
He marched behind the Bulwark of a cloud,  
A Blind to those it was, to these a Light.   

Not their proclaimed Rewards nor curious Spies,  
Nor Cromwell's luck in Plots, this prize could win:  
As he had been a second Paradise,  
His careful Guardian was a Cherubin.   

Blessed Charles then to an Oak his safety owes;  
The Royal-Oak! which now in Songs shall live,  
Until it reach to Heaven with its boughs;  
Boughs! that for Loyalty shall Garlands give.   

Let celebrated Wits, with Laurels crowned,  
And wreaths of Bays,; boast their triumphant brows;  
I will esteem myself far more renowned  
In being honoured with these Oaken Boughs.   

The Genii of the Druids hovered here,  
Who under Oaks did Britain's glories sing;  
Which since in Charles completed did appear,  
They gladly came now to protect their King.   

Thus God for him did Miracles create,  
And Moses-like with signal blessings graced:  
To pass the British Seas, was then a fate  
Not less, than when he through the Red-Sea passed.    

§ 5.  

Thus he (at once both ours, and Heaven's care)  
For landing-place his Normandy did choose;  
Whose glad Inhabitants, with earnest prayers,  
Begged for that blessing which we did refuse.   

In Paris now received with jealous eye;  
Nor can we justly tax that Prince's fear:  
Since in his Chronicles He may espy  
What business our fifth Henry once had there.   

Those Titles that his Birth, and Merits claimed,  
More than the League with Oliver did work;  
And that French King might be as little shamed  
To slight a Christian Prince, as court the 
‖ Not seldom used by that Crown.  Turk.   

But Charles, disdaining a Discharge to hear,  
Left that inconstant Prince with fitting scorn;  
A base indignity! which France may fear,  
And Frenchmen rue that are as yet unborn.   

Yet, in return for this poor short retreat,  
Brave York fights for 'em, that he may requite;  
Whose Valour did the Crown more surely set  
Upon that Head usurps his Brother's right.   

By whose brave Actions, France with terror sees  
What he can do, when he an Army brings;  
For if his fortune with his worth agrees,  
Upon his Sword depends the fate of Kings.   

In Holland now great Charles keeps his small Court,  
Where he their native bruitishness converts;  
To whom great Foreign Statists make resort,  
T' adore, and wonder at his mighty Parts.   

Oblige him, Holland, with thine utmost fate,  
His wants do now, as thine did once invite;  
Our blood and treasure did advance thy State;  
Serve him, and thou wilt fully us requite.   

And now the great 
‖ King of Spain.  Iberian Monarch woos  
His prescence: joseph thus his Keepers blest.  
A Treasure! which, when known well, he will choose  
Before the precious wonders of his East.   

Here was he fixed; and patiently did wait,  
Until the Stars each accident did fit;  
Till Heaven's prefixed time had riponed fate;  
That we the fruit of all our Prayers might get.    

§. 6.  

The Tempest, which for sixteen years had raged,  
Could not continue long it blew so fast,  
As men in mortal Agonies engaged,  
Their breathe are most violent at last.   

With loud commands the dreadful Prince o'th' Air  
Summons his blust'ring ministers to blow;  
The trembling Trees so palsied are with fear,  
Their Leaves not only fall but Bodies too.   

And 'tis but fitting State such ways to try;  
Their Roots disclose the Centre where they fell:  
When bloody Tyrants, and Usurpers die,  
All passages are open that lead to Hell.   

Some Nat'ralists, who deeply'r search than forms,  
And into th' hidden Womb of Causes pry,  
Presume those violent Autumnal storms,  
Proclaim aloud the Tyrant now must die.   

They say that Fiends did ply the bellows so,  
And overheat the Furnace so beneath;  
The intense Air broke through, and made ours blow,  
And raging flames did make the Ocean seeth.   

But 'tis below the candour of a Muse  
To strike the dead; 'tis left to abler powers;  
Nor is such weakness proper for the use;  
Alecto's lashes pierce more deep than ours.   

Cromwell (that bloody Rebel) being dead,  
Our hopes, like Sol in Winter, late did rise;  
Which in few minutes after hides its head,  
Or wears a mask of Clouds before its Eyes.   

For lo! our Cup of wrath again is filled!  
One of his Sons the Tyrant does succeed:  
Although the old pestiferous Serpent's killed,  
We still are plagued with the envenomed breed.   

What hopes although a gangrened member be  
Cut off, whilst it does to another spread?  
Hercules found the Hydra would not die,  
Until he had cut off the seventh head:   

Monck our Alcides was, the brave Saint George;  
Who to set England free, the Dragon slew;  
Destined by Heaven to that mighty Charge,  
And found their Mazes, having got the Clue.   

Before he proffered us his helping hand,  
Those Bloodhounds which the Nimrod-Cromwel bred  
Thought to have made their Prey of all the Land,  
And on our very Carcases have fed.   

Then they that damned old junto did recall,  
That murdered King, and Kingdom too enslaved;  
Those Calves of Bethel, at whose feet now fall,  
None but those few, who first the Idols made.   

Such sudden Changes in so short time shown,  
Buoyed up our faith, and made our hopes increase,  
Since Agues when they shift, will soon be gone;  
And change of pain seems like a kind of ease.   

Some small efforts were tried to set us free:  
As weak Physicians on Recruiters dare  
Bestow their skill; but when the bold Disease  
Faces about, they leave off with despair.   

No George but Monck is destined for the deed,  
Whose great experience does to him reveal  
When to cut off, to purge, and when to bleed;  
And now he sees the Wound is fit to heal.   

England his Patient is: and like a tried  
And careful Doctor, he his skill did show;  
He felt her Pulse, and every grievance ' spied;  
And found no Remedy, but Charles, would do.   

Warwick's great Nevil Albemarl out-sounds;  
Monck is a make King too! whose glorious fame  
Shall flourish whilst the Sun with light abounds,  
Or golden stars shine in their azure frame.    

§. 7.  

But stay, my Muse, though in his clouded state  
Thy Wings unsinged in his faint beams could play:  
Dar'st thou, with Semele, incite thy fate,  
And now in his Meridian glory play?   

With thy weak Pinions thou canst not soar high,  
This weighty Subject such a burden brings;  
But must, like to the cumbered Ostrich, fly;  
Whose Bulk is furnished with unequal Wings.   

This is to spend above our slender rate;  
The charge will our abilities outvie:  
The Echo though Heaven's Thunder can repeat;  
And smallest Brooks reflect the spacious Sky.   

Since all are joyed, all should their joys declare:  
Low notes do Music, well as high compound;  
An Oaten Reed may yield as true a share  
Of Love and Welcome as a Trumpets sound.   

The Nightingales (those airy Poets) who  
Make Helicon of every purling spring,  
Their choicest Songs not only will bestow,  
But feathered Rhymers welcome in the Spring,   

Tho great Wits rob us, and the Springs have drained,  
(Bethesda to the poor man was denied)  
Something of use even may from Mud be gained,  
As by the Holland industry is tried.   

The Heart's not best declared by finest words;  
Silence even sometimes great Rejoycements show;  
And humble Turf, when kindled well, affords  
As much true heat, as Chips of Cedar do.   

Go forward then, and hope to gain excuse;  
Rags will be hid in such a multitude:  
Heaven, that bestows on all its fruitful dews,  
Will not refuse the meanest gratitude.    

§. 8.  

Behold! when all our hopes were almost fled,  
Heaven did enlighten us him to invite:  
From Faintings men start up as from the dead;  
'Tis darkest just before the break of light.   

Nor does it show as we did quite despair,  
Because our sickly faiths such wav'rings have:  
Flames are most tremulous, that highest are;  
And we lest hope for what we most do crave.   

After such storms our Rainbow now appears,  
That voucher of our safety is in sight;  
And glorious Charles to joys converts our fears:  
Phoebus gilds o'er the Clouds thus with his light.   

He is arrived now to Scheveling Strand,  
Which gives just cause to boast her of that bliss;  
And is the happiest part of all that Land;  
Since honoured his last Footsteps there to kiss.   

Holland that formerly her Kings did hate,  
Is so with his heroic virtues ta'en?  
Our hot inquires after him they rate  
Worse than the Inquisition once from Spain,   

Had he an equal him their King they'd get;  
But since that quite impossible is known;  

‖ Another Prophecy fulfilled.  Orange (his Princely Nephew) they will set  
In●s Father's honours, to confirm their own.   

Where, with more reason, can their hopes be placed,  
Then on a branch of that renowned Tree;  
Under whose spreading boughs, they safely graced,  
From nothing, sprung to this sublimity?    

§. 9  

Great Prince, please to regard your Britain's call;  
Let Holland make you no more lingering stand;  
A little longer stay will murder all,  
And you be King of a dis-peopled Land.   

Behold your Neptune, with his Trident there,  
Vncrisps the Billows, smoothing them like Glass;  
And shows now his Allegiance in his care  
That undisturbed you on your way may pass.   

The simpering waves their Viceroy's call obey,  
And do for you (the Ocean's Monarch) wait;  
With ready Shoulders see they humbly stay;  
And if they swell, 'tis pride for such a freight.   

The 
‖ A Man of War made and so called by Oliver.  Naseby (once a Dipper) now begins  
To hate that Title with repentant shame,  
And hopes to wash off her original Sins,  
Being baptised now into Charles his Name.   

As the Demoniacs newly Converts turned,  
Some signal blessing did on them attend:  
So she no sooner with his Name adorned,  
But the good Spirit did expel the Fiend.   

Great Britain, like Tobias Bride, possessed,  
Needs here an Angel the same cure to do;  
Of which no fear, when she with him is blest,  
Since Charles her Husband is, and Angel too.   

The Frigate now the foamy billows blows,  
Whose burden is beyond the reach of fear;  
And steered safely by our Prayers and Vows,  
Does both our Caesar, and his fortunes bear.   

But here, my Muse, let's leave him for a while,  
Him, whom the Sea-Gods cheerfully attend,  
And all the Deities that guard this Isle;  
Blessed Charles! whom now both God and Man befriend.    

§. 10.  

Choose now a place, where thou may'st sit and see;  
Where his blessed motion may be fitly'st shown:  
Let Dover Pier then thy Parnassus be,  
And Britain's Straits thy better Helicon.   

From Seaward now turn thine unwilling eye,  
A little casting it upon the Strand;  
There hasty crowds thou quickly wilt espy,  
Whose thronging numbers far exceed the Sand.   

Look! how like Images they stand unmoved;  
Their greedy eyes to Seaward fixed set:  
Thus seemed the Statue, by Pigmaleon loved,  
When the cold Marble first begun to heat.   

To th' neighbouring Coasts whole Britain does flock,  
Clings to the Cliffs, her only joy to see:  
Andromeda was chained thus to a Rock,  
And Perseus hastened thus to set her free.   

No sail appears yet to her greedy eyes,  
But she tormented is with sharp delays:  
Her large Shore's echo round about with cries  
That all her Herrings are turned Remoraes';   

Those living Anchors, scarce twelve inches long,  
That mighty ships arrest when under sail:  
Thus a small Pibble being rightly flung,  
Did over great Golia's strength prevail.   

Britain, that does the pangs of longing feel,  
This sluggish motion of the Fleet compares  
To that slow Beast Pigritia in Brasile,  
That scarcely crawls a League in seven years.   

Nearer their end that natural motions be,  
Philosophers maintain they swifter go;  
This motion, like the blessing, than we see  
Cannot be natural, because so slow.   

Would now that 
‖ Ericus.  Swedish King were Pilot here,  
Whose Cap could point the Winds which way to blow:  
Nor does this Wish extravagant appear,  
Since 
* Five petty Kings rowed his Barge over the Dee.  Edgar (Charle's great Sire) had Kings to row.   

The pious breathe from the crowded shore  
(A brisk West-wind) keep what they pray for, back:  
Thus o'er kind throng that would breath restore  
To fainting Persons, that intention slack.   

The Proverb's crossed: the Eastern Winds are best:  
Since now they waft great Charles here to his own:  
And vie their blessings with those from the West,  
By which the Locusts were from Egypt blown.   

Our Mariners need not to Lapland send,  
To buy false Winds, or charm the boisterous Sea:  
Since that great Pilot does our Charles befriend,  
Whom both the Ocean, and the Winds obey.   

No raging tempest can disturb the Sea,  
Whilst he (our greater Neptune) is upon't  
Charles easily'r may the British Ocean sway,  
Than Xerxes try to fetter Hellespont.   

Methinks the Ship, designed for this freight,  
Should need no Sails, nor Rudder her to guide:  
But Dolphins should out of Allegiance wait,  
Upon whose skally backs the ship might ride.   

Thus the tamed Argo that did sail to Greece,  
Her willing Oars were seen alone to row:  
The royal Charles brings home a richer Fleece,  
And 
* Our Admiral,  Montague can more than jason do.   

Not Indian ships were ever richer fraught,  
Nor did deserve more welcome to the Port:  
Although the treasures of the East they brought,  
And had the plunder of the Moguls Court.   

Who can the worth of Charles, York, Glouc'ster say?  
Or prise their Values to a just degree?  
Those Triumvirs! fit all the World to sway,  
As equal Consorts to the fatal three.   

As they the Names, so they the Virtues bear  
Of Sire, and Grandsires, Princes all renowned  
For brighest Stars, each in his proper Sphere;  
And each with Mercy, Wisdom, Valour, crowned.   

To all of them thou ow'st thy several Vows.  
But here, my Muse, thy scarcity is shown;  
Thy Laurel is so thinly stored with Boughs,  
thouart forced to twist three Garlands into one.   

But if encouragement refresh the root,  
And fortune take from me her wont frowns;  
My grovelling Laurels to the Skies may shoot,  
And I, instead of Garlands, offer Crowns.    

§. 11.  

Come to those straits from whence he once did go,  
The motion does a blessed Circle frame:  
A nobler Ring! his property to show,  
Than that wherewith 
‖ They yearly espouse the Sea by casting in a Ring.  Venetians court the Dame.   

But listen now to that rejoicing noise;  
Those piercing shouts that even to Heaven advance;  
Whose rattling sounds makes Britain rejoice,  
And echoes terror to ingrateful France.   

If shouts of Peace can make their Lilies pale,  
At shouts of Battle they will ghastly show;  
And if our Squibs and Crackers make 'em quail,  
What will the Thunder of our Cannons do?   

Hark! hark! a shout far louder than the first!  
Behold! the swelling Topsail now appears!  
All now (like Clouds of Summer thunder burst)  
Melt into showers of their joyful tears.   

When on this had I see the Navy there,  
And England's Coasts exalted too on that:  
The Royal Charles may with the Ark compare,  
And Albion's Cliffs with those of Arrarat.   

Tossed by a Deluge, caused by our late crimes,  
He safely now approaches Albion's shore,  
(Like Noah) to make happy future times,  
And the destruction of our World restore.   

Before his landing though, his Dove's sent out;  
That 
* His Act of Oblivion.  Messenger of mercy, and of peace.  
Him right Heir to his Father who can doubt,  
Since so much like him in such acts as these?   

Grant, mighty Monarch, Britain's humble prayer!  
Let not thy Clemency prove too unkind;  
But let some Justice, with thy Mercy, share;  
Lest after ages no distinction find.   

If thine impartial eye vouchsafe to look,  
'Twill find that some did worse, though none did well:  
Heaven's self that on great Sinners pity took,  
Yet the rebellious Angels sent to Hell.   

Although there have whole Seas of blood been spilt,  
And thousands sacrificed on Charles his Tomb;  
'Tis not enough to expiate the guilt,  
Nor wash away one letter from our doom.   

Some of the Tribe of Corah still we see,  
Such as against God's anointed did conspire;  
All of 'em, like the common Enemy,  
Are to be scourged hence with sword and fire.   

We justly then may hope for better times,  
When those are gone, by whom we were beguiled:  
When Achan was condemned for his base crimes,  
Success again upon the Hebrews smiled.   

Your Mercy (th'only Balm our wounds to cure,)  
Should be like that within 
‖ Related by G. Sandys, in his Travels.  Grand-Cairo found;  
Which Stories say will not the Turks endure,  
And only prosper in the Christian-ground.    

§. 12.  

And now He's landed; Welcome glorious King!  
'Tis fit we branches of fresh Laurels spread;  
And all our Poets their choice Bays should bring;  
To strew the Paths wherein thy footsteps tread.   

Prostrate, my branch, and Muse, I here lay down;  
Where if she chance thy Royal foot to meet,  
She may prove Laureate, and receive a Crown,  
Nobler than those, that Popes give with their feet.   

On what more glorious Subject can we write?  
Or what Theme can more choice of Fancy give,  
Than his great Name? which brings a sure delight,  
For 'tis by it, we and our Verse must live.   

'Tis strange that Verse should be to Charles obliged;  
When Kings were formerly obliged to it;  
Because his Merits do all Verse exceed,  
And theirs could not attain to what Verse writ.   

His Worth is so apparent, Claim so just,  
His Restoration is rejoiced by all:  
Thus there was not one Hebrew did disgust  
The pleasant Manna that from Heaven did fall.   

To London now he marches, and is there  
Expected, with such longing hopes and joys,  
As men condemned their welcome pardons hear,  
Or he feels comfort that despairing lies.   

Courageous York, wise Glouc'ster on each side;  
Valour and Wisdom on our Monarch wait:  
He in the fortune of great Rome may pride,  
When Fabius and Marcellus served her State.   

Thus on the Body both our Arms attend,  
Which for the common good they're bound to do?  
And whilst our Moses, and his Arms defend  
His England, there's no fear of any Foe.   

Black-heath presents itself now to our Eyes,  
Where thronging Troops seem like a moving Wood;  
Whose silken Colours whistle out their joys,  
As each its loyal Motto would make good.   

The Horses neigh as he to them were known:  
Bucephalus thus Alexander knew.  
By their loud neighing at our rising Sun,  
They (like the Persian Steeds) their Monarch show.    

§. 13.  

Blessed England! since thou now canst make it known,  
What, to thine honour, has of thee been said;  
How foreign Conquest thou ne'er nobly won,  
But when some King of thine thy Armies led.   

Thus of thy Cor-de-Lyon thou may'st boast,  
Who in one Week did saucy Cyprus win;  
Whose Sword and courage (more than the French host)  
Dazzled the eyes of furious Saladin.   

Thus thy first Edward (whose fame still must live)  
When he to captive Palestine did go,  
His very looks did Ptolomais relieve;  
Let any judge then what his Sword did do.   

Thus thy third Edward fought at Cressy-field;  
Where he beat one King, and two others slew;  
Thus that young Mars (his glorious Edward) quelled  
The furious French and haughty Spaniard too.   

Fifth Henry (Europe's wonder and thy pride)  
Fought thus at Agincourt, and conquered France.  
Thus thine eighth Henry did his Ensigns guide,  
And in Tournay, and Turwin them advauce.   

But let none think this a diversion here:  
To him (the Sea) run all those higher floods,  
All their deserts allied to him appear,  
And his th' Elixir of their royal bloods.    

§. 14.  

But stay, my Muse, to shorten now the way,  
Whilst he to his Metropolis does ride;  
Here let us celebrate the Month of May,  
May! the Spring's glory, and the whole years' pride.   

I praise it not, because the swelling Vine  
Shows then its Rubies, or the Rosetree buds,  
Or Lovers, stirred by Nature's chief design,  
Walk amorous mazes in the pleasant Woods;   

Because the Blossoms smile, or Blackbird sings,  
Because the Earth is carpeted with green,  
Or that the fairy Nymphs now dance their Rings,  
As Crowns designed for Flora, by their Queen:   

A far more glorious Cause creates my Song,  
Since in this Month great Charles saw his first Morn;  
To which a second blessing does belong;  
Since now for us this second time he's born.   

The same procedure has eternal bliss,  
Which the great Word to all has spoken plain,  
For, the first birth brings no true happiness,  
Nor comes it, unless man be born again.   

Nor was't enough, that the reviving Spring,  
Or pleasant Flowers, his Ushers did appear;  
More state was sitting for so great a King,  
Which made Heaven send that 
* A Star appeared at his Birth  shining Harbinger.   

Charles has one Star now more than in his Wain:  
To point our Saviour out one did appear;  
Both Heaven and Earth by his blessed Birth did gain;  
We got a King, the heavens did get a Star.   

Blessed Prince! whom Heaven providing for, did place  
A Star: thus Landmarks serve the Port to show  
To Seamen, tossed upon tempestuous Seas:  
So this directs him where at last to go.    

§. 15.  

London is guessed now by those Clouds of Smoke,  
Whose thick curled Volumes seem to reach the Skies:  
Thus Priests of old did for great blessings look,  
When Altars smoked the most with Sacrifice.   

It is not Fire, nor Vapours, that compound  
Those Clouds, well nigh in Heaven already blest:  
No they are prayers and pious breathe found,  
That rise from Altars of each loyal breast.   

They're vanished now: and now the Skies are clear;  
And other Objects meet our wand'ring Eyes:  
Loud shouts, and Bells first having thinned the air,  
Temples and Palaces begin to rise.   

Paul's first (that mighty Fabric) does appear,  
And to the Skies its lofty top display:  
Which (Babel-like) our Ancestors did rear,  
To reach to Heaven, though in a better way.   

What, was its height before by Lightning fired?  
Those active Meteors (jealous) did chastise  
Th' usurping Steeple; that it thus aspired,  
To mount its daring head in higher Skies.   

First Charles designed to rescue it, and thence  
Its fixed glory never could revolt;  
Since his great Piety would surer fence,  
Than any Laurels, against a Thunderbolt:   

But our great Crimes, like to the Jewish Sins,  
Did both the Temple, and ourselves destroy:  
Though Charles (like Prince Zerubbabel) begins  
(Now he's returned) to recreate our joy.   

To him she bows her venerable head;  
Which (after his) she hopes will be new crowned;  
Thus, when the Patriarches had haply sped,  
To God they quickly did an Altar found.   

The Tower (by heroic Caesar built,  
Upon whose Battlements those Streamers play)  
Pleads how the Tides have washed away its guilt,  
Which lately came from the repentant Sea.   

The stately Bridge, oppressed beneath its weight,  
Yet gladly bears great Charles, and all his Train;  
Under whose Arches, Tides returning wait;  
Proud to be seen beneath him once again.   

Backwards the Waves with smiling Eddies roll,  
Till they again their Viceroy Neptune meet;  
Who charges all his Subjects 'twixt each Pole,  
To smooth their Passes for our Royal Fleet.   

Go on, my Muse, thou must not leave him here;  
Into the Town thou must on him attend:  
If thou wilt not the city's joy declare,  
Henceforth the Drawers will not be thy friend.   

All hearts together at this instant meet;  
And all his welcome in one shout combine;  
The Crowds are weaved together in one Street,  
And all their Eyes are thridded on one line.   

The little Pupil of the Eye contains  
At once the spacious object of the Skies;  
Yet such a Miracle in Charles now reigns,  
He's big enough himself to fill all Eyes.   

The Walls, instead of Bricks, of Heads are made,  
So closely joined, and orderly they stand:  
And for more Ornament, it may be said,  
Each wears a Turkey Carpet for a Band.   

With Prayers, and loyal Vows the Town's made sweet,  
Houses are Walled with Men, Roofs tiled with Boys;  
The Channels washed with Wine; Streets paved with feet;  
And all the Windows glazed are with Eyes;    

§. 16.  

Come now show service, Muse, as well as love;  
When both Necessity and I do call;  
Let thy soiled Laurels then a Besom prove,  
And sweep the way before him to Whitehall.   

Whitehall! late soiled with dirt, with Thistles grown;  
As commonly is seen, where Swine resort:  
But here a Miracle will soon be shown,  
he'll make it both a Garden and a Court.   

For wheresoever he sets his Royal Foot,  
Soon will the Red, and White-Rose there be shown;  
Since our great Charles is their undoubted Root;  
For him both York and Lancaster do own.   

Though now, my Muse, th' hast brought him to the Port;  
Thou may'st not enter; for the Courtiers say  
Thy Poverty will not beseem a Court;  
Although thy Love and true Allegiance may.   

Thou canst not then, what there was done, relate;  
That is impossible for thee to show:  
But though these Wishes cannot gain the Fate  
To come to him, may they to Heaven go.     

The SOLDIER. 1660.  
To the Illustrious and Highborn Prince, James Duke of York, etc.  

THE little Spot I on Parnassus till,  
Were it, great Prince, but fruitful to my will,  
The Laurels that my slender Stock allows,  
Each day should yield fresh Garlands to thy Brows.  
And though last Month great Charles did justly gain  
The spreading boughs, one branch does still remain,  
Which shortly will a greater thing be thought,  
If fitting Wreaths be to thy Merits brought;  
Since all the Laurels that the Earth brings forth,  
Will be too scanty for thy growing worth.   

Thine Ancestors, and Parents, all were sent  
By Heaven to be their Age's ornament;  
With all their several Virtues thou art filled;  
Roses, and Lilies Essences distilled.  
Thy Father's Soul vies with thy Mother's face;  
From her thy Beauty, and from him thy Grace.  
Nor is this all; thou must more justice have;  
Prudent with james, and with great Henry, brave.  
Thy Royal Father's Crowns being from him torn,  
Wise Providence ordained thou shouldst be born.  
For so, what from him by our Sins were ta'en,  
By thy great Valour might be won again.  
And though with bold success they stormed the Walls;  
Thou (like Camillus) hadst expelled those Gauls,  
But that kind Heaven in league with us did stand,  
Whose aid did save the labour of thy hand.  
Thus Hezekiah might devoutly boast,  
When Angels routed the Assyrian Host.  
Whilst such ones fought for us; a doubt might be  
Whether they took not one of them for thee.  
Such is the lightning of thy piercing Rays;  
And such fair Signs of Conquest in thy face;  
So true a heat thy noble Passion stirred,  
So swift the motion of thy flaming Sword.   

Nor was't enough, thy Birth did thee advance,  
Valour thy Nature, and Inheritance;  
But thou hast practised War even from thy birth:  
Like Cadmus' Soldiers, peeping first from Earth.  
The Martial Scarf thy swathing-band was deemed,  
Bullets thy Nuts, and Drums thy Rattles seemed.  
Bellona was thy Nurse, with blood thee fed,  
Bright Steel thy Blankets, and the Field thy Bed.  
Alcides' spirit in thy young breast did dwell,  
Who, in the Cradle did the Serpents quell.  
Young Princes, bred up in luxurious Courts,  
(Like May-Kings) are alone designed for sports.  
Silk Knots their Colours from vain Women torn,  
Nor seek they other Forts than theirs to storm.  
victory thine only Mistress was, and there  
(If ever) thou wilt turn Idolater:  
Bold Scythians so a Spear did fix in Ground  
And there alone their reverence was found.   

Nor did those sullen times infect thy mind;  
Tho fierce as Lions, yet as Lady's kind.  
This made th' admiring World both love, and fear:  
Thy Grapes produced both Wine and Vinegar.  
Gentle in Peace, in War most bravely bold;  
Thy Springs in Winter hot, in Summer cold:  
Composed in tumults, and in troubles gay;  
Thou, like the Porpois, canst in tempests play.   

Cromwell ne'er thought his business to be done  
Whilst thou were't safe, though all Foes else were gone:  
His restless jealousy disturbed his mind;  
More dangers yet in thee he feared to find.  
But when the Fates thee in his 
‖ Taken when Oxford was delivered and imprisoned in—  power had brought,  
He only then himself in safety thought.  
jerusalem of rescue thus despaired,  
And the grim Saracens no longer feared,  
When they with joy the Austrian Leopard saw  

‖ Escaped thence by help of—  To hold our Cor-de-Lyon in his paw.  
But of thy Chains he was not long time proud:  
He could not keep this Thunder in a Cloud.   

And now thy spreading Fame began t' advance;  
Which he did hear, with terror, out of France;  
That sound scarce settled, when, behold, again  
One louder, when thou foughtest for worthy'r spain.  
Honour thine interest was, and swayed thy heart  
To take the juster, though the weaker part.  
Thus did brave Guy the bloody strife decide,  
And helped the Lion as the weakest side.  
Thy brave Achievements made the Tyrant quake,  
And at the last, his Grave for refuge take.    

BEAUTY'S ENEMY. 1660.  
Upon the Death of M. Princess of Orange, by the Small Pox.  

HEnce, hence, vain Fancies! 'tis a Sin to be  
A witty praiser of a Misery.  
Like those hard Wits, who name the Scars  
Upon her Face, Ennamel, and bright Stars.  
They crown their brows with Cypress boughs, and make  
Garlands of Flowers, which they from Coffins take.  
Then should the jews, those hands have kissed with joy,  
That did their Temple, and themselves destroy.  
Her Eyes, amidst her torments, sparkled beams:  
Thus martyred Saints smiled in their hottest flames.  
Nor can the Parallel be well denied;  
Since ' it's too true, she Beauty's Martyr died.   

Fatal Disease! thy Spite too oft is sent,  
Like Sequestrators, on the Eminent.  
Thy Crimes, like those of their damned Masters, show;  
Like them thou ruin'st England with a blow.  
Great Charles his loss, and hers were near allied;  
In them the Monarches of both Sexes died.   

Most cruel Death! could not one wound suffice?  
Must she as many have as Heaven has Eyes?  
Each Spot upon her Face a Comet showed,  
Which did, alas, this fatal ruin bode!  
So do those purple streaks, that often stand  
Upon Aurora's Cheeks, tell storms at hand.  
This fatal Mask, that thus beclouds her Eyes,  
Is no deformity, but a disguise.  
'Tis but an Angel's Veil she now has on;  
For veiled they are, when they approach the Throne.    

THE GENTLEMAN. 1662.  
To's honoured Friend Sir Ger. Clifton, of Clifton, K. and B.  

TH' embalming Art that checks the power of Time,  
And curbs Corruption in its very Clime;  
That guards our Carcases against the Foes  
Which in the trenches of the Grave repose;  
With whose repairs our Cottages are dressed,  
Till the return of their Celestial Guest;  
Yet yields to Verse: a drop of Ink can guard,  
From ravenous Time, more than a pound of Nard.  
When Bodies, by such means, are most kept safe,  
Thy lie i'th' Tomb, but live i' th' Epitaph.  
Yet Verse (from whence such benefits accrue)  
Has a design, and hopes for more from you:  
Thus Kings of old, whence streams of Honour come,  
Received their Crowns fro'th ' Commonwealth of Rome.  
Nor does the Simile unfit appear;  
Since a whole Senate's congregated here.  
For your great Family did always use  
A Caesar, or a Cato to produce.  
In this one House a noble crowd appears:  
The eighth Sphere shines thus with a thousand Stars.  
Like Pliny's fruitful Tree, from whose large root  
An entire Orchard did together shoot.  

‖ Cambyses.  One dreamt a Vine sprung from his Daughter's Bed,  
Whose lofty branches Asia overspread;  
Thus England's graced, and sheltered by the Tree  
Of your illustrious-fruitful- Progeny.   

The Channel of your Blood's unmixed, and free  
From common Issues; like to that famed Sea  
Which proudly sucks into its Womb profound,  
That Mess of Rivers which did Eden round.  
You are a rich compound, and Heralds view  
A troop of Nobles, and yet all in you.  
Your Person's a whole Presence; in each Eye  
Ten Heroes in their mixed Elixirs lie.  
You are Mosaic work, ta'en in tied sense,  
Where each piece speaks a several excellence.    

THE INVITATION. 1662.  
To the worthy Lady Mrs. Margaret Trafford.  
IT is a Sin to know where Virtues are,  
Goodness, and Beauty, and not make a Prayer  
T' enjoy 'em; since then, Madam, all can tell  
In you these blessings with rich plenty dwell;  
I should be impious, not to request  
To see you, and then after to be blest.  
Your absence is a Judgement, most men say  
But little less than that at th' latter Day;  
When we shall want by day the Sun's great light,  
Nor must enjoy the beauteous Queen of Night.  
Black fate! and yet your absence makes each time  
Mourn without light, as guilty of the crime.  
'Tis true, these Planets may be seen, and are  
When you are absent; but they then appear  
Like dying Tapers, or (with truer sense)  
Like things that want their prime Intelligence;  
That's you! you gild their Orbs, and then refine  
Their beams by yours, and teach 'em how to shine.  
'Tis a religious point now to contend  
T' enjoy you; since you're more than any friend.  
You are a blessing, Madam, and a Crown;  
For virtue's so, and serves you as her own.  
How great's your privilege? since what the best  
Of Saints did strive for, you find in your breast.  
Your goodness will instruct you more at large;  
We are your Creatures, Madam, and your charge;  
You must be careful of us, and create,  
By your rich presence, a more happy state.  
Haste then, thou true Divinity, and give  
These blessings, that we may be good, and live.   

Right CHOICE at last. 1662.  
To the same.  
THE Soul, too oft in Coldness lost,  
Stands need of Zeal to thaw that Frost.  
Whose Sunshine can great Virtues bring,  
Blossom the Mind, and make it spring.  
Fired with that sacred heat, my breast  
Copies in flames the Phoenix Nest.  
The ancient Bird, consumed with Fire,  
Revives into a new desire:  
I'th' Cinders thrives the hopeful Birth:  
As Ashes help t' improve the Earth.  
Those will the fittest Compost prove  
T' enrich my Heart, (that Soil of love.)  
Cutting the Suckers from the root  
Will make my Myrtle branches shoot.  
When Zeal's to more than one inclined,  
It is th' Idolatry o'th' Mind.  
Love cantoned out, lessens its store:  
As many Sons make Kings even poor.  
But Fate does so my Heart advance,  
To be your sole Inheritance.  
That Monarch of my breast (as due)  
No heir apparent owns but you.  
The noble Romans thus supplied.  
By Adoption, what the Flesh denied.  
Observing more returns of worth  
From Choice, than from uncertain birth.  
Those easy charms that Nature move,  
Are but the Childishness of Love.  
The noblest Triumphs, and more fame  
From Consuls, than their Tyrants came.  
Till Caesar's fate did overcome,  
And made one Trophy even of Rome.  
My Heart, that Commonwealth of Love,  
Like that of Rome in this did prove;  
To present Rulers It was true;  
But yearly changed again for new.  
With Crowds of Deities well stored,  
And, as they pleased it, them adored.  
Like Caesar's, your attractive sway  
Makes it my interest to obey.  
And like dull Mayors enslaved by Gain,  
I boast the glory of my Chain.   

The LIBERAL LOVER. 1662.  
To the same.  

WHat can my Mistress want? whilst I  
Lay some small claim to Poetry?  
With Cleopatra she shall vie.   

My boasting shall not her deceive;  
For Poets, Pope-like, Kingdoms give;  
Nay more, can make the dead to live.   

Compared with Poets, Kings are poor;  
Kings have done much, but Poets more;  
For they made Gods for Kings t' adore.   

If glittering Pearls seem richer prize,  
I'll millions give; for my Supplies  
Drop daily from Aurora's Eyes.   

Rubies and Saphires shall not fail;  
With red, and blue Clouds I'll prevail,  
To drop 'em down in shining hail.   

If I once say't, I'll surely do't;  
Planets, instead of Stars, shall shoot,  
And drop down Diamonds at her foot.   

Of Silver, her I'll never stint;  
The Moon's my Mine, and the Man in't  
Shall be the Master of the Mint.   

If Guinnies seem the better change,  
Phoebus (my Patron) shall advance;  
For Gold's made only by his glance.   

For all these Riches I am poor!  
Then why should I thus feign a store,  
When really herself has more?   

Pearls, Rubies, Saphires, she outvies,  
And all the Diamonds of the Skies,  
With Teeth, with Lips, with Veins, with Eyes.   

My idle Fancy makes me sin;  
The Moon's not current, 'tis but Tinn,  
Compared to th' Silver of her Skin.   

By these great truths I am controlled;  
My Guinies will not value-hold;  
She's all one piece of Angel-Gold.    

DERBYSHIRE. 1663.  
To Mr. P. K. upon his Prolusion to his intended History of that County.  

I'll knock at Gate; Who is it lives here? Ho!  
It is a Palace by the Portico.  
The Porch of Solomon was thus esteemed;  
Compared with others it a Temple seemed.  
'Tis thine Aurora, which (as Poets say)  
Is Harbinger to a more glorious Day.  
Thy Lady-Fancy in her Bed still lies,  
This is the Usher that attends her rise,  
Her Face is beautiful, and makes us woo  
T' enjoy the Blessings of the Body too.  
Thy quick Invention may be justly guest  
More than half ready, since her Head is dressed.  
Thy Preface, like a hopeful Heir, does stand  
Rich in Reversion of the Father's Land.  
The infant-bud that does such sweetness own,  
What may it promise when the Rose is blown?  
In this small Handful thou hast clutched such store,  
Methinks thy Country should afford no more.  
Yet Darbyshire is so enriched by thee,  
It now may vie with fruitful Thessaly.  
Potosi Mines, and Rocks of Bengalay,  
Thine happy Country are more rich than they.  
It's Leaden Treasures (that our Cannons hold)  
We can exchange for Argosies of Gold.  
Pearls, Diamonds, Rubies, and such costly freight,  
Our smaller Shot can purchase weight for weight.   

Those rare Coal-Mines (thy Book to us here shows)  
Far greater Miracles than all disclose:  
The Carbuncle and Topaz are out-shone;  
Here's Light and Heat too, treasured in a stone.  
Pliny did ne'er of such a Wonder write;  
Here you may see the Heat, and feel the Light.   

Pactolus, Tagus, and those Eastern streams,  
(Whose Pebbles, Poets have advanced to Gems)  
Exceed not thy clear Trent; when thou hast told  
Its Streams like Silver, and its Sand like Gold.  
Why dost not witty Cotton then invite,  
To do thee and his native River right.  
Such Trophies raised in great Augustus' days,  
Their Founders were not only crowned with Bays;  
But we may see each Leaf was edged with Gold,  
Maecenas Favours in their Verse enrolled.  
Nor were their hopes by Patrons only raised;  
Their merits also were by Poets praised.  
Thus when thou dost thy lofty Building rear,  
Stately, 
Stately Palaces of the E. of Devonshire's, built by Elizab. Countess of Shrewsbury. in an. Qu. Eliz.  as Hardwick or as Chatsworth are;  
Thou'lt see the prouder Wits make their resort,  
And humbly beg admittance to thy Court;  
Whilst I am justly proud that I may wait,  
And stand a Porter to attend thy Gate.    

The CRITIC. 1663.  
To Captain W. W. earping at a Synelepha in a Soldiers Motto.  
WHat Man is free from Censure, when  
It fastens on a Soldier's Pen?  
The best-armed parts its force may feel  
When Estritch- like it bites on steel.  
A Critics Bolt's of such weak stuff,  
It breaks, or turns again at Buff.  
He that a Soldier thinks to bind  
In Rules, must tie his hands behind.  
They hate a Concord, Discords are  
The only Rudiments of War.  
They slight such Rules; and boast their fate  
In breaking yours, or Priscian's Pate.  
It is then vainer to rehearse  
To them the Niceties of Verse;  
When they will swear before your Face  
That Synelepha's are a Grace;  
And how they serve to trim each line  
With knots, and make the Muse's fine;  
That 'tis a pretty apish jar,  
And imitates the feats of War;  
One word here runs on th' others point,  
Another too has lost a Joint;  
A Synelepha's but a scar  
In Verse, and those no Scandals are  
With Soldiers, where they bring more grace  
Than Moles to any Lady's face.  
And if a Verse should prove too short  
They'll have some lame Excuses for't;  
To want a Foot is no more fault  
Than for a Soldier 'tis to halt.   

The CHEAP INVITER. 1663.  
To the Right Honourable Patrick Viscount Chaworth, inviting him to Venison of his own sending.  
YOur Promise I suspect not in the least;  
And though the Scripture calls Believers blest;  
'Tis wise Civility not to restrain  
From doubling prayers for what we would obtain.  
When Court or Church Preferments do bestow,  
They are not only begged, but paid for too.  
Whereas you yours more generously dispense,  
And noble are, all at your own expense.  
Thus liberal Princes, when they Visits give,  
Exhaust not by the favour, but relieve.  
Besides the blessing of his Eye, the Sun,  
Makes rich the Earth that Winter had undone;  
Yet seeks no more reward for all he brought,  
Than some cold water for his Morning's Draught.  
And tho, my Lord, I may too justly fear  
You'll scarcely find a better Treatment here;  
You shall be welcome, and have Thanks good store:  
And Heaven for all its Blessings asks no more.   

KNIGHTHOOD. 1664.  
To my honoured Friend Sir Fran. Leek, being made Knight and Baronet.  

THis Title aimed for Merit, now the Stale  
For Fools, since Honour is exposed to Sale.  
Whose Chapmen for the most part make it base:  
As Cromwel's Lords brought Scarlet in disgrace.  
'Twas Valour's badge; but now some new Knights know,  
Nor see drawn Sword, but that which dubs 'em so.  
This Glory was too bulkey, far too wide  
For such slim Heroes in their upstart Pride.  
The mighty Giant Honour, vexing, shares  
His Trophies to Pigwiggin-Souls like theirs.  
Like Boys oppressed, in Arms they idly sit:  
Goliah's Sword would only David fit.   

Nor was there any way left to redeem  
Its credit, or create a new esteem,  
But by your Name: so that which was thought fit  
To honour others, you have honoured it.  
Your constant Soul stood firm in wicked times;  
Which murdered Loyalty, and favoured Crimes.  
Castles and Armies fell beneath their hand;  
Yet you (more strong than either) nobly stand.  
That thundering force, which made three Nations bow,  
Stirred not the Laurel on your warlike Brow.  
Which did not there, as your Protection, sit;  
Instead of guarding you, you guarded it.  
So that which as the Guard of Valour stands,  
Boasts that it took its Safety from your hands;  
And Fortune, that does trample on the World,  
Yet trampled on, beneath your feet is hurled.   

This made you watched so by that jealous Crew;  
Yet your Souls noble Motions you pursue.  
To keep a standing Guard they were obliged;  
And you did always eat, and sleep besieged.  
They rated you an Army, could withstand  
The Body easily, when they held the hand.  
And when their Crimes the Blessing them denied  
To be of yours, they wished you of their side.  
Thus did you force 'em both to Fear and Love;  
As did become the Son of thundering jove.  
Thus them, without a Sword, you Prisoners took;  
Who slighted Cannons, trembled at your look.  
Then he that without Arms did conqueror stand,  
What will he do armed now with just command?    

GRIEF. 1664.  
Upon the death of my dear S. Mrs. P. S.  
FArewel, dear Sister! precious Soul, farewel!  
Go to thy fitter place, where thou wilt dwell  
With thy Companions, spotless Virgins; where  
Thy Veil will be as white as any there:  
Of thine own spinning too, ere thou wentest hence;  
Made up of Chastity, and Innocence.  
But now, alas, this sad truth I have learned,  
None can write Elegies that are concerned.  
Objects too near, are never seen so well  
As those which at remoter distance dwell.  
Grief, when 'tis gotten to the highest pitch,  
dams up our tears, and locks up all our Speech.  
Groans then prove you articulate! appear  
So courteous, Reader, as to drop a tear.  
And since Grief dulls the Muses; please to try  
Thy fitter Genius for an Elegy.  
And when th' hast lost as dear a Friend as mine,  
I promise here to do as much for thine.   

The GIPSIE. 1664.  
Upon Betty Boswel, Daughter to Captain Boswel, Leader of the Gipsies, to vindicate her.  

A Gipsy! no such wonder, since 'tis known  
How great Queen Cleopatra's self was one;  
And that Mark Antony (whom old Rome saw  
One of the three that to the World gave Law)  
Wandered abroad, leaving his Native home,  
A Captain of the Gipsies to become.  
We may as well that Empress Learning flout,  
Who first from Egypt ranged the World about.   

Because black-haired, and of a brownish hue,  
Must Madam Betty be a Gipsy too?  
The best complexion sure! and all men know,  
That lines of Beauty nought to Colours owe.  
What though her Cheeks be tanned? it may be guest  
The shadow only that her Eye-beams cast.  
Talk not what Silver drops in Pearls are found;  
Black is the Water of a Diamond.  
Her eyes (those sparkling Gems) hence shine more bright:  
Jewels advance their lustre in the night.  
There's none who sees her tho, but would be proud,  
Ixion- like, to dally with this Cloud.    

The Irish MASSACRE. 1664.  
Upon Captain Robert Sutton's death in Ireland.  

BRave Sutton! Drums and Trumpets fit thine Hearse  
More than the slight solemnity of Verse.  
The Muse's Heralds may put up with shame,  
They are out-sounded by the Trump of Fame.  
'Tis fitter far that thou great Mars shouldst have  
Close Mourner, than Apollo at thy Grave.  
Thy Martial Steed, with his courageous Neigh,  
Jostles my Pegasus out of his way.  
Thy Sword has carved out such a lasting Story,  
My Pen adds nothing to thy fullgrown glory.  
Here lies a Youth, had but his Stars been kind,  
Or Fortune equal to his Birth, and Mind;  
He had brave Sidney, and those Sparks outgone,  
Who did at thirty all that could be done.  
But none can limm him right, who have not been  
Where they might him before his Troop have seen.  
How he that day made many Dons to fall,  
When English Swords protected Portugal.  
Where dying Valour he again revived:  
Like th' Soul, when to a Body newly ' arrived.  
The lustre that his Arms, and Actions showed,  
Like Lightning, darted through the sulphury Cloud.  
His beauty then, with heat of sight improved,  
Had Venus seen, she Mars no more had loved.  
Yet was he not provoking, nor did watch,  
Like Tinder, always ready for a Match  
He rather seemed like to the hardy Flint,  
Cold until struck, though Fire lie dormant in't;  
Or like a Tempest that is slow to rise.  
But woe to him, that in its way than lies!  
This made old gallant Schomberg so admire  
To find new kindled here his youthful fire;  
This made him court him every way to own  
What he that day deserved, the Laurel Crown.   

Blind Love! 'twas thou allur'dst him to neglect  
Bellona's Favours to gain thy respect.  
Who would believe such Toys should Sutton move  
To leave crowned Victory, and follow Love?  
The Moral he made good, and, to his cost,  
Snatched at the Shadow, but the Substance lost.  
Ill fare those charms! that made him shun the light,  
For vain Ideas, only fit for Night!  
Nor can, nor shall she thrive, but helpless be;  
False to herself, in being false to thee!   

Farewell, brave Soul! the raging Irish Seas  
Contain not tears enough for thy decease.  
That rainy Region, though it weep each day,  
For thy sad loss does but due tribute pay.  
Ingrateful Ireland! thou hast cost us dear,  
Committing here a second Massacre.    

The CLAIM. 1665.  
To my honoured friend Sir Clifford Clifton. To whom is dedicated the ensuing Poem.  
SIR, I present you here with nothing new;  
Since what I write now, all before-time knew.  
Your Father's merits were i' th' last Age known;  
And shall be, when this and the next is gone.  
In such Records they need not up be laid;  
Tho Kings, nay Gods, of old, have craved that aid.  
Tradition will preserve it; whence may come  
More good, and wonder, than from those of Rome.  
Yet every Poet now should have a fling:  
As every bungling Painter draws the King.  
But I presume so much of Art to own,  
To say the Picture's like, though faintly drawn.  
If it be bigger made, than others drew;  
It is that I grieve more than others do.  
And reason good; since what I have of Fame,  
Is only that which from his Friendship came.  
Since than you heir his Goodness well as Lands;  
I humbly claim my Portion from your hands.   

The Old-English GENTLEMAN. 1665.  
An Elegiac Poem upon the truly honourable Sir Gervas' Clifton, of Clifton, Knight and Baronet.  

§ 1.  

IMagine me one tossed on shore,  
Overwhelmed in tides of Grief before;  
Come to myself, I now must him deplore.   

Men well nigh drowned cannot invent  
One word, whilst any Water's penned:  
So Grief is silent, until Tears have vent.   

But now my Sorrow is wept dry,  
And I long since did tilt each Eye;  
Tears from my Pen must now that want supply.   

Yet if I every tear should tell,  
They would into an Ocean swell;  
These are but those that in my Standish fell.   

But now these Tides their Banks must break,  
Lest standing too long still they make  
The clear-quick Streams of Helicon a Lake.   

Grief shows then best when freshly wept:  
Roses loaf scent, if too much steeped;  
And Manna mouldy grows if too long kept.   

Silent I was when I did come  
T'attend the Sermon o'er his Tomb:  
When Zion speaks, Parnassus should be dumb.   

Though Poets hence are noblest crowned;  
They are, alas! too seldom found  
To trace their Measures out in holy ground.   

Yet when in Anthems, their desires  
Are tuned to th' key of Angel-Quires;  
Such Breathe may augment Celestial Fires.   

'Tis well if Paphian Laurels may  
Presume to sweep the dust away,  
Fell from the Prophet's feet that solemn day.   

Especially my fading Bays;  
Too often withered by the Rays  
O'th' Cyprian Star, whereon young Dotards gaze.   

Yet if my Muse can now indite  
Any thing, that comes near the right;  
Blessed Clifton! 'tis become thy Proselyte.    

§ 2.  

'Tis good to treat of Subjects fit:  
An Atheist once of Heaven writ,  
And Heaven was pleased to convert his Wit.   

But what can Wit or Verses do  
To his Advance? alas! 'tis true,  
They may contract his greatness to our view.   

Phoebus needs none but his own Light;  
Prospectives make not him more bright,  
But only serve to aid our purblind Sight.   

From Rome's Republic Crowns did come;  
But Verse can give a nobler doom;  
Yet he crowns Verse; as Caesar crowned Rome.   

Poet's shall make his Name to bear  
Live-Lawrels, and inhabit there:  
As Nightingales on Orpheus' Sepulchre.   

Yet they who can themselves retrieve  
Fro' th' Grave, and Life to others give;  
Will gladly court his Shadow there to live.    

§. 3.  

'Tis said, the Portraiture of Wit  
Exceeds the Life, and is then fit,  
When 'tis not so like us as we like it.   

But such vain Rules we now must shun;  
Hyperboles are here outdone,  
As much as Candles are outshined by th' Sun.   

A genuine Beauty suits each dre●●;  
Bad faces, to their shame, confess  
All Art but paints 'em into Ugliness.   

Great men's Defects are oft supplied  
By Verse, hence Crimes derive their Pride:  
Thus Caesar's Garlands did his Baldness hide.   

But no more blame falls to our share,  
Than to those Chambermaids, whose care  
But washes Faces that before were fair.   

If Truth should never be expressed  
But by those who can do it best;  
She might go naked still, or thinly dressed.   

At Coronations 'twere a thing  
Most strange, if only great Bells ring;  
Or none but Courtiers cried, God save the King.   

From low Stops highest Notes are raised;  
By poor men's prayers none are disgraced:  
Caesar did boast when in a Cottage praised.   

All Wit is here by Grief outdone;  
And Brains dissolved, to Tears do run;  
Yet Tears distilled thus may prove Helicon.   

Let never any Poets more,  
The help of other Streams implore;  
Here is sufficient to increase their store.   

May they amend what I have done;  
By my Defects their helps are shown:  
Thus Hones set Edges, though themselves have none.    

§. 4.  

Variety of choice is such  
A puzzle, few know how to touch;  
So here too little is, because too much.   

Overgreat store distracts a mind;  
Excess of light may strike one blind;  
Friends make us poor, by being over-kind.   

Lately when justice, Learning, failed,  
Honour and Lay'lty were assailed;  
By him alone those Virtues all were bailed.   

Since dead, let's keep his Name alive;  
That if hereafter Hell should strive  
To murder Virtue, It might hence revive.   

Clifton! a name too big for Verse;  
Fit only to describe his Hearse;  
Pens cannot, Trumpets should the Name rehearse.   

So ancient! some learned men afford  
This observation on record,—  
It's likely to have been the firstmade word.   

Nor at its rising hath it done  
Like to the far less glorious Sun,  
Rise by degrees, its very Morn was Noon.   

Tho i'th' first age It had that height;  
I' th' last It does remain so bright,  
As (though reversed) its Morning were at Night.   

The reason is, It never shrouds  
Its beams with any low-born Clouds;  
This Family is only Light in crowds.   

Strange! not to find one low desire!  
A noble Climax! still climb higher!  
The generous flame ne'er out! right Vestal Fire!   

Heroes are by such Matches found:  
When heavenly Dew falls on right ground,  
Roses and Lilies in great store abound.   

Unequal mixtures courser are:  
Velvets appear more rich and fair  
Than glittering Stuffs made up of Silk and Hair.   

Those Offsprings that are old and good,  
Lose lustre, joined with common blood:  
The silver stream run out, nought's left but Mud.   

Hence 'tis each Age they fall more low;  
Their houses less and lesser Grow:  
Like those of Gothland that are built of Snow.   

The Sun has Mists, the Moon her blots,  
Venus her Moal, the Ermine Spots;  
Th' Apostles judas had, and England Scots.   

This than must be a wondrous sight;  
Strange Day! that never knew a Night;  
A miracle! no Shade attends this Light!   

Only some busy Pates find one; 
His Eldest Son, a most hopeful Gentleman. though miserable in his after Years.   
And that because too like the Sun;  
For our late Phoebus had his Phaeton.   

Yet this Remark falls to his share,  
His Morning did most bright appear;  
Heaven grant his Evening prove but half so fair.   

But here's some comfort in the Close;  
He that had much might sometimes lose:  
Tho one Star fell, yet he had many rose.   

Amongst which his Phospher does appear:  
Bright Star! mount now thy Father's Carr;  
And may thy Beams (like his) shine long and far.   

See with what twisted Rays he shines! 
Sir Clifford Clifton.   
What Heroes may spring from those Loins  
Where noble Clifford's blood with Clifton joins?    

§. 5.  

But let us now again adjourn  
The Court of our Requests; and turn  
Our Thoughts once more to the great Father's Urn.   

An Urn! which precious stuff does line;  
Whose Lustre does quite through shine;  
And hereby shows the Relics are divine.   

Could Rome but of him (as hers) vaunt,  
I'th' Calendar she would him paint,  
And turn a Saint already to a Saint.   

But he does no such Varnish need;  
Himself did his true Glory breed,  
And on its proper Substances can feed.   

Cato the period was, and Pride  
Of ancient Rome; nor is't denied  
But that Old England too with Clifton died.   

The Hospitality of old  
(Which gave that Age the name of Gold)  
He did revive, and afterwards uphold.   

The noble Pyles those times did rear,  
Inviting Landmarks did appear,  
And gave free Welcome to each Passenger.   

Not like those, which our poor-men call  
(And justly too) Mock-beggar-Hall;  
Where Rats and Mice do into Famine fall.   

Their Prospects yield a false delight:  
Thus Nauplius, with deceitful Light,  
The Grecians did to barren Rocks invite.   

But Clifton gained no such Report;  
By th' entertainment and resort,  
It ought in Justice to be called a Court.   

Nor did his vast Revenues rise  
From Racking, worst of Tyrannies;  
His Farms were Portions, and his Rents a Prize.   

He would not such hard Penn'worths let,  
Like th' Tyrant Russee, who in a Pet  
Took Tribute from his Subjects Rest and Sweat.   

His Charity aimed high, and true;  
Not like some Great ones in our view;  
He made as many, as they did undo.   

To that proud Zeal he ne'er did fall,  
Alms Houses build in sight of all;  
For every poor man was his Hospital.   

Tho still his Charity aimed high:  
Like Moses bush, that sacred Fire  
Did not consume itself, nor yet expire.   

All's Neighbours he did love so well;  
Although a Cedar, Truth must tell,  
His drops ne'er hurt the Shrubs on which they fell.   

Amongst those Days, whose nipping power  
Did almost blast each hopeful Flower,  
And verdant Tree, his Laurels scorned to lour.   

Base Actions he did so defy, 
Having lost in the late Wars 80 thousand l. at least.   
He lost what would an Earldom buy,  
Rather than sell one Drachm of Loyalty.   

Let Fortune all her Ills invent;  
Like true Elixir, his Intent  
Improvement did receive from each Event.   

Diamonds by darkness show their light;  
Oppressed like Laurels, he's more strait;  
A well-built-Arch is stronger by its weight.   

Tho Vapours clouded Britain's Sky,  
He, like Pythagoras' Bird, did fly  
Above those Clouds, and all their Storms defy.   

For all these Clouds he scorned to yield;  
But still remained like his rich Shield;  
A Lion argent, in a Sable Field.    

§ 6.  

After Great Britain had mourned  
Twelve years, her Sorrows were adjourned;  
Her Joys again with glorious Charles returned.   

When Clifton did attend his Train,  
How he rejoiced, to find again  
The ancient Glories of his Grandsire's Reign?   

Thus Nestor's Bliss he did enjoy;  
In peace his last days to employ,  
After the tedious bloody Wars of Troy.    

§ 7.  

But still his Warfare is not done;  
There's one Fight more he cannot shun;  
None truly crowned until that Battle's won.   

This was, 
He died of the Torments of the Stone.  alas! his sharpest fight;  
His Pains were a deplored sight;  
But most to us, placed in the worse light.   

Th' Egyptians only Darkness ' spied  
I'th' Cloud, that was the Hebrews guide;  
'Twas so to them, Light on the other side.   

Immunity's to none allowed:  
Iris, in her gay Colours proud,  
Is made betwixt the Rainbow and a Cloud.   

In's last Mile he was forced to stay  
Turmoiled with pains: and Churchmen say  
The Road to Paradise is rugged way.   

Foes crown us who are hardly bet;  
And Dangers noblest Conquests get:  
For Laurels flourish most when steeped in Sweat.   

Clouds could not smother all his Beams;  
Most patient in his sad Extremes:  
The martyred Saints thus smiled amidst their flames.   

He praying paid the Debt he owed;  
His last Breath, whence he had it, showed;  
His Ashes, like to those of Incense, glowed.   

And now, poor Muse, close up those Eyes  
Whence all thy Light and Hopes did rise:  
The Sap being ta'en away, thy Laurel dies.     

The POET on Foot. 1665.  
To Mr. S.  
THO late, I come at last, this stay of mine  
Carries no more of Rudeness than Design;  
For well I know the common Custom's such,  
That looked-for Guests find always cheer too much.  
Which my weak Stomach never could digest;  
Since too much Expectation daunts a Guest.  
But this, Sir, was not all my Muse kept home,  
Constrained by fate, else she had sooner come.  
She wants a Steed; and she has got the pride  
Of wanton Girls, that would on Cockhorse ride:  
But the strange- Horse-disease, that raged with us,  
Amongst some others, caught my Pegasus.  
But though he did escape; He yet does lack  
The only Medicine, a Drench of Sack:  
Which is such costly feeding this hard year,  
Our Hackneys will be, than ourselves, more bare;  
I mean us Poets: For those who are able  
Keep their jades lean i' th' Study, fat i' th' Stable.  
I loitered thus hoping at Lenton-fair,  
Amongst our Gallants, I might borrow there.  
Alas, in vain! unless I would shift thus,  
Making a Hobby-Horse my Pegasus.   

The PICKPOCKET. 1655.  
To my good friend Mr. R. Mason. raptim.  
IF Clients wants, or follies grant thee pause;  
Or Sack, which is more powerful than Laws;  
Please to unbend a while; lay Ploidon down,  
And Cook, the two worst pick-pockets i' th' Town.  
They rob with privilege, and powerful hands;  
When the poor Cutpurse close, and trembling stands.  
And yet their malice is at them displeased:  
Thus Alexander a less Pirate seized.  
The Law attaches Felons when it pleases:  
The Plague so routs the Pox, and small diseases,  
Yet we must seek its help; for 'tis well known,  
Moll Cutpurse sought to help folks to their own.  
Leave then this Scandal, and repair to me;  
Who, though half drunk, thirst for thy Company.  
Here's Sack, if Noy (the quickest of your Tribe)  
Had supped, he would have ta'en before a bribe.  
Such as will make thee eloquent as Finch;  
And yet not eek thy empiric with a Clinch.  
Each drop of which a Ruby will create,  
Enriching Noses at the Indian rate.  
Haste then, or we shall be so rich and great,  
We shall disdain, what now we do entreat.   

The MISTAKE. 1665.  
Upon drinking a Glass of Beer to C. J. B. for one of Sack. raptim.  
PArdon, great Bacchus, I repent!  
The Error has its punishment:  
Poor Travellers are cheated so,  
That come where Sodom Apples grow.  
This change of mine has his disgrace,  
Who did, for juno, Clouds embrace.  
Nor is the distance lesser here;  
Immortal Sack, and Mortal Beer!  
So did the crazed Hebrew fail,  
Deserting God, to go to Baal.  
Your Spanish Donna has a touch  
More charming than the thick-skinned Dutch.  
One thus a Beauty thought to wed,  
But got a Gipsy to his Bed:  
Beer has that tanned and yellow hue,  
Like hers that did the Liquor brew.  
When Sack's Complexion is refined;  
As though it were with Sunbeams lined.   

The DISGUISE. 1665.  
Upon Mr. Ger. Lee, imputing a scandalous Paper to me, and subscribing his Name covertly within a Circle of inverted Letters.  
RAther than suffer this, my injured Muse!  
Mount now, and spur thy sku-bald Pegasus;  
And turn Apparitor. Here's bastard Wit  
Laid at thy Door, if thou wilt Father it.  
Observe the Castling well! What, no Walleye,  
Mare-face, or Mark, to know the Stallion by?  
Look there at lowest end a Buttock-brand;  
A Transcript from that in the Father's hand.  
His shrivelled Name (fit for a larger Stage)  
Shows like to Bajazet within his Cage;  
His envious-black-mouthed Verses make it said  
A Knot of Snakes, torn from Erinnis' head.  
A peevish Fiend within a Circle shut;  
Homer's fond Fables rammed into a Nut;  
A Knave in Fetters; Gotham in a Map;  
A crafty Fox caught justly in a Trap.  
Thy Name, methinks, peeps forth, and seems to be  
(As th' Owner ought) upon a Pillory.  
Justice triumphant is; nor can it choose,  
When such a Hangman's catched in his own Noose.   

The MERCHANT. 1655.  
Upon the Death of my Br. Mr. S. S. in the Canaries.  
WHO knows his Fate, or where he shall expire?  
'Tis comfort though, that Heaven is no where nigh'r  
Than where we die. The Grave's an humble rise,  
From whence we take our leap into the Skies.  
A true Enlargement Death for all prepares;  
Takes cares from Youngmen, and Old-men from cares.  
Let us not then his loss of hopes deplore;  
Those who have full Enjoyments, hope no more.  
Hope is the Balm of Life, and Balm is found  
In vain, when we no more can have a Wound.  
Nor could long Life have much advanced his Story;  
They have gained full enough who have gained Glory.  
His virtuous Inclinations claim that State;  
Such early hopes attract the smiles of Fate,  
Nor did he vainly suck in foreign Air,  
Since half the World now claims in him a share.  
A Life to him his loved Europe gave;  
And afric did bestow on him a Grave.  
Those Isles to him did fortunate appear;  
And he gained well who purchased Heaven there.   

The CAVALIER. 1665.  
An Elegy upon Capt. Ben Marshal's Death.  

O'ER whelmed in Night, and Grief I sit;  
For Verse, or Humour most unfit:  
Aurora's Mother both of joy, and Wit.   

By day, the Chanters of the Spring  
Warble, and keep time with the Wing;  
But yet by Night the Nightingale does sing.   

'Tis midnight now, and all at rest;  
Except the sorrows in my breast;  
Which are so far from sleep, they yet are dressed.   

For Verse is Grief's most Solemn dress;  
Verse, more than tears, can grief express;  
Such drops their lasting fountains must confess.   

For tears (though from a double Rill)  
Are sometimes dry, the Brain springs still;  
It is the Conduit, and its Pipe the Quill.   

Let none say Verse may lessen Grief:  
David (although the Poet's Chief)  
His tears fro' th' Muse's fountain got relief.   

No artifice is needful here  
(Like Herod's) to exact a tear; 
Who ordered all his Nobles after his Death to be murdered so that it might be attended with general sorrow.   
His loss its selves a general Massacre.   

He such true Friendship did possess,  
As might its wasting stock increase,  
And furnish this our jarring World with Peace.   

Such a Companion all would crave,  
Or such to be, or such to have;  
Nay we for him did Wine, Plays, Women, wave.   

To prove his Inclinations right; 
He went to assist the King about sixteen Years old.   
His Loyalty was his delight;  
For though a Boy, he left his Play to fight.   

Those Wounds, which for the King he met,  
Spoke glorious Toils; for Blood's the Sweat  
Of Honour, the best Scarlet Soldiers get.   

Tho Fortune (to maintain her spite)  
Did aid the Wrong against the Right;  
He courage showed in Sufferings, as in Fight.   

In Persecution he had share;  
Yet Patience did that smart repair:  
So Thunder troubles, and yet clears the Air.   

As in those days he scorned to bow  
To any Tyrant's threatening Brow;  
So he disdained as base a crouching now.   

For though his Worth could not be heard,  
He knew it was its own reward;  
Since Traitors were preferred, he favours feared.   

It would but our devotion blame,  
Alone the inward Rites to name,  
And quite neglect the stately Temples frame.   

Such was his Body, straight and high;  
And then the Crystals of each Eye  
Did well reflect the beauties of his Sky.   

His Body's strength, like to his Mind;  
That we despair in one to find  
Their equal, till at last again they're joined.   

Fruits ripest sooner suffer wrong;  
This made him die, alas, too young:  
'Tis hard to run so fast, and travel long.   

That conqueror Death (to name him right)  
Durst not trust here to his own might;  
But cowardly avoided open Fight.   

HE attacked him like a wily Foe;  
Wasted his strength without a blow;  
And kept aloof till sure to find it so.   

Yet still mistrustful to prevail,  
With all his force did him assail;  
Yet till the last his Heart did never fail.   

Thus Martial Troy (that Gods did build)  
Defended by the sacred Shield;  
When all was lost, the Temple then did yield.    

His EPITAPH.  
TRue Fame, from Envy, takes no wrong;  
Where Merit is, Stones find a Tongue.  
And this declares— Here lies enclosed  
A Body, was so well composed  
For strength, and beauty; none could find  
An equal to it, but his Mind.  
Heaven has his Soul, the World his Fame;  
We only can his Body claim.  
Death (that great Chemist) has refined  
The Oar, and left the Dross behind.   

The GOSSIPS. 1666.  
To Sir Clifford Clifton, for a Buck against a christening.  

MY fate is, when I write to you,  
To own old favours, or beg new.  
Not strange with Poets; since an Alms  
And Thanks, make up the Book of Psalms.  
'Tis lawful, when, like th' Alms-house wont,  
The Benefactor's shown i'th' Front.  
My wants need no more Vouchers take  
Then that I Verse, and Children make.  
Both got in an odd itching Vein;  
Expensive to the Purse, and Brain.  
Yet of the two Children are most;  
With labour born, brought up with cost.  
Especially since Gossips now  
Eat more at Christen, than bestow.  
Formerly when they used to troul  
Gilt Bowls of Sack, they gave the Bowl;  
Two Spoons at least; an use ill kept;  
'Tis well now if our own be left.   

Since Friends are scarce, and Neighbours many,  
Who will lend mouths, but not a penny;  
I must (since poor, as almost may be)  
Thyestes like, cook up a Baby.  
Or if you grant not a supply,  
Must even provide a Crisome Py,  
It will be tenderer than Jelly,  
So long parboiled in Mother's Belly.   

Venus and Mars Conspirers be,  
And frowned on my Nativity.  
My Fortunes, first by War o'rpow'rd,  
And now, alas, by Love devoured.  
Children will rob what Roundheads left;  
Yet we make blessings of the theft.  
The gain's soon told, if we compare  
Our joy with grief, our hope with care.  
Children grow up as we decay,  
Their structures on our Graves they lay.  
And Christning-Feasts are but a Toll  
Exacted, or an earlier Dole.  
A Font brings far the heavier doom  
To a poor Father, than a Tomb.  
We're brought to th' Grave with Solemn state,  
Where Friends and Mourners kindly wait:  
Worms on our Corpses only thrive;  
But Guests devour us here alive.  
To you the Power, Sir, only falls  
To save me from these Cannibals.  
A Buck, you know, oft stops the fury  
Both of an hungry judge and Iury.  
Please to bestow one; He shall run  
In four Parks then, instead of one.  
we'll follow th' Chase so, that he shall  
Be forced to leave the Crusted Wall;  
Till to the inmost Copse he skips,  
Paled round with Teeth, and hedged with Lips.  
There Blown, and hot we will design,  
To make him plunge in Ponds of Wine.  
Then, Sir, your health begun shall be,  
As Crown to the Solemnity.  
And he who dares that health disown,  
Shall have the Horns, and not the Crown.    

The PARTHIAN ARCHER. 1666.  
Upon a Spanish Needle run into a Lady's Breech.  

WELL hit, small Don! I'll now protest  
That one-eyed Marks-men aim the best.  
Thy piercing Charge none can withstand,  
When guided by a lady's hand.  
S'attractive, and so fair a Mark,  
A man might hit, though in the dark.  
Such a white pair of Butts even would  
Make all men shoot, like Robin Hood;  
Whose steady aim such credit got,  
It never missed to cleave the Mott.  
All would with David's Slingers dare,  
And aim their stones to hit the Hair.  
Sharp Spanish Pike! that can prevail  
To wound her through the double Mail  
Of Coats and Smock! when Cupid's Cannon  
(Mounted on wheels that it does stand on)  
Thunders in vain on that design,  
And's forced at last to undermine.   

Sure Cupid, thirsting for such drink,  
Approached so near the Fountain's brink;  
And pierced that Butt whence he did know  
Rich Nectar, turned up there, would flow.  
The waving Needle here does fix,  
And steady against her North-star sticks.  
Hence that Magnetic power does come;  
No Loadstone to a Lady's Bum.    

The CANARY ISLANDS. 1666.  
To my dearly beloved Brother, Mr. William Shipman, Merchant there.  

COme Bacchus, God of Poetry, by right;  
Lend me thine influence, whilst now I write.  
Thy Sackbut can into my breast inspire  
More active heat, than can Apollo's Lyre.  
He's an Usurper; and his power a crack,  
If we his Helicon compare with Sack.  
Lock up that Nectar but a year or two,  
And see what all his Hippocrene can do.  
That Trough of Pegasus! a precious grace  
To vaunt thus of an Hackney's wat'ring-place!  
Not the least spark of Wit it can inspire,  
Without assistance both of Malt and Fire.  
When Heat within the lusty Grape does grow,  
'Tis to its self Malt, Heat, and Water too.  
A Pipe of Sack (which is great Bacchus' Throne)  
Is both Parnassus and a Helicon.  
juno herself and Venus too are dull,  
If Hebe do not fill their Glasses full.  
New Vigour to their Eyes it does afford;  
Mars swears it whets his Courage and his Sword.  
The Spirits of jove himself are dull as Led,  
Without this Nectar filled by Ganymede;  
He's one of Bacchus' Drawers. Sack creates  
Life in those Gods that do direct our Fates.  
See the Injustice then of lying Fame!  
Bacchus deserves, Apollo gets the Name!  
Thus Princes in their Wars fill up the Story,  
When their brave Generals deserve the Glory.   

Blessed Soil! that does distil so rare a juice,  
More precious far than Canaan did produce.  
The Milk and Honey which did thence proceed,  
Made only nauseous Buttermilk and Mead.  
Whose Influence more of Phlegm than Blood did breed,  
Dispersing Weakness through the jewish Seed.  
Made them desist and give their conquest o'er,  
Truckling to those they trampled on before:  
When as the haughty Spaniard did decline  
The Universal Monarchy, till Wine  
Infused that lofty Spirit in his Veins;  
And more by that then by his Sword he reigns.  
Bold Britain does her Trophies here decline,  
As never conquered but by Spanish Wine.  
Their mighty Navy, though she forced to wrack,  
Yet falls beneath the Puissance of Sack.  
Had Sack been the Commodity, 
We were worsted at Rheezes by France, but came most gloriously off at Tercera against Spain.  the Day  
Had lucky been at ‖ Rheez, as Tercera.  
French-Wines work small efforts; as may be known  
By th' Spirits, which in gallic veins are shown.  
Their Wines and Spirits both alike are vain;  
Soon kindled, and as soon pissed out again.   

Wonder then, that we fall not out with Spain  
On purpose, those rich Islands to obtain!  
Our English youth would all its valour try,  
In one six months to win, and drink 'em dry.  
we'd rig out such a Fleet that all the Ground  
Should scarce sufficient be for Ballast found:  
And that high Peek there should the honour gain,  
To be Mainmast i' th' Royal Sovereign.  
The Rhyming Tribe would rally all its store,  
And strive to charm the Dolphins to the Shore,  
Where on their scaly Saddles they might sit,  
Serving as Trumpets to th' Canary Fleet.  
Whose echoing blasts, like those of Flame, would do;  
Incite their courages, and crown 'em too.  
What rich Encouragements might hence needs flow;  
When they at once Laurels, and Life bestow?  
Their share should then be double, as their pains;  
Because their private, would be public gains.  
For Sack is only proper for the use  
Of Poets, who can best preserve the juice.  
Which when distilled by active heats o' th' brain,  
Is all th' Elixir that our Chemists mean.  
Churchmen and Poets might increase their light;  
Since Psalms and Plays, both may be bettered by 't.  
None that could get a Boat would stay behind;  
Our very breaths would serve us for a Wind.  
Nay rather than be absent on this Quarrel,  
There's some would venture over in a Barrel;  
Despising Tempests, and the fears of Wrack,  
With very hopes of filling it with Sack.  
Cowards would gladly bleed a Quart in fight,  
To drink a Quart of dearer Sack at night.  
And this does prove Bacchus the God of War;  
Since he alone can make a Dutchman dare.   

If you would kill these Boars, let 'em not root  
Within a Vineyard, and you'll surely do't.  
Keep 'em from Brandy, and from other Wine,  
These Holland Boars are worse than other Swine.  
O, for some Devilish Swineherd, to convey  
This Herd, like th' Gadarenes, into the Sea!  
But this conclusion is not lately found;  
Like th' Devil's Darlings, they will not be drowned:  
Except by one attempt, which cannot fail;  
When we get Sack, let's send 'em all our Ale.  
Which soon its wonderful Effects will show,  
And drown them, which the Ocean cannot do.  
Hail, mighty Bacchus! thou hast won the Field;  
Mars and Apollo both are forced to yield.  
Claim then the Empire due to thy deserts;  
And henceforth reign thou God of Arms and Arts.    

The Old MOURNER. 1667.  
To Sir J. D. Upon an Old Mourning Suit.  

WHAT am I like now? do not spare;  
A Vicar preached threadbare;  
Or younger Brother left to th' Heir.   

Worth waits not always upon store;  
Despise not then the poor;  
Mock not a Cripple for his Sore.   

Silk cannot make each Wearer fine;  
Nor does Gold only shine:  
Tissue wears out, unless you line.   

I flourished once (I speak aloud)  
As you, be ne'er so proud:  
Phoebus himself may meet a Cloud.   

Will Mourning, think you, fresh appear  
After 'tis worn a year?  
You may as well expect a tear.   

Yet I could mourn six twelve months more,  
Upon a Lawful Score;  
And I have Friends, I hope, in store.   

My Black-Coat speckt you call white Ink;  
Or tears o' th' Tankard think;  
Why Grief is thirsty, and must drink.   

Grief's a Goodfellow, as appears;  
For he will tipple tears;  
Your thirsty Mourner merits Jeers,   

True Grief will make one lean appear;  
Conceit each third that's bare  
A Rib, by Grief consumed so near.   

Each mournful Hole that you espy  
Imagine then an Eye  
Wept out, and that's more than wept dry.   

My peeping Shirt, through every Chink,  
Persuades me much to think  
I'm like this Paper, blurred with Ink.    

GRATITUDE. 1667.  
Some grateful Acknowledgements to that most excellent Poet, Mr. A. C.  

HEnceforth, my Muse, more boldly claim the Bays,  
Ennobled now by Cowley's generous Praise.  
Apollo here has silvered o'er thy shades:  
Thus Lords can Ladies make of Chambermaids.  
Thou art a royal Miss, and now must get  
No lesser Honour than a Coronet.  
Nay, richer Blessings Cowley's Praises share;  
Now thou'lt be thought both virtuous and fair.  
Such plenteous Contributions to the Poor,  
Proclaim his Soul as large as is his store.  
The Sun is no less glorious in his Blaze,  
Although he gilled the lower World with Rays.  
His Beams thou must reflect, and grateful prove,  
And nourish in thy Breast his kindling Love.  
'Twill bring effects worthy his virtual Powers,  
Making thee pregnant both in Fruits and Flowers.  
For that which blossoms not with Cowley's Praise,  
Is but a sapless branch of withered Bays,  
Warmed vainly by Apollo's quickening Rays.  
Without his Light, vain are the quickest Eyes;  
His influence, even from Dust, makes Infects rise.  
Such mighty Sums 'tis easi'r to repay  
When they're not lent, but freely given away.  
Like heavenly Blessings upon thee bestowed,  
To make thee thankful and thy Works more good.   

Hail God of Wit! England's Apollo, hail!  
Thou art no Offspring of an idle Tale,  
Like Homer's Deity. But since that fame  
All Ages gave him, is thy proper claim;  
Accept the Veneration and the Name.  
Fulfilled in thee is what the Ancients feign,  
And Pallas is the issue of thy Brain,  
As th' Muses of thy Wit: when safely laid,  
Of thy first-sheets their swathing clothes were made.  
Others there are would thy fair Offspring claim;  
Theirs (by their want of heed) o'relaid or lame.  
But when it comes to Trial they resign;  
Justice decrees the Living Child for thine.   

The Muse's Empire bears so great a Name,  
Thou hast two Rivals in thy Lady-Fame;  
Waller and Donne. You are the only three  
Who justly can pretend that Monarchy.  
Donne's Judgement, Fancy, Humour, and his Wit,  
Strong, searching, happy, and before ne'er hit,  
Gives him a fair pretence to climb the Throne;  
But Waller rather stops than plucks him down.  
Rich he appears; his courtly Vesture graced  
With golden Similes all over laced.  
But Cowley (like the Infant of the Sun)  
Out-glitters Waller, and even dazzles Donne.  
Both of 'em, to Augustus, leave the Field;  
Like Lepidus and Anthony, they yield.  
He triumphs! their triumv'racy of Rays  
Unite in Cowley and compound his blaze.    

Poetical POVERTY. 1667.  
To C.M.D.  
POverty, I, like Small Drink, hate;  
Yet 'tis, alas! the Poet's Fate.  
And Want is such a stingey Crime,  
It has no good excuse but Rhyme.  
Yet here some comfort is expressed,  
Poor, though we be, the Poor are blest.  
A favour granted by the Church,  
To leave poor Poets in the lurch.  
But they revenge this want of Alms,  
By making her no better Psalms.  
Who would make others sweetly chant,  
And sigh themselves away for want?  
As Poet's shrivelled Guts should be  
Lute-strings for others Melody;  
Thus Nightingales haste on their death,  
By lavishing their sweet-tuned Breath.  
Those who rhyme on, and nothing get,  
Ink may be called their mortal Sweat.  
And every Copy that's so writ,  
May be esteemed their Winding-sheet.  
Which makes me to this Thought assent,  
Poets did Paper first invent;  
Whose prompting Wants did first begin  
Such Rags to lap his Verses in.   

The Churching-FEAST. 1667.  
To Sir Clifford Clifton, for a Fat do.  

THOUGH I kiss without Wit or Fear,  
And get two Children in a year,  
What is that to your harmless Deer?   

Must one die for each Brat of mine,  
As though my Codpiece were a Shrine?  
Or Priapus again divine?   

Such Bounty if you do not shun  
It will dis-park your Hodsack soon;  
For each Buck is by me outdone.   

If still we both so forward be,  
You'll find it a Necessity  
To geld your Gifts as well as me.   

If some do not for me this Knack,  
I, like the Mountebank, may crack,  
How that my leaping breaks my Back.   

Let no man mock at what is writ;  
To show my Poverty is fit;  
For Vows a special sign of Wit.   

Nor do these my Pretences cheat,  
But their good Fortunes seek to get,  
Who Ballads sing at Doors for Meat.   

Then I may boast Apollo's Skill,  
If now a fat Do I can kill  
With th' feathered Arrow of my Quill.   

To Orpheus' Fame I'll then aspire,  
If one dance now to my desire,  
Charmed by the twanging of my Lyre.    

A Midnight's RHAPSODY. 1668.  
Upon my dear W. at the point of Death.  

DArk time, alas! when both the light  
Of Heaven, and my sad Soul, have ta'en their flight,  
And both entombed in deepest night!   

Dejected Muse! how canst thou think  
To look or write, when th' Eyes of Heaven do wink,  
And Paper looks itself like Ink?   

Lord! but increase my inward Sight;  
Thou who from Chaos didst create a Light;  
One Smile from thee can gild my Night.   

A Night! that foils the brightest Ray  
O' th' Moon, and clouds the clearest Beam of Day;  
Yet will thy smallest Glance obey.   

Behold the courteous Queen of Night  
Is pleased to lend a Ray, by whose kind light,  
Although wept blind, I now can write.   

Hark how her pretty small ones cry!  
And who can doubt that Heaven will deny  
Those Tears would Marbles mollify?   

My Prayer, methinks, more swiftly flies,  
Born on the Pinnions of their purer Cries;  
Which court at once, and scale the Skies.   

Sleep then, sad Eyes; do not despair  
When next you open to find th' effects of Prayer;  
For Heaven was hers, she Heaven's care.   

Awake again! this sadly shows  
That falling Drops not always bring Repose;  
Nor will Streams let my Floodgates close.   

My Grief flows with a constant Tide,  
Which does the Ocean's shallow Ebbs deride,  
And swelled does o'er my Eye-banks glide.   

Not yet wept dry! my Tears increase!  
After such Showers methinks this Rain should cease;  
Yet Griefs, like Heat, new Vapours raise.   

mixed with my Ink let my Tears run;  
And let thy holy Spirit move thereon,  
To make a sacred Helicon.   

Which, like to jordan then shall be,  
And cleanse the stains of injured Poetry,  
Too long defiled with Leprosy.   

'Tis fit alone to sing thy praise,  
Thou who canst only give immortal Bays,  
And us above our Fancies raise.    

HOPE RUINED. 1668.  
Upon the Death of the Right Honourable the Lady Mary Manors, youngest Daughter to the Noble House of Rutland.  
SO long I stayed (in vain, alas!) to try  
If other Tributes than those from the Eye,  
Would have been offered at her Virgin-Shrine;  
But must, it seems, begin with this of mine.  
Let others Marble give her Tomb to grace;  
It will my Glory be to pave the place.  
Tho their bright Torches on her Hearse must shine;  
'Tis Honour that this twinkling Lamp of mine  
Did glimmer first: so does Aurora run,  
As Usher to the Lord of Wit, the Sun.  
When Church doors are shut up, true Prayers may please,  
Though they be offered up in Cottages.  
But yet, methinks, 'tis odd to cherish Woes;  
Verse quickens Grief that is but flat in Prose.  
Ingenious Lines but too much deck an Hearse,  
And briny Tears pickle up Grief in Verse.  
Yet 'tis our Fate here; who like Merchants lose  
Our Treasures first, and then proclaim our Woes.  
Her Actions were Examples; so that still  
Those Ladies that don't practise her do ill.  
She did excel the strictest Cloister'd Saint;  
Affected Purity is worse than Paint.  
And now she's gone, if Poets will declare,  
And tell what Beauties other Ladies are,  
They must get Praises from her parts, and tell  
These Coral Lips, almost like hers, do swell;  
Those Eyes resemble hers, that Lady's face  
Has her sweet Features, this her winning Grace.  
Each piece of hers makes perfect and complete:  
Thus a King's Ruins make ten thousand great.  
So when the Sun is set, the Queen of Night  
Borrows her shining Glory from his Light.  
Sad Fate! thus when a Rosetree dies at foot,  
A crowd of Beauties perish with the Root.  
Let none then blame our Grief; 'tis not for one,  
But for the Ruins of a Million.   

The Early SPRING. 1669.  
Upon the immature Death of my honoured Friend Theophilus Parkyns, Esq.  

TO lay this precious Dust, which the rough hours  
Of March did cause, April now pours  
Itself away in Showers:  
Such Drops produce a Spring,  
And thus enable us to bring  
These flowers, alas! which on his Hearse we fling.   

The Muse's Gardens cannot yield supplies;  
If we his worth should justly prise,  
Eden would scarce suffice:  
Nor could Arabia yield  
From out her parched and spicy Field,  
Odours and Gums enough his Pile to build.   

Although this Fun'ral-charge may prove too deep  
For any Poet's brains to keep;  
Yet we, alas, can weep!  
This Deluge of our Eyes  
May help to make his Coffin rise,  
Like Noah's Ark, and raise it to the Skies.   

When we have wept all this, we may have fears,  
The Briny Ocean of our tears  
Not half enough appears:  
For judge by what we loft,  
(Out Country's nay our Nation's boast)  
If tears, or words can give sufficient cost.   

How beautiful each look, each line of's Face?  
Each limb, each motion had a grace;  
Nature in him did place  
What either Sex thinks rare;  
Tall, and yet lovely; strong yet fair;  
Venus and Mars in him compounded were.   

Tho Nature to his Body was so kind;  
Yet not content, he sought to find  
The beauties of the Mind,  
At all perfections vies;  
Charming his Looks as Lady's Eyes;  
Bold as young Heroes, as old Doctors, wise.   

His powerful Wit had such an Empire gained;  
It every Subject could command,  
And all its Foes withstand.  
Fro' th' Schools it first did come;  
As conquering Caesar did from Rome,  
Till strong enough to rule its native home.   

He who had gone so far, might well have stayed;  
But like a man that thrives o'th' Trade,  
He further progress made:  
Like Rich men he sought more;  
Tho he had treasures heaped in store,  
Yet free from pride, he thought himself but poor.   

Death did, alas, all these fair hopes betray;  
As Blossoms in a Frosty day,  
Drop from a Tree in May.  
His Autumn was not slow;  
And yet surprised by Winter so,  
His fruit lies buried now in Sheets of Snow.   

Tho whilst alive we scarcely saw him right;  
His worth will now come more in sight:  
As Stars shine most by night.  
Why then should foolish I,  
To raise his fame thus vainly try,  
When things eternal can themselves supply?    

The FRIEND. 1669.  
Epitaph upon Roger Waldron, Esquire.  

REader, what pale cold Guest  
Under this speaking Stone does rest,  
Is by these faithful lines expressed.   

One of an ancient Name,  
Who left as full and clear a fame  
To's Children, as fro's Grandsires came.   

Nature to him did lend  
A Heart, that knew no other end,  
But how to love, and serve his Friend.   

His humour rightly placed,  
And so by conversation graced;  
It, manna like, did please each Tast.   

This is no flattering dress;  
For Envy's self must needs confess  
Truth and a Friend could say no less.    

YORK. 1670.  
A Prologue for a Company of Players leaving London for York, upon their first appearance.  

MEthinks you all look here, as you would know,  
Why we left London to attend on you.  
I' th' first place, we could stay no longer there,  
Because new Plays were both so bad, and dear,  
We could not thrive o'th' trade: for each Wit now  
Regards far more his Belly, than his Brow.  
The second thing that made us to retire,  
Alas, the Mercer's Books escaped the Fire!  
The third, the Gallants were so worn, they must  
Not see a Play, unless it were on trust:  
But with us Infidels that would not do;  
Our Pit, and Women than they'd enter too,  
And no admittance pay: But we were loath  
— Cuckolds to be, and Beggars both.   

But the grand mover of our forced retreat;  
We were inspired by Prophecies and Fate.  
Tho London the Metropolis be known;  
York has the grandeur in reversion.  
And Shipton's Prophecies may now prove true;  
Since we have London left to wait on you.   

Epilogue.  

MEre thanks make but a slender show,  
When for great favours more are due;  
Yet, Gentlemen, they're all we have for you.   

But we'll endeavour to repay  
The Time, the Coin you cast away;  
we'll tell you how, if you but please to stay.   

For those three hours you here shall sit;  
we'll give you Scenes of Mirth, and Wit;  
Such as the Poet ne'er in three Months writ.   

Then with our jewels we devise  
To pay the Ladies back that prize,  
Which we each day shall purchase from their Eyes.   

Yet here we have a hard Task met:  
Tho ours were right, and richly set,  
Ladies, your Eyes would make'em counterfeit.   

Our generous freeness then to show;  
For th' Money you on us bestow,  
we'll spend it all amongst you e'er we go.     

The VILLIERS. 1671.  
To my honoured Friend, Sir George Villiers, Bar.  
YOU from the Vulgar are far off removed,  
Where 'tis disparagement even to be loved.  
Yet as we see the greater Worlds bright eye  
Warms all below, whilst it does move on high;  
So, you forget the State to which you're born;  
Your goodness pardons what your height may scorn.  
And yet 'tis true that to yourself you owe  
Th' officious troubles their respects bestow.  
For were you but less worthy, or more proud,  
You'd soon be free from the adoring crowd.  
But such attractive Virtues take their place  
Always in some of your illustrious Race;  
That in each Age Fame does'em justly sing  
True favourites to their Country, or their King.  
A glorious truth! since from your Grandsire came  
He (who was justly both) great Buckingham.  

* Where Bucking. was born; one of Sir G. V. his Lordships.  Your Brooksby boasts, we her may justly bless  
For th' honour o' th' last age, the love of this.  
And yet here springs a doubt, whether's more due,  
This boast to your brave Ancestors, or you.  
You who reflect their worth, and makes us see  
Both what they were, and what your Son will be.   

The VALENTINE. 1671.  
To Mrs. J. M. bestowing a Present in a Letter.  
DID not sufficiently my glory shine,  
When you acknowledged me your Valentine?  
But you must add new Trophies to your praise,  
And make that Vassal rich you pleased to raise?  
Thus generous Princes, when their powers they show,  
They Titles first, and then Estates bestow.  
Madam, in this with Heaven you share renown;  
Which makes a Saint, and after gives a Crown.  
Your costly gift though too too rich before,  
Yet you with richer lines have gilded o'er.  
Lines, where each word, nay letter may be fit,  
To prove a Cordial to decaying Wit.  
A favour which at once I cannot know;  
Since at each reading I see new ones grow:  
Like th' Orange-Tree, whose fruit at once, and bloom  
Blesses this Season, and the next to come.  
But we, alas, who'd only rich in dreams  
Of Golden Sands, that pave Pactolus' Streams.  
Yet sadly find (when seriously we think)  
No Sand but Pindust, and no Stream but Ink;  
We can make no returns but thanks, and those  
Would sound too flat, if only dressed in Prose.  
Your favour was obliging to excess;  
'Tis fit my Gratitude should be no less.  
And no expressions here can act that part,  
Unless they be extracted from the heart.  
Neither can these their purposes obtain,  
If not in Verse, th' Elixir of the Brain.  
Thus, Madam, when you have my chiefest store  
Of brain, and heart, 'tis vain to offer more.   

DANGEROUS SAFETY. 1671.  
To the Honourable Mrs. Chaworth.  
SOL (though his Throne be in the Skies)  
Vouchsafes the courtship of our Eyes.  
We are as much obliged to you,  
Blest with the favour of your view.  
And though from us you're so much raised,  
That it's below you to be praised;  
Yet 'tis our duty to admire,  
And honour you without desire.  
Our Lowness guards us; and our share  
Of safety comes from our Despair.  
Our thoughts are daunted at your sight:  
Thus savage Beasts are tamed with Light.  
Such fainting hopes cannot succeed;  
Our thoughts against ourselves we breed:  

‖ A Tribute of their children; whence are made the Spachi and janizaries, the strength of the Turks.  Poor Grecians thus enslaved were  
By Children, which themselves did bear.  
The two-edged Sword of your bright Eyes  
Keeps back the crowd of amorous sighs.  
Your Roses, and your Lilies are  
Safe-fenced against presumptuous Air.  
We know your Virtues, and we prise  
The charming Glories of your Eyes;  
But this can no more good bequeath,  
Than Wine to Persons doomed to death:  
Like tortured Souls, who know that bliss  
Which they're, alas, condemned to miss.   

The RESCUE. 1672.  
To Mrs. D. C. Whose name being left after drawing Valentines and cast into the Fire, was snatched out.  
FOrtune, that does the World subdue,  
Submits her Empire here to you.  
Your smiles can fix her changing state,  
And spite of her can bliss create.  
Henceforth you will more courted be,  
And have more Altars far than she.  
You need not her Advancements mind,  
No more than Light to be refined.  
Compost is vain for your rich Soil;  
Your Di'mond shines without a foil;  
And you have such an awful flame,  
She durst not meddle with your Name.  
Which scorned her Laws, and would not be  
Subservient to her Lottery.  
She raged with fury at the slight,  
Aping the Syrian Tyrant's spite; 
Nebuchadonezer.   
That did to flames those Persons vow,  
Who would not to his Idol bow.  
ay, like the Angel, did aspire,  
Your Name to rescue from the fire.  
My Zeal succeeded for your Name;  
But I, alas, caught all the flame!  
A meaner offering thus sufficed,  
And Isaac was not sacrificed.   

The REFORMADO. 1672.  
Upon a certain Levite who had tried many Sects, writing bald Acrostics against Mr. R. W.  

Enlightened by his fiery rant,  
I find out George, but not the Saint.  
His Idle Frenzy makes it guest,  
Tho not inspired, he is possessed.  
The ancient jews for cure did play,  
And Fiend at Music fled away.  
But here, alas, our modern jew  
Is both the Fiend, and Fidler too.   

Stumbling in his Acrostic way,  
Look how his Muse's feet are splay.  
From letter they to letter stride:  
As Cripples upon Crutches ride.  
George, the fierce Dogril, tortures Verse,  
Till every Sheet becomes an Hearse.  
For as that Tyrant's cruel wit  
Made each man's legs his Bedstead fit: 
Procrustes.   
So here's a foot racked to reach G,  
And here's one lopped to size with D.  
When Verse does in Acrostics lie,  
The tortured sense lies gasping by.  
Look but with what a painful pride,  
His Pegasus does trammeled ride.  
Like Baker's Palfry through paced;  
An Issachar 'twixt Panniers placed.  
But he pretends to Helicon,  
As Priest of the Prophetic Tun.  
For as of old, the Delphian Knave,  
Inspired fro' th' hole of Sybil's Cave,  
With glowing Cheeks and staring Eyes  
Half mad did from the Tripos rise;  
And then with odd phrenetick zeal  
The fates of Mortals did reveal:  
So when prophetic George does come  
From sage Eliza's lower room;  
Inspired with false outrageous zeal,  
With brains and cheeks red hot with Ale,  
Having first set his Mouth to Bung;  
His chanting Oracles are sung.   

Deep George in ancient Saws delights;  
A Grecian only in their Rites.  
With pious fictions, impious jests,  
And Revels fitting Sibyl's Priests,  
Reeling from Bacchanalian feasts.   

If old Pythagoras' rule hold true,  
How each soul transmigrates a new;  
That unfledged Muse in former times  
Which fluttered into Hopkin's Rhymes,  
Being lured now to George his use,  
Seems transmigrated to a Goose.  
But such a Goose whose gagling bawl,  
Is hired to serve the Capitol.  
His Faith, as well as Wit, is known  
To've suffered Transmigration:  
For having learned the Garb and Caw,  
It transmigrated to a Daw.  
And jack-daw-like in Church did rest,  
Till the foul Bird defiled its nest.  
Then, Dormouse like, made its repair  
T' a Meetinghouse, with twilight prayer,  
And roosted in a Cobler's Chair;  
Till to a Drake it did arrive,  
And with the Dipper learned to dive.  
Then Raven-like the Air did coast,  
And hovered over Cromwel's Host;  
Encouraging that Tyrant's crime,  
Its Feathers took a deeper grime.  
Yet, as old Nick would fain seem white,  
To ape the glorious Sons of light;  
So George in Surplice now does lurk,  
Gaining this Title for his work,  
George-Bajazet the Christian Turk.    

The CONTEST. 1673.  
Upon the death of my dear S. Mrs. M. S.  

DEar precious Soul! though now thou shinest more bright  
Than new born Phoebus, swathed about with light;  
Accept this gloomy, though free Sacrifice;  
If it can pierce the mounting Clouds of Sighs.  
My Grief, and Love (like two fierce storms) contest,  
And raise an Earthquake in my trembling breast,  
Both strive for mastery, yet neither yield;  
Grief sometimes, and Love sometimes gains the Field;  
As two stout Mutineers in Fortress penned,  
Ruin that Place by strife, they should defend.   

O! that our Souls, of a celestial Race,  
And neither circumscribed to time or place;  
Should (whilst they're clogged with flesh) not have the arts  
T' obey the motions of our loving Hearts;  
Each other (though at distances) to greet,  
And at each moment in embraces meet.  
But we shall meet e'er long, though I be slow,  
And with mine unfledged Pinnions stay below.  
Thy Soul (being born on glorious Angels wings)  
And guided by those bright and friendly things,  
Did get the start, and fly to Heaven before me,  
Although I set out fourteen years before thee.  
But none can be the glorious Bridegroom's Guest,  
Unless accoutered for the Wedding-Feast.  
They're thrust, alas, as bold Pretenders thence,  
Who glitter not in robes of Innocence;  
Shine not in Chastity, Devotion, Peace,  
Humility, and such like Gems as these.   

Thou having gained those Ornaments before,  
And brought by Angels as a fitting Guest;  
Saint Peter opened soon the shining Door,  
And gladly let thee in amongst the rest.    

The RICH PURCHASE. 1673.  
To the honourable Mrs. Chaworth, commanding two of my Tragedies.  
THE Town's applause is but a dream;  
You are my Theatre, and Theme.  
'Tis you that kindle Fancies fire;  
Whose every smile does Wit inspire,  
The Muses, nay the Graces too,  
Were only dusky Types of you.  
More influence does in one Eye  
Of yours, than whole Apollo lie.  
And you must merit most esteem;  
Who make those Poets, that make him.  
That Wit we labour for with pain,  
More happy you by Nature gain.  
And Virtue which from Rules we own,  
Is, Madam, your Complexion.  
Our bliss you only must create;  
If we can faintly imitate.  
But that will be as hardly done,  
As for small Lamps t'outshine the Sun.  
Yet Heaven will those Devoto's fit  
For glory, that but aim at it:  
Thus I may gain by giving praise;  
And offering Laurels, purchase Bays.   

POETICAL PLENTY. 1673.  
To my good friend Mr. Ar. Lomaex, saying, I had not yet learned to balance my Expenses, nor either of us guilty of hoarding Money.  

Balance Expenses Friend! sure thou dost guess  
I'm damnably given to excess,  
Or Purse than Stomach less:  
Neither's to great, I swear;  
Yet I might purchase better cheer,  
If I that knack of Drinking could forbear.   

I'll rather learn the Science how to steal,  
Than be prescribed for my Meal  
Thin broth and Racks of Veal.  
I'm yet in no such straight,  
Besieged by my wants, or fate,  
Like sterv'd-out Towns, to eat, and drink by weight.   

'Tis Tyranny to any freeborn heart,  
To be confined to a quart;  
I'll rather have no part.  
Set-diet shows a want,  
And danger too; since Casuists grant  
Our Grandam Eve sinned chiefly by restraint.   

Myself to famish to increase my store,  
Is to take pains how to be poor;  
I'll rather run o'th' Score.  
For I would rather fear  
Grim judges and their Sentence hear,  
Than be myself my Executioner.   

If thou'rt not rich, thou wouldst not Fates obey,  
Who set thee in a ready way,  
But led me quite astray:  
For Megs, with tempting light,  
(Which are the Muses, as some write)  
Dazzled mine Eyes, and did misled me quite.   

These Dalila's they tempted out mine Eyes,  
And made me grope like foolish Boys,  
For praise and Wreaths, mere Toys!  
When that care (some will say)  
If but turned downwards (the right way)  
Had digged up Gold, as soon as plucked the Bay.   

But famed Parnassus, and the Silver stream  
Of too-bewitching Hippocrene,  
Me from those thoughts did wean:  
They, like some Fairy Land,  
Or like scorched Africa flattering stand.  
With pleasant Shores, but full of barren Sand.   

'Tis true, we please our Fancies, and can tower,  
Like chirping Larks after a shower;  
But 'tis not in our power  
In that state to remain;  
But to the Earth we fall again,  
Eyeing the Sun's bright Gold, we ne'er obtain.   

Yet for all this, I must the Muse's love;  
Constrained by some odd Power above,  
Tho they unkindly prove:  
Enslaved this by our Fate  
Is our mad Sex, that cannot hate  
Woman, that ruin'd first our happy state.   

Those sweet Devourers by ourselves are nursed:  
As from his side old Adam first  
Gave what him after cursed.  
Each Poet Adam is,  
His Muse an Eve, who makes him miss,  
With false pretences tempting him from bliss.   

Thou Damned enchanting Wealth, alluring Hag!  
Keep in thy smothering Hell, thy Bag,  
And make not me thy brag.  
Whilst I but thought of thee;  
Such is thy devilish Witchery,  
I was infected with thy Heresy.   

Wouldst thou turn me a Rebel? have me seen  
To take up Arms against my Queen?  
Hold, hold, my swelling Spleen!  
Wouldst stop my Muse's Song?  
Like that base Wretch, who did the wrong  
To Philomela, and then cut out her tongue?   

Pardon Apollo, and you Muses nine;  
Tho your Hill's bare it is a sign  
It does enfold a Mine.  
Yet, fool, how was I crazed,  
Like silly Conjurers, amazed  
With Apparitions, that myself had raised?   

Poets are counted poor; 'tis true; but know  
They riches have, they will not show:  
Deep Rivers silent flow.  
There is a Place they call,  
At Rome, Saint Peter's Hospital,  
And yet the Pots and Dishes Silver all.   

They have no shining Oar, no pleasing Chink;  
Yet find in Verse a sweeter clink,  
And glitter in their Ink.  
Such wealth will not deny  
Them Wings, with Gold they cannot fly,  
'Tis th' heavi'st Metal, and with Dirt must lie.   

Gold is the dross, and Wit the precious Oar;  
Whilst Poets do enjoy that store,  
How can they be called poor?  
This though the World gainsay;  
It, like bad Chemists, throws, away  
The purer Metal keeping the Alloy.   

Apollo's so attractive, some we see  
Would leave their Infidelity,  
And real Converts be:  
They gladly would compound,  
And now his Temples do surround:  
Thus Christian Churches with the Turks are found.   

Such Heretics, who have been so profane;  
All their devotion will be vain  
Before his Sacred Fane:  
For none such can be guest  
Worthy to be Apollo's Priest;  
Some whining Clerk, or Deacon at the best.   

Then let us charily keep close our Skill,  
As they do all their Treasure still;  
Soon change with us they will:  
Else when they come to die,  
How will they get an Elegy?  
For Poets when unpaid, will never lie.    

The NEW-YEAR'S GIFT. 1674.  
To the honourable Mrs. Chaworth.  
COME, great Apollo now, and show thy might;  
Thou glorious Patron both of Wit and Light.  
From those two gifts, the greatest comfort's hurled;  
Both on the greater, and the lesser World.  
Advance some Present worthy of her Eyes;  
But that will quite impoverish thy Skies.  
And yet thou may'st those Treasures safely spare,  
Since she'll once bring more Beauties than are there.  
Yet keep 'em to thyself, so thou'lt bestow  
Some of those treasures, that thou mak'st below.  
Gold is thy work, though, not as Dryden said,  
When under Turfs to hatch by Indians laid.  
The guess this way more probably is told;  
For when thou pourest on earth thy molten Gold,  
(Which every night ascends to thee again)  
Gold is the Dross, that does below remain,  
The Rocks of Ormus, and of Bengelay,  
In whose dark Caves jewels create a day;  
Thou mak'st those Gems (whose light thy lustre mocks)  
Fine exudations of those pregnant Rocks?  
Thy Rays contracted into drops, are found  
The cause o' th' lustre of the Diamond.  
When thou, for thy refreshures' every night,  
Dives to embrace thy beauties Amphitrite;  
Those pleasant Coral Groves i' th' Deeps below,  
Blest by thy smiles obtain their tincture so.  
And glittering Pearls, fixed on the roots of Rocks,  
Are dew-drops shaken from thy shining Locks.  
From those bright Pearls either a Necklace spare,  
Which by her Skin improved, may turn more fair:  
Or from those Diamonds vouchsafe supplies;  
Which will gain brighter lustre from her Eyes:  
At which some of the brightest shamed will grow,  
And by their blushes turn to Rubies so:  
Or with some Coral branches be but kind,  
And in her Lips they'll richer Scarlet find:  
Or grant me Saphires, and their fainter stayns  
Shall take a purer Azure from her Veins.  
Or if to give them all thou'lt be so kind;  
They'll yield to th' treasures of her richer Mind.  
At these great truths Apollo, 'sham'd, withdrew;  
Shamed to be baffled and outshined by you:  
His treasures, and his favours now denies.  
But, Madam, I hope greater from your Eyes.  
The heavenly powers thus their acceptance show  
Of Duties, by the Blessings they bestow.  
And though your merits to such heights are raised,  
That my weak Eyes to see them are amazed,  
You've too much light not to be seen and praised.  
Although I am unfit your praise to write,  
Some dusky gleams flash from the darkest night.  
Virtue's adorned enough with Native rays,  
Needing no garnish from a Poet's praise;  
Yet just repute may add to Virtue's height:  
As curious Pictures are advanced by light.  
Your smiles I crave not, only beg a glance,  
Since honoured by your Father's countenance;  
That noble Lord! to whom such fame is due  
From all the World, because he gave it you.  
In whom he paid more than himself did cost;  
Tho from his Blood great Monarches make their boast  
Judge of this truth since the Lancastrian Line  
Vouchsafed its glorious beams with his to join.  
It's Rose, though crimsoned with its native flood,  
Yet took rich tinctures from Cadurcis blood. 
Vid. heylin's Cosmogr. pag.   
For 'tis a doubt, whether more fame is due,  
To come from Kings, or Kings to come from you.  
Since Blessings by that Match did so abound;  
That many Princes sprung from thence were crowned;  
I must beg pardon to presume it due  
For some of them to give a Crown to you.   

BEAUTY'S PERIPHRASIS. 1674.  
To Mrs. E. W.  

MY Muse, more happy far than I,  
Has long my Mistress Handmaid been,  
Used to unlace, unpin, untie,  
And has all her Perfections seen.   

On New-year's day I 'spy'd my Madam;  
She and the Year both in their prime,  
More fresh, than was the Miss of Adam  
Sprung from the Maidenhead of Time.   

Her Garments I will first disclose;  
Then naked lay my blushing Queen,  
The same procedure has the Rose;  
First Leaves, and then the Bud is seen.   

Her Hoods sometimes her Beauties hide;  
Which custom may be well allowed;  
Since Sol's bright Face in all his pride,  
Is often hid beyond a Cloud.   

Her Visard-mask, that hides her face,  
Declares more cruelty than state;  
She looks as Beauty Prisoner was,  
And peeping through a double grate.   

Amongst her Curls she jewels wears,  
All glittering with those shining drops:  
Which like Aurora's pearly Tears,  
Sat trembling on the Lilies tops.   

If we consider worth or state;  
The Diamond necklace that she wears,  
May challenge Ariadne's fate,  
And turn into a wreath of Stars.   

Her costly Points by Artists framed,  
Like Wings of Cherubims embrace  
Her swelling Breasts; which once I named  
(Unjustly tho) the Mercy-place.   

Her Gowns, though rich, and worthy pride,  
Lock up the beauties of her youth:  
Like cloudy Parables that hide  
The glorious majesty of Truth.   

Her Gloves are like the tender Rind  
Of that rare Plant, that sweateth Balm,  
The truth of this you'd quickly find,  
If you but kissed her melting Palm.   

Through scarlet-stockins shines her Skin:  
Light pierces thus red-painted Glasses.  
Ten shining Pearls enclosed within,  
Are locked up in those ruby Cases.   

Her Shoes with envy I did prize,  
And wished myself be so graced;  
Stored with two pair of open Eyes,  
For tempting objects rightly placed.   

Her envious Smock though hid my bliss:  
Thus Snow strikes earnest gazers blind;  
All may be seen when thawed it is  
By Love, that Sunshine of the Mind.   

Her Beauties are clothed o'er with light,  
Not here exposed to wild desires;  
Such thoughts, the beams of virtue fright:  
As ravenous Beasts retreat from fires.   

Her Hair may justly make her prouder  
Than Queens who to their Crowns were born;  
And looks when candied o'er with powder,  
Like Sunbeams in a rimy morn '.   

A curious crystal prop (her Nose)  
Supports the Arches of her Skies.  
Her Front the crystalline Heaven shows,  
Studded with shining Stars, her Eyes.   

Each Cheek like to a Roseal Grove,  
Where thousand Cupids sporting lie;  
Whetting their several Darts of Love;  
Her Brows the Bows from whence they fly.   

Her simpering Mouth such charms declare,  
Which Rhetoric never could produce;  
Her Lips, like full-ripe Cherries, are  
Preserved in their own natural juice.   

Her Breath more sweet than perfumed gales,  
That from Arabian Gardens blow;  
Or those which sweep the Indian Vales,  
Where jasmins in their vigours grow.   

Such treasures of her Breath and Tongue,  
Ought not to be too much exposed;  
Hence Fate, to bulwark them from wrong,  
With double fence of Pearls enclosed.   

Her Shoulders Beauty's Atlas are,  
But covered with a purer Snow;  
And far a richer burden bear  
Of Beauties, and of Glories too.   

Her Breasts a pair of Ivory Bowls,  
With Biasses of Rubies nailed:  
Or else two whitest Paper-scrouls,  
Which Nature had with red-wax sealed.   

Beneath those Hills a Valley spread;  
Where Violets and Lilies strove;  
Through which a perfumed Path did lead,  
Directing to th' Elysian Grove.   

Her Backside two round snowy Mountains,  
Which 'twixt 'em did a Valley hide;  
In which did spring a pair of Fountains,  
Where Gold and Silver streams did glide.   

Her Knees, I those rare Hinges named,  
On which this beauteous Fabric moved;  
Her Thighs, the Columns strongly framed  
On which my stately Temple stood.   

Thus have I vowed, sworn, protested,  
To lift my Mistress to the Sky;  
Yet, cruel she, thinks I but jested;  
And, by my troth, Sirs, so think I.    

REPOSE. 1674.  
To Mr. W. W. of Grantham.  

NOT for the reason others do,  
It is I now solicit you:  
A juster cause designs my choice;  
It is for your sake, not your Boys.  
Excess of study does you wrong;  
A Bow may break that's bend too long.  
The Heavenly Bow (whose lasting stuff,  
Would make one think it strong enough)  
Is not bend always, but allowed  
To be cased up within a Cloud.   

Let none here mock at what is said;  
For Archery is there a Trade.  
Diana, Apollo, Archers good;  
And Cupid is their Robin Hood,  
Long shining Darts Apollo shoots;  
Th' Antipodes, and we his Butts.  
Yet when 'tis night his Bow unbends,  
And Arrows to his Sister lends;  
Who buckles to 't (her skill to show)  
Till she become the very Bow.  
And when she's at the utmost bent,  
Her Darts with brightest Piles are lent;  
Yet she by day refreshment seeks.  
Then Cupid mostly shoots at Pricks;  
And when at Butts the motto nicks.  
Strange marksman, who ne'er misses aim,  
Yet slacks his string at every Game.  
Moisture, (that heartblood of the Earth)  
From whence all things derive their birth,  
Shrinks sometimes to the Springs i' th' Deep,  
That so it may its vigours keep.  
Sap (that prolific Sperm of Trees)  
Bestows its blessings by degrees;  
Blossoms and Leaves it gives i' th' Spring;  
And does its fruit in Autumn bring;  
In Winter though retires to th' Deep,  
New strengths to gain or old to keep.  
The Soul (that bright celestial Guest)  
Although eternal, seeks for rest.  
Nor can this Ease be a disgrace;  
Since heavens the chiefest resting place.    

The GROVE. 1675.  
Some thoughts dedicated to the Nymphs of the pleasant Grove at S. belonging to my most honoured Friend Peniston whaley Esq.  

HOw am I in an instant blest?  
This Grove affords some cheerful Guest,  
A stranger to my wounded breast.   

But how can Music there be found,  
Where daunting cares have made a wound?  
Yet breaking Heartstrings yield a sound.   

But now my crest-fallen thoughts aspire;  
As Saul's black humours did retire,  
Before the twangs of David's lyre.   

Verse has such charms, It can advance  
A captive Soul from hellish Trance,  
Can bridle Dolphins, make Beasts dance.   

But stay, I doubt this boasted grace  
Denies its rise from my dull lays;  
And owes its Being to this place.   

As Priests of old were not inspired,  
Their breasts with sacred heat ne'er fired,  
Till they into their Groves retired.   

Nor came this Virtue from the Trees,  
Nor from the Prophet's Rhapsodies,  
But from the Neighbouring Deities.   

None views this Grove but soon allows  
It is a Temple roofed with Boughs;  
Where faithful Lovers pay their Vows.   

And that betwixt the Leaves, those spaces  
(Through which the prying Sunshine passes)  
Seem quartered Panes of Crystal Glasses.   

Then Nature here each year does bring  
The sweet-tongued Black-coats of the Spring,  
With other Choristers to sing.   

Who to this service are ordained,  
From its Revenues are maintained,  
With Berries from the Bushes gained.   

Yet if you take a nearer view,  
The Simile will seem more true;  
This Temple has its Scriptures too.   

Upon the Barks, with curious slit,  
Devotion is engraved with Wit,  
And by some Goddess Fingers writ.   

Whose adoration, merit, fame,  
Shall still enlarge, as does the Name,  
Which thrives till it out-grows the frame.   

Nor do the Trees confusedly stand;  
But ranked, and filled as they were trained  
By the Commanders skilful hand.   

Each row of sturdy Oaks appears  
Squadrons of English Musketeers;  
The Acorns Shot, Leaves Bandeliers.   

Those stands of Ashes strongly spread,  
Like our stout Pike men, void of dread;  
With Keys, like Fringe about each head.   

Here Elms: whose bending Boughs retain  
The shapes of our old Bows in vain;  
Never to conquer France again.   

Those Aspen-trees, like French, look high;  
As they would scale the very sky;  
Yet shake, whilst English Elms are by.   

The Willows here like Dutchmen show;  
All sap, not good for Pike or Bow;  
And only will by Waters grow.   

Thrice happy Trees, where future times  
(Not clouded with our present crimes)  
Shall in their Barks read amorous rhymes.   

For who can greater Wit desire  
Than that, which Beauty does inspire?  
Verse then is clothed in Queen's attire.   

It needs must be a happy sight,  
The golden age did first delight  
All Verse in Rynds of Trees to write.   

Tho Bays and Laurels still abound,  
Nobler rewards will then be found;  
They'll with their Lady's Names be crowned.   

Each than must lofty numbers frame,  
Whilst she thereto subscribes her Name;  
'T will be at once, Reward and Theme.   

If I that happy fate could prove,  
Encouraged by those Eyes I love;  
This should outvie Dodona's Grove.   

But as I first with cares were crossed;  
These thoughts have so my Soul engrossed,  
That I am in this Laby'rinth lost.   

When lo! as I did gaze about,  
I saw a Path, which (without doubt)  
As't leads them in, will lead me out.   

With Lady-Smocks, and Dayes-Eyes white;  
The very Path they tread are bright:  
So the Sun's tracks are paved with Light.    

The RENT. 1675.  
To the honourable Lady, Mrs. Chaworth.  
Advice against envious Reports.  

MY Rent-day's come, and I must pay.  
Nor must your plenty make me stay,  
Lest I grow poorer by delay.   

Forbearance but unkind appears;  
And the poor Tenants justest fears  
May be deduced from long Arrears.   

Whilst either Wit or Fancy grows,  
They're yours; but when deprived of those,  
I must be forced to pay in Prose.   

Decaying Farmers thus lament;  
When their best Stock, and money's spent,  
Their very Rags are seized for Rent.   

This is a Quitrent yearly paid;  
By which my Title's surer made;  
Th' Estate else may be forfeited.   

Tho such mean Homages you scorn;  
Yet some, to noble Fortunes born,  
Take nothing but a Pepper-Corn.   

For these poor Rhymes, a pretty Cloak!  
Words vanish with the breath th' are spoke:  
Yet Sacrifices went in Smoak.   

Truth's a great Empress, and will reign:  
This New-years-Gifts pretence is vain;  
It is not so much Gift as gain.   

Thus our Devotions, when most hot,  
Pay deuce to Heaven that needs 'em not;  
We profit by the pious Plot.   

Heaven at the Heart did ever aim,  
Far more than at the costly flame  
Which from the Sacred Altar came.   

Who would not such a Goodness trust,  
That grateful is to worthless Dust;  
And makes them happy that are just.   

My Duty such procedures know;  
Since I in paying what I owe,  
Purchase that fame I would bestow.   

But whence can I that Patent claim,  
Either to give, or purchase fame?  
Who nothing knows of it but name?   

Nor is it more than fleeting Air;  
Until condensed (by Poet's care)  
To jewels for each Ladies Ear.   

Your worth such rich Materials brings,  
Wherewith to make those precious things,  
Fit both for Ears, and Crowns of Kings.   

Disturb not then yourself, but eat  
Th' effects of Envy, for 'tis known  
Obnoxious Vapours cloud the Sun.   

virtue's a Pyramid of Light,  
Attracting dazzling Gazer's sight,  
And envious shades attend its height.   

With native Balsam ease your pain:  
Tho Skies overcast, and turn to Rain;  
Those drops enrich the Earth with Grain.   

Time calms rough tempests, raging Seas?  
No Storms can wreck an inward Peace;  
Wronged Worth, like bruised Perfumes, increase.   

Reports, like Darts of Reed, when shot  
At a right Breastplate, hurt it not;  
You, Madam, have such Armour got.   

There cannot be a surer fence  
Than yours; whose Guard is Innocence,  
And whose Desires are freed from sense.   

To raise the meanest doubts a Sin:  
She must the noblest Trophies win,  
Whose Fort's impregnable within.   

In her a power resistless lies,  
Who bears Artillery in her Eyes;  
And conquers Death's self when she dies.    

OLYMPUS. 1675.  
Spoken by Mrs. P. L. to the right honourable the Lord and Lady Roos, at Belvoir, before a Play; she starting up, as rising from the dead.  
BLessings upon those Eyes! whose powerful shine  
Has opened mine.  
The pointed rays that from your Glories broke,  
Like Sunbeams, glanced on me, and I awoke.  
Your rich intensive Light  
Broke through the Clouds of Nature's deepest Night.  
Bright Twins! your Sunlike power  
Revived a drooping Flower,  
And made it grow  
From Winding-sheets and Graves of Snow.  
May Smiles, Joys, Loves, attend your sight;  
For thence they gain their choicest light.  
From you may ghastly Objects fly,  
As gloomy shades fro' th' morning Sky.  
Nothing that can frightful be  
To Innocence, or purity,  
Can in this Orb appear;  
No more than darkness in the upper Sphere.  
If th' Issue of the Poet's brain,  
Either were obscene, or vain;  
We cleansed his Muse;  
Like muddy Carp in springing Stews.  
If in the Cradle any thing seemed wild;  
We circumcised the Child;  
And tamed its wanton rage:  
Thus Priests i' th' Golden-Age  
Only thought the Sacrifice  
Worthy to ascend the Skies;  
When the Smoke vanished, and the flame did rise.  
Acceptance almost is our due;  
Since we are so devout for you.  
Consult this place, none can despair,  
Since influenced from the Noble, and the Fair.  
Your smiles, fair Lady, and most noble Lord,  
Must life to us afford.  
Shine from your lofty Sphere,  
Our blossoms soon will fruit appear.  
Thus jove and juno on Olympus sat,  
Smiled on the infant World, and crowned its fate.   

ACTIVITY. 1676.  
Upon the Death of Capt. Matt. Dale.  
IN Nature's chiefest strengths who would confide?  
Or in the choicest of her Gifts take pride?  
If either Wit, Activity, or Truth,  
Wisdom of Age, or jollity of Youth,  
Could have prevailed with Death; He had been safe,  
Not living only in this Epitaph:  
He with dull Gravity had ne'er to do;  
Discreet he was, yet a goodfellow too.  
The strongest fumes of Wine he could restrain,  
And make 'em useful to his active Brain:  
Thus ripening dews in pleasant Meads are found;  
When noisome Mists arise in boggy ground;  
Vnmanaged Soils are worse for fruitful showers,  
And bring forth Weeds, when Gardens smile with Flowers.  
His Tongue the motions of his Heart did tell:  
So th' Clapper shows the Metal of the Bell.  
He made no difference 'twixt Mine and Thine;  
Fro' th' low-run Age he did those Dregs refine:  
Yet in his own Concernments was no Tool  
For Knaves to work with, a good-natured Fool:  
But, like the useful Swiss, he could defend  
His native Cantons, and assist his Friend.  
In Running he did others so outvie,  
'Tis wrong to him to say he did but fly.  
Those mystic Darts, 
He leapt at one leap backward and forward, 7 yards, now marked out in—  that are from Objects shot,  
With slower motion to the Sight are got.  
And in his Leaping, his Beholders say,  
He did not jump, but shot himself away.  
His Back, like Indian-Bow, with Sinews bend;  
And like an Arrow, from the jerk he went.  
Nature in one did ne'er more wonders show;  
Himself the Archer, Arrow, String, and Bow.  
Nay, at his Death he practised o'er this part;  
And did, in several Postures, try his Art.  
First, to the Posture of the Swede he got,  
And then from bended Knees his Arrows shot;  
With outstretched Arms fro's Breast such Darts he drew,  
Sherwood's famed Bow-men's shafts they quite o're-flew.  
Theirs only aimed at Sun and Moon! his high;  
Feathered with Angels Plumes, and Piles of fire:  
Nothing flies swifter than inflamed Desire.  
Then Death's convulsive Cramps his Body drew  
To th' utmost bent, till it in pieces flew.  
A Bombard thus o're-loaden, when 'tis broke,  
Sends forth its dying groans in sighs of Smoak.  
Th' enfolded Ball tho, clothed in bright attire,  
Elias-like, mounts in a Coach of Fire.   

The HEROINE. 1676.  
Upon the death of the right Honourable Frances Countess of Rutland, etc.  

NO heats of Love, nor thirsts of Fame,  
Did Poet's mind e'er more inflame  
Than mine, to write great Rutland's Name.   

My meanness let no man despise;  
We know the smoke of Sacrifice,  
That aimed at Heaven, from Earth did rise.   

Honour does from Inferiors come:  
So did the Consuls owe their doom,  
And place, to th' Common Votes of Rome.   

Her Death by Verse may well be shown;  
For Gods and Goddesses are known  
Their very Being's hence to own.   

And yet this Reason may prove lame;  
Since Praises, that did Godheads frame,  
Fall short when they should speak her Name.   

Truth, well as Heralds, makes it good,  
Her Veins swelled with a noble flood,  
Sprung from third Edward's Royal blood.   

Rutland an equal Match then brings,  
Since the great Issue that hence springs,  
Quarters both Arms, and Blood of Kings.   

No pride though did her looks attend,  
Which to the lowest she would lend;  
As heavenly blessings do descend.   

Whilst she in that high Orb did move;  
She copied those bright Powers above,  
And gained both reverence and love.   

Her blessings did with lustre twine;  
Greatness and Goodness here did joyn●  
The Sun does fructify, and shine.   

Her Gates, or Pity never barred;  
Virtue, and Innocence her Guard;  
Her Looks, obligements, and Reward.   

Such Miracles were in her fate;  
She never envy did create;  
All did admire, or imitate.   

In Youth each noble Lover's dream;  
In Age the gaze and rule of fame;  
In Death the Priest's and Poet's Theme.   

How have I heard her, without noise,  
Direct, and rule the public voice;  
As each Discourse had been her choice?   

How have I seen whole crowds depart,  
When she, with her obliging Art,  
Both pleased and captived every heart.   

Nor here alone was all her care;  
She left Examples, great and fair,  
To cause both wonder and despair.   

Belvoir! thou shalt one instance be,  
Where we the Arts of times passed see,  
Of these, and of Posterity,   

New builders here she did oppose;  
And greater fame in this she chose;  
Since here this Frame from ruins rose.   

Let none reflect it as a shame;  
To win a good one, is less fame,  
Than to recover a bad Game.   

As some Philosophers maintain,  
'Twas less at first to make a man,  
Than dead, to raise him up again.   

First she all fitted, and then reered;  
Nor David nor his Son thus dared;  
For this but used what that prepared.   

So goodly and so strong it shows,  
As Mars this stately Castle chose  
For his loved Goddesses repose.   

Who views its Beauties and its Power,  
At once may think of Caesar's Tower,  
And Rosamund her lovely Bower.   

Large as her Mind, high as her Fame,  
As though she raised this stately Frame,  
For all that from her Marriage came.   

And such a Number from it past;  
As have seven noble Houses graced:  
Here her vast Debts are paid at last.   

For as from many a Noble Strain,  
Her Ancestors lent to each vein;  
She here repaid it all again.   

What's more to do then, but away;  
When all is done for which we stay?  
'Tis the last Act commends the Play.   

This noble Lady closed her days,  
(After such Acts as challenge praise)  
Upon that Scene, herself did raise.   

Rare thus in life, and death, we prise  
The Phoenix; who with closing Eyes,  
Mounts on her Spicy Pile, and dies.   

Her Epitaph.  
Here Brass and Marble are but vainly spent;  
Her Name, to them, will be a Monument.  
A lasting Fame Posterity must give,  
Whilst Belvoir, Montague, and Rutland live.    

The COPY. 1676.  
To the right Honourable, the Lady Anne How, sixth Daughter to the Countess; with the preceding Elegy.  

IF to pay Vows, be only due  
To Persons, who can equal you;  
Then your adorers must be few.   

For when in Deserts Kings remain,  
Their Name and Office both are vain;  
Whilst they have none o'er whom to reign.   

And Fame (which is the great ones choice)  
Is raised but by the public noise;  
An Echo from the People's voice.   

Hence than my comfort is complete;  
And my design (though boldly great)  
Has no suspicion of defeat.   

I often hear our Prophets say,  
That poorest Mortals safely may,  
To Heaven, their true devotions pay.   

Encouraged thus is my design;  
The object of my thoughts divine;  
Which here I offer at your Shrine.   

When that bright Soul to Heaven flew;  
Her glorious Mantle fell your due;  
Her Spirit doubly shared to You.   

Your Youth she did so justly frame,  
Both to her goodness and her fame;  
YE are not the Copy, but the same.   

She gave this Age a happy doom,  
When she formed you within her Womb;  
And yours must bless the Age to come.    

The CONSERVES. 1676.  
Upon the same.  
To the right honourable Mrs. Chaworth, her Grandchild, by Lady Grace Viscountess Chaworth, second Daughter to the Countess.  

WHEN Angels did on Earth appear,  
The glittering Strangers treated were.  
Which they vouchsafed only to show  
Poor Mortals what they ought to do.  
They graciously made their resorts  
To Threshing-floors, as well as Courts.  
wherever these shining Guests appeared,  
Immediately were Altars reared.  
On which at once their thanks they paid,  
And for a second blessing prayed.   

Madam, there may be well supposed  
Some curious Confects here enclosed.  
And bolder Poets dare rehearse,  
No Conserves like to those of Verse.  
But nothing here deserves that name,  
Unless 'tis borrowed from my Theme.  
And that affords such glorious prize,  
It may claim favour from your Eyes.  
Impute not, Madam, this to pride;  
You, and my Theme are near allied;  
As near as those rich Gardens were  
To th' Golden Apples they did bear.    

The PLUNDER. 1677.  
To the honourable William Byron, begging Verses he pleased to write upon my Tragedy of Henry the fourth.  
I'M told (and therefore well may hope for Bays)  
You have been pleased my Tragedy to praise.  
It unregarded was by me before,  
Like a rude lump of undigested Oar.  
Made current by your praise, It now may pass:  
So Princes Stamps put value upon Brass.  
But then your Warrant must be signed and shown;  
Else may the value of it be unknown.  
The World's applause will then obedience be  
To you, and your respects applause to me.  
Being honoured with your Badge 't will be allowed;  
And pass, if not alone, yet in the Crowd.  
ay, all its Wit, and Worth must duly own  
As yours, and by your Mark 'twill best be known.  
For Wit, as your Propriety, is meant;  
And such Acknowledgements as this, your Rent.  
The Critics than must hazard loss and shame,  
If they distresses make upon your claim.  
Bald Gybes, and Censures hurt not so my Muse,  
As they your Representatives abuse.  
Bold Grillon and the generous Navarre,  
I here acknowledge but your Transcripts are.  
Your Conversation does the Poet make;  
And from your Words and Acts I Heroes take.  
Each visits plunder; for I steal away  
More Wit at once, than would make up a Play.   

The Badge of Good-fellowship. 1677.  
Upon Scarlet-Faces, Rosy-cheeks, and Ruby-Noses. To. C. Cooper, Esq.  
KInd Bacchus does requitals send  
For all that we Good-fellows spend;  
No Merchants in their Indian trade,  
Richer returns than we have made:  
Tho Pearls for Beads of Glass are sold,  
And Iron purchase finest Gold.  
True! we spend Money; where's the loss?  
All Coin is but authentic dross.  
The Stamp prefers it, and base need  
Does all its estimation breed.  
How many years are vainly spent,  
Riches to get, and lose content?  
In gaining it, the Day's lost quite;  
And in preserving it, the Night.  
Judge now what profit may be made  
Out of the jolly-drinking trade.  
What though the Purse its trash has lost?  
The Nose with Rubies is embossed,  
For blood that such rich Bubbles swells,  
Is Kernel to those shining shells,  
Whose lustre takes a deeper dye,  
As the goodfellow drinks more high.  
And yet the Rubies are but pale,  
Whose base extraction is from Ale.  
How can the Liver brew what's good,  
(That Mashfat of the boiling blood)  
When dregs of Ale pollute the Veins?  
As th' blood were tapped off from the Grains.  
But when we those rich Rubies make,  
With drinking Claret, Tent, or Sack;  
They take their bigness, colour, shape,  
Fro' th' Clusters of the Scarlet Grape.  
Good-fellows hence, by drinking get  
That boasted thing called Chimick-heat.  
Which, from the Body, forces out  
The blood to th' Nose (the Limbeck-spout)  
Those drops condensed by the cold Air,  
Advance to Rubies, and fix there.  
The Rocks that are in Ormus found,  
Only in precious Gems abound;  
But barren on their tops appear.  
As if their heart-bloods wasted were;  
And blood of Rocks those Rubies are.  
He who for Tyrian-purple seeks,  
May find it in Good-fellows Cheeks.  
The grain of Sarras only there;  
And Bow-dies first invented were  
From some old Brewer, who lived there.  
Canary so refines the Skin,  
The blood's transparent from within.  
That modest blush which Virgins boast,  
Had long since from the World been lost;  
But for strong-liquor and a Toast.  
Nay, which is more— Physicians prove,  
That— Sanguine temper which all love,  
Some Rednosed Drinker raised the Breed,  
Transfusinged to his happy Seed.  
Sack makes not only rubyed Noses,  
But in our Cheeks plants Beds of Roses:  
For as the heavenly dew, first drops  
Upon the Rosetrees pregnant tops;  
Feeding them with prolific blood,  
Until they belly to a Bud:  
Phoebus his Midwifery then shows,  
And in green Mantles lays the Rose.  
The juice so of the lusty Grape,  
On Madam Temperance acts a Rape;  
Swelling our Cheeks with seeds of Roses,  
Which Bacchus' heat to th' World discloses;  
In those hot Beds they'll freshly last,  
In spite of Frost, or Winter's blast.  
Then let Red-Noses henceforth be  
No subjects for vain Drollery.  
'Tis saucy here our Wits to try;  
Scarlet's the badgs of Majesty.  
King's buy their pomp; when Drinkers have  
Their Shop, and in themselves are brave.  
Roses in june are only blown?  
Good-Fellows theirs all th' year are shown.  
A Virgin's blush is ruled by th' Moon;  
Their Tides soon flow, and ebb as soon:  
When as Good-Fellows never shrink  
Till Death; that is, till they want drink.  
Its virtues are not half told yet;  
It heightens Valour, quickens wit;  
The Heart is cheered, Friendship increased;  
No care, but for some harmless jest.  
Then let's not leave it, though some scold,  
Because fanatical, or old:  
Let such grave Fops enslave their will  
He who made these, will drink on still.   

The RENT. 1677.  
To the Honourable Lady, Mrs. Chaworth.  
O'Rworn with cares, and aged with discontent;  
I'm scarcely able to procure your Rent.  
Tho Poverty, and Poetry may hit;  
Tenants, I'm sure, it will but oddly fit.  
Besides a double Obligation's due;  
Since I have paid most Persons off, but you.  
No greater happiness could me befall;  
Not that I'm quit from them, but owe you all.  
Poor Debtors so (that are behind hand hurled,  
Frowned on above byth' Stars, below by th' World,)  
Contract their Mortgages; One mortal wound  
Less pain, than living to be flayed, is found.  
One Massy Fetter (though its weight be more)  
Is far less troublesome than half a score:  
None (though with Bracelets) would be hung all o'er.  
A Dungeon's easier, than at once to be  
Both Stocked, and Whipped, and on the Pillory.  
Thus roving Lovers that diffuse their Fires,  
(New objects always kindling fresh desires)  
Catching the flame, like Powder, at a touch,  
Ne'er rightly love, because they love too much:  
So men in Debt almost to every one,  
Are so distracted, they can pay to none.  
My several lines of Obligations due  
To others, now concentre all in you.  
But, Madam, as each Debt to Heaven requires  
The Stock o'th' Heart, and use of our Desires;  
So mine shall be as justly paid to you;  
Both in the Principal, and Interest too.   

The NEW-YEAR'S GIFT.  
To the same. 1677.  
MY Rent is paid; but something is behind;  
There I was just, but here I must be kind.  
Th' expression suits with voluntary things;  
And such are Presents, although made to Kings,  
'Tis true they honour us, when they receive,  
But still it shows a kindness when we give.  
Of all your New-year's-gifts mine is the least;  
Yet none gives better, than who gives his best.  
As I were studying what this best might be;  
Intranc'd I fell into an Ecstasy.  
I 'spi'd i'th' Airy Region, from a far,  
A shining thing shoot like a falling Star.  
As it drew nearer my astonished sight,  
Still did it bigger seem, and still more bright.  
So dazzling fierce its neighbouring glories grew;  
Mine Eyes I hid, unable for the view.  
Wiped thrice with some soft thing, I was so bold  
To look what't were; and found it downy Gold:  
The lining of the Wing of my bright Guest  
A young and glittering form, all heavenly dressed.  
Fear not, it said; I've laid my lightning by,  
It else would melt the Crystal of thine Eye,  
And work effects so contrary— Its light  
Would cloud thy sickening beams with lasting night.  
Hail offspring of the Morning, I did cry!  
Or art thou not Aurora's self, said I?  
Or some Angelic-form, that hath put on  
The Veil of that fair Sex? Know I am none  
Of all thy flattering ghesses, than it said;  
Yet, though so bright, I'm but to them a shade.  
One that attends upon the Thespian Quires  
Designed to warm thy breast with nobler fires;  
To rule thy Fancy, heighten thy Desires.  
The Heav'nly-Muse I am, whom thou dost wrong,  
Employing me in every idle Song.  
I was forsaking thee; and now would go;  
But for the Lady thou art writing to.  
To her I'll from the Muses' service run:  
By her those shining Ladies are out-shone;  
And yet they are Daughters of the Sun.  
A New-years-gift thou want'st. Let me be it;  
Or I'll condemn thee to the dearth of Wit.  
Seized shall thine Humour and thy Fancy be  
As forfeited; for both belong to me:  
But if thou wilt me with her service grace,  
Henceforth employing me to sing her praise,  
I'll from Apollo's Daphne get the Bays.  
No withering Springs, but such as shall have root;  
Whose living wreaths about thy brows shall shoot.  
Thus, Madam, I outdo my former use;  
Then I gave Verses, now I give my Muse.   

The VIRGIN. 1677.  
Epitaph upon my dear S. Mrs. S. S.  

IF Dust embalmed enriched the Soil,  
Making such Tombs entice to spoil;  
She needs must yield a richer prize,  
Embalmed with Virtue more than Spice.  
This Stone she turns into a Shrine,  
Making the Grave become a Mine.  
Her precious worth, like Ingots, shines,  
And is new minted in these Lines.   

Read, if thou canst, with unwet eyes,  
Where Virtues Darling buried lies.  
Fair as the Sun; yet scorned to twist  
Her Virgin Splendour with a Mist;  
Chaster than Snow, unmelted tries  
The hottest beams of amorous eyes.  
Her Looks, at Sin and Lust incensed,  
Like Cherubin her Eden fenced.   

Yet if the World can imitate  
Her Virtues, 'tis a happier fate  
Than if she had left Children here.  
These mortal, those immortal are.    

CREDE BYRON. 1677.  
To the Honourable William Byron, upon a Paper of Verses sent me— upon a Present to the most beautiful Ladies his Daughters.  

These are the Verses.  
YOU, like the generous Sun, do still dispense,  
To those that merit least, your influence.  
Your Obligations have that powerful charm;  
They need must conquer, when they first disarm.  
The Favours, you so freely have bestowed,  
Are such we ne'er deserved, nor you e'er owed.  
The Debt is mine I own; I ought to pay;  
But, like a Bankrupt, beg a longer Day:  
They're brisk, and young; and can another way.  
My Muse I should excuse, she's dull and rude;  
Those that do write to you in Verse intrude;  
Were not her Products all from Gratitude.  
Presumption is a crime, but worse despair;  
One errs in boldness, and the other fear.  
But I presume you'll pardon the first Fault:  
The Man's a Coward that ne'er makes Assault.  
In such Achievements if I chance to die;  
I live in fame, if in your memory.  
My whole ambition only does extend  
To gain the name of Shipman's faithful Friend.  
And though I cannot amply speak your praise;  
He wear the Myrtle, though you wear the Bays.   

In return to these.  
DID not heavens blessings rich requitals bring,  
Constant Devotion were a tiresome thing.  
Our interest 'tis tho, thus to spend our Days,  
Blessings to pray for, and when gained, to praise.  
In this blessed Circle you and I do move;  
Your Love my Duty gains, and that your Love.  
My Gratitude owns all you gave before,  
And is an Earnest here to purchase more.  
Yet when, on grateful Altars, Incense burns,  
The Virtue's lost, if we expect returns;  
And looks as Subjects should with Prince's vye,  
Exacting honour for their Loyalty.  
But I'll with reverence wait, and faithful be;  
Be noble Byron what he will to me.  
Your Favours lose no virtue by delay;  
You grant me those for which I dare not pray:  
Oh, teach the Ladies, Sir, your winning way.  
To be your Friend is such a glorious name,  
It urges merit, and it offers fame:  
I, from the Commons, rise your Buckingham.  
This heightens me above the common view,  
And makes me thus expostulate with you.  
Was't not enough your Ancestors did aid  
The mighty Norman, when he did invade?  
Whose noble Acts increased their former store,  
And here confirmed those Honours they brought o'er?  
Is't not enough that this Illustrious Line  
Succeeds in you, and you maintain the Shine?  
Differing but thus fro'th ' glory they have won,  
They were the Morning, you the Midday Sun?  
Is't not enough the Byron's all excel,  
As much in loving, as in fight well?  
Witness their Motto, proved in Bosworth Field,  
Where Truth did their triumphant Chariot gild.  
Is not that fame enough your Noble Sire,  
With his six noble Brothers, did acquire?  
All valiant Knights! whose Title was not bought,  
But under Charles his Royal standard sought.  
Is't not enough that British Coronet  
Circles your head, your Ancestors did get?  
But you must thirst after inferior praise,  
And from the British Bards too gain the Bays?  
The Civic-Garland and the Mural too,  
Are by succession your unquestioned due.  
The Laurel Crown you may by title claim;  
Honour's reward is Tribute to your Name.  
But this of Bays your humour may condemn,  
Be not our Rival since you are our Theme.  
Nobler Acquist than these, you have designed;  
Honour and Glory must inflame your Mind.  
Your Inroads only into Verse are made,  
Like mighty Monarches that small States invade.  
It is not worth their while: the chiefest charms  
Are to get fame and terror by their Arms.  
To big you are in Verse to be confined:  
Verse is too narrow for your worth, or Mind  
But I am impudent, nay worse, profane,  
To make your courtship of the Muses vain:  
As though there were disparagement i'th' thing;  
When I would gladly do't were I a King.  
Upon two Poles the Soul (like Heaven) does move,  
The bright and lasting Poles of Wit, and Love.  
Nor Wit, nor Love, of Rivals will admit;  
We jealous are in Love, but more in Wit.  
But I offend more in this vain excuse;  
Since you already have enjoyed the Muse.  
She's yours by mutual choice; then 'tis not fit,  
That her good Graces I should seek to get;  
For that would be th' Adultery of Wit.  
Sometimes you entertain her for your Sport;  
So th' Players have admittance to the Court.  
The Roman Consul with his Children played;  
And jove Sports sometimes with his Ganymede.  
After such Toying she'll inconstant be;  
And your attraits will make her cuckold me.  T. S.   

WIT and NATURE. 1677.  
A Pindaric Ode to Sr. Edw. Rich.  

GReat Nature, hail!  
Who over mankind dost prevail.  
Queen Regent of this sublunary Frame,  
Distinguished by what ever Name,  
For Metaphysic Notions I lay by,  
Thin subtleties for me too high.  
Such Thee define  
To be the Art Divine,  
Or the eternal fixed decree,  
From all inferior appealments free;  
The filled Record in Heaven's high Chancery:  
This is methinks an over-rate  
Or they confound thy State;  
Not well distinguishing 'twixt thee and Fate.  
Such mystic definitions puzzle more,  
Blinding Eyes but dim before.  
Whose studies, like your Oxford's, seem to be  
The Magic of Divinity.   

Be what it will,  
In me-It shows its magic skill.  
It's powerful charms to Poetry inclined  
My youthful mind.  
Castalian Liquor did imbue  
My Vessel whilsted were new.  
No other relish it will own.  
Each drop that from the Dregs is spilt,  
(For now I am o' th' Tilt)  
Has some small taste of Helicon.  
Nor herein will I Nature blame;  
Let great and rich-Men bustle for a name;  
We, we must raise their fame.  
That's more for ours, than their Renown,  
'Tis a Regalio of Apollo's Crown,  
From him all beams of Glory flow;  
Heroes are mighty things indeed but Poets make 'em so.   

From this imperial height to which I'm flown  
I tumble down.  
Give me a Cypress not a Laurel Crown!  
With detestation, I espy  
The Scandals upon Poetry.  
Shall burning Lust be said or heating Wine,  
The breasts of Poets to refine;  
Is the Bay more freshly leaved,  
When with the Vine 'tis interweaved?  
Coy Daphne, silence break;  
Let thy Rind chap into a Mouth, and speak.  
Would not Apollo's Rape more grateful be  
Than Bacchus Love, though he should marry thee?  
Can we produce no happy thought,  
Unless betwixt a Muse and satire got?  
Have those chaste Virgins changed their loves,  
And left Pierian Groves,  
To ramble up and down,  
And be like Misses of the Town?  
Say whether fate is more renowned  
To be a Duchess crowned;  
Or with immortal Glories shining round?   

Nature— I cannot yet define;  
More fit for some Seraphical Divine:  
Tho they but Graces three, and we have Muses nine.  
To wreaths of Bay they have sufficient claim,  
Their Zions holy Hill  
Out-rivals our Parnassus in its fame.  
And Hermon's sacred Dew  
Will give an Influence as true  
As Aganippe's Rill.  
Priests we are both alike, and both alike are fired  
With sacred heat: Poets have been inspired,  
Shared in their gifts of Prophecy,  
As they in ours of Poetry,  
And both have Laurels won;  
They have their Doctor Sprat, & had their Doctor Donne.   

Nor do we come behind.  
The Muses, and the Graces too  
Have Laymen courted oft, and yet they do,  
And some of us too are to them inclined.  
David the golden Age did gild;  
His Harp, as lasting glory as his Sword did yield;  
And he entitled to as fair renown,  
By Wreaths of Bay, as Iudah's Crown.  
Virgil the Silver Age did cause to shine.  
The Iron Age Cleveland and Cowley had;  
Both of them, alas, are dead!  
And with 'em too, I fear, their heat divine!  
But stay! some comfort yet does come,  
We have good Poets store, as— faith I know not whom;  
But this Pindaric rapture has conveyed  
Me from my first intent,  
I had some faint Ideas made,  
How I might Nature represent.  
To her I would a glorious Substance give,  
Composed of Body and of Soul.  
She does a mighty Sovereign live,  
Ruling from this, to th' other Pole.  
What is her Body, Muse, then say?  
'Tis Beauty, that bright Ray;  
The Copy of a Summer's shining Day,  
Just when Aurora meets the Sun.  
And yet the fair Original by th' Copy is outdone.   

When She's so dressed  
She's fine,  
As when a glittering Vest  
Adorns an Angel; when the Silver Light  
Peeps through the azure Tinsel, that does line  
The shining Robe, and makes it heavenly bright.  
Her rosy blushes shine  
Quite through the Lily skin:  
As shooting Flame through burnt White-Wine:  
The outward Stuff's so thin,  
The Scarlet lining all appears within.  
Her bright and piercing eye  
Can by no Clouds be hid;  
But quite shines through the Lid:  
As Sunbeams through Crystal fly.  
Nay, hers excel; their light does stay,  
And knows no West, no setting Sun;  
Here's almost everlasting day,  
As at the Poles, where Night is seldom known.   

If we such rare attractions owe  
To Nature's Body; then (without control)  
We must far greater know,  
When we're acquainted with her Soul.  
Then, Muse, 'tis very fit,  
Thou tell'st us it.  
It is that powerful pleasant thing called Wit.  
Wit is the Soul of Nature! but what more  
In troth I cannot tell.  
But I will show where it does dwell;  
And you can ask no more.  
Some starve it out; and so unfortunate am I!  
Some starve it too with Luxury;  
Some seek to murder it in Rhyme;  
And some with Clinches torture it to death;  
Some others guilty of the Hangman's crime,  
With strong Lines stop its breath.  
Then sometimes it does stay  
With those who plenty know;  
But they soon weary grow,  
And it is turned away,  
On all accounts as well content as they,  
It sometimes for its habitation pays,  
As when our Poet's Money get for Plays;  
Before 'twas never heard  
That they did seek reward,  
Unless it was a Crown of Bayes.  
For if Maecenas would some favours give;  
They, in requital made Maecenas live.  
But great ones are our Rivals grown  
In these ill-humoured days,  
As though they had suspicion,  
To live in no Verse but their own;  
Like Nero, now they fiddle too for praise.   

But where's this place of Wit?  
For I before did promise it.  
After the strict researches I have made,  
I feared that it above was fled,  
After Astraea, that fair heavenly Maid.  
Till Friday last I gained a view;  
And after much cold hunting too;  
I did recover my last Game, and found it, Sir, in you.    

The ANTIQUARY. 1677.  
Upon the Baronage of England, by Sr. Will. Dugdale, Garter-Principal King at Arms.  
A Selden, or a Camden's only fit  
To judge, and praise the Works that he has writ.  
So noble structures, by rare Artists raised,  
Should only by Vitruvius' rules be praised,  
Praise is a Tax by justice-self thought fit;  
And every worthy man has claim to it.  
Which should as strictly be to merit paid,  
As Taxes that by Parliaments are made.  
Authentic praises should these Works regard,  
Such as at once bring Honour and Reward.  
Prodigious were the pains that brought them forth;  
By nothing to be equalled, but their worth.  
Here England's rising splendours he has shown,  
Till come to Manhood in its glorious Noon;  
— But now alas!—  
Small are the shadows of its Evening Sun.  
Her honour's streams he from the Fountain brings,  
Guiding the Current to the lower Springs.  
Obstructions in each Channel he does clear;  
As if the Law of Sewers governed here.  
His active knowledge has the searching force  
Of Spirits, that can fee, and not discourse.  
Strange penetrating art! to pierce, like Air,  
Each close recess, and ransack all things there.  
Rare Learning that reveals as clear as Light,  
The secret Treasures both of Time and Night.  
Which like the Sun throughout the World can pry,  
And is at once to't self both Light and Eye.  
In Graves (those shades of Death) now Life is found,  
As quickening heat brings Flowers from the Ground.  
No Marble Tombs, no Pyramids can hold  
From turning like the Dust they did enfold.  
Names, though long lost in Rubbish, own his power:  
As Chemists can from Ashes raise a Flower.  
Of Statues long defaced, and smooth as Glass,  
As in a Crystal, here he shows the Face.  
If any part be left, he can it own:  
Hercules here may by his Foot be known.  
From straggling characters in worn-out Deeds,  
Th' intrigues of ancient Families he reads.  
Successions varied to and fro again,  
(Alcides-like) he traces to their Den.  
Those Families that lost themselves, and run  
Into a various succession;  
He does reduce to their first Marriagebed;  
And shows sev'n-chaneled Nile its Fountain Head.  
For all this cost, but Mortal aid he brings,  
As all must do, that write of mortal things.  
Tho his efforts are of the strongest rate,  
Yet cannot save what is condemned by Fate.  
Stones thus, that crown a lofty Turret's head,  
May pave the Ground for every foot to tread.  
Marbles must moulder, Steel consume with Rust;  
Crowns, with their Owners, all resolve to Dust.  
Nor there secure! that very Dust be gone,  
Into the vast Abyss of Air be blown;  
The sport of Winds, who kept the World in fear;  
Their Dust as restless as their thoughts were here.   

RED CANARY. 1677.  
With some Bottles of it— To the right honourable Katherine Lady Roos, etc.  

TH' inspired few, whose glowing breasts  
Refined 'em for Apollo's Priests;  
When mystic heat their bloods did fire,  
Themselves did from themselves retire.  
Banished the mortal from their breast,  
That Presence-Chamber richly dressed;  
The glorious Furniture all shined;  
For with Apollo's self 'twas lined.  
What charming words might needs fume hence,  
Mixed with that neighbouring Influence,  
Whose thickening breath appeared to be  
A Chariot for the Deity.  
Were my Productions but so blest,  
Your Ladyship might be expressed.  
But Poetsnow heed no such fires;  
Yet still some Deity inspires.  
Venus or Bacchus heightens sense,  
Tho with malignant influence.  
Those Daemons now profane our Groves  
With vain, or with dishonest loves;  
Making a Desert of the place,  
withering the Myrtles and the Bays:  
The Fiend thus, with contagious vice,  
Blasted the Trees of Paradise.  
But, Madam, your illustrious name  
Is both my Influence and Theme;  
Refining all my Smoke to flame.  
Hence baffled Poetry may thrive,  
And Oracles again revive.  
It's clouded beams may brighter rise,  
Kindled by th' Sunshine of your eyes,  
As Persians fire their Sacrifice.  
Till th' Muses have that bliss obtained,  
They're like fallen Stars in darkness chained.  
Then farewell Poetry!   

— But stay—  
Venus may prove Urania.  
She may enjoy that happy fate,  
If she your virtues imitate.  
Her Chariot then, through th' heavenly lawn,  
By Doves, not Sparrows will be drawn:  
And virtuous Love henceforward boast,  
You have restored what Venus lost.   

But, Madam, 'tis too sad a truth,  
Bacchus is so debauched a youth;  
That Lees as soon will leave his Wine,  
As his corruptions he'll refine.  
Ill humours soon are withstood,  
And cured best by letting blood:  
That hot-braind God, with fumes oppressed,  
Bleeds here some ounces of his best.  
His Heart-blood-drops he offers here  
To you his fair Deliverer;  
The Stoic so himself resigned,  
(Hence owning the eternal mind.)  
And thus his best Drops did prefer  
To jove, the great Deliverer.   

This my Oblation may atone  
For all offences he has done.  
If in your Favour it finds place,  
The Reprobate recovers Grace.  
Your influence then must be divine;  
Since, Madam, it can thus refine  
The dregs of Love, of Wit, of Wine.    

The HUFFER. 1677.  
Spoken by Ant. Eyre Esquire, and directed to the right Honourable, the Lady Roos, when he acted Almanzor in the Granada, at Belvoir; in way of Prologue.  

I That made Fortune Lackey by my side,  
Had Fame for Trumpet, and Success for Guide:  
I that did conquer Armies with a word,  
Making Fate yield to my more powerful Sword:  
I that could with a Smile bestow a Crown,  
Then blast my new raised Monarch with a Frown.  
Almanzor, I, who (by the Poet taught)  
Huft more, than ever Hero did, or aught:  
I now submit, and lay my Laurels down;  
But from your favours hope a nobler Crown.   

Whence is this sudden calm? what could control  
The working passion of my boisterous Soul?  
My breast did like some Northern Climate show,  
Its fountain froze, and covered o'er with Snow.  
Thawed, Ladies, by your Eyes (those Midday Suns)  
The melting Spring drops Rubies, as it runs.  
My Blood, once safe under this Icy Lock,  
Softens like Coral on the melting Rock.  
No Lapland Spell, can temper any Arms  
To be of proof, against Beauties stronger charms.  
And one amongst those Ladies I have 'spi'd,  
Whose pointed rays wound more than Almahide.   

Nature, and Dryden, all that both could do  
To perfect Almahide, falls short of you.  
Tho they advance the lustres of her Eyes,  
Above the Stars o' th' Rocks, or Gems o'th' Skies:  
When you appear, their sickly beams give way,  
Like frighted Phantoms to the springing Day.  
Nay I, who thought no passions me could move,  
Being free from fear, and therefore free from Love.  
Greater than Nature, you my Heart constrained;  
And Love has now his stubborn Rebel chained:  
Yet not content to rest his Empire there,  
It's doubly chained; and now enslaved to fear.  
Two strong Diseases I at once endure,  
Yet as an Ague does from Plagues secure;  
My trembling Fear, lest I presumptuous prove,  
Alleys the raging Pestilence of Love.    

The REPRESENTATION. 1677.  
Upon the Honourable Mrs. Bridget Noel, acting the Part of Almahide, in Dryden's Granada, at Belvoir.  

A Astonished Muse! now thou hast gained thy Tongue,  
Exalt thy fancy in a noble Song.  
Thy honoured Belvoir (that most pregnant Womb  
Of Wonders) with amazement struck thee dumb:  
Thus the old doubtful Priest, his Lips were sealed,  
When that bright Guest i'th' Temple was revealed.  
Surprised alike, I silently retired;  
Withdrew my Soul, and inwardly admired,  
That such a Lady on the Stage was seen,  
lessening herself to represent a Queen.  
Conscious of which, her Cheeks with Scarlet died,  
Showed Modesty in her most Royal pride:  
heavens Face is fleckt so, when the bashful Light  
Muffles her Glories in the Clouds of Night.  
Mistake me not, her Splendours were not gone;  
They only seemed so, like the setting Sun.  
Like him, she in herself is always bright,  
Though not to us, placed in a varied light.  
She may confirm the Tartar Princes' lot,  
That Stories say, was by the Sunbeams got.  
Her body's clothed with light; the Sky's her Skin;  
(That glorious Curtain of the Heaven within;)  
Her circ'ling Blood (like to the World's bright Eye)  
Rounds all her World, and glitters through her Sky.  
Dangers may come then by too near a view;  
Her beams both dazzle may, and burn us too.  
For Light is Fire, although but thinly spread;  
Through burning Glasses of her Eyes conveyed.  
Mongst all those flames she has none that inward glow,  
Nor feels the heat that warms our World below:  
Cold is her Blood, as though with Iulips fed;  
Not strange, since in a Snow-house it is laid.  
Frost in her Blood, though Fire is in her Eyes:  
Thus Lightning from the coldest Region flies.  
Whilst the Town-scumm (those Midianites o'th' Stage)  
Surprise the Zimries of this wifling Age;  
Apparent dangers must to us accrue,  
Since real Princes here may justly woe.  
beauty's fair Goddess, and the Queen of Night,  
When gaudi'st in their tissued robes of Light,  
Tread not th' Etherial Stage with greater state;  
Tho Gods themselves from them attend their fate.  
Whirled in their Spheres (those bright Machine's) they fly  
Quite through the space of their archt-roof of th' Sky.  
Nor does the simile unfit appear,  
Or for this Actor, or this Theatre.  
Formerly, when the Prophet's zeals were fired,  
By powers which they adored, they were inspired.  
Blessed age! wherein the Oracles of Wit  
Were sacred Dictates from the Altar Writ.  
When Poets were the Trumpets that conveyed  
Those form sounds that by the Gods were made.  
Then from the Deities they gained respect;  
But now from heedless Mortals find neglect:  
Immortal Verse sprung from immortal aids;  
Now Misses rule, then ruled the Thespian Maids.  
Hence they of future things divinely writ;  
Now past and present fooleries are Wit;  
Poems, and Poets, one another fit.   

It must be so, now thirst of Fame's away,  
Quenched with large Draughts, and th' ● out-grows the Bay●  
Whilst Farces and such Vices of the Stage,  
Corrupt the Poetry of this loose Age.  
No Hero, no Maecenas in these times,  
For Subject, or encouragement of Rhymes.  
Dryden alone, has got some Title now  
To th' Laurel wreaths, that grace his lucky Brow.  
Tho neither Deity nor Muse inspires,  
Her breath alone fanned his Poetic fires.  
Th' old custom is to his advantage broke;  
For here he made those words the Goddess spoke.  
Blessed by her Mouth, they may obtain the fate  
Of Oracles, and gain as long a date.  
Thus his rude Oar cast in that precious Mould,  
Lost all its Dross, and turned refined Gold.  
She did create its worth, and made the Play;  
And breathed the breath of Life into his Clay.    

The VISION. 1677.  
To the Right Honourable the Lady Roos, etc. Upon the Birth of the Heir of Rutland.  

THis Night enjoys so sweet a calm;  
As th' Air dissolved itself to Balm.  
So deep a silence all things keep,  
As Nature's self were hushed asleep.  
Cynthia neglects her watch i'th' Skies,  
And drowsy too has closed her eyes.  
Or is with her Endymion, hid  
Under some cloudy Coverlid.  
Yet light I through her Curtains ' spy,  
Scaped from the corner of her Eye.   

But soon the Harbinger of Day  
Chased all those gloomy shades away:  
With Roses strewed the Paths o'th' East,  
Till Tethys had her Lover dressed.  
That way I turned my ready eye;  
When I your Belvoir did espy.  
(For all our Vale is fully West,  
And Belvoir is its Sun i'th' East)  
I gazed— the other Sun to ' spy;  
When thence a thing did swiftly'r fly  
— than Light  
Which in one moment gilds the Sky.  
Gently to me the Vision came,  
Snatching me up with arms of flame:  
And me through yielding Air conveyed,  
In Belvoir Chappel safely laid.   

The sacred Genii of the place,  
Whence it both safety takes, and grace;  
Bright Offsprings of celestial race.  
Their downy Pinnions-Gold out-vy'd,  
All o'er with sparkling Diamonds eyed.  
Flying about the sacred Frame,  
They fanned the ambient Air to flame;  
Or from their eyes the lightning came.  
After some Ceremonies past;  
They sung—  
— Our Belvoir now shall last:  
Our Habitations are secure;  
‛ The Honour of our Charge is sure.  
Flying about, strange Music played;  
Their sounding Wings a Consort made,  
As every shining Quill therein,  
A well-tuned Organ-pipe had been.   

Amazed (as well I might) I spoke;  
And up the Conventicle broke.  
All vanished but my flaming Guide;  
Who to my wondering thoughts replied.  
‛ This night thou art a Prophet crowned;  
‛ For Belvoir now an Heir has found.  
‛ The blushing Portals of its East  
‛ Are with an infant Phoebus blest.  
‛ With native scarlet he was born:  
‛ As Roses cloth the Chrism Morn.  
" This ancient Earldom boast now may,  
" Its honour finds a fullgrown Day.  
" Great Rutland is the Evening bright,  
" Safe guarded from approaching Night;  
" His own seven Stars preserve his light.  
" Illustrious Roos, that full-ripe Sun—  
" Supplies the glorious place of Noon;  
" All shining in Meridian beams:  
" Like Virtue crowned 'twixt two extremes.  
" That Infant of the Sun, new born,  
" Rutland i' th' Cradle, Sol i' th' Morn;  
" Incirc'led with a gentle blaze  
" Reflected from his Mother's Face;  
" Till her closed Eyes have made the Night,  
" Amazed ours cannot bear her light.  
" This makes us at this Season play,  
" Like Birds of Night, avoiding Day.  
" weare tho the Genii of this Place,  
" Attendants of this noble Race.  
" Thy ready Zeal we'll so inflame,  
" By offering, thou shalt purchase fame.  
" Thy Incense from the Vale shall rise,  
" And crown with curled Clouds these Skies,  
" Until their jove his golden showers  
" Upon thy barren Danae pours.  
" Thought I this Angel may say true;  
" Else he is in a Vision too.   

You, Madam, prove so rich a Theme,  
You can make Poets in a Dream.    

The MUSICIAN. 1677.  
Upon the Death of Mr. W. D. excellent in Music, Servant at Belvoir.  

OF those five Senses that our Nature grace,  
Seeing, and Hearing, have the noblest place.  
By th' Ears, the Soul its chiefest bliss obtains;  
And shows by th' Eyes those blessings that it gains.  
Those others to the Body more belong,  
And th' heavenly Guest oft by excesses wrong.  
Whose grosser humours we can serve at home,  
But must to Belvoir for the purer come.  
What choicer Object can endear the Sight?  
Above the Earth as much in worth, as height.  
A second Eden shining all about;  
Glorious within, and beautiful without!   

Then for to please the Ears (those Doors o' th' Mind)  
Where could we rarer choice of treatments find?  
What wonders have I from his Music known?  
Passions to raise in all breasts but his own.  
His Viol more than Magic Spells could do,  
Both raise our Tempests, and then calm 'em too,  
Each Finger was a Tongue, and could impart  
Persuasive force, above Rhetoric art.  
The Stubborn Passions he might well command,  
When every Heart was in his pow'ful hand.  
Here a soft charming Air for mastery tries,  
With Venus' breath, and moved more than her Sighs.  
There from his Bow darts forth a piercing strain,  
Wounds more than Cupid, and yet brings no pain.  
When he his speaking Violin laid by,  
And would his Fl agelt or Cornet try;  
The wanton Air he'd in chaste measures bind,  
To gentle sounds tuning th' unruly Wind.  
Stradas famed Lutaenist his art might fail,  
And die for shame before this Nightingale.  
Whose peaceful Soul did for its change prepare,  
And vanished calmly in a well-tuned Air.  
But all mischances here are so engrossed;  
Not th' Artist only, but the Art is lost.  
Thus their sad fate the Grecians did lament;  
Their Orpheus, and his Harp together went.    

To my respected Friend, Capt. Shipman. 1678.  

TO you, as to my Guardian, I go;  
To ask protection from a mighty Foe.  
My tender Muse, frighted with Critics fame,  
Starts, and gives back, when she but hears the name.  
She's young, and dares not hope to come to good;  
Yet strangely dreads a blighting in the bud.  
So little Birds, below the Fowler's care,  
Most apprehend the danger of the snare.  
And whilst he shoots at some more noble prize,  
They hear the echoing noise, and trembling rise.   

It is presumption in my worthless Muse  
To ask your help, worthy a better use.  
Yet she's ambitious, and desires to live;  
And says, if you'll vouchsafe your Pass to give;  
She's sure no Critic dares against you strive.  
When I consider how the mighty jove  
Received the Token of the poor Bee's love;  
Methinks I can't but hope— that as a Friend  
You'll not despise (I'm sure you can't commend)  
That which scarce half an hour both thought & penned.    

SPRING and AUTUMN. 1678.  
To that hopeful Gentleman, Jo. How, Esq In answer to the foregoing Verses.  

THe fruitful Trees, that shade the Southern Climes,  
Are like the blooming fancies in your Rhymes.  
Where Spring, and Autumn, in one season meet,  
The fruit delicious, and the blossoms sweet.  
You need no Guardian, but Apollo's care;  
And that which makes you bud, will make you bear.  
Fruits, with such early Sunshine graced, must grow,  
And bear, and flourish, and no blast know.  
Secure from Critics— their sharp frosty Air  
Serves but to nip your Lady-Muse more fair.  
Their 'Gins, and Censures are but needless found:  
Snares useless are for Birds that scorn the ground.   

Your youthful Muse deserves the choicest note:  
So Essences are from first-running got.  
Last droppings make but Taplash, such as mine;  
Yours is the boiling blood o'th' lusty Vine.  
You shine like Planets (those rich Lords of Light)  
Outbraving us mean Commons of the Night.  
I've scribbled out my Helicon—, afraid  
The Issue in my Arm has drained my Head.  
Your praise is, Pension-like, on me bestowed;  
Old, and decrepit now, that does no good.  
By such advances tho, I keep in sight:  
Thus can the Moon gild o'er the gloomy night.  
The Name I've wrongly got else soon will fail;  
Tho Hillocks may seem Mountains in the Valerius    

INCONSIDERATE LOVE. 1678.  
Strephon's Arguments to Celia, to forsake Youth, Wealth, and Temperance, in his Rival, and to accept their Extremes in him. To C. B. M.  

LOve, that i'th' happy Age, a Monarch reigned,  
Is now by wealth in golden fetters chained.  
His Altars once to Merit sacred were,  
Till Riches turned the World Idolater.  
Heart's now by pairs, are like to Turtles, sold;  
Love, Vows, and Sacrifice all ruled by Gold.  
Now Caelia, now's the time to show your worth,  
And from Love's Temple drive the Bankers forth.  
For whilst you seek to marry pelf to pelf,  
You buy a Husband, but you sell yourself.  
Fat soils bring Weeds; the cleanest Corn is found  
In leaner Fields, if you well dress the ground.  
Tho more of cost, yet more content is had  
To build a House, than buy one ready made.  
Philip of Spain did to no meanness fall,  
From Cloister poor to raise th' Escureal.  
Scorn not poor Strephon: you may be o'ercome:  
The threadbare gaul's o're-ran triumphant Rome.  
Sure honour he must gain in this hard Fight,  
If he retreat not, whilst a Crown's in sight.   

He need not fear white wigs nor downy Chins,  
Who lose their leaves, before their fruit begins.  
Yielding yourself to such, you must decay,  
And money lend against yourself to play.  
There's no more dangerous, no more frequent thing,  
Than is a Surfeit of raw Love i' th' Spring.  
When Love to his tried Stomach must succeed,  
And, like digested meat, new vigours breed.  
Their ravenous Love, with active motions blown,  
(Like Fire) consumes what ere it preys upon.  
His flames yet burns not; like aethereal Fire,  
Whose nature is to last and to aspire.  
Days may in Winter be both cool and fair;  
And Fires in coldest Seasons brightest are.  
Love may sometimes seem sleepy in his breast:  
Souls thus towards Night compose themselves to rest  
But wake more fresh, and with new vigours blest.  
Youth's burning-Feavers make 'em restless lie,  
Consume their loves in vi'lent heats, and die.  
His Aguish-heats are tempered well with cold;  
Such Loves, like that Disease, will longest hold.   

See now, fair Caelia, neither Wealth nor Youth  
Can true content secure, or vouch for truth.  
In rich and beauteous Meads sweet Flowers grow;  
His craggy Rocks have precious Stones below.  
Unpractised Youth may lavish out Love's store,  
Turn Bankrupt, and forsake you, being poor.  
His Age will be so frugal not to waste  
That treasure, but preserve it to the last.  
No other Rival now sure dares advance,  
Unless that thin-gut-chap- fallen Temperance.  
Although your Empire great as Caesar's were;  
A meager Cassius you may justly fear,  
Abstemious Zealots ruined England more,  
Than all its jolly Heroes did before.  
O Celia! ne'er to such become a Prey;  
Make use of fleeting Joys whilst they will stay;  
Since Life's confined to so short a day.  
A right Goodfellow daily whets delight,  
Returning briskly as to th' Wedding Night.  
Life's fed with Love; as Men with Oysters dine;  
They cloy, if not digested well with Wine.  
Heightened with mirth, and Sack, he entertains  
His Spouse, with various sorts of pleasing Scenes.  
Wit's requisite in Love, as in a Play;  
To recompense the labour of the Day.   

These Virtues, Celia, then in Strephon choose;  
And in all others their Extremes refuse.  
Though he want Wealth, and Temperance, and Youth,  
Yet he abounds in Merit, Wit, and Truth.  
Or if to wed without those three y'are loath;  
You have yourself enough of them for both.    

The Perfect GENTLEMAN. 1678.  
Upon the Death of the truly Honourable Gentleman, John How, Esq of Langar in Nottinghamshire, my most honoured Friend.  

Turns having done their parts, the Tongue must speak:  
And though loud sighs have made mine accents weak;  
That breast must yield a sound, whose heartstrings break.   

Their griefs are most, who silently lament:  
Such fires are hottest in their Furnace penned;  
Yet fanned by sighs the flame now finds a Vent.   

Those sad reverberating groans that rise  
Fro th' Caverns of my bosom, change their noise,  
And, Echo-like, dissolve into a Voice.   

No showers of tears my sorrows storms can lay;  
Nor sighs (those gusts of grief) blow tears away:  
My life must be one rainy-windy-Day.   

The Life of Man depends on breath in chief:  
Chameleon-like, my sorrows gain relief  
From th' inward air of sighs, that breath of grief.   

Such signs of grief by Nature should be sent;  
Since she has lost her choicest Ornament,  
Her Winds in sighs, Rain should in tears be spent.   

Both Nature and the Graces here combined  
All beauties both of Body and of Mind;  
Perfections, scattered through the World, here joined.   

So curious, so proportioned every part,  
That neither strength, nor Beauty got the start,  
Hence Durer might have formed more rules of Art.   

Those charming Muscles that his smiles composed,  
Were like the Net, which Mars and Venus closed.   

Consult but him— old stories did not feign;  
Th' Amazonian Empire proved here plain;  
Beauty, and Valour did together reign.   

Nor joined they only in his outward frame;  
Their Virtues in his Soul too were the same:  
Like Lightning bright, but threatening was his flame.   

So working in his Breast his Spirits were;  
Had they been rammed in any breast but there,  
The weaker Gun had shivered into Air.   

His Body only his great Soul did fit:  
And there alone his Soul could only sit:  
Nature's right Tallies! this, with that did hit.   

His brighter Virtues we cannot unfold;  
Those that less dazzling are we may behold;  
'Tis wise to save the very dross of Gold.   

What we can comprehend, we here but write;  
We guess at Pyramids above our sight,  
And by their Shadows only take their height.   

So true a Patriot— It was his care  
His Princes and his Country's love to share;  
No Favourite, and yet no Popular.   

So kind a Husband, his fair Lady knew  
No carriage, but like that when he did woo;  
All he did then pretend, he since made true.   

So good a Parent, it may raise debate,  
Which of his gifts may claim the higher rate;  
Their Life, his great Example, or Estate.   

He was the bravest Foe, the truest Friend,  
That ever Love, or anger did pretend;  
Both which, with Justice, did begin and end.   

To all in want he favours did bestow;  
His Charity, like Nilus, did o'erflow,  
And made the neighbouring barren soils to grow.   

His Conversation pleasant was, and good,  
And like to Israel's heavenly Manna proved;  
To all dilicious, yet substantial food.   

Designed with Justice, by all-knowing Fate,  
To all that Fortune gives both good and great:  
Rich is the Stone, that without foil is set.   

How soon our hopes were buried in despair?  
Thus Fabrics vast require no lesser care,  
Nor cost to build, than keep 'em in repair.   

Nature's great Gifts he nobly did requite;  
The Splendours he received, he made more bright,  
His Diamonds paid, as well as borrowed light.   

But we have lost the comfort of his rays;  
This sudden Cloud our Senses did amaze:  
Darkness seems most, after the brightest blaze.   

Let us with sadness his blessed period view;  
Sickness and Pains did so his Soul pursue;  
As Fate would try what a great heart could do.   

Too soon his lofty Soul did mount the Sky:  
Spirits too fast sublimed in vapours fly:  
As richest men decay, that live too high.   

Th' eternal spark, Heaven kindled in his breast,  
By mortal damps could never be suppressed;  
But soared a Phoenix from its flaming Nest.   

So th' sacred Lamp (that was the High-Priest's care)  
Long hid in darkness, when exposed to th' Air,  
Revived its sleeping flame, and beamed more fair.   

His Soul (above the Sun's) scorned to set low;  
Its faculties even then did bigger show:  
As Evening shadows in dimensions grow.   

His thoughts were greater, when Death came in sight,  
In those approaches to his latest Night.  
HE enlarged his Room, to let in greater light.   

With sharpest darts the Tyrant did assail;  
Against his Heart of proof none could prevail;  
It was so guarded with its Native Mail.   

Bold Scaeva thus, upon his faithful Shield,  
Received a Grove of Darts, yet scorned to yield;  
Retiring great as Caesar from the Field.    

Prologue to Henry the third of France, at the Royal Theatre. By Hart. 1678.  

YOu're not t'expect to day the modish Sport,  
Affronting either City, or the Court.  
Our Poet's mannerly, and cautious too,  
And neither will abuse himself, or you.  
Faith both are needless; since they're done each day,  
By you who judge, and he who writes a Play.  
The sacred thirst for Bays and Fame is gone;  
And Poetry now turns Extortion.  
Nay worse, Stage-Poetry seduces more  
Than Wine, or Women ever did before  
Gained by its charms, hither the Wits resort;  
The Stage robs both the Pulpit and the Court.  
The other Sex too are stark rhyming mad,  
Even from the Duchess, to the Chambermaid.  
Nor do these Charms in the North Country fail,  
But took our Poet both from Hounds and Ale.   

His Scenes (such as they are) in France are laid;  
Where you may see the ancient English-Trade;  
Either in beating France or giving aid.  
Such Virtue reigned then in our smiles or frowns,  
Those did defend, as these could conquer Crowns.  
These Miracles were in Eliza's Reign;  
Whose lefthand France and Holland did sustain;  
And whose right-hand both baffled Rome and Spain.  
Whilst England only could the World subdue,  
Nay found a new one out, and reigned there too;  
Judge then what now Great Britanny may do;  
Since now her Helm a greater Pilot guides;  
Who has th' advantage of his Sex besides.  
Tho here our Poet rather would make known  
His Country's Reputation than his own;  
Yet he may chance by Critics to be hist,  
As he entrenched upon the Casuist.  
But he no Controversies sets on foot;  
And thinks it better if none else would do't.  
Nor tells you which Religion he is on;  
May be (like most of you) he is of none.  
If this prove true, he must the Statesman move;  
Then for the Ladies he has Scenes of Love.  
And here Gallants are fight Scenes for you;  
Nay, here is Huffing for you Hector's too.  
What the pox, Gentlemen, would you have more?  
YE are cloyed sure with the Atheist and the Whore.    

Epilogue (by a Woman) to the same Play, soon after the Royal Theatre was fired. 1678.  

'TIS very hard, whilst Fortune was our Foe,  
You should dissert us for her being so.  
We were your Favourites; and none before  
Lost that Preferment by their being poor.  
Small cause, that you should with that Whore conspire  
To send us Famine, 'cause she sent us Fire.  
The Scenes, composed of Oil and porous Fir,  
Added to th' Ruin of the Theatre.  
And 'twas a Judgement, in the Poet's Phrase,  
That Plays and Playhouse perished by a Blaze  
Caused by those gaudy Scenes that spoil good Plays.   

But why for this should we forsaken be?  
It was our House, alas! was burnt, not we.  
And yet from hence might some suspicion come,  
Since it first kindled in our lowest Room.  
The Fire did seize on all, both Brick and Wood;  
But we more lucky were in Flesh and Blood.   

If we be poor, what then? we're honest tho;  
And that's the thing, we fear, that loses you.  
If you, Gallants and Ladies, sometimes range  
Fro'th ' other House, it will not seem so strange;  
You know the brisk delightfulness of Change.  
Sure you, and they are cloyed ere this: One House  
Must needs be dull and tiresome, as one Spouse.  
By long Co-habiting, and Dowry too,  
They'll claim a Title, and a Right in you.  
Nay worse; with Age they heighten still their sense,  
Exacting more than due Benevolence.  
In extreme need such usage to pursue,  
Is damned Extortion, and ill Manners too.  
For by this trick you may be half undone;  
If now, when all the Misses are from Town,  
Each Suburb-sinner should exact a Crown.    

The HERO. 1678.  
To his Grace, the Duke of Monmouth, etc.  

WHen Wars were rumoured, or great dangers near,  
Mars then was sought, his Temples crowded were.  
From, You, great Sir, & from your flaming blade,  
Our Eden boasts her glory, and her aid.  
Not Eden only with your beams you gilled;  
But, like the Sun, shine upon every Field.  
'Tis duty than our Laurels we should bring,  
As Offerings to the Power that makes 'em spring.  
They 'mplore, great Sir, your Influence and your Aid;  
Laurels themselves! of Thunder not afraid!   

What Gen'ral e'er began with more renown,  
At once to guard the Mitre and the Crown?  
Charles is our jove, in's Conduct blest we are;  
And Monmouth is his Thunderbolt of War.  
Witness the French at Mastricht, who, with shame,  
Kindled their Valours at his generous Flame.  
You were the ruling Genius of the Field;  
Their empty Veins your Spirits only filled.  
You taught 'em how to conquer, raised their Name;  
'Twas you advanced their Trophies, lent 'em Fame.  
Which on a brave design you did bestow;  
That is, to make them fit to be your Foe.   

Raised by your Acts, at higher things they aim;  
To follow Monmouth is the Road to Fame.  
Europe, at their successful Arms amazed,  
Looked pale, and all its trembling Princes gazed.  
On Britain's mighty Monarch fixed their Eyes,  
Whose greater Puissance did more surprise.  
For English Conquests swiftly'r might advance,  
Since England, more than once, had conquered France.  
But then remembering Charles, as just, as great,  
His help, as their last Refuge, they entreat.   

Mons is besieged, and ready to be ta'en;  
Monmouth being absent, other hopes were vain.  
At your Approach the Gallic Flame expires:  
Thus does the Sun put out the weaker Fires.  
Your very Name did wearied Mons release,  
Made the French fly, and truckle to a Peace.  
Swift as the Lightning, and as piercing too!  
jove thus on's Eagle at the Giants flew.  
The ancient Romans did some fear betray,  
To opinion Victory, and force her stay.  
She, like their conquering Eagle, courts your hand,  
And will kill surer, by your Valour manned.  
What e'er she flies at must your Quarry be;  
Who can resist Monmouth and Victory?   

The fi'ry Mars is powerful in his Sphere;  
Yet loses Virtue when concerned elsewhere:  
Our Mars a general influence can afford;  
There is his Sphere where ere he draws his Sword.  
In such Exploits Caesar was never skilled,  
First to make France to conquer, then to yield.  
Thus AEolus with his impetuous Bands,  
Charging the Lybian Deserts, drives the Sands  
Into a Mountain, which his Trophy stands.  
Till changing sides, he rallies in the Air  
His Troops, and then commands to sound to War:  
The lofty Pageant tumbles to the Ground,  
And's Trophy now is in its Ruins found.    

The MIRROR. 1679.  
Presented to the Honourable Mrs. Byron.  

GOod Fortune! now at last be fond;  
And give me that bright Diamond  
O'th' great Mogul: when it appears,  
Sunlike, it routs his lesser Stars.  
Here Phoebus fixing all his Rays,  
Made it but one compacted Blaze.  
It is so weighty, that it's said  
To be by Ounce, not Caracts, weighed.  
As tho to lessen Pride, 'twas meant  
For Burden, not for Ornament.   

Had I this Gemm (your Merits due)  
It I would sacrifice to you.  
Pure Incense! where no Smoke aspires,  
Kindling itself with native fires.  
But now, alas! I have not time  
To post to so remote a Clime!  
Nay, when at Agra, or Lahore,  
May be, the sullen Emperor  
Would keep his Diamond, I'll not try;  
And yet speed better, though more nigh.   

Presents should hold proportion due  
To th' Persons they are offered to.  
And mine's a Mirror darting rays,  
That Diamonds, and Sun outblaze.  
The Crystal I this Winter chose  
From drops of Helicon new froze.  
The Glass, I, with some Art designed;  
With Truth instead of Silver lined.  
A Lining! that rich Tissue shames;  
Brighter than are Meridian beams.  
So heavenly rich! to make 'em shine  
It does the Vests of Cherubs line.   

Being thus prepared, It shows to you  
An Object worthy of your view:  
Wit, Greatness, Virtue, Beauty, Worth,  
At once in glorious Crowds break forth:  
And from two shining Casements fly:  
Like Angels shooting through the Sky.  
Whose Rosie-blood, Dame Nature strains  
Through Lilly-cheeks, and Violet-veins.  
Whose Scarlet, Lancaster once wore,  
His Rose dipped in that precious store,  
Turned Red, a Damask-rose before.  
Her whom I faintly here express,  
Your modesty denies to guess.  
Until my Glass, being heavenly true,  
Reflects yourself, and speaks it you.    

The HIEROGLIPHIC. 1679.  
To the Honourable Mrs. Byron, having pleased to send me curious and significant Draughts of her Ladyships own hand, in way of Hieroglifics.  

COuld I, like you, my Pencil use;  
Or had command of such a Muse;  
All other Artists I'd outdo,  
By coming something near to you.  
But as poor Dreamers oft conceit,  
Were they in fortune rich and great,  
They'd live, and spend at such a rate.  
So had I your Estate in Wit,  
Like you, methinks, I'd manage it.  
Pallas (that charming Goddess) she  
Should serve instead of Muse, to me.  
Enthroned she should Queen Regent sit,  
And better rule my frothy wit.  
As powerful Cynthia both guides  
Th' unruly Sea, and all her Tides.   

Your drops of Ink, like those i'th' Spring  
Both Violets, Roses, Lilies, bring.  
Your Fruit-trees equal Wonders show;  
Both bear at once and blossom too;  
The Spring and Autumn's both in you.  
Your planted Vines, i'th' infant Stems,  
Seem to bud forth their blushing Gems.  
Apelle's self would be mistaken;  
Both Birds and He could not refrain.  
When you, with Grass, cloth fancied fields,  
They feed those Flocks your Pencil yields,  
And what does greater Wonders show,  
Your Ink's the Milk that makes 'em grow.  
When you draw Birds we wondering stand,  
And swear they fly from out your hand.  
Here Tyanaeus Art is gained;  
And we their Voices understand.  
When you a pleasant River limm,  
Your Ink's the Stream where Fishes swim.  
Nature's Defects you here recruit,  
And Proverbs cross, they are not mute.  
Your imitating Pencil can  
First form, and then put Life in Man.  
Each Shadow, Rib-like, can relieve  
Your newmade Adam with an Eve.  
Your Art, more strong than that of Fate,  
Can liveless things even animate.  
Your Trees Dodona's influence share,  
And are, like them, Oracular.  
Your very Shadows set out Light;  
What is your Day, if such your Night?  
Your Pindust is not vainly hurled;  
It's very Atoms make a World.  
You th' Hieroglyphic-Art revive;  
In Egypt dead, in you alive.  
Thence Learning took its happy flight:  
So from the East first shot the Light.  
What Admiration's then your due?  
How much is Art itself obliged to you?  
Since Madam you can make a World and it enlighten too.    

MERIT Rewarded. 1679.  
To the Right Honourable William Lord Byron, upon the Death of Rich. Lord B. his Father.  
ANcient has been the use to mourn in Verse;  
And Poets, more than Heralds, graced the Hearse.  
The sacred heat that did their Breasts inflame,  
By Muses fanned, kindled the breath of Fame.  
Hence to diviner heights did Worth aspire,  
And brighter shined than in the Funeral Fire.  
To Heroes only did their Verse belong;  
Immortal Acts found an immortal Song.  
'Twas Merit than did only purchase Praise;  
Nor could a Crown of Gold bribe one of Bays.  
Your noble Father their choice Skill had tried;  
Had he in those days either lived or died.  
And though I am unfit to sing his Name,  
This Epitaph I sacrifice to Fame.  

The Epitaph.  

ILlustrious Byron Justice found;  
Being four times crowned.  
From noble Ancestors did get A Coronet.  
Then loyal Valour did bequeath A Laurel wreath.  
His Sufferings Martyr's glory found With Roses crowned.  
Nothing can add to his great Story, But that of Glory.   

My Lord,  
I shall not vainly mourn his doom,  
Since he dropped fully ripe into his Tomb:  
Yet loaded more with Glory than with Days,  
Hence with my Cypress then, and reach me Bays.  
My Muse, like to its Subject, should be bright,  
And, like to Roman Mourners, clad in White.  
When first his Death was told, her Tears she shed;  
And, like moist Lilies, drooped her dewy head.  
Pearls thus at midnight fall from Luna's eyes,  
But are again dried up at Sol's uprise.   

Hail than Restorer of our Joys! shine bright,  
And with thy Cynthia join in sheets of Light.  
Increase your noble Stock: Thus Persians say  
The Queen of Night joins with the King of Day;  
And, curtained in Eclipses, there they get  
That shining Brood that in the Skies are set.     

ARREARS. 1679.  
To the Honourable Mrs. Chaworth.  

TO you I have such Rents to pay;  
In Policy I should not stay;  
If from my self I knew to run away.   

Your Cottage though is in repair;  
The inward Rooms well furnished are;  
The Windows glazed, and Roof new thatched with Hair.   

Your Tenant clad in Scarlet Vest,  
Carouzing Claret of the best  
Within the Lodging-Chamber of my Breast.   

High fares he with no ill intent;  
For if he starve,— You lose your Rent;  
Since none, but he, can farm the Tenement.   

My hopes of thriving are decayed;  
Wire-drawing Wit in Rhyme's my Trade;  
And I no store of Bullion have for aid.   

Small stocks in Country trades may do;  
Even Pedlars there deserve a view:  
As little Gold beat thin will make a show.   

A smutty Fancy, or bald jest,  
Profaneness in Hobb's Livery dressed,  
Serve for a Session's charge, or Churching-Feast.   

This will not do in London-Town;  
Not trusting without Money down:  
Hence are their very Laureates Bankrupts grown.   

Nor strange; Times so expensive are:  
The Tripos once required less care  
To manage well, than now a Barbar's Chair.   

To woe a Lady till she's fit,  
Needs now more cost of Plot and Wit,  
Than formerly to wed, and Children get.   

Sack's influence once inspired the brain:  
'Tis well if now it can maintain  
Fit Repartees for th' Drawers witty Vein.   

The Coffe-houses now admit  
More Critics, than the very Pit;  
As prodigal of Treason, as of Wit.   

Besides all these expensive ways;  
I lavished out, and writ two Plays;  
Catching at Hope, I nothing got but Bays.   

Into the Country quite undone,  
My Muse and I, both Bankrupts, run:  
Like wand'ring Luther, with his barefoot Nun.    

The RENT due. jan. 1. 1679.  
To the same.  

LAst years expense has made me frugal grown:  
Your Rent I saved, although so long in Town.  
Wit is not current now; the humou'rs hot  
I' th' Town, to talk of nothing but the Plot.  
No Age a greater wonder hath revealed;  
The more discovered 'tis, 'tis more concealed.  
Thus some late Poets of their Phoebus write;  
His Highness hidden is by too much light.  
But lest my different fate (an obscure name)  
Should prejudice the title of your Claim;  
● have surveyed th' Estate, and Cottage too,  
In this short Draught I here present to you.   

Three Stories high, upon an Arch 'tis placed;  
Two Windows in the Front with Crystal glazed;  
A double Door; the Leaves of Coral made,  
Which to the House, 'twixt Rails of Pearls conveyed  
A supple Porter in his Lodge does wait  
To welcome every Guest that passed the Gate.  
On either side the Door, two Spots of Snow;  
Discoloured now, where Roses once did grow.  
Two Tunnels to convey the thickened Wind,  
Raised by the heat, not yet to flame refined.  
Of Bones, the Roof did like a Cupo show;  
Thatched o'er with Straw that on the Soil did grow.  
Worn thin with time; to keep out Wind and Rain,  
The Cupo warmly coated is again.  
The bony frame daubed with a mudwall case,  
Refined by th' Furnace of its native place.  
The lower Rooms mean Offices contain,  
And cleanly kept, through which the Kennels drain.   

I' th' second Story, Places choicely dressed;—  
And first, the Presence-Chamber, where does rest,  
In fitting state, the Monarch of the breast.  
The Dining-Room, where Ventiducts are set  
To bring refreshments for excessive heat.  
And Stoves (which wisest Nature there did frame,  
Like Vestal-hearths) to save the dying flame.  
A sacred Fount does in the Centre rise,  
Rich as the Spring that watered Paradise.  
Th' Egyptian Queen who quaffed a Kingdom up,  
Infusing Pearls into her wanton Cup;  
The Draughts compared, ours have by far the odds;  
This was the Nectar of the Demy Gods.  
And looks as though that blushing Queen of Gems  
(The Ruby) were dissolved into these Streams.  
Hence Princes are in this rich Colour dressed;  
Since Life itself shines in a Scarlet-Vest.   

And now am I to the third Story come;  
The highest, and, alas, the weakest Room!  
That once Experience would but cross the Jest,  
And prove the highest Chamber furnished best.  
For Knowledge (Nature's guide) should quarter there,  
And judgement, her most trusty Counsellor.  
Invention, Memory, and Wit, should stay;  
And all their Treasures in this Turrit lay.  
But for such Guests I have no fitting Room;  
Or if I had, I've no such Guests to come.  
If you vouchsafe it, You must from your store  
(Like Princes) send your Furniture before.   

I've here designed a Draught with little cost,  
To stand a Landmark, lest your Claim be lost.  
And mighty Purchasers, for want of heed,  
Oft leave out petty Parcels in the Deed.  
When Alexander did the East subdue,  
(And he no conqueror was, compared to you)  
Amidst his many Trophies of renown,  
Summing the Audit, he had lost a Crown.    

The PROROGATION. 1679.  
To the Honoured Sir Scroop How, Knight of the Shire for Nottinghamshire.  

SOme good from Prorogations come;  
Since, worthy Sir, they send you home.  
We Country- men did want you more,  
Than did the Courtiers heretofore.  
Your presence will advance our fates,  
As much as it has their Estates.  
Be kind to us, and no more give;  
They'll suffer you at home to live.   

Love is not only hear more true;  
But it is also safer too.  
I' th' bargain they are much mista'ne,  
Who pay for pleasure and buy pain.  
No Popish Plots disturb our Nights;  
We sleep, or wake to safe delights.  
They surely find a dreadful state,  
Who burning fear from Love or Hate.  
No saucy Politics we read;  
Nor shoot our bolts who shall succeed.   

To Law, and Gospel we refer it;  
Let them decide who must inherit.  
Who, without these, thinks of the Crown;  
We need not fight, nor pray him down.   

We here hate nothing but the French,  
Their Wine, their Worship, and their Wench.  
Welcome, dear Sir, to your true Friends;  
Who love you only for your ends.  
For your own worth you are desired;  
By all, but by yourself admired.  
Nay, you are loved by more men here,  
Than you, or I, loved Women there.    

The WELCOME.  
To the right Honourable the Lady Anne whither.  
THe archest Cheats to London get,  
Yet London is the archest Cheat.  
Most there i' th' gentle-craft combine;  
Both Courtier, Lawyer, and Divine.  
Methinks, their arrogance is odd,  
To rob both King, the Law, and God.  
London! repent for what is past;  
Thou mak'st us fair amends at last.  
You, Madam, and your health repay  
All Treasures, it e'er took away.  
For all the millions we have last,  
We here get Damages and Cost.  
Your presence will decay its store;  
And we shall now complain no more.  
Then fit Returns must needs be sought,  
For all these blessings you have brought.  
Our services, our prayers, and we,  
Long since were your propriety.  
And though all these belong to you;  
Here we present 'em to your view,  
Their claim of interest to renew.  
Then, Madam, you can never fail  
Of hearty welcomes from the Vale;  
The noble house from whence you came,  
Vouchsafing Honour, and its Name.  
Our joy (that health o'th' Soul) we give  
For th' health of Body, you receive.  
But we have better things than these,  
More worthy you, and fit to please.  
To make this bold assertion good;  
Behold th' Elixirs of your blood.  
Fair transcripts of your noble mind;  
Rich proofs Sir Scroop and you are kind.  
Sure-vouchers of a future bliss;  
Hopes of the next Ages, Joys of this.  
May Sons and Daughters live t' inherit  
Both Father's and the Mother's Spirit.  
Love then may justly Trophies build;  
For they will surely win the Field,  
When all, both Men and Women yield.   

BEAUTY'S MONARCHY. 1679.  
To the Honourable Mr. Bridget Noel, vouchsafing a Favour.  

VErse, without truth, is a dark Day;  
Where peeping glimpses play,  
Without the favour of one shining ray.   

When Poets leave fictitious Dreams;  
Apollo gilds their Themes,  
Smiling upon 'em with auspicious beams.   

Accoutred thus, He courts your sight;  
And you reflect his light:  
Like polished Crystals making it more bright.   

The treasures of his blazing Mine  
All objects else refine;  
Your Eyes alone gild o'er his Silver shine.   

'Tis you out-influence the Sun;  
His Charter is outdone;  
You make me Poet, who before were none.   

The Statue thus that Memnon made,  
Was silent in the shade:  
Struck with the Sunbeams vocal Music played.   

No greater Treason can their be,  
Than your own modesty;  
Refusing Universal Monarchy.   

Apollo with his Troops though stands,  
Like the Praetorian Bands,  
Forcing the Empire on unwilling hands.   

Enthroned you sit on glorious blaze;  
Disdaining Laurels, Bays,  
Glories incirc'ling you of your own Rays.   

Dazzled to death by your fierce Beams,  
We but refine our Fames:  
Like Martyrs glorying in the purging Flames.   

But if your pity cool your Eye,  
And will not let us die;  
Like Confessors, our Faith we'll not deny.   

With Roses than I shall be crowned,  
Tho Bays cannot be found;  
Living, or Dying, your Rewards abound.   

I must be just, though I am vain:  
My Conscience bears no stain  
Though zeal, for you, makes me a Puritan.   

With all Devotion I confess  
Beauty, than Goodness Less;  
Yet yours so great, it would an Angel bless.   

Your goodness though must greater be;  
Too large for Quantity;  
Since, oh, it did vouchsafe to think of me!   

Gifts than are duly entertained,  
And in a right light stand;  
When we regard the Persons whence th' are gained.   

In our Inferiors, Bribes they are;  
To gain a better share:  
As some for Riches, barter breath in Prayer.   

When from our Equals they are sent;  
They are but favours lent  
By Tenants to be stopped in the next Rent.   

Superiors, in the meanest thing,  
Not gifts, but honours bring:  
As when a Knighthood is vouchsafed by th' King.   

Yours, Madam, goes a higher rate,  
And brings a richer fate;  
Since you conferred both honour and Estate   

Greater acknowledgements are due;  
I owe myself to you;  
For you both graced, enriched, and blest me too.  
Blessed I must be; for whilst I rate  
The virtues of your state,  
The World may fall in love, and imitate.  
Inspired thus with a sacred rage,  
To be your Poet I engage:  
Then whilst I sing your praises right,  
The World will be converted by't,  
And I the Apostle of this Heath'nish Age.    

TRUE NOBILITY. 1679.  
Upon the Death of the Right Honourable John Earl of Rutland, etc.  

THat little God within, the spark divine, (shine;  
Which does, i'th' Body, through the Windows  
Whose influence here dresses us up a Name;  
And, after Death, revives us in our fame:  
Whose sprightly salt preserves the Body whole  
In all its Parts, 'twould else stink out the Soul:  
Which, whilst incarnate, is exactly dressed;  
For Scarlet both keeps warm, and lines the Vest.  
It is the Sun that makes these Diamonds bright;  
Dark drops! till he has lined 'em through with light.  
How vainly we employ our sensual Eyes,  
When we the beauties of the Body prize?  
Useless the Lantern is, and dark as Night,  
When Death's cold blast puffs out the trem'lous Light.   

Whilst tenanted, the House is in repair,  
Built with Mud-walls of Flesh, and thatched with Hair.  
But when the Tenants gone, 'tis ruined quite:  
And who can stay Death's cold and darksome Night,  
When Fire's extinguished, and put out the Light?   

Yet ruin'd Temples still command our care,  
And Stones, that made the Altar, sacred are.  
For common use they should not be profaned,  
But in some choice Repositary stand;  
Till by some pious resolution blest,  
Once more they're fitted for the former Guest.   

Great Rutland's Relics may more reverence claim,  
Than ever yet from Superstition came.  
And 'tis but just— that we to Altars run,  
Whence Blessings came, and Miracles were done.  
What could from Manors less expected be;  
Sprung from Fourth Edward's Royal Progeny?  
Great York to plant his Roses here thought good,  
Painting their Snow with drops of Mannor's blood.  
But least th'advantages of so much cost,  
Should in those azure Labyrinths be lost;  
A glorious Mark eighth Henry did bestow;  
That future Ages might the honour know.  
No greater favour could the fame advance;  
Graced with the Arms of England, and of France.   

But I disturb his Dust with these bald Rhymes!  
Dust when interred, Bells cease their jangling Chimes.  
Yet Love, Respect, and Truth, so fan my fire;  
And from their flowing stores my breast inspire;  
That like the Prophet, they supply my Muse  
(That needy Widow) with a springing Cruse.  
My Standish drained, the Fountain bubbles still;  
The fruitful Subject thrives upon my Quill.  
When other strengths, before their time, are spent:  
As Roses, by long handling, lose their scent.   

True heats of Zeal did in his Actions glow;  
A warmth, that frozen Age does seldom know:  
And yet his Spring was hot, for all his Snow.  
Thus Fires o' th' Altar, that from Heaven first came,  
For many ages did preserve the flame.  
His cheerful looks did represent his mind;  
Through crystal of his Eyes his candour shined.  
Transparent were his thoughts, his virtues known:  
Through Tagus' streams, the golden Sands were shown.   

His Charity fell like the Morning Dew,  
As beneficial, and as constant too.  
His prayers to Heaven, from Heaven did blessings gain:  
As Vapours, sent from Earth, descend in rain.   

This was the blessed Circle he did frame;  
So went his Soul to Heaven, from whence it came.  
The towering Falkon thus herself does screw  
In airy Rings, till almost lost to view;  
Then perches on that Hand whence first she flew.  
Whilst daily crowds his liberal Alms did gain,  
How glorious he appeared with such a Train?  
Far more than those ostentuous Pomp's now shown;  
Begg'ring the Country, to enrich the Town.  
Whose Goodness, like their Greatness, is mere show;  
Like Winds, whose Being's only while they blow.  
Their Names are lost in the deep calm of death;  
And, Vapour-like, their fame fades with their breath.   

Had I a Wreath of Bays, I'd lay it down;  
And Cypress should my Muse's temples crown.  
She, and her Sisters leave to boast their pride  
In their extraction, by the Fathers- side;  
Lay by their Vests, spun of the Morning Rays,  
And trimmed with Mid-day-beams, like golden lace;  
Courting their Aunt, (the Queen of Night) to gain  
Mourning, of that same stuff did make her Train.  
Accoutered thus in fitting state sh'appears;  
Pensive as Midnight, all bedewed with tears.    

NEW LIBANUS. 1679.  
To the Right Honourable Catharine Countess of Rutland; Upon the Blessings brought to that (well-near-extinguisht Family) by Herself and Honourable Issue.  

Honoured Madam,  
IF I'm o're-bold, Zeal makes the error less;  
For Zeal is but Devotion in excess.  
If it more forward pressed than you required,  
'Tis my Soul's warmth by agitation fired,  
Such Zeal, and true Devotion, are the same;  
Or only differ, as do Heat, and Flame;  
That cherishes itself; but Zeal incites  
The World, to imitate its blazing lights.  
Praises to sing, and Powers to admire,  
Are the chief Descants of the heavenly Quire.   

'Tis fame enough, that I have led the way,  
And tuned the Strings for skilful hands to play.  
They may advance th' inventions of my Muse:  
As Sciences improve with time, and use.  
In primitive Professors, all confess  
Their Zeal devouter, though their Knowledge less.  
By no Divinity inspired, but you;  
I am your Poet, and your Prophet too.  
Rare Subject! where all Poetry may strain;  
And never be aspersed, that it does feign.  
Where Fancy most exalted, seems to be  
Plain Demonstration, and true History.  
It easy is for Prophets to divine;  
When blessings clearly through your Actions shine.  
Bright Issue, from such Springs as surely streams,  
As Sol and Luna propagate their beams.   

Belvoir's an Orb so great, Both there unite;  
And thence your Infant-Stars derive their Light.  
As glorious, and as lasting, may they prove;  
Those hopeful Products of your mutual love.  
Great-Rutland, with these Prospects closed his Eyes;  
And joyful, like prophetic jacob, dies.   

How should we celebrate your precious Womb;  
That this Age blesses, and the next to come?  
Past Ages fitting recompenses found;  
Bellies of fruitful Princesses were crowned.  
O! that your Royal Namesake could but set  
A Crown as sure, as you a Coronet!  
Your pregnant Soil, rich as are Indian Beds;  
Where one Rose blows, soon as another sheds.  
Fruitful as flowing Nilus, that ne'er swells,  
But future blessings to its Country tells.  
Like Gideon's Fleece, drenched with Celestial dew;  
Whilst tears are all the Moisture others knew.  
By friendly Fate, your happy Lord's allowed  
To meet a juno in a fruitful Cloud.  
Fruitful as those i' th' Spring when blessings pours,  
Upon the Earth, and Silver melts in showers.   

Nor are your poor, by these expenses grown;  
No more, than mid-day-beams exhaust the Sun.  
What issues from your Orb adds to your shine:  
As fragrant Blossoms crown the Gessamine.  
You, by those dear reflections, are more bright:  
So Stars (those seeds o' th' Sun) rob not his light.  
Nay you are fairer, as more happy found:  
Some Seeds there are improve the Mother-Ground.   

You, than the Foundress, I should more have praised,  
Since you uphold the Fabric that she raised.  
She, like Pygmalion did the Image give;  
But you the Goddess are that makes it live.    

BELVOIR. 1679.  
A Pindaric Poem; being a faint draught of that most noble Edifice, with some Characters of the late Noble Founder, Owners, and their Matches.  

The DEDICATION.  
To the Right Honourable Jo. Earl of Rutland, etc.  

THE greatest Orator, 
M. T. Cic.  and Statesman said  
(May be the greatest ever Nature made,  
Where grace designed no aid)  
That if a heave'nly Guest confined below,  
Might none o' th' shining wonders show;  
The fretting secret would corrode his mind,  
And, Viperlike, a passage find:  
So some o' th' Wonders that in Belvoir are,  
And Belvoir ' self I must declare!  
Tho my Description has not equal grace,  
Unworthy of the Place;  
It may perform its trust,  
And serve to keep away Time's dust,  
By closing it within this Paper-case.   

Such draughts of Poetry let none reject;  
Fancy is no vain Architect;  
Building cannot make it poor;  
Of shining Quarrys it has store.  
Apollo makes, and then refines  
Its unexhausted golden Mines,  
Until the Treasury runs o'er.  
Kings in mighty actions skilled;  
And their Exchequers filled,  
Then fit they are  
Vast stately Pyles to rear!  
Yet Poets can more lasting Structures build.   

Armida's Castle will make good the boast,  
Founded on poor Tasso's cost.  
Our rambling Braves advance  
The empty gaieties of France:  
And yet the Lovure is not equal seen,  
To th' Palace of our Fairy Queen  
Spain's vast Escurial is o'erwhelmed with shame,  
When we Sol's glorious Palace name,  
Whose beauties yet are in their prime,  
Tho built by Ovid in Augustus' time!  
A Paper-building! but his Ink well tempered all the Lime.   

My Lord, I'm none of those,  
Who are so vain to think  
That Verse, with all its Rhyming clink  
Hides folly more than Prose.  
Embroidered Coats may make one brave;  
But neither hide a Fool or Knave,  
For gaudy trappings did expose  
Esop's proud Ass both to contempt and blows.  
And yet we must confess  
Dull prose or Rustic dress  
Conceals not ignorance nor makes it less.  
Witness our worse times;  
Paul's oratory suffered loss,  
By many an idle Gloss:  
As David's Poetry by Hopkin's Rhymes.  
It matters not how we our thoughts rehearse,  
Whether in Prose or Verse.  
So we transcribe but right and fair,  
What Copies of our Minds declare.  
Honest Intents  
Make Love and Truth their choicest Ornaments.   

In these last days  
The Soul of Wit decays!  
Weaker its Efforts are seen;  
As is observed of the Poet's Bays;  
They are less fruitful and less green.  
'Tis the World's Dotage; and we grow  
Less good, less healthy, and less witty too.  
If Fate could any thing contrive  
To cross this Rule that is too true;  
This Theme would Poetry revive,  
And make my Fancy brisk, and strong, and new.  
Such as great Virgil, Lucan, Horace writ,  
(Those Triumvirs of Wit!)  
That triumphed over Ignorance;  
And by their Choice, not Chance,  
An Empire raised; to which all Poet's bow,  
From their days, even till now.  
And never Rebel did against their Laws advance.   

Their strengths of Thought were great;  
Aided by celestial heat.  
Their Brains were warmed with praise,  
Mecaena's Favours, and fresh Wreaths of Bays.  
Their Heads were heated Stills;  
And Spirits dropped from Noses of their Quills.  
But in these cooler days,  
(And Winter Evenings, ah! are cold!)  
The frosty humour of the Age benumbs  
Our Brains, hence nothing flows but Rheums;  
Thin sickly Products of neglected Wit.  
For now rewards of Gold  
Are hard to get,  
As that rare Stone that Chemists say produces it.  
Who can avoid Despair and Rage,  
To see  
Caesar, Maecenas, Poetry,  
Confined to one Age?  
The two choice Blessings from above,  
Are Wit and Love.  
Love gains all Empire, makes the World submit;  
Wit is chief minister to govern it.  
Yet both these mighty things decay,  
And, if neglected, will not stay:  
They bring all Blessings from above.  
This, this, methinks, should great and rich men move.  
Without Reward, farewel both Wit and Love.   

But stay!  
Before mine go away,  
I'll give one struggle more.  
If I expire,  
My Theme can, like strong Cordials, restore  
My wasting Wit,  
And cherish it;  
As Spirits numbed recruit with fire.  
Thus Priests when they did Oracles record;  
Those Powers inspired, which they themselves adored.    

To the Reader of the following Poem.  
FAvour I shall not hawk to gain;  
The Quarry is already ta'en.  
For all that can be done or said,  
I largely am beforehand paid.  
The Foetus thus is paid i'th' Womb  
For all its Services to come.  
My Duty then thou shouldst not blame,  
Nor that this Smoke attests my Flame.  
Enthusiasts cannot Pleasures own,  
Until they make their Visions known.  
St. Paul himself was not content  
Till he had published where he went.  
heavens glory to the World appears,  
Printed in golden Characters.  
This Subject aught to have been writ  
From such a shining Alphabet  
The Pen made of a pointed Ray,  
Shaken from the golden Wing of Day.  
Yet shining Works upon dark ground  
Will more apparently be found:  
Eclipses so make Gazers run  
To look upon the darkened Sun;  
And yet behind the Cloud he's bright,  
ne'er lessened in his proper Light.  
However I the Story tell,  
Since pleased I have, I have done well.  
An Architect should chiefly try  
To please the Owner's Mind and Eye,  
But others only by the Buy.  
Yet, Reader, if thou favour grant,  
I'll cherish what I do not want.  
It amongst my precious Stores I'll lay  
For Refuge in a stormy day.  
A Cloak in Summer is not vain,  
Since Sunshine days may end in Rain.   

BELVOIR.  
A Pindaric Poem, or a faint Draught of that stately Fabric; with some short Characters of the Noble Founders, Owners, with their Alliances. 1679.  

I Must not be  
A Schismatic in Poetry;  
Conform I will, and follow th'mode;  
My Pegasus shall amble in the beaten Road.  
Thou, noble Lord, shalt be  
Maecenas and Apollo too to me.  
O that I could a Virgil be to thee!  
Vouchsafe that I may choose  
Thy fair and virtuous Lady to my Muse.  
And if at want of number some repine;  
Rapt with Poetic Fury, I divine  
Your Fervours shall not rest,  
Till blest  
With infant Muses to make up the Nine.  
Let Belvoir be  
Parnassus then to me.  
At the foot of this bright Mountain,  
Springs a sacred Fountain; 
The 〈◊〉   
Whose spacious Veins continually run  
With precious liquor, passing Helicon;  
By which Jove's Nectar is outdone.  
Each Butt's a pregnant Womb of Wit,  
Where Poetry lies in the Embryo yet:  
Oh, for the Butler now to midwife it!   

Imperial Mount! we must allow  
Another Crown, besides the Castle, to thy brow.  
Thy beauty, strength, and state,  
Are so incomparably great,  
That Truth itself must tell,  
'Tis pity, as it is impossible,  
That thou shouldst yield to Fate.  
It cannot then a Superstition be,  
To say to thee,  
Illustrious Belvoir, hail!  
Thou Honour giv'st, and Title to a Vale  
More pleasant, more rich, than that of Thessaly.   

Those Stairs, by which we to the Castle mount,  
We justly may account  
Conductive to more Glory,  
Than ever yet was read in Story;  
Unless the Patriarehs Ladder step between;  
And yet that only in a Dream was seen.  
Look! how the neighbouring Hill there swells with pride,  
Because it found the Grace,  
To have its place  
Next to the Monarch-mountain's side.  
With several Shades of Greene's 'tis quilted o'er,  
And chequered with delightful store  
Of various Flowers,  
The Offsprings of fresh April Showers.   

Too much Irreverence would be seen, 
The Hill on which the Castle stands.   
To observe the Handmaid, & neglect the Queen.  
The Atlas of our hope! whose Shoulders bear  
A World of Beauties and of Glories too;  
Or it more likely may appear  
Olympus to our view.  
Where jove and juno sit enthroned;  
With lesser Deities encompassed round.  
No Mountain ever nobler crowned!  
This Castle has more Blessings gained,  
Than to be founded on a Hill of Sand;  
On barren Rocks, whose Precipices fright  
The Gazer from his wished delight.  
Other mean Hills some despicable Turrets show,  
Like Warts upon a Brow.  
Some like Usurers are seen,  
Tho homely clothed, yet richly clad within.  
With Sand (plain Russet) clad,  
Or, what's as bad,  
A grass-green Vest, but so threadbare,  
That Earth (the naked skin o'th' Mountain) does appear.  
Within 'tis true they may be rich and bright;  
But, like the Sun at night,  
Below our Hemisphere, their Beams are out of sight.   

Our Atlas looks not shabbily and bare;  
His Arms, Thighs, Legs, all covered are  
With a rich mantle of eternal Green,  
As in the other Paradise was seen.  
Our Mountain's vast and brave;  
With Nature's Architrave.  
Cornice, and Frieze,  
Of ever green and fruitful Trees;  
Whose fruits entice  
To hope, not lose a Paradise.  
When Flora is i' th' midst of all her pride;  
And all the Trees clothed on the Mountain side;  
How pleasant 'tis to see them grow,  
Each sort in an alternate row?  
To see them imitate  
The World's unequal fate?  
Some Heads, than others feet, more low;  
And yet they grow;  
And sometimes are as useful and as fruitful too.  
The Bays and Laurels on the Mountain's brow,  
Make a most noble show.  
With conquerors, and Heroe's Wreaths 'tis crowned,  
As fits a Mountain above all renowned.  
Then on the top are seen  
The lovely Walks, and stately Bowling green;  
Even on the tops of Trees,  
Like to the Gardens of Semiramis,  
In her great Babylon,  
No greater wonders could be shown.  
Our Turrits too we can display;  
As bright, and glorious as an Eastern day.  
Glories! that never shadows know;  
And look, with scorn, on Clouds below!  
Our Mountain outwardly is fine;  
Its Treasures through the top does shine.  
It is an everlasting East,  
Where a bright Sun has built her nest.  
Rich Vale! thy fruitfulness exceeds all sense;  
Blest with a double influence.  
Thou must with plenty flow;  
Enriched by one bright Sun above, and this below.   

Who ever views in starry Night,  
The heavenly Champaign fair and wide;  
With cloudy furrows ploughed on every side,  
And sown with glittering seeds of light.  
If he survey the fruitful field,  
And shining Crop around,  
To tell how many Bushels it may yield;  
Numberless they will be found,  
he'll find th' attempt more vain  
Than to tell Sands, or drops o'th' Ocean.  
For whilst, through searching Tube he Pries,  
To count the many golden Eyes,  
That grace great Juno's azure Train;  
(For Poets of her Bird did stories feign,  
Those thousand Eyes were Stars, her Ground the Skies)  
The more he looks, the more the number multiplies.  
So Belvoir's wonders to display,  
Is to count Atoms on a Sunshine day;  
Less numerous than they.  
The glorious Sun at Noon,  
When in his flaming Throne he stands;  
You may as soon  
Scrape up his shining Treasures, that are hurled  
About the World,  
And hold 'em in your hand.  
His vast Revenues, make not poor  
The Country, but increase its store:  
So Vapours paid to th' Sun from every ground,  
Pursed in a Cloud; when th' Seasons fit  
To open it;  
Then down the Liquid Silver pours  
In fruitful showers;  
And pays with interest the fields around.  
Here you may see  
The ancient English Hospitality;  
Where all their Neighbours seem o'th' Family.  
Here, like the Patriarch's feasts,  
Half of the World are Guests.  
And so proportioned is the care,  
An equal plenty they prepare;  
The Table's loaded o'er with choicest meats;  
And beautified with delicates;  
Impoverished is the Sea, the Earth, the Air.   

Look at that stately, and yet easy pride  
O'th' spacious Staircase, light as day;  
Yet easy to ascend, as down to slide.  
Blessed fate! if erring mortals may  
Find Heavn's Highway,  
But half so wide!  
None then can miss  
The road to bliss;  
Since both the left side, and the right,  
Surely does guide, and kindly does invite  
To Paradise.  
Wherever now I cast mine Eye,  
Such lively Pictures I espy;  
Methinks, the old Wife's tale is not a Lye.  
This seems the giant's Castle, where  
He seized on all that did appear;  
And being cruel, being strong,  
His living Guests upon the Walls he hung.  
Observe those costly Hangings there;  
How lively in their colours they appear:  
The Spring is in the Chambers all the year!  
The Gardens above Stairs are seen;  
The Lilies, Roses, Violets and Grass,  
Flourishing in their native place,  
Are not so white, so red, so blue, so green.  
Those Images i'th' Tapestry then note,  
There's Bignal got upon his Nag, 
Servant's Names.   
Sir Charles, Tantarra, Bentley, Crag,  
Has each a Persian Coat.  
See the rich Furniture in all the Rooms!  
Floors spread with Carpits, weaved in Turkey Looms!  
Beds soft, and costly, they may vie  
With those whereon luxurious Asian Princes lie!  
And yet, most noble Lord, we find  
They do not captivate thy mind,  
So much as please thine Eye.  
In each place Miracles abound!  
Rich Parian Quarries are in Chimney Pieces found.  
Belvoir! thou must the World's chief wonder be;  
Since Nature is turned up-side down for thee.  
Thelofty Fir stoops down thy Floors to frame:  
And though laborious Miners cry,  
That Lead does at the Centre lie;  
Thylofty Roof is covered with the same.  
Now we are thither got, come let us try,  
If ever any Eye,  
A nobler, or a richer Prospect, did espy.  
If hither the great Owner move,  
He need not envy jove;  
Since all's his own, that does beneath him lie.  
Nor is the Metaphor too bold!  
For, Reader, if thou didst behold  
All his great things; thou wouldst confess  
All Metaphors went less  
Than these great truths, which stretched Hyperboles can but express.  
Mind there the Valleys richly dressed  
With Ceres favours blest.  
That spacious Cornfield there behold;  
Look how the Wind ruffles its Ears!  
Methinks it now appears  
Rolling with Waves, like to a Sea of Gold.  
Now let us Westward try,  
Where we those thick curled Heads of Oaks espy,  
Under whose shades are pleasant Groves;  
Where if this rude degenerate Age,  
Were not debauched with lustful rage?  
Shepherds and Nymphs might exercise their loves.  
Amidst these Groves, is sometimes seen  
The Castle's and the Woods fair Queen.  
Who when (i th' Spring) she does there ride,  
(The Spring's, and Nature's pride.)  
Diana, and her Nymphs, are quite out-vy'd.  
Hark! hark! what noise is that?  
Some Huntsman winding a Rechate.  
Look how th' affrighted Herd (like to the rest  
O'th' World forsake a Friend distressed!  
There, there, the hunted Buck does go  
So swift, that Swallows fly more slow.  
The Hounds now follow!  
Listen to their Cry;  
The Huntsmen ride, and hollow!  
If you trust either Ear or Eye;  
Their echoing Mouths fright Thunder back,  
The swifter Steeds outride the Rack  
Of gliding Clouds, when Tempests vex the Sky.  
Admire this gallant place!  
Surrounded with a large, and noble Chase!  
The Deer, although at liberty, here stay;  
And, in mere gratitude ne'er go astray.  
'Tis princely, and but seldom found  
Such Herds to breed; And after feed  
Then hunt, and kill;  
And all this still.  
Ne'er out of his own ground.  
Thrushes and Blackbirds in his Bushes bred  
And only with his Berries fed:  
Out of his vast Demesnes they cannot fly;  
They hop upon his Ground, they hover in his Sky:  
They were in his Dominions bred, and there must die.  
And what is more!  
It has the blessings of an inward store.  
Not as some Beauties are;  
Foolish, and fair,  
And (what is scandal now) as poor  
Remotest treasures come  
To make it fit for the great Owners home.  
Vessels in China made,  
That in th' improving Soil were laid;  
By Artists, in the Golden age well known,  
As the rich workmanship will own.  
Skreens, and Cabinets here shine,  
That from japan were brought;  
Such as European Arts cannot design;  
Nor with its choicest treasures can be bought.  
Unless Columbus' traffic hold:  
Who Led, and Iron, trucked for Gold;  
Or where a Bead of Glass was found  
Fit value for a Diamond.  
Such Cost and Furnitures as these  
May make the Stranger-Reader guess  
That I must either feign;  
Or 'tis a place for Kings, to entertain  
Their courted Princesses.   

In its own ruins 'twas interred of late  
By violence, and hate  
Of Rebels, and conspiring Fate.  
No mortal force so strong could prove,  
One Stone from its foundation to remove,  
Till Bombards came;  
Whose thunder and whose flame  
Equalled, if not excelled th' Artillery of jove.  
Besieged by thousands it at last did yield  
As though 'twas requisite,  
No fewer hands should ruin it,  
Than did it build.  
In its own rubbish thus it lay:  
Until its noble Dame  
Designed its frame;  
And raised a Body out of its own Clay.  
The mighty Infant grew!  
Until it was a wonder, and delight  
To Passengers, nay, to the very Bvilder's view;  
And did command at once, and please the sight.  
The Legs, and Thighs, of massy Columns made;  
The Sinews of tough Lime all interlaid;  
Its ribs, and bones  
Of strong well-polisht Stones;  
And than its lofty head  
(Near neighbour to the Skies,)  
Was covered with a Cap of Lead;  
Of Crystal were its Eyes!  
In twenty years this great Colossus to its height did rise.   

Leave we to celebrate the Case.  
Let us the Diamond adore;  
For so was Rutland's Countess! nay, and more,  
The very Soul of this great place.  
Of humane things see the event!  
As't was the Glory, so the Monument  
Of the great Foundress; who might be  
Divested of mortality,  
Before, from her own Horeb, she to Heaven went.  
Tho Souls immortal are,  
Yet as their Bodies do decay,  
The faculties o'th' Soul are at a stay,  
And in th' infirmities o'th' Body share.  
A large, and vigorous Body, asks a Soul  
Of equal strength;  
Or else it will consume at length;  
Because it can't th' unequal bulk control.  
So having raised this glorious Frame;  
Thy noble Mother knew its bulk, and fame,  
Required a spirit suitable, to actuate the same.  
For now hers looked more high;  
Having done two such mighty things on Earth,  
To raise this Pyle, and give thee birth,  
Her next great thing was t' obtain Eternity.  
Yet left thee in a state,  
At once both to oblige the World, and Fate;  
If thou wilt her example imitate,  
Thou the succeeding Age must bless  
With a young Lord, as she with thee did this:  
The noble Name of Manors to perpetuate.  
How great a fate on thee depends;  
And glorious Causes must have glorious ends.  
Thy fair Consort may,  
With reason, all our expectations pay;  
And we may hopeful of such blessings be;  
Nay more, may claim a certainty  
From such a one as her, and such a one as thee.   

Little need is there to boast  
Of Rarities, brought from the Indian Coast.  
japan and China, though they be  
The Cabinets o'th' Asian Treasury;  
We need not thither roam;  
We have more precious Stores at home.  
Boughton, thou canst prove this true  
Boughton! the seat of noble Montague!  
The spreading Tree  
Of whose illustrious Pedigree,  
Boasts as from Eden it transplanted were;  
Whether you regard the Root,  
Or shining Fruit  
That it did bear.  
From Sals'bury's great Montacute it came!  
Of whom no further need be said;  
Under Fifth Henry's Ensigns he was bred;  
And at whose dreadful name,  
A Marshaled Army once of Frenchmen fled.  
Nor could less expected be  
From Third Edward's Progeny.  
Third Edward! that in Cressy Vale,  
First made the Golden Lilies pale,  
To make a deeper red.  
At last, those streams of Honour ran  
To Boughton's Montague, as to the Ocean.  
Too large to be confined there,  
It overflowed the Banks: that noble blood  
Swelled like a Silver-streaming Flood;  
Until it did begin,  
Two Earldoms more, to circle in;  
Of Sandwich, and of Manchester.  
Manchester shall not employ my Song:  
The Truth I will not, nor the Muses wrong,  
But both will purchase fame,  
By Sandwiche's ennobled name.  
Sandwich! our Nation's Phoenix! that expired  
In flames; in his rich Nest was fired.  
None ever greater died!  
He the Dutch-Navy, with one Ship, defied.  
He stood the mark of the whole War!  
Until our Navy were secured from fear.  
Then from his Ship did Smoke and flames arise!  
What nobler fame  
Can add to Mountagu's great Name,  
Than to fall England's Boast, and Sacrifice?   

What mighty hopes might needs ensue  
From Manors and from Montague?  
Manors,! a noble Bud! so richly set  
By all advantages of Fate;  
It was thought worthy to inoculate  
With a rich Branch of Great Plantagenet.  
Swelled was this hopeful Bud,  
With the red Roses blood,  
Strained through Fourth Edward's Veins!  
What remains,  
To make it more renowned?  
With France, and England's Arms 'tis crowned!  
Who better can such great Achievements bear,  
Than their great Issue, which do spring  
By both sides, from a King  
Related both to York and Lancaster?  
seven streams from this rich Fountain issued forth:  
seven Daughters hence derived their birth:  
Like the seven Planets that enrich the Earth.   

Muse! thou that noble Daeme hast crowned with Bays,  
That did this princely Fabric raise.  
The Theme will rich requitals give,  
If thou so long as she shall live.  
Enrolled in Fame's Records, than thou wilt last  
Till Time be passed:  
Till Death  
Shall stop the World's last breath;  
Till all its wind be gone  
And vanish in the tempest of a groan.  
Thou now must sing another Name,  
That can perfume the breath of Fame.  
That can command all praise,  
And with eternal verdure bless thy Bays.  
Whose merits like her Eyes do shine  
Whose Beauty's, like her Soul, Divine,  
'Tis, happy Lord, thy matchless Katherine!  
So much celestial fire  
Shines in her Eyes, as may inspire  
A narrower Soul than mine,  
To be Prophetic and Divine.  
Hence I declare, none ever was or is,  
Nor shall be more enriched with bliss,  
Than she, and Thou, and thine.  
Were not my Theme another thing;  
Oh! how would I her beauties sing?  
Ere long,  
That glorious Subject shall employ my Song.  
Till when the Reader may,  
By these faint glimpses guess at day.  
But ah! it is not meet,  
Thy Lady should lie in so course a sheet!   

Each motion has a grace;  
Her Presence charms at once, and does amaze.  
Eyes heavenly bright;  
Where joy, and Love are gilded with Light.  
Complexion such,  
As Art could never touch:  
Nor Nature yet has shown,  
But here alone.  
As Lilies white, dew-drencht as soon as born;  
And clear as Blushes of the rising morn.  
Fresh as when Peaches first their blooms disclose,  
Sweet as the Bud, new brought to bed o'th' Rose.  
And yet— Who would believe this curious Cabinet,  
Than Crystal clearer, and more rich than Gold,  
Is scarcely fit for th' jewel, that it does enfold?   

Wise Providence ordained Fate,  
(Fate! the Vicegerent here below;)  
For Rutland to provide a Mate,  
Fitting in birth, in fruitfulness, in show?  
And such a one they did create,  
Whose blood from honourable fountains flow.  
From noble Campdens, and great Lindsey's Veins,  
Her inward Scarlet show,  
Shall be preserved, whilst Time remains,  
In a Succession great, and blest, and true.  
Noel! that with the Norman Hero came;  
And aided his victorious claim;  
Thence gaining, and bestowing fame.  
‛ E'er since,— Great actions did convince  
That Loyalty waits on the name.  
True to the Crown, when up or down.  
Exulting in this noble pride,  
One, in the conquerors service, got renown;  
And one i'th' Service of the greater Martyr died,   

Than Lyndsey's Bertye what can greater be;  
True Offspring of great Vere and Willoughby?  
Valour and Loyalty attend each Name;  
Pretending equal claim  
Fruitful in Generals is their fate,  
Or in great Officers of State;  
And must this praise command;  
The Bertie's ready are to bring  
One of their House, to serve their King;  
With a Battoon, or a White-staff in hand.   

Here let Pindar pardon me,  
If it can be a fault;  
Among such warlike company,  
To make a Soldier's halt.     

Upon the Right Honourable R. Earl of Lyndsey, General under King Charles 1. at Edge-Hill (great Grandfather to the present Countess of Rutland) and Montague Lord Willoughby, his Son, bestriding him, when fallen in the Battle.  

GLory! thou brightest of alluring things;  
That add'st a Lustre to the Crowns of Kings;  
A shining Vest, by Heroes only worn,  
More rich than that which gilds a Summer's Morn.  
In this Attire illustrious Lindsey stands  
In Keynton-fields, before the Royal Bands:  
Thus did the glorious Michael (armed with Light)  
Against Lucifer, and his damned Legions, fight.  
That Act (though great) a lesser Wonder brought;  
A Mortal, like th' immortal Warrior, fought,  
Not much less Honour here great Lindsey gained;  
Charles to obey, his Army to command.  
'Tis true, he did; but conquered tho before:  
That Northern Mars (Gustavus) did no more.  
Whose lesser Fate th' advantage him denied  
To have a noble Witness how he died:  
Two Armies Lindsey may for Witness call;  
And crushed his Foes, like Samson, in his Fall.  
Nay, more than this! he had the brave Content,  
To see his Honour's Heir, and Ornament,  
How (Cocles like) an Army he defied;  
And his fallen Father bravely did bestride;  
As, by that well-built Arch, he had some hope,  
That Noble-ancient-falling Pyle to prop.  
A Posture suited both those Heroes well,  
Thus Clitus stood, thus Alexander fell!  
Too true! he fell before the Fight was done;  
His Conduct tho and brave Example won:  
So Light is borrowed from the setting Sun.  
Those charming Beauties, Victory and Fame,  
Courted his Favour with an equal flame.  
With Grief distracted, when our Hero died,  
Each lay her down, and hugged his bleeding side.  
Where ever since, fixed by his powerful Charms,  
They are Supporters to his noble Arms.   

I now must claim the Reader's Vote,  
After this Prospect, nothing's worthy note;  
Unless it be  
Great Lord, thy Piety;  
Who not content, this stately Pyle  
(The boast and glory of the Isle)  
Should reach the Clouds, as though it vies  
Its shining Beauties with the Skies.  
And yet Heaven's Gate, the House of God,  
(Wherein his Oracles make their abode)  
Should have so mean a show,  
And then the Castle be more low;  
As Heaven did downward grow.  
Nothing reserved to thy care,  
But to adorn, and to enlarge  
The House of Prayer.  
Thrice happy thou! who hadst so blest a charge!  
Although the Glory and the worldly Fame  
Are due to th' Founder's Name;  
The Crown and Blessing fell thy better share.  
Stately ought the place to be  
Where a Princess is enthroned;  
And who can justlier be a Princess owned  
Than that celestial Maid Divinity?  
Here, noble Lord, is only known  
A Beauty greater than thine own.  
Here thine with Reverence attends;  
And every day rich Offerings does bequeath;  
Fragrant Incense of her breath;  
Which formed in Prayers, to Heaven she sends.  
By paying Heaven its Honours due,  
Fair Lady, Heaven will honour you;  
Increasing your renown;  
And on your head will set  
(More glorious far than Rutland's Coronet)  
An everlasting Crown.   

Why stay we longer? let's remove.  
Since nothing now appears to th' Eye,  
More great, more noble, or more high,  
Unless the Palace of AEthereal jove.  
Homeward then Muse, and Northward turn thine Eyes;  
To see that lofty Spire of Botsford rise;  
Under whose sacred Roof does rest  
More precious Dust, than e'er was dressed  
With costly odours of the East.  
Under a nobler Pyramid  
Egyptian Monarches ne'er were hid.  
Those wonders of the World, did never hold  
Heaps of purer Mould;  
Than what these Monuments enfold.  
Not one attom of this Clay  
Is soiled with any base Alloy.  
Whilst animated here the Bodies stood,  
They kneaded were with pure, and noble blood;  
Not vitiated with stains,  
That now pollute some Veins.  
Here's golden Sand that once enriched the Flood.   

Lo! where the precious Relics lie;  
Ostentuous Ensigns of Mortality!  
Reposited with cost and care;  
Like China-ware,  
To be raised up more shining, and more fair.  
How great and stately are the Tombs?  
For noble Guests, it's fit to have such noble Rooms.  
And 'tis but just, that so great state  
Attend their Fate;  
Who lived in Palaces, when dead  
In Palaces are buried.  
Nor is this all!  
If you will look on that Historic Wall,  
You'll into admiration fall:  
That we no Chronicles of those times need,  
If we but these Inscriptions read.  
Each Epitaph's a spacious page,  
And tells the great remarks of its own age.  
The noble Acts of all these worthies here,  
With England's acts, so complicated were;  
As each was the Intelligence to Brittain's Sphere.  
Most fit Records, such glorious Names to hold;  
Whose Leaves are Marble, and whose Ink is Gold!   

There is no fitter place to bid Farewell,  
Than in this blessed Cell;  
Where free from vexing cares,  
Thy noble Ancestors, thou, and thine Heirs,  
Can only dwell.  
With my great Theme inspired,  
And with Poetic fury fired,  
Another Prophecy I frame:  
None of thine here shall come,  
As none yet hither came;  
Till they made up the total sum  
Of Honour, and of Fame.  
And only with the World shall end thine Honour, and thy Name.   
FINIS.