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545

U N D E R - W O O D S.

Consisting of divers

P  O  E  M  S.



By Ben. Johnson.


 Cineri, gloria sera venit.  —   Martial.




T O   T H E

R  E  A  D  E  R.

W
Ith the same leave the Ancients call'd that kind of Body Sylva, or Ulh, in
  
which there were works of divers nature, and matter congested. As the multitude call Timber-trees, promiscuously growing, a Wood, or Forest: so am I bold to entitle these lesser Poems, of later growth, by this of Under-wood, out of the Analogy they hold to the Forest, in my former Book, and no otherwise.

B E N.  J O H N S O N.







A a a a                  U N D E R-



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547

U N D E R - W O O D S.

P  O  E  M  S

O F

D  E  V  O  T  I  O  N.


The Sinners Sacrifice.

To the Holy Trinity.

1.
O
Holy, blessed, glorious Trinity
Of Persons, still one God, in Unity.
The faithful man's believed Mystery,
                                            Help, help to lift
2. My self up to thee, harrow'd, torn, and bruis'd
By sin, and Sathan; and my flesh misus'd,
As my Heart lies in pieces, all confus'd,
                                            O take my gift.
3. All-gracious God, the Sinners Sacrifice.
A broken Heart thou wert not wont despise,
But 'bove the fat of Rams, or Bulls, to prize
                                               An off'ring meet,
4. For thy acceptance. O, behold me right,
And take compassion on my grievous plight.
What Odour can be, than a Heart contrite,
                                            To thee more sweet?
5. Eternal Father, God, who did'st create
This All of nothing, gavest it Form, and Fate,
And Breath'st into it, Life, and Light, with state
                                                     To worship thee.
6. Eternal God the Son, who not deny'dst
To take our Nature; becam'st Man, and dy'dst,
To pay our Debts, upon thy Cross, and cry'dst
                                                           All's done in me.
7. Eternal Spirit, God from both proceeding,
Father and Son; the Comforter, in breeding
Pure thoughts in Man: with fiery Zeal them feeding
                                                     For acts of Grace.
8. Increase those acts, O glorious Trinity
Of Persons, still one God in Unity;
Till I attain the long'd-for mystery
                                              of seeing your Face.
9. Beholding One in Three, and Three in One,
A Trinity, to shine in Unity;
The gladdest Light, dark Man can think upon;
                                                            O grant it me!
10. Father, and Son, and Holy Ghost, you Three
All coeternal in your Majesty,
Distinct in Persons, yet in Unity
                                            One God to see.
11. My Maker, Saviour, and my Sanctifier:
To hear, to meditate, sweeten my desire,
With Grace, with Love, with Cherishing intire:
                                                   O, then how blest!

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12. Among thy Saints elected to abide,
And with thy Angels placed, side by side,
But in thy presence, truly glorified
                                              Shall I there rest!

A Hymn to God the Father.

H
Ear me, O God!
   A broken Heart,
          Is my best part:
Use still thy Rod,
   That I may prove
   Therein, thy Love.

If thou hadst not
   Been stern to me,
   But left me free,
I had forgot
   My self and thee.

For, sins so sweet,
   As minds ill bent
   Rarely repent,
Until they meet
   Their punishment.

Who more can crave
   Than thou hast done?
   That gav'st a Son,
To free a Slave:
   First made of nought;
   Withall since bought.

Sin, Death, and Hell,
   His glorious Name
   Quite overcame,
Yet I rebel,
   And slight the same.

But, I'll come in,
   Before my loss,
   Me farther toss,
As sure to win
   Under his Cross.




A a a a 2                          A Hymn


548 Under-woods.                 

A Hymn on the Nativity of my Saviour.

I
 Sing the Birth, was born to Night,
 The Author both of Life, and Light;
                                 The Angels so did sound it,
And like the ravish'd Shep'erds said,
Who saw the Light, and were afraid,
                                 Yet search'd, and true they found it.

The Son of God, th' Eternal King,
That did us all Salvation bring,
                                 And fre'd the Soul from danger;
He whom the whole World could not take,
The Word, which Heaven and Earth did make;
                                 Was now laid in a Manger.

The Father's Wisdom will'd it so,
The Sons obedience knew no No,
                                 Both Wills were in one stature;
And as that Wisdom had decre'd,
The Word was now made Flesh indeed,
                                 And took on him our Nature.

What comfort by him do we win.
Who made himself the price of Sin,
                                 To make us Heirs of Glory,
To see this Babe, all Innocence;
A Martyr born in our Defence:
                                 Can Man forget this Story?


A Celebration of C H A R I S in
Ten Lyrick Pieces.

I.
His Excuse for Loving.

L
Et it not your wonder move,
Less your laughter, that I love.
Though I now write fifty Years,
I have had, and have my Peers;
Poets, though divine, are Men:
Some have lov'd as old agen.
And it is not always Face,
Clothes, or Fortune gives the grace;
Or the Feature, or the Youth:
But the Language, and the Truth,
With the Ardor, and the Passion,
Gives the Lover weight, and fashion.
If you then will read the Story,
First, prepare you to be sorry,
That you never knew till now,
Either whom to love, or how:
But be glad, as soon with me,
When you know that this is she,
Of whose Beauty it was sung,
She shall make the old Man young.
Keep the middle Age at stay,
And let nothing high decay,
Till she be the reason why,
All the World for Love may die.

II.
How he saw her.

I
 Beheld her, on a Day,
 When her look out-flourisht May:
And her dressing did out-brave
All the Pride the Fields then have:
Far I was from being stupid,
For I ran and call'd on Cupid;

[column break]

Love, if thou wilt ever see
Mark of glory, come with me;
Where's thy Quiver? bend thy Bow;
Here's a Shaft, thou art too slow!
And (withal) I did untie
Every Cloud about his Eye;
But, he had not gain'd his sight
Sooner than he lost his Might,
Or his Courage; for away
Strait he ran, and durst not stay,
Letting Bow and Arrow fall:
Nor for any Threat, or Call,
Could be brought once back to look,
I fool-hardy, there up took
Both the Arrow he had quit,
And the Bow, which thought to hit
This my Object: But she threw
Such a Lightning (as I drew)
At my Face, that took my Sight,
And my Motion from me quite;
So that there, I stood a Stone,
Mock'd of all; and call'd of one
(Which with grief and wrath I heard)
Cupid's Statue with a Beard;
Or else one that plaid his Ape,
In a Hercules his shape.

III.
What he suffered.

A
Fter many scorns like these,
Which the prouder Beauties please;
She content was to restore
Eyes and Limbs, to hurt me more,
And would on Conditions, be
Reconcil'd to Love, and me.
First, that I must kneeling yield
Both the Bow, and shaft I held
Unto her; which Love might take
At her Hand, with Oath, to make
Me, the scope of his next draught
Aimed, with that self-same Shaft:
He no sooner heard the Law,
But the Arrow home did draw,
And (to gain her by his Art)
Left it sticking in my Heart:
Which when she beheld to bleed,
She repented of the deed,
And would fain have chang'd the fate,
But the pity comes too late.
Looser-like, now, all my wreak
Is, that I have leave to speak.
And in either Prose, or Song,
To revenge me with my Tongue,
Which how Dexterously I do
Hear and make Example too.

IV.
Her Triumph.

S
EE the Chariot at Hand here of Love
   Wherein my Lady rideth!
Each that draws, is a Swan, or a Dove
   And well the Car Love guideth.
As she goes, all Hearts do duty
                                  Unto her Beauty,
And enamour'd, do wish, so they might
                                    But enjoy such a sight;
That they still were to run by her side,
Through Swords, through Seas, whither she would ride.


Do      


             Under-woods. 549

Do but look on her Eyes, they do light
   All that Loves World compriseth!
Do but look on her Hair, it is bright
   As Loves Star when it riseth!
Do but mark, her Forehead's smoother
                        Than words that sooth her!
And from her arched Brows, such a Grace
                      Sheds it self through the face,
   As alone there triumphs to the life
All the Gain, all the Good of the Elements strife.

   Have you seen but a bright Lily grow,
      Before rude hands have touch'd it?
   Ha' you mark'd but the fall o' the Snow
      Before the Soyl hath smutch'd it?
   Ha' you felt the Wooll of Bever?
                                 Or Swans Down ever?
   Or have smelt o' the Bud o' the Briar?
                                 Or the Nard in the fire?
      Or have tasted the Bag of the Bee?
O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she!

V period omitted
His Discourse with Cupid.

N
Oblest Charis, you that are
 Both my Fortune, and my Star!
And do govern more my Blood,
Than the various Moon the Flood!
Hear, what late discourse of you,
Love and I have had; and true.
'Mongst my Muses finding me,
Where he chanc't your Name to see
Set, and to this softer Strain;
Sure, said he, if I have Brain,
This here sung, can be no other,
By description, but my Mother!
So hath Homer prais'd her Hair;
So Anacreon drawn the Air
Of her Face, and made to rise
Just about her sparkling Eyes,
Both her Brows bent like my Bow.
By her Looks I do her know,
Which you call my Shafts. And see!
Such my Mothers Blushes be,
As the Bath your Verse discloses
In her Cheeks of Milk and Roses;
Such as oft I wanton in?
And, above her even Chin,
Have you plac'd the Bank of Kisses,
Where you say, Men gather Blisses,
Rip'ned with a breath more sweet,
Than when Flowers, and West-winds meet.
Nay, her white and polish'd Neck,
With the Lace that doth it deck,
Is my Mothers! Hearts of slain
Lovers, made into a Chain!
And between each rising Breast,
Lies the Valley, call'd my Nest,
Where I sit and proynobsolete form of 'preen' my Wings
After flight; and put new stings
To my Shafts! Her very Name,
With my Mothers, is the same.
I confess all, I reply'd,
And the Glass hangs by her side,
And the Girdle 'bout her waste,
All is Venus, save unchaste.
But alas, thou seest the least
Of her good, who is the best
Of her Sex: But could'st thou, Love,
Call to mind the Forms that strove
For the Apple, and those three
Make in one, the same were she.

[column break]

For this Beauty yet doth hide,
Something more than thou hast spi'd.
Outward Grace weak Love beguiles:
She is Venus, when she smiles;
But she's Juno, when she walks,
And Minerva, when she talks.

VI.
Claiming a Second Kiss by Desert.

C
Haris, guess, and do not miss,
 Since I drew a Morning Kiss
From your Lips, and suck'd an air
Thence, as sweet, as you are fair.
   What my Muse and I have done:
Whether we have lost, or won,
If by us, the odds were laid,
That the Bride (allow'd a Maid)
Look'd not half so fresh and fair,
With th' advantage of her Hair,
And her Jewels, to the view
Of th' Assembly, as did you!
   Or, that did you sit, or walk,
You were more the Eye, and talk
Of the Court, to day, than all
Else that glister'd in White-hall;
So, as those that had your sight,
Wisht the Bride were chang'd to Night.
And did think such Rites were due
To no other Grace but you!
   Or, if you did move to Night
In the Dances, with what spight
Of your Peers, you were beheld,
That at every Motion swell'd
So to see a Lady tread,
As might all the Graces lead,
And was worthy (being so seen)
To be envi'd of the Queen.
Or if you would yet have stay'd,
Whether any would up-braid
To himself his loss of Time;
Or have charg'd his sight of Crime,
To have left all sight for you.
   Guess of these, which is the true;
And, if such a Verse as this,
May not claim another Kiss.

VII.
Begging another, on colour of mending
the former.

F
Or Loves-sake, kiss me once again,
 I long, and should not beg in vain,
      Here's none to spy, or see;
         Why do you doubt, or stay?
   I'll taste as lightly as the Bee,
That doth but touch his Flower, and flies away.
   Once more, and (faith) I will be gone,
   Can he that loves, ask less than one?
      Nay, you may err in this,
         and all your Bounty wrong:
   This could be call'd but half a Kiss.
What we 're but once to do, we should do long,
   I will but mend the last and tell
   Where, how it would have relish'd well;
      Joyn Lip to Lip, and try:
         Each suck others breath,
   And whilst our Tongues perplexed lie,
Let who will think us dead, or wish our death.


VIII.


550 Under-woods.                 

VIII.

Urging her of a Promise.

C
Haris one day in discourse
 Had of Love, and of his force,
Lightly promis'd, she would tell
What a Man she could love well:
And that promise set on fire
All that heard her, with desire.
With the rest, I long expected,
When the work would be effected:
But we find that cold delay,
And Excuse spun every day,
As, until she tell her one,
We all fear, she loveth none.
Therefore, Charis, you must do't,
For I will so urge you to't,
You shall neither eat, nor sleep,
No, nor forth your Window peep,
With your Emissary Eye,
To fetch in the Forms go by:
And pronounce, which Band or Lace,
Better fits him than his Face;
Nay, I will not let you sit
'Fore your Idol Glass a whit,
To say over every purl
There; or to reform a curl;
Or with Secretary Sis
To consult, if Fucus this
Be as good, as was the last:
All your sweet of Life is past,
Make accompt, unless you can,
(And that quickly) speak your Man.

IX.
Her man described by her own Dictamen.

O
F your Trouble, Ben, to ease me,
 I will tell what Man would please me.
I would have him, if I could,
Noble; or of greater Blood:
Titles, I confess, do take me;
And a Woman God did make me,
French to boot, at least in fashion,
And his Manners of that Nation.
   Young I'ld have him too, and fair,
Yet a Man; with crisped Hair,
Cast in thousand Snares and Rings,
For Love's Fingers, and his Wings:
Chesnut Colour, or more slack
Gold, upon a Ground of Black.
Venus and Minerva's Eyes,
For he must look wanton-wise.
   Eye-brows bent, like Cupid's Bow,
Front, an ample Field of Snow;
Even Nose, and Cheek, (withal)
Smooth as is the Billiard Ball:
Chin as woolly as the Peach;
And his Lip should kissing teach,
Till he cherish'd too much Beard,
And make Love or me afeard.
   He would have a Hand as soft
As the Down, and shew it oft;
Skin as smooth as any Rush,
And so thin to see a Blush
Rising through it, e're it came;
All his Blood should be a Flame,
Quickly fir'd, as in beginners
In Loves School, and yet no sinners.
   'Twere too long to speak of all,
What we Harmony do call,
In a body should be there.
Well he should his Clothes to wear;

[column break]

Yet no Taylor help to make him
Drest, you still for Man should take him,
And not think h' had eat a Stake,
Or were set up in a Brake.
   Valiant he should be as fire,
Shewing danger more than Ire.
Bounteous as the Clouds to Earth,
And as honest as his Birth.
All his Actions to be such,
As to do nothing too much.
Nor o'er-praise, nor yet condem;
Nor out-value, nor contemn;
Nor do Wrongs, nor Wrongs receive;
Nor tie Knots, nor Knots unweave;
And from baseness to be free,
As he durst love Truth and Me.
   Such a Man, with every part,
I could give my very Heart;
But of one, if short he came,
I can rest me where I am.

X.
Another Ladies Exception, present at the
hearing.

F
Or his Mind, I do not care,
 That's a Toy that I could spare:
Let his Title be but great,
His Clothes rich, and Band sit neat,
Himself young, and Face be good,
All I wish is understood.
What you please, you parts may call,
'Tis one good part I'ld lie withal.


The Musical Strife: In a Pastoral
Dialogue.

She.
C
Ome, with our Voices, let us war,
   And challenge all the Sphears,
Till each of us be made a Star,
   And all the World turn Ears.

He.

 At such a Call, what Beast or Fowl,
   Of Reason empty is!
What Tree or Stone doth want a Soul?
   What Man but must lose his?

She.

 Mix then your Notes, that we may prove
   To stay the running Floods?
To make the Mountain Quarries move?
   And call the walking Woods?

He.

 What need of me? do you but sing
   Sleep, and the Grave will wake:
No Tunes are sweet, nor Words have sting,
   But what those Lips do make.

She.

 They say, the Angels mark each Deed,
   And exercise below,
And out of inward Pleasure feed
   On what they viewing know.

He.

 O sing not you then, lest the best
   Of Angels should be driven
To fall again; at such a Feast,
   Mistaking Earth for Heaven.
She.


             Under-woods. 551

She.

 Nay, rather both our Souls be strain'd
   To meet their high Desire;
So they in State of Grace retain'd,
   May wish us of their Quire.


A   S O N G.

O
H do not wanton with those Eyes,
   Lest I be sick with seeing;
Nor cast them down, but let them rise,
   Lest Shame destroy their being.
O, be not angry with those fires;
   For then their Threats will kill me:
Nor look too kind on my desires,
   For then my Hopes will spill me.
O, do not steep them in thy Tears;
   For so will Sorrow slay me
Nor spread them as distract with fears;
   Mine own enough betray me.


In the Person of Woman-kind.

A   S O N G   Apologetick.

M
En, if you love us, play no more
   The Fools, or Tyrants with your Friends,
To make us still sing o'er and o'er,
   Our own false Praises, for your Ends:
      We have both Wits, and Fancies too,
      And if we must, let's sing of you.

Nor do we doubt, but that we can,
   If we would search with care and pain,
Find some one good, in some one Man;
   So going thorow all your Strain,
      We shall at last, of parcels make
      One good enough for a Songs sake.

And as a cunning Painter takes
   In any curious Piece you see
More pleasure while the thing he makes,
   Than when 'tis made, why, so will we.
      And having pleas'd our Art, we'll try
      To make a new, and hang that by.


Another.

In Defence of their Inconstancy.

A   S O N G.

H
Ang up those dull, and envious Fools
   That talk abroad of Womans change,
We were not bred to sit on Stools,
   Our proper Vertue is to range:
      Take that away, you take our Lives,
      We are no Women then, but Wives.

Such as in Valour would excel,
   Do change, though Man, and often fight,
Which we in Love must do as well,
   If ever we will love aright.
      The frequent varying of the Deed,
      Is that which doth Perfection breed.

Nor is't Inconstancy to change
   For what is better, or to make
(By searching) what before was strange,
   Familiar, for the uses sake:
      The good, from bad, is not descri'd,
      But as 'tis often vext and tri'd.

[column break]

And this Profession of a Store
   In Love, doth not alone help forth
Our Pleasure; but preserves us more
   From being forsaken, than doth worth:
      For were the worthiest Woman curst
      To love one Man, he'd leave her first.


A Nymphs Passion.

I
 Love, and he loves me again,
   Yet dare I not tell who;
For if the Nymphs should know my Swain,
   I fear they'd love him too;
      Yet if it be not known,
   The Pleasure is as good as none,
For that's a narrow Joy is but our own.

I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
   They yet may envy me:
But then if I grow jealous mad,
   And of them pitied be,
      It were a plague 'bove Scorn,
   And yet it cannot be forborn,
Unless my heart would as my thought be torn.

He is, if they can find him, fair,
   And fresh and fragrant too,
As Summers Sky, or purged Air,
   And looks as Lilies do,
      That are this Morning blown;
   Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,
And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

But he hath Eyes so round, and bright,
   As make away my doubt,
Where Love may all his Torches light,
   Though Hate had put them out:
      But then t' increase my fears,
   What Nymph soe'er his Voice but hears,
Will be my Rival, though she have but Ears.

I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
   And he loves me; yet no
One unbecoming thought doth move
   From either Heart, I know;
      But so exempt from blame,
   As it would be to each a Fame:
If Love, or Fear, would let me tell his Name.


The Hour-Glass.

D
O but consider this small Dust,
  Here running in the Glass,
      By Atomes mov'd;
   Could you believe, that this
      The Body was
         Of one that lov'd?
And in his Mrs.Mistress' Flame, playing like a Fly,
   Turn'd to Cinders by her Eye?
   Yes; and in Death, as Life unblest,
         To have't exprest,
   Even ashes of Lovers find no rest.


My Picture left in Scotland.

I
 Now think, Love is rather deaf than blind,
   For else it could not be,
                                 That she,
Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
   And cast my Love behind:

I'm


552 Under-woods.                 

I'm sure my Language to her, was as sweet,
                 And every close did meet
      In Sentence, of as subtil Feet,
                      As hath the youngest He,
      That sits in shadow of Apollo's Tree.
   Oh, but my conscious Fears,
            That fly my thoughts between,
            Tell me that she hath seen
         My Hundreds of Gray Hairs,
         Told Seven and Forty Years.
   Read so much waste, as she cannot embrace
   My Mountain Belly, and my Rocky Face,
And all these through her Eyes, have stopt her Ears.


Against Jealousie.

W
Retched and foolish Jealousie,
  How cam'st thou thus to enter me?
               I ne'er was of thy kind:
   Nor have I yet the narrow Mind
               To vent that poor desire,
That others should not warm them at my fire:
               I wish the Sun should shine
On all Mens Fruits and Flowers, as well as mine.

But under the Disguise of Love,
Thou say'st, thou only cam'st to prove
               What my affections were.
   Think'st thou that Love is help'd by Fear?
               Go, get thee quickly forth
Loves sickness, and his noted want of worth,
               Seek doubting Men to please,
I ne'er will owe my Health to a Disease.


The Dream.

O
R Scorn, or pity on me take,
  I must the true Relation make,
          I am undone to Night:
   Love in a subtil Dream disguis'd,
   Hath both my Heart and me surpris'd,
Whom never yet he durst attempt t' awake;
Nor will he tell me for whose sake
               He did me the Delight,
                                 Or Spight,
   But leaves me to inquire,
   In all my wild desire
      Of sleep again, who was his aid,
      And sleep so guilty and afraid,
As since he dares not come within my sight.


An Epitaph on Master V I N C E N T   C O R B E T.

I
 Have my Piety too, which could
  It vent it self, but as it would,
   Would say as much, as both have done.
   Before me here, the Friend and Son:
For I both lost a Friend and Father,
Of him whose bones this Grave doth gather:
   Dear Vincent Corbet, who so long
   Had wrestled with Diseases strong,
That though they did possess each Limb,
Yet he broke them, e're they could him:
   With the just Canon of his Life,
   A Life that knew nor Noise, nor Strife:
But was by sweetning so his Will,
All Order and Disposure, still
   His Mind as pure, and neatly kept,
   As were his Nourceries, and swept
So of Uncleanness, or Offence,
That never came ill odour thence!

[column break]

   And add his Actions unto these,
   They were as specious as his Trees.
'Tis true, he could not reprehend
His very Manners, taught t' amend,
   They were so even, grave, and holy;
   No Stubbornness so stiff, nor Folly
To license ever was so light,
As twice to trespass in his sight:
   His Looks would so correct it, when
   It chid the Vice, yet not the Men.
Much from him, I profess, I won,
And more, and more, I should have done,
   But that I understood him scant,
   Now I conceive him by my want;
And pray who shall my sorrows read,
That they for me their Tears will shed;
   For truly, since he left to be,
   I feel, I'm rather dead than he!

Reader, whose Life, and Name, did e'er become
   An Epitaph, deserv'd a Tomb:
Nor wants it here through Penury, or Sloth,
   Who makes the one, so 't be first, makes both.


An Epistle to Sir E D W A R D  S A C K V I L E, now
Earl of D O R S E T.

I
F Sackvile, all that have the power to do
 Great and good Turns, as well could time them too,
And knew their how, and where: we should have then
Less list of proud, hard, or ingrateful Men.
For benefits are ow'd with the same Mind
As they are done, and such Returns they find:
You then whose Will not only, but Desire
To succour my Necessities, took fire,
Not at my Prayers, but your Sense; which laid
The way to meet, what others would upbraid;
And in the Act did so my blush prevent,
As I did feel it done, as soon as meant:
You cannot doubt, but I who freely know
This Good from you, as freely will it owe;
And though my Fortune humble me, to take
The smallest Courtesies with Thanks, I make
Yet choice from whom I take them; and would shame
To have such do me good, I durst not name:
They are the noblest benefits, and sink
Deepest in Man, of which when he doth think,
The Memory delights him more, from whom
Then what he hath receiv'd. Gifts stink from some;
They are so long a coming, and so hard,
Where any Deed is forc't, the Grace is marr'd.
   Can I owe Thanks for Courtesies receiv'd
Against his Will that does 'em? That hath weav'd
Excuses, or Delays? or done 'em scant,
That they have more opprest me than my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me,
But by meer Chance? for Interest? or to free
Himself of farther trouble, or the weight
Of pressure, like one taken in a streight?
All this corrupts the thanks, less hath he won,
That puts it in his Debt-book ere't be done;
Or that doth sound a Trumpet, and doth call
His Grooms to witness; or else lets it fall
In that proud manner; as a good so gain'd,
Must make me sad for what I have obtain'd.
   No! Gifts and Thanks should have one cheerful Face,
So each that's done, and tane, becomes a Brace.
He neither gives, or do's, that doth delay
A Benefit: or that doth throw't away,
No more than he doth thank, that will receive
Nought but in corners, and is loth to leave,
Lestrare form of 'Least' Air, or Print, but flies it: Such Men would
Run from the Conscience of it, if they could.
As


             Under-woods. 553

   As I have seen some Infants of the Sword
Well known, and practis'd Borrowers on their Word,
Give thanks by stealth, and whispering in the Ear,
For what they straight would to the World forswear;
And speaking worst of those, from whom they went
But then, fist-fill'd, to put me off the scent.
Now dam' me, Sir, if you shall not command
My Sword ('tis but a poor Sword understand)
As far as any poor Sword i' the Land;
Then turning unto him is next at hand,
Dam's whom he damn'd too, is the veriest Gull,
H'as Feathers, and will serve a Man to pull.
   Are they not worthy to be answer'd so,
That to such Natures let their full Hands flow,
And seek not wants to succour: but enquire,
Like Money-brokers, after Names, and hire
Their bounties forth, to him that last was made,
Or stands to be'n Commission o' the Blade?
Still, still the Hunters of false Fame apply
Their Thoughts and Means to making loud the Cry:
But one is bitten by the Dog he fed,
And hurt, seeks Cure; the Surgeon bids, take bread,
And Spunge-like, with it dry up the blood quite:
Then give it to the Hound that did him bite:
Pardon, says he, that were a way to see
All the Town-Curs take each their snatch at me.
O, is it so? knows he so much? and will
Feed those, at whom the Table points at still?
I not deny it, but to help the need
Of any, is a Great and Generous Deed:
Yea, of th' ingrateful: and he forth must tell
Many a Pound, and Piece will pace one well;
But these Men ever want: their very Trade
Is borrowing; that but stopt, they do invade
All as their Prize, turn Pyrates here at Land,
Ha' their Bermudas, and their Streights i' th' Strand:
Man out of their Boats to th' Temple, and not shift
Now, but command; make Tribute what was Gift;
And it is paid 'em with a trembling Zeal,
And Superstition, I dare scarce reveal,
If it were clear; but being so in Cloud
Carried and wrapt, I only am alow'd
My Wonder! Why? the taking a Clown's Purse,
Or robbing the poor Market-folks, should nurse
Such a Religious Horror in the Breasts
Of our Town-Gallantry! or why there rests
Such Worship due to kicking of a Punck!
Or swaggering with the Watch, or Drawer drunk;
Or feats of Darkness acted in Mid-Sun,
And told of with more License than th' were done!
Sure there is Mystery in it, I not know
That Men such Reverence to such actions show!
And almost Deifie the Authors! make
Loud Sacrifice of Drink, for their Healths-sake:
Rear Suppers in their Names! and spend whole Nights
Unto their Praise, in certain swearing Rites:
Cannot a Man be reck'ned in the State
Of Valour, but at this Idolatrous rate?
I thought that Fortitude had been a mean
'Twixt Fear and Rashness; not a Lust obscene,
Or appetite of offending, but a Skill,
Or Science of a discerning Good and Ill.
And you, Sir, know it well, to whom I write,
That with these Mixtures we put out her Light,
Her Ends are Honesty, and Publick Good!
And where they want, she is not understood.
No more are these of us, let them then go,
I have the list of mine own Faults to know,
Look too and cure: He's not a Man hath none,
But like to be, that every day mends one,
And feels it: Else he tarries by the Beast:
Can I discern how Shadows are decreast,
Or grown; by height or lowness of the Sun?
And can I less of Substance? when I run,

[column break]

Ride, sail, am coach'd, know I how far I have gone.
And my Minds Motion not? or have I none:
No! he must feel and know, that I will advance.
Men have been great, but never good by chance,
Or on the sudden. It were strange, that he
Who was this Morning such a one, should be
Sydney ere Night? or that did go to bed
Coriat, should rise the most sufficient Head
Of Christendom? And neither of these know,
Were the Rack offer'd them, how they came so:
'Tis by degrees that Men arrive at glad
Profit, in ought each day some little add,
In time 'twill be a heap: This is not true
Alone in Money, but in Manners too.
Yet we must more than move still, or go on,
We must accomplish: 'Tis the last Key-stone
That makes the Arch; the rest that there were put
Are nothing till that comes to bind and shut.
Then stands it a triumphal Mark! then Men
Observe the strength, the height, the why, and when,
It was erected; and still walking under,
Meet some new Matter to look up and wonder!
Such Notes are Vertuous Men! they live as fast
As they are high; are rooted, and will last.
They need no Stilts, nor rise upon their Toes,
As if they would belie their stature; those
Are Dwarfs of Honour, and have neither weight
Nor fashion, if they chance aspire to height,
'Tis like light Canes, that first rise big and brave,
Shoot forth in smooth and comely spaces; have
But few and fair Divisions: but being got
Aloft, grow less and streightned; full of Knot.
And last, go out in nothing: You that see
Their difference, cannot chuse which you will be.
You know (without my flatt'ring you) too much
For me to be your Indice. Keep you such,
That I may love your Person (as I do)
Without your Gift, though I can rate that too,
By thanking thus the Courtesie to life,
Which you will bury, but therein, the strife
May grow so great to be Example, when
(As their true Rule or Lesson) either Men
Donnor's or Donnee's to their practice shall
Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all.


An Epistle to Master J O H N  S E L D E N.

I
 Know to whom I write here, I am sure,
  Though I am short, I cannot be obscure:
Less shall I for the Art or Dressing care,
Truth, and the Graces best, when naked are.
Your Book, my Selden, I have read, and much
Was trusted, that you thought my Judgment such
To ask it: Though in most of Works it be
A Penance, where a Man may not be free.
Rather than Office, when it doth, or may
Chance that the Friends affection proves allay
Unto the Censure. Yours all need doth fly
Of this so Vitious Humanity.
Than which there is not unto Study, a more
Pernicious Enemy, we see before
A many of Books, even good Judgments wound
Themselves through favouring what is there not found:
But I on yours far otherwise shall do,
Not fly the Crime, but the Suspicion too:
Though I confess (as every Muse hath err'd,
And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd
Men past their terms, and prais'd some Names too much,
But 'twas with purpose to have made them such,
Since being deceiv'd, I turn a sharper Eye
Upon my self, and ask to whom? and why?
And what I write? and vex it many days
Before Men get a Verse; much less a Praise:
B b b b                                  So


554 Under-woods.                 

So that my Reader is assur'd, I now
Mean what I speak, and still will keep that Vow,
Stand forth my Object, then, you that have been
Ever at home; yet have all Countries seen:
And like a Compass, keeping one Foot still
Upon your Center, do your Circle fill
Of general Knowledge; watch'd Men, Manners too,
Heard what times past have said, seen what ours do:
Which Grace shall I make love to first? your Skill,
Or Faith in things? or is't your Wealth and Will
T' instruct and teach? or your unweary'd pain
Of Gathering? Bounty in pouring out again?
What Fables have you vext! what Truth redeem'd!
Antiquities search'd! Opinions dis-esteem'd!
Impostures branded, and Authorities urg'd,
What Blots and Errors have you watch'd and purg'd
Records and Authors of! how rectified,
Times, Manners, Customs! Innovations spied!
Sought out the Fountains, Sources, Creeks, Paths, Ways,
And noted the Beginnings and Decays!
Where is that Nominal Mark, or Real Rite,
Form, Act or Ensign, that hath scap'd your sight?
How are Traditions there examin'd! how
Conjectures retreiv'd! and a Story now
And then of Times (besides the bare Conduct
Of what it tells us) weav'd in to instruct.
I wonder'd at the Richness, but am lost,
To see the Workmanship so 'xceed the Cost!
To mark the excellent seas'ning of your Stile!
And Manly Elocution, not one while
With Horror rough, then rioting with Wit!
But to the Subject still the Colours fit,
In sharpness of all Search, wisdom of Choice,
Newness of Sense, Antiquity of Voice!
   I yeild, I yeild, the matter of your Praise
Flows in upon me, and I cannot raise
A bank against it. Nothing but the round
Large clasp of Nature, such a Wit can bound
Monarch in Letters! 'Mongst thy Titles shown
Of others Honours, thus, enjoy their own,
I first salute thee so; and gratulate
With that thy Stile, thy keeping of thy State;
In offering this thy work to no great Name,
That would, perhaps, have prais'd, and thank'd the same,
But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,
Thy Learned Chamber-fellow, knows to do
It true respects. He will not only love
Embrace and cherish; but he can approve
And estimate thy Pains; as having wrought
In the same Mines of Knowledge; and thence brought
Humanity enough to be a Friend,
And strength to be a Champion, and defend
Thy Gift 'gainst envy. O how I do count
Among my comings in, and see it mount
The Grain of your Two Friendships! Hayward and
Selden! Two Names that so much understand!
On whom I could take up, and ne'er abuse
The Credit, what would furnish a tenth Muse!
But here's no time, nor place, my Wealth to tell,
You both are modest. So am I. Farewel.


An Epistle to a Friend, to perswade him to
the Wars.

W
Ake, Friend, from forth thy Lethargy: the Drum
  Beats brave, and loud in Europe, and bids come
All that dare rowse: or are not loth to quit
Their vitious Ease, and be o'erwhelm'd with it.
It is a call to keep the Spirits alive
That gasp for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried Honour, in his sleepy Life:
Quickning dead Nature, to her noblest strife.

[column break]

All other acts of Worldlings are but toil
In dreams, begun in hope, and end in spoil.
Look on th' ambitious Man, and see him nurse
His unjust hopes, with praises begg'd, or (worse)
Bought Flatteries, the issue of his Purse,
Till he become both their, and his own Curse!
Look on the false, and cunning Man, that loves
No person, nor is lov'd: what ways he proves
To gain upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the Snaky Brakes, that he had past!
See the grave, sower, and supercilious Sir,
In outward Face, but inward, light as Fur,
Or Feathers: lay his Fortune out to show,
Till Envy wound, or maim it at a blow!
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest Man,
Honour'd at once, and envy'd (if it can
Be, Honour is so mixt) by such as would
For all their spight, be like him, if they could:
No part or corner Man can look upon,
But there are Objects bid him to be gone
As far as he can fly, or follow Day,
Rather than here so bogg'd in Vices stay,
The whole World here leaven'd with Madness swells?
And being a thing blown out of nought, rebels
Against his Maker; high alone with Weeds,
And impious Rankness of all Sects and Seeds:
Nor to be check'd, or frighted now with Fate,
But more licentious made, and desperate!
Our Delicacies are grown capital,
And even our Sports are Dangers! what we call
Friendship is now mask'd Hatred! Justice fled,
And Shamefac'dness together! All Laws dead
That kept Man living! Pleasures only sought!
Honour and Honesty, as poor things thought
As they are made! Pride and stiff Clownage mixt
To make up Greatness! and Mans whole good fix'd
In Bravery, or Gluttony, or Coyn,
All which he makes the Servants of the Groin,
Thither it flaws,flows how much did Stallion spend
To have his Court-bred-filly there commend
His Lace and Starch: And fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the Rack
Of Lust, to his rich Suit and Title, Lord?
I, that's a Charm and half! She must afford
That all Respect; She must lie down: Nay, more,
'Tis there Civility to be a Whore;
He's one of Blood and Fashion! and with these
The Bravery makes, she can no Honour leese
To do't with Cloth, or Stuffs, Lusts Name might merit
With Velvet, Plush, and Tissues, it is Spirit.
   O, these so ignorant Monsters! light, as proud,
Who can behold their Manners, and not Clowd-
Like upon them lighten? If Nature could
Not make a Verse, Anger or Laughter would,
To see 'em aye discoursing with their Glass,
How they may make some one that day an Ass,
Planting their Purls, and Curls, spread forth like Net,
And every Dressing for a Pitfall set
To catch the Flesh in, and to pound a Prick
Be at their Visits, see 'em squeamish, sick,
Ready to cast at one, whose Band sits ill,
And then leap mad on a neat Pickardill;
As if a Brize were gotten i' their Tail,
And firk, and jerk, and for the Coach-man rail,
And jealous each of other, yet think long
To be abroad, chanting some bawdy Song,
And laugh, and measure Thighs, then squeak, spring, itch,
Do all the Tricks of a sautvariant of 'salt' Lady Bitch;
For t'other Pound of Sweet-meats, he shall feel
That pays, or what he will. The Dame is Steel;
For these with her young Company she'll enter,
Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter,
And comes by these Degrees the Stile t' inherit,
Of Woman of Fashion, and a Lady of Spirit:
Nor


             Under-woods. 555

Nor is the Title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folk, these are allow'd
Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,
They're grown Commodity upon Exchange;
He that will follow but another's Wife,
Is lov'd, though he let out his own for life:
The Husband now's call'd churlish, or a poor
Nature, that will not let his Wife be a Whore;
Or use all Arts, or haunt all Companies
That may corrupt her, even in his Eyes.
The Brother trades a Sister; and the Friend
Lives to the Lord, but to the Ladies End.
Less must not be thought on than Mistris: or
If it be thought, kill'd like her Embrions; for
Whom no great Mistris, hath as yet infam'd
A Fellow of course Letchery, is nam'd
The Servant of the Serving-Woman in scorn,
Ne'er came to taste the plenteous Marriage-Horn.
   Thus they do talk. And are these Objects fit
For Man to spend his Money on? his Wit?
His Time? Health? Soul? Will he for these go throw
Those Thousands on his Back, shall after blow
His Body to the Counters, or the Fleet?
Is it for these that fine Man meets the Street
Coach'd, or on Foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each Suit, he has the ready way
From Hide-Park to the Stage, where at the last
His dear and borrow'd Bravery he must cast?
When not his Combs, his Curling-Irons, his Glass,
Sweet Bags, sweet Powders, nor sweet Words will pass
For less Security? O           'God' censored? (Gifford interpolates 'heavens!' but the meter would be wrong) for these
Is it that Man pulls on himself Disease?
Surfeit? and Quarrel? Drinks the tother Health?
Or by Damnation voids it? or by stealth?
What Fury of late is crept into our Feasts?
What Honour given to the Drunkennest Guests?
What Reputation to bear one Glass more?
When oft the Bearer is borne out of Door?
This hath our ill-us'd Freedom, and soft Peace
Brought on us, and will every Hour increase
Our Vices, do not tarry in a place,
But being in Motion still (or rather in Race)
Tilt one upon another, and now bear
This way, now that, as if their number were
More than themselves, or than our Lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.
   I'll bid thee look no more, but flee, flee Friend,
This Præcipice, and Rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens Ruin. The whole Day
Is not enough now, but the Nights to play:
And whilst our States, Strength, Body, and Mind we waste;
Go make our selves the Usurers at a cast.
He that no more for Age, Cramps, Palsies, can
Now use the Bones, we see doth hire a Man
To take the Box up for him; and pursues
The Dice with glassen Eyes, to the glad Viewersviews
Of what he throws: Like Letchers grown content
To be beholders, when their Powers are spent.
   Can we not leave this Worm? or will we not?
Is that the truer Excuse? or have we got
In this, and like, an itch of Vanity,
That scratching now's our best Felicity?
Well, let it go. Yet this is better than
To lose the Forms, and Dignities of Men,Man
To flatter my good Lord, and cry his Bowl
Runs sweetly, as it had his Lordship's Soul:
Although, perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will he
When I am hoarse, with praising his each Cast,
Give me but that again, that I must waste
In Sugar Candid, or in butter'd Beer,
For the recovery of my Voice? No, there
Pardon his Lordship. Flatt'ry's grown so cheap
With him, for he is followed with that heap,

[column break]

That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud
As a poor single Flatterer, without Bawd
Is nothing, such scarce Meat and Drink he'll give,
But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,
And be belov'd, while the Whores last. O Times,
Friend fly from hence, and let these kindled Rhimes,
Light thee from Hell on Earth; where Flatterers, Spies,
Informers, Masters both of Arts and Lies;
Lewd Slanderers, soft Whisperers, that let blood
The life, and Fame-Veins (yet not understood
Of the poor Sufferers) where the envious, proud,
Ambitious, factious, superstitious, loud
Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more
Prævaricators swarm: Of which the Store,
(Because th'are every where amongst Mankind
Spread through the World) is easier far to find,
Than once to number, or bring forth to hand,
Though thou wert Muster-Master of the Land.
   Go quit 'em all. And take along with thee,
Thy true Friends Wishes, Colby which shall be,
That thine be just, and honest, that thy Deeds
Not wound thy Conscience, when thy Body bleeds;
That thou dost all things more for Truth than Glory,
And never but for doing Wrong be sorry;
That by commanding first thy self, thou mak'st
Thy Person fit for any Charge thou tak'st,
That Fortune never make thee to complain,
But what she gives, thou dar'st give her again:
That whatsoever Face thy Fate puts on,
Thou shrink, or start not; but be always one,
That thou think nothing great, but what is good;
And from that thought strive to be understood.
So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a Fame
Still precious, with the Odour of thy Name.
And last, blaspheme not, we did never hear
Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst swear;
No more, than we should think a Lord had had
More Honour in him, 'cause we'ave known him mad:
These take, and now go seek thy peace in War,
Who falls for love of God, shall rise a Star.


An Epitaph on Master P H I L I P  G R A Y.

                     Reader, stay,
And if I had no more to say,
But here doth lie till the last Day,
All that is left of P H I L I P  G R A Y.
It might thy patience richly pay:
   For if such Men as he could die,
   What surety of Life have thou and I.


Epistle to a Friend.

T
Hey are not, Sir, worst Owers, that do pay
  Debts when they can: good men may break their day;
And yet the noble Nature never grudge,
   'Tis then a Crime, when the Usurer is Judge,
And he is not in Friendship. Nothing there
   Is done for Gain: If't be, 'tis not sincere.
Nor should I at this time protested be,
   But that some greater Names have broke with me,
And their Words too; where I but break my Band,
   I add that (but) because I understand
That as the lesser breach: for he that takes
   Simply my Band, his trust in me forsakes,
And looks unto the Forfeit. If you be
   Now so much Friend, as you would trust in me,
Venture a longer time, and willingly:
   All is not barren Land doth fallow lie:
Some Grounds are made the richer for the Rest;
   And I will bring a Crop, if not the best.

B b b b 2                                   An


556 Under-woods.                 

An Elegy.

C
An Beauty that did prompt me first to write,
  Now threaten, with those means she did invite:
Did her perfections call me on to gaze!
   Then like, then love; and now would they amaze!
Or was she gracious a-far off? but near
   A terror? or is all this but my fear?
That as the Water makes things, put in't, streight,
   Crooked appear; so that doth my conceit:
I can help that with boldness; and Love swear,
   And Fortune once, t' assist the Spirits that dare.
But which shall lead me on? both these are blind:
   Such Guides men use not, who their way would find.
Except the way be error to those ends:
   And then the best are still, the blindest Friends!
Oh how a Lover may mistake! to think,
   Or love, or fortune blind, when they but wink
To see men fear: or else for truth, and state,
   Because they would free Justice imitate,
Vail their own Eyes, and would impartially
   Be brought by us to meet our Destiny.
If it be thus; Come Love, and Fortune go,
   I'll lead you on; or if my fate will so,
That I must send one first, my Choice assigns,
   Love to my Heart, and Fortune to my Lines.


An Elegy.

B
Y those bright Eyes, at whose immortal fires
  Love lights his Torches to inflame desires;
By that fair stand, your Forehead, whence he bends
   His double Bow, and round his Arrows sends;
By that tall Grove, your Hair, whose globy rings
   He flying curles and crispeth with his Wings.
By those pure Bathes your either Cheek discloses,
   Where he doth steep himself in Milk and Roses;
And lastly by your Lips, the bank of kisses,
   Where men at once may plant and gather blisses:
Tell me (my lov'd Friend) do you love or no?
   So well as I may tell in Verse, 'tis so?
You blush, but do not: Friends are either none,
   (Though they may number bodies) or but one.
I'll therefore ask no more, but bid you love,
   And so that either may example prove
Unto the other; and live Patterns, how
   Others, in time may love, as we do now.
Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,
   I know no Beauty, nor no Youth that will.
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
   You have a Husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
   As would make shift, to make himself alone,
That which we can, who both in you, his Wife,
   His Issue, and all Circumstance of life,
As in his place, because he would not vary,
   Is constant to be extraordinary.


A Satyrical Shrub.

A
 Womans friendship! God whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin;
Amongst my many other, that I may
   No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty Years, almost, to value it,
   That ne'er was known to last above a fit!
Or have the least of Good, but what it must
   Put on for fashion, and take up on trust:
Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd,
   That their whole life was wickedness, though weav'd

[column break]

Of many Colours; outward fresh, from spots,
   But their whole inside full of ends and knots.
Knew I that all their Dialogues and discourse,
   Were such as I will now relate, or worse.

Here something is wanting.                     
 .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .
.  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  .

Knew I this Woman? yes; and you do see,
   How penitent I am, or I should be.
Do not you ask to know her, she is worse
   Than all Ingredients made into one curse,
And that pour'd out upon Man-kind can be!
   Think but the Sin of all her Sex, 'tis she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore!
   Perjur'd! and painted! if she were no more —
But she is such, as she might yet forestall
   The Devil, and be the damning of us all.


A little Shrub growing by.

A
Sk not to know this Man. If fame should speak
  His name in any Metal, it would break.
Two Letters were enough the Plague to tear
   Out of his Grave, and poyson every Ear.
A parcel of Court-dirt, a heap, and mass
   Of all Vice hurld together, there he was,
Proud, false, and treacherous, vindictive, all
   That thought can add, unthankful, the Lay-stall
Of putrid Flesh alive! of Blood, the sink!
   And so I leave to stir him, lest he stink.


An Elegy.

T
Hough Beauty be the mark of praise,
   And yours of whom I sing be such
   As not the World can praise too much,
Yet is't your Vertue now I raise.

A Vertue, like Allay, so gone
   Throughout your form; as though that move,
   And draw, and conquer all mens love,
This subjects you to love of one.

Wherein you triumph yet: because
   'Tis of your self, and that you use
   The noblest freedom, not to chuse
Against, or Faith, or Honours Laws.

But who should less expect from you,
   In whom alone love lives agen?
   By whom he is restor'd to men:
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

His falling Temples you have rear'd
   The withered Garlands tane away;
   His Altars kept from the Decay,
That Envy wish'd, and Nature fear'd.

And on them, burn so chaste a flame,
   With so much Loyalties expence
   As Love t' aquit such excellence.
   Is gone himself into your Name.

   And you are he: the Deity
   To whom all Lovers are design'd;
   That would their better objects find:
Among which faithful Troop am I.



Who


             Under-woods. 557

Who as an off-spring at your Shrine,
   Have sung this Hymn, and here intreat
   One spark of your Diviner heat
To light upon a Love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant
   Appear, and that to shortest view,
   Yet give me leave t' adore in you
What I, in her, am griev'd to want.


An Ode.   To himself.

W
Here do'st thou careless lie
   Buried in ease and sloth?
   Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die;
   And this Security,
      It is the common Moath,
That eats on Wits, and Arts, and destroys them both.

   Are all th' Aonian springs
      Dri'd up? lies Thespia waste?
   Doth Clarius Harp want Strings,
      That not a Nymph now sings!
      Or droop they as disgrac't,
To see their Seats and Bowers by chattring Pies defac't?

   If hence thy silence be,
      As 'tis too just a cause;
   Let this thought quicken thee,
   Minds that are great and free,
      Should not on Fortune pause,
'Tis crown enough to Vertue still, her own applause.

   What though the greedy Fry
      Be taken with false Baits
   Of worded Balladry,
   And think it Poesie?
      They die with their conceits,
And only pitious scorn, upon their folly waits.

   Then take in hand thy Lyre,
      Strike in thy proper strain,
   With Japhet's Line, aspire
   Sol's Chariot for new Fire
      To give the World again:
Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's Brain.

   And since our dainty Age,
      Cannot indure reproof.
   Make not thy self a Page,
   To that Strumpet the Stage,
      But sing high and aloof,
Safe from the Wolves black Jaw, and the dull Asses
      Hoof.


The mind of the Frontispice to a Book.

F
Rom Death, and dark Oblivion, ne'er the same.
   The Mistriss of man's life, grave History
Raising the World to good and evil Fame
   Doth vindicate it to Eternity.
Wise Providence would so; that nor the good
   Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,
But both might know their ways were understood,
   When Vice alike in time with Vertue dur'd,
Which makes that (lighted by the beamy Hand
   Of Truth that searcheth the most Springs,
And guided by Experience, whose strait Wand
   Doth meet, whose Line doth sound the depth of
         things:)

[column break]

She chearfully supporteth what she rears,
   Assisted by no strengths, but are kerher own,
Some note of which each varied Pillar bears,
   By which as proper Titles, she is known
Times Witness, Herald of Antiquity,
   The Light of Truth, and Life of Memory.


An Ode to J A M E S Earl of Desmond, writ in
   Queen E L I Z A B E T H S time, since lost, and
   recovered.

      
W
Here art thou Genius? I should use
Thy present Aid: Arise Invention,
Wake, and put on the Wings of Pindar's Muse,
      To towre with my intention
   High, as his mind, that doth advance
Her upright Head, above the reach of Chance,
                           Or the times envy
                           Cynthius, I apply
My bolder numbers to thy golden Lyre?
                           O, then inspire
Thy Priest in this strange rapture; heat my Brain
                           With Delphick fire,
That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar strain.

      Rich Beam of Honour, shed your Light
      On these dark Rhimes; that my Affection
May shine (through every Chinck) to every sight
                                    graced by your Reflection!
      Then shall my Verses, like strong Charms,
Break the knit Circle of her Stony Arms,
                           That hold your Spirit:
                           And keeps your merit
Lock't in her cold Embraces, from the view
                           Of Eyes more true,
Who would with judgment search, searching conclude,
                           (As prov'd in you)
True Nobless. Palm grows strait, though handled ne'er
         so rude.

                           Nor think your self unfortunate,
                           If subject to the jealous errrorserrors
Of politick pretext, that wries a State,
                           Sink not beneath these terrors:
                           But whisper; O glad Innocence
Where only a Man's Birth is his offence;
                           Or the dis-favour,
                           Of such a savour
Nothing, but practise upon Honours thrall.
                           O Vertues fall,
When her dead Essence (like the Anatomy
                           in Surgeons Hall)
Is but a Statists Theam, to read Phlebotomy.

                   Let Brontes, and black Steropes,
                   Sweat at the Forge, their Hammers beating;
Pyracmon's Hour will come to give them ease,
                           Though but while Metal's heating:
                           And, after all the Ætnean Ire,
Gold, that is perfect, will out-live the Fire.
                           For Fury wasteth,
                           As Patience lasteth.
No Armour to the mind! he is shot-free
                           From injury,
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;
                           So Fools we see,
Oft scape an Imputation, more through luck than wit.

      But to your self most Loyal Lord,
      (Whose Heart in that bright Sphere flames clearest.
Though many Gems be in your Bosom stor'd,
               Unknown which is the Dearest.)

If


558 Under-woods.                 

               If I auspiciously divine,
(As my hope tells) that our fair Phœb's Shine,
               Shall light those places,
               With lustrous Graces,
Where darkness with her gloomy Sceptred Hand,
               Doth now command.
O then (my best-best lov'd) let me importune,
               That you will stand,
As far from all revolt, as you are now from Fortune.


An Ode.

      High spirited Friend,
I send nor Balms, nor Cor'sives to your wound,
      Your Fate hath found,
A gentler, and more agile Hand, to tend
The Cure of that, which is but corporal,
And doubtful Days (Which were nam'd Critical,)
      Have made their fairest flight,
      And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholsome Physick for the mind,
      Wrapt in this Paper lie,
Which in the taking if you mis-apply,
                                       You are unkind.

      Your covetous Hand,
Happy in that fair Honour it hath gain'd,
      Must now be rain'd.
True Valour doth her own Renown command
In one full Action; nor have you now more
To do, than be a Husband of that store.
      Think but how dear you bought,
      This same which you have caught,
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth:
      'Tis Wisdom, and that high,
For Men to use their Fortune reverently,
                                       Even in Youth.


An Ode.

H
Ellen, did Homer never see
Thy Beauties, yet could write of thee?
Did Sappho on her seven-tongu'd Lute,
So speak (as yet it is not mute)
Of Phaos form? or doth the Boy
In whom Anacreon once did joy,
Lie drawn to Life, in his soft Verse,
As he whom Maro did rehearse?
Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catullus?
Or Delia's Graces, by Tibullus?
Doth Cynthia, in Propertius song
Shine more, than she the Stars among?
Is Horace his each Love so high
Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
With bright Lycoris, Gallus choice,
Whose Fame hath an Eternal Voice.
Or hath Corynna, by the name
Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
Of Cæsar's Daughter, and the Line
Which all the World then stil'd Divine?
Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd
Equal with her? or Ronsart prais'd
His new Cassandra, 'bove the old,
Which all the Fate of Troy foretold?
Hath our great Sydney, Stella set,
Where never Star shone brighter yet?
Or Constables Ambrosiack Muse,
Made Dian, not his Notes refuse?
Have all these done (and yet I miss
The Swan that so relish'd Pancharis)
And shall not I my Celia bring,
Where Men may see whom I do sing,

[column break]

Though I, in working of my Song
Come short of all this learned throng,
Yet sure my Tunes will be the best,
So much my subject drowns the rest.


A   S O N N E T,

To the Noble Lady, the Lady
M A R Y   W O R T H.

I
 That have been a Lover, and could shew it,
        Though not in these, in RithmesRhymes not wholly dumb,
            Since I exscribe your Sonnets, am become
A better Lover, and much better Poet.
Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it
      To those true numerous Graces; whereof some,
      But charm the Senses, others overcome
Both Brains and Hearts; and mine now best do know it:
For in your Verse all Cupid's Armory,
      His Flames, his Shafts, his Quiver, and his Bow,
      His very Eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his Mothers sweets you so apply,
      Her Joys, her Smiles, her Loves, as Readers take
      For Venus Ceston, every Line you make.


A Fit of Rhime against Rhime.

R
Hime the rack of finest Wits,
That expresseth but by fits
                                 True Conceit
Spoiling Senses of their Treasure,
Cosening Judgment with a Measure,
                                 But false Weight.
Wresting words, from their true calling;
Propping Verse, for fear of falling
                                 To the Ground.
Joynting Syllables, drowning Letters,
Fast'ning Vowels, as with Fetters
                                 They were bound!
Soon as lazie thou wert known,
All good Poetry hence was flown,
                                 And are banish'd.
For a thousand Years together,
All Pernassus Green did wither,
                                 And Wit vanish'd.
Pegasus did fly away,
At the Wells no Muse did stay,
                                 But bewail'd.
So to see the Fountain dry,
And Apollo's Musick die,
                                 All Light failed!
Starveling Rhimes did fill the Stage,
Not a Poet in an Age,
                                 Worth crowning.
Not a Work deserving Bays,
Nor a Line deserving praise,
                                 Pallas frowning;
Greek was free from Rhimes infection,
Happy Greek by this protection!
                                 Was not spoiled.
Whilst the Latin, Queen of Tongues,
Is not yet free from Rhimes wrongs,
                                 But rests foiled.
Scarce the Hill again doth flourish,
Scarce the World a Wit doth nourish,
                                 To restore,
Phœbus to his Crown again;
And the Muses to their Brain;
                                 As before.


Vulgar


             Under-woods. 559

Vulgar Languages that want
Words, and sweetness, and be scant
                                 Of true measure,
Tyran Rhime hath so abused,
That they long since have refused,
                                 Other ceasure;
He that first invented thee,
May his Joynts tormented be,
                                 Cramp'd for ever;
Still may Syllables jar with time,
Still may Reason war with Rhime,
                                 Resting never.
May his Sense when it would meet,
The cold tumor in his Feet,
                                 Grow unsounder.
And his Title be long Fool,
That in rearing such a School,
                                 Was the founder.


An Epigram

On W I L L I A M Lord B U R L: Lord High
Treasurer of England.

Presented upon a Plate of Gold to his Son Robert Earl of
Salisbury, when he was also Treasurer.

I
F thou wouldst know the Vertues of Mankind,
  Read here in one, what thou in all canst find,
And go no farther: let this Circle be
   Thy Universe, though his Epitome.
Cecil, the Grave, the Wise, the Great, the Good,
   What is there more that can ennoble Blood?
The Orphan's Pillar, the true Subjects Shield,
   The Poors full Store-house, and just Servants Field.
The only faithful Watchman for the Realm,
   That in all Tempests, never quit the Helm,
But stood unshaken in his Deeds, and Name,
   And labour'd in the Work; not with the Fame:
That still was good for goodness sake, nor thought
   Upon Reward, till the Reward him sought.
Whose Offices, and Honours did surprize,
   Rather than meet him: And, before his Eyes
Clos'd to their peace, he saw his Branches shoot,
   And in the Noblest Families took root,
Of all the Land, who now at such a rate,
   Of divine Blessing, would not serve a State.


For a poor Man.]               An Epigram

To T H O M A S Lord E L S M E R E, the last
Term he sate Chancellor.

S
O, justest Lord, may all your Judgments be
   Laws; and no change e'er come to one De-
        cree:
So, may the King proclaim your Conscience is
   Law, to his Law; and think your Enemies his:
So, from all Sickness, may you rise to Health,
   The care, and wish still of the publick Wealth:
So may the gentler Muses, and good Fame
   Still fly about the Odour of your Name;
As with the safety, and honour of the Laws,
   You favour Truth, and me, in this Man's Cause.

[column break]

For the same.]        Another to him.

T
He Judge his Favour timely then extends,
   When a good Cause is destitute of Friends,
Without the pomp of Counsel; or more aid,
   Than to make Falshood blush, and Fraud afraid:
When those good few, that her Defenders be,
   Are there for Charity, and not for Fee.
Such shall you hear to Day, and find great Foes
   Both arm'd with Wealth, and slander to oppose,
Who thus long safe, would gain upon the times
   A right by the prosperity of their Crimes;
Who, though their Guilt, and Perjury they know,
   Think, yea and boast, that they have done it so,
As though the Court pursues them on the scent,
   They will come of,off and scape the Punishment;
When this appears, just Lord, to your sharp sight,
   He do's you wrong, that craves you to do right.


An Epigram.
To the Counsellor that pleaded, and carried the Cause.

T
Hat I hereafter, do not think the Bar,
   The Seat made of a more than Civil War;
Or the great Hall at Westminster, the Field
   Where mutual frauds are fought, and no side yield,
That henceforth, I believe nor Books, nor Men,
   Who 'gainst the Law, weave Calumnies my —Whalley speculates 'Benn' should fill the blank, for Anthony Benn, a solicitor
But when I read or hear the names so rife,
   Of Hirelings, Wranglers, Stitchers-to of strife,
Hook-handed Harpies, gowned Vultures, put
   Upon the reverend Pleaders; do now shut
All Mouthes, that dare entitle them (from hence)
   To the Wolves study, or Dogs eloquence;
Thou art my Cause: whose manners since I knew,
   Have made me to conceive a Lawyer new.
So dost thou study Matter, Men, and Times,
   Mak'st it Religion to grow rich by Crimes!
Dar'st not abuse thy Wisdom, in the Laws,
   Or Skill to carry out an evil Cause!
But first doth vex, and search it! If nor sound,
   Thou prov'st the gentler ways, to cleanse the wound,
And make the Scar fair; If that will not be,
   Thou hast the brave scorn, to put back the fee!
But in a business, that will bide the touch,
   What use, what strength of reason! and how much
Of Books, of Presidents,variant spelling of 'Precedents' hast thou at hand?
   As if the general store thou didst command
Of Argument, still drawing forth the best,
   And not being borrowed by thee, but possest.
So com'st thou like a Chief into the Court
   Arm'd at all Pieces, as to keep a Fort
Against a multitude; and (with thy Stile
   So brightly brandish'd) wound'st, defend'st! the while
Thy Adversaries fall, as not a word
   They had, but were a Reed unto thy Sword.
Then com'st thou off with Victory and Palm,
   Thy Hearers Nectar, and thy Clients Balm,
The Courts just Honour, and thy Judges Love.
   And (which doth all Atchievements get above)
Thy sincere practise, breeds not thee a Fame
   Alone, but all thy rank a reverend Name.


An Epigram.

To the small Pox.

E
Nvious and foul Disease, could there not be
   One beauty in an Age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spight? were there not store
   Of those that set by their false Faces more
Than


560 Under-woods.                 

Than this did by her true? she never sought
   Quarrel with Nature, or in balance brought
Art her false servant; Nor, for Sir Hugh Plot,
   Was drawn to practise other hue, than that
Her own Blood gave her: She ne'er had, nor hath
   Any belief, in Madam Baud-bees Bath,
Or Turners Oil of Talk. Nor ever got
   Spanish Receipt, to make her Teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? Thought'st thou in disgrace,
   Of Beauty, so to nullifie a Face,
That Heaven should make no more; or should amiss,
   Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this?
I, that thy aim was; but her fate prevail'd:
   And scorn'd, thou'ast shown thy malice, but hast fail'd.


An Epitaph.

W
Hat Beauty would have lovely stil'd,
What Manners pretty, Nature mild,
What wonder perfect, all were fill'd,
Upon record in this blest Child.
       And, till the coming of the Soul
       To fetch the Flesh, we keep the Roll.


A   S O N G.

Lover.
C
Ome, let us here enjoy the shade,
For Love in shadow best is made.
Though Envy oft his shadow be,
None brooks the Sun-light worse than he.

Mistris.

 Where Love doth shine, there needs no Sun,
All Lights into his one doth run;
Without which all the World were dark;
Yet he himself is but a spark.

Arbiter.

 A Spark to set whole World a-fire,
Who more they burn, they more desire,
And have their being, their waste to see;
And waste still, that they still might be.

Chorus.

 Such are his powers, whom time hath stil'd,
Now swift, now slow, now tame, now wild,
Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild.
The eldest God, yet still a Child.



An Epistle to a Friend.

S
Ir, I am thankful, first, to Heaven, for you;
   Next to your self, for making your love true:
        Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due.

You have unto my Store added a Book,
        On which with profit, I shall never look,
        But must confess from whom what gift I took.

Not like your Country Neighbours, that commit
        Their vice of loving for a Christmas fit;
        Which is indeed but friendship of the Spit:

But, as a Friend, which name your self receive,
        And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave
        In Letters, that mix Spirits, thus to weave.

Which, how most sacred I will ever keep,
        So may the fruitful Vine my Temples steep,
        And Fame wake for me, when I yield to sleep.

[column break]

Though you sometimes proclaim me too severe,
        Rigid, and harsh, which is a Drug austere
        In friendship, I confess: But, dear Friend, hear.

Little know they, that profess Amity,
        And seek to scant her comely Liberty,
        How much they lame her in her Property.

And less they know, who being free to use
        That friendship which no chance but love did chuse,
        Will unto License that fair leave abuse.

It is an act of Tyranny, not Love
        In practis'd friendship wholly to reprove,
        As flatt'ry with Friends humours still to move.

From each of which I labour to be free,
        Yet if with eithers Vice I tainted be,
    Forgive it, as my frailty, and not me.

For no Man lives so out of Passions sway,
        But shall sometimes be tempted to obey
        Her fury, yet no friendship to betray.


An Elegy.

'
T
Is true, I'am broke! Vows, and all I had
   Of Credit lost. And I am now run mad;
Or do upon my self some desperate ill;
   This sadness makes no approaches, but to kill.
It is a Darkness hath blockt up my sense,
   And drives it in to eat on my offence,
Or there to starve it. Help O you that may
   Alone lend succours, and this fury stay.
Offended Mistris, you are yet so fair,
   As Light breaks from you, that affrights despair,
And fills my powers with perswading joy,
   That you should be too noble to destroy.
There may some face or menace of a storm
   Look forth, but cannot last in such a form.
If there be nothing worthy you can see
   Of graces, or your mercy here in me,
Spare your own goodness yet; and be not great
   In will and power, only to defeat.
God, and the good, know to forgive, and save.
   The ignorant, and fools, no pity have.
I will not stand to justifie my fault,
   Or lay the excuse upon the Vinter's Vault;
Or in confessing of the Crime be nice,
   Or go about to countenance the vice,
By naming in what company 'twas in,
   As I would urge Authority for sin.
No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be
   The subject of your Grace in pardoning me,
And (stil'd your mercies Creature) will live more
   Your honour now, than your disgrace before,
Think it was frailty, Mistris, think me Man,
   Think that your self like Heaven forgive me can,
Where Weakness doth offend, and Vertue grieve,
   There Greatness takes a glory to relieve.
Think that I once was yours, or may be now;
   Nothing is vile, that is a part of you.
Errour and Folly in me may have crost
   Your just Commands; yet those, not I be lost.
I am regenerate now, become the Child
   Of your Compassion; Parents should be mild:
There is no Father that for one demerit,
   Or two, or three, a Son will disinherit;
That is the last of Punishments is meant;
   No Man inflicts that Pain, till Hope be spent:
An ill-affected Limb (what e'er it ail)
   We cut not off, till all Cures else do fail;

And


             Under-woods. 561

And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone,
   Would live his Glory that could keep it on.
Do not despair my mending; to distrust
   Before you prove a Med'cine, is unjust:
You may so place me, and in such an Air,
   As not alone the Cure, but Scar be fair.
That is, if still your Favours you apply,
   And not the Bounties you have done, deny.
Could you demand the Gifts you gave, again!
   Why was't? Did e'er the Clouds ask back their Rain?
The Sun, his Heat and Light? the Air his Dew?
   Or Winds the Spirit by which the Flower so grew?
That were to wither all, and make a Grave
   Of that wise Nature would a Cradle have.
Her Order is to cherish, and preserve;
   Consumption's, Nature to destroy and starve.
But to exact again what once is given,
   Is Natures meer Obliquity; as Heaven
Should ask the Blood and Spirits he hath infus'd
   In Man, because Man hath the Flesh abus'd.
O may your Wisdom take example hence,
   God lightens not at Man's each frail Offence:
He pardons Slips, goes by a World of Ills,
   And then his Thunder frights more than it kills.
He cannot angry be, but all must quake;
   It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake.
And how more fair and lovely looks the World
   In a calm Sky, than when the Heaven is hurl'd
About in Clouds, and wrapt in raging Weather,
   As all with Storm and Tempest ran together?
O imitate that sweet Serenity
   That makes us live, not that which calls to die
In dark and sullen Morns; do we not say,
   This looketh like an Execution day?
And with the Vulgar doth it not obtain
   The name of Cruel Weather, Storm, and Rain?
Be not affected with these Marks too much
   Of Cruelty, lest they do make you such.
But view the mildness of your Makers State,
   As I the Penitents here emulate.
He, when he sees a Sorrow, such as this,
   Streight puts off all his Anger, and doth kiss
The contrite Soul, who hath no thought to win
   Upon the hope to have another Sin
Forgiven him: And in that Line stand I,
   Rather than once displease you more, to die,
To suffer Tortures, Scorn, and Infamy,
   What Fools, and all their Parasites can apply;
The Wit of Ale, and Genius of the Malt
   Can pump for, or a Libel without Salt
Produce; though threatning with a Coal, or Chalk,
   On every Wall, and sung where-e'er I walk.
I number these, as being of the Chore
   Of Contumely, and urge a good Man more
Than Sword, or Fire, or what is of the Race
   To carry noble Danger in the Face:
There is not any punishment, or pain,
   A Man should fly from, as he would disdain.
Then Masters here, here let your Rigour end,
   And let your Mercy make me asham'd t' offend.
I will no more abuse my Vows to you,
   Than I will study Falshood, to be true.
O, that you could but by dissection see
   How much you are the better part of me;
How all my Fibres by your Spirit do move,
   And that there is no Life in me, but Love.
You would be then most confident, that tho
   Publick Affairs command me now to go
Out of your Eyes, and be a while away;
   Absence, or Distance, shall not breed decay.
Your Form shines here, here fixed in my Heart:
   I may dilate my self, but not depart.
Others by common Stars their Courses run,
   When I see you, then I do see my Sun:

[column break]

Till then 'tis all but Darkness, that I have;
   Rather than want your Light, I wish a Grave.


An Elegy.

T
O make the Doubt clear, that no Woman's true,
   Was it my Fate to prove it full in you.
Thought I but one had breath'd the purer Air,
   And must she needs be false, because she's fair?
It is your Beauties Mark, or of your Youth,
   Or your Perfection, not to study Truth;
Or think you Heaven is deaf, or hath no Eyes?
   Or those it has, wink at your Perjuries?
Are Vows so cheap with Women? or the matter
   Whereof they are made, that they are writ in Water,
And blown away with Wind? or doth their Breath
   Both hot and cold at once, threat Life and Death?
Who could have thought so many Accents sweet
   Tun'd to our Words, so many Sighs should meet
Blown from our Hearts, so many Oaths and Tears
   Sprinkled among? all sweeter by our Fears,
And the divine Impression of stoln Kisses,
   That seal'd the rest, could now prove empty Blisses?
Did you draw Bonds to forfeit? sign to break?
   Or must we read you quite from what you speak,
And find the Truth out the wrong way? or must
   He first desire you false, would wish you just?
O, I profane! Though most of Women be,
   The common Monster, Love, shall except thee,
My dearest Love, however Jealousie
   With Circumstance might urge the contrary,
Sooner I'll think the Sun would cease to chear
   The teeming Earth, and that forget to bear;
Sooner that Rivers would run back, or Thames
   With Ribs of Ice in June would bind his Streams:
Or Nature, by whose strength the World endures,
   Would change her Course, before you alter yours.
But, O that treacherous Breast, to whom weak you
   Did trust our Counsels, and we both may rue,
Having his Falshood found too late! 'twas he
   That made me cast you Guilty, and you me.
Whilst he, black Wretch, betray'd each simple VVord
   VVe spake unto the coming of a third!
Curst may he be that so our Love hath slain,
   And wander wretched on the Earth, as Cain:
VVretched as he, and not deserve least pity:
   In plaguing him, let Misery be witty.
Let all Eyes shun him, and he shun each Eye,
   Till he be noisom as his Infamy:
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
   And not be trusted more on his Soul's price:
And after all self-torment, when he dies,
   May Wolves tear out his Heart, Vultures his Eyes,
Swine eat his Bowels, and his falser Tongue,
   That utter'd all, be to some Raven flung:
And let his Carrion Coarse be a longer Feast
   To the King's Dogs, than any other Beast.
Now I have curst, let us our Love receive;
   In me the Flame was never more alive.
I could begin again to court and praise,
   And in that Pleasure lengthen the short days
Of my Lifes Lease; like Painters that do take
   Delight, not in made Works, but whilst they make.
I could renew those Times, when first I saw
   Love in your Eyes, that gave my Tongue the Law
To like what you lik'd, and at Masques, or Plays,
   Commend the self-same Actors, the same Ways,
Ask how you did, and often with intent
   Of being officious, grow impertinent;
All which were such lost Pastimes, as in these
   Love was as subtly catch'd as a Disease.
But, being got, it is a Treasure, sweet,
   Which to defend, is harder than to get;
C c c c                                  And


562 Under-woods.                 

And ought not be profan'd on either part,
   For though 'tis got by Chance, 'tis kept by Art.


An Elegy.

T
Hat Love's a bitter-sweet, I ne'er conceive,
   Till the sowr Minute comes of taking leave,
And then I taste it. But as Men drink up
   In haste the bottom of a med'cin'd Cup,
And take some Sirrup after; so do I,
   To put all rellish from my memory
Of parting, drown it, in the hope to meet
   Shortly again, and make our absence sweet.
This makes me, Mistris, that sometimes by stealth,
   Under another Name, I take your Health,
And turn the Ceremonies of those Nights
   I give, or owe my Friends, into your Rites;
But ever without Blazon, or least Shade
   Of Vows so sacred, and in silence made:
For though Love thrive, and may grow up with chear,
   And free Society, he's born elsewhere,
And must be bred, so to conceal his Birth,
   As neither Wine do rack it out, or Mirth.
Yet should the Lover still be airy and light
   In all his Actions, rarified to Sprite;
Not, like a Midas, shut up in himself,
   And turning all he toucheth into Pelf,
Keep in reserv'd in his Dark-lantern Face,
   As if that exc'lent Dulness were Loves Grace:
No, Masters, no, the open merry Man
   Moves like a spritely River, and yet can
Keep secret in his Channels what he breeds,
   'Bove all your standing Waters, choak'd with Weeds.
They look at best like Cream-bowls, and you soon
   Shall find their depth, they're sounded with a Spoon.
They may say Grace, and for Loves Chaplains pass;
   But the grave Lover ever was an Ass,
Is fix'd upon one Leg, and dares not come
   Out with the other, for he's still at home:
Like the dull wearied Crane, that (come on Land)
   Doth while he keeps his Watch, betray his Stand;
Where he that knows, will like a Lapwing fly
   Far from the Nest, and so himself belie
To others, as he will deserve the Trust
   Due to that one that doth believe him just.
And such your Servant is, who vows to keep
   The Jewel of your Name, as close as Sleep
Can lock the Sense up, or the Heart a Thought,
   And never be by Time or Folly brought,
Weakness of Brain, or any Charm of Wine,
   The Sin of Boast, or other Countermine,
(Made to blow up Loves Secrets) to discover
   That Article may not become our Lover:
Which in assurance to your Breast I tell,
   If I had writ no word, but Dear, farewel.


An Elegy.

S
Ince you must go, and I must bid Farewell,
   Hear, Masters,'Masters' should be replaced with 'Mistress' your departing Servant tell
What it is like: And do not think they can
   Be idle Words, though of a parting Man;
It is as if a Night should shade Noon-day,
   Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away;
And we were left under that Hemisphere,
   Where we must feel it dark for half a Year.
What Fate is this, to change Mens Days and Hours,
   To shift their Seasons, and destroy their Powers!
Alas! I ha' lost my Heat, my Blood, my Prime,
   Winter is come a Quarter e'er his time,
My Health will leave me; and when you depart,
   How shall I do, sweet Mistris, for my Heart?

[column break]

You would restore it? No, that's worth a fear,
   As if it were not worthy to be there:
O, keep it still; for it had rather be
   Your Sacrifice, than here remain with me.
And so I spare it, Come what can become
   Of me, I'll softly tread unto my Tomb;
Or like a Ghost walk silent amongst Men,
   Till I may see both it and you agen.


An Elegy.

L
Et me be what I am; as Virgil, cold;
   As Horace, fat; or as Anacreon, old;
No Poets Verses yet did ever move,
   Whose Readers did not think he was in love.
Who shall forbid me then in Rhyme to be
   As light and active as the youngest he
That from the Muses Fountains doth indorse
   His Lines, and hourly sits the Poets Horse.
Put on my Ivy Garland, let me see
   Who frowns, who jealous is, who taxeth me,
Fathers and Husbands, I do claim a Right
   In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight
Sooner than my affection from the Fair.
   No Face, no Hand, Proportion, Line, or Air
Of Beauty, but the Muse hath interest in:
   There is not worn that Lace, Purl, Knot, or Pin,
But is the Poets Matter; and he must
   When he is furious, love, although not lust.
But then content, your Daughters and your Wives
   (If they be fair and worth it) have their Lives
Made longer by our Praises: or, if not,
   Wish, you had foul ones, and deformed got,
Curst in their Cradles, or there chang'd by Elves,
   So to be sure you do enjoy your selves.
Yet keep those up in Sackcloth too, or Leather,
   For Silk will draw some sneaking Songster thither.
It is a Rhyming Age, and Verses swarm
   At every Stall; the City Cap's a Charm.
But I who live, and have liv'd twenty Year
   Where I may handle Silk, as free, and near,
As any Mercer, or the Whalebone-man
   That quilts those Bodies I have leave to span;
Have eaten with the Beauties, and the Wits,
   And Braveries of Court, and felt their Fits
Of Love and Hate; and came so nigh to know
   Whether their Faces were their own, or no.
It is not likely I should now look down
   Upon a Velvet Petticoat, or a Gown,
Whose like I have known the Taylor's Wife put on,
   To do her Husband's Rites in, e'er 'twere gone
Home to the Customer: his Letchery
   Being, the best Clothes still to preoccupy.
Put a Coach-mare in Tissue, must I horse
   Her presently? or leap thy Wife of force,
When by thy sordid Bounty she hath on
   A Gown of that was the Caparison?
So I might dote upon thy Chairs and Stools,
   That are like cloth'd: Must I be of those Fools
Of race accounted, that no Passion have,
   But when thy Wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave?
Then ope thy Wardrobe, think me that poor Groom
   That from the Foot-man, when he was become
An Officer there, did make most solemn Love
   To ev'ry Petticoat he brush'd, and Glove
He did lay up, and would adore the Shooe
   Or Slipper was left off, and kiss it too;
Court every hanging Gown, and after that
   Lift up some one, and do, I tell not what.
Thou didst tell me, and wert o'er-joy'd to peep
   In at a hole, and see these Actions creep
From the poor Wretch, which though he plaid in Prose,
   He would have done in Verse, with any one of those
Wrung   


             Under-woods. 563

Wrung on the Withers, by Lord Loves despight,
   Had he had the Faculty to read and write!
Such Songsters there are store of; witness he
   That chanc'd the Lace, laid on a Smock, to see,
And streight-way spent a Sonnet; with that other
   That (in pure Madrigal) unto his Mother
Commended the French-Hood, and Scarlet Gown
   The Lady Mayress pass'd in through the Town,
Unto the Spittle Sermon. O, what strange
   Variety of Silks were on th' Exchange!
Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one,
   Another answers, Lass those Silks are none
In smiling L'envoye, as he wou'd deride
   Any Comparison had with his Cheap-side.
And vouches both the Pageant, and the Day,
   When not the Shops, but Windows do display
The Stuffs, the Velvets, Plushes, Fringes, Lace,
   And all the original Riots of the Place:
Let the poor Fools enjoy their Follies, love
   A Goat in Velvet; or some Block could move
Under that cover; an old Mid-wives Hat!
   Or a Close-stool so cas'd; or any fat
Bawd, in a Velvet Scabber'd! I envy
   None of their Pleasures! nor will ask thee, why
Thou art jealous of thy Wives, or Daughters Case:
   More than of eithers Manners, Wit, or Face!


An Execration upon Vulcan.

A
Nd why to me this, thou lame Lord of Fire,
   What had I done that might call on thine Ire?
Or urge thy greedy Flame, thus to devour
   So many my Years-labours in an hour?
I ne're attempted Vulcan 'gainst thy Life;
   Nor made least Line of Love to thy loose Wife;
Or in remembrance of thy afront, and scorn
   With Clowns, and Tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in Horn.
'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong down,
   And Mars, that gave thee a Lanthorn for a Crown:
Was it because thou wert of old denied
   By Jove to have Minerva for thy Bride.
That since thou tak'st all envious care and pain,
   To ruine any Issue of the Brain?
Had I wrote Treason there, or Heresie,
   Imposture, Whitchcraft, Charms, or Blasphemy?
I had deserv'd then, thy consuming Looks,
   Perhaps, to have been burned with my Books.
But, on thy Malice, tell me, didst thou spy
   Any, least loose, or surrilescurrile Paper, lye
Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be,
   By thy own Vote, a Sacrifice to thee?
Did I there wound the Honours of the Crown?
   Or tax the Glories of the Church and Gown?
Itch to defame the State? or brand the Times?
   And my self most, in some self-boasting Rhimes?
If none of these, then why this Fire? Or find
   A Cause before; or leave me one behind.
Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule,
   Th' Esplandians, Arthur's, Palmerins, and all
The learned Library of Don Quixote;
   And so some goodlier Monster had begot,
Or spun out Riddles, and weav'd fittyfifty Tomes
   Of Logogriphes, and curious Palindromes,
Or pomp'd for those hard Trifles Anagrams,
   Or Eteostichs, or those finer Flams
Of Eggs, and Halberds, Cradles, and a Hearse,
   A pair of Scisars, and a Comb in Verse;
Acrostichs, and Telestichs, on jump Names,
   Thou then hadst had some colour for thy Flames,
On such my serious Follies; But, thou'lt say,
   There were some Pieces of as base allay,
And as false stamp there; parcels of a Play,
   Fitter to see the Fire-light, than the day;

[column break]

Adulterate Moneys, such as might not go:
   Thou should'st have stay'd, till publick Fame said so.
She is the Judge, Thou Executioner,
   Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her Power,
Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy Cruelty
   With some more thrift, and more variety:
Thou mightst have had me perish, piece by peice,piece
   To light Tobacco, or save roasted Geese.
Sindge Capons, or poor Piggs, droping their Eyes;
   Condemn'd me to the Ovens with the Pies;
And so, have kept me dying a whole Age,
   Not ravish'd all hence in a Minutes rage.
But that's a mark, whereof thy Rights do boast,
   To make Consumption, ever where thou go'st;
Had I fore-known of this thy least desire
   T' have held a Triumph, or a Feast of Fire,
Especially in Paper; that, that steam
   Had tickled your large Nostril: many a Ream
To redeem mine, I had sent in enough,
   Though should'st have cry'd, and all been proper Stuff.
The Talmud, and the Alcoran had come,
   With Pieces of the Legend; The whole sum
Of Errant Knight-hood, with the Dames, and Dwarfs;
   The charmed Boats, and the inchanted Wharfs,
The Tristram's, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peer's,
   All the mad Rolands, and sweet Oliveer's;
To Merlins Marvails, and his Caballs loss,
   With the Chimæra of the Rosie-Cross,
Their Seals, their Characters, Hermetick Rings,
   Their Jem of Riches, and bright Stone, that brings
Invisibility, and strength, and Tongues:
   The Art of kindling the true Coal, by Lungs,
With Nicholas Pasquill's, Medle with your match,
   And the strong Lines, that so the time do catch,
Or Captain Pamphlets Horse, and Foot; that sally
   Upon th' Exchange, still out of Popes-head-Alley.
The weekly Corrants, with Poules Seal; and all
   The admir'd discourses of the Prophet Ball:
These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine or sup,
   Had made a Meal for Vulcan to lick up.
But in my Desk, what was there to accite
   So ravenous and vast an Appetite?
I dare not say a Body, but some Parts
   There were of search, and mastry in the Arts.
All the old Venusine, in Poetry,
   And lighted by the Stagerite, could spy,
Was there madmade English: with the Grammar too,
   To teach some that their Nurses could 'not' omitted do.
The purity of Language; and among
   The rest, my Journey into Scotland Song,
With all th' Adventures; Three Books not afraid
   To speak the Fate of the Sicilian Maid
To our own Ladies; and in Story there
   Of our Fifth Henry, eight of his nine year;
Wherein was Oil, beside the Succour spent,
   Which Noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent:
And twice-twelve-years stor'd up Humanity,
   With humble Gleanings in Divinity;
After the Fathers, and those wiser Guides
   Whom Faction had not drawn to study sides.
How in these Ruins Vulcan, thou dost lurk,
   All Soot and Embers! odious, as thy work!
I now begin to doubt, if ever Grace,
   Or Goddess, could be patient of thy Face.
Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire!
   'Cause thou canst halt, with us in Arts and Fire!
Son of the Wind! for so thy Mother gone
   With Lust conceiv'd thee; Father thou hadst none.
When thou wert born, and that thou look'st at best,
   She durst not kiss, but flung thee from her Breast.
And so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his Cup:
   No marl the Clowns of Lemnos took thee up.
For none but Smiths would have made thee a God.
   Some Alchimist there may be yet, or odd
C c c c 2                         Squire         


564 Under-woods.                 

Squire of the Squibs, against the Pageant day,
   May to thy name a Vulcanale say;
And for it lose his Eyes with Gun-powder,
   As th' other may his Brains with Quick-silver.
Well-fare the Wise-man yet, on the Banck-side,
   My Friends, the Water-men! They could provide
Against thy Fury, when to serve their needs,
   They made a Vulcan of a Sheaf of Reeds,
Whom they durst handle in their Holy-day Coats,
   And safely trust to dress, not burn their Boats.
But, O those Reeds! thy meer disdain of them,
   Made thee beget that cruel Stratagem,
(Which, some are pleas'd to stile but thy mad Pranck)
   Against the Globe, the Glory of the Bank.
Which, though it were the Fort of the whole Parish,
   Flanck'd with a Ditch, and forc'd out of a Marish,
I saw with two poor Chambers taken in
   And raz'd; e're thought could urge, this might have been!
See the World's Ruines! nothing but the Piles
   Left! and wit since to cover it with Tiles.
The Brethren, they streight nois'd it out for News,
   'Twas verily some Relick of the Stews.
And this a Sparkle of that Fire let loose,
   That was lock'd up in the Winchestrian Goose,
Bred on the Banck, in time of Popery,
   When Venus there maintain'd in Mystery.
But, others fell, with that conceit by the Ears,
   And cry'd, it was a threatning to the Bears,
And that accursed Ground, the Parish Garden:
   Nay, sigh'd, ah Sister 'twas the Nun, Kate ArdenGifford's edition reads; 'Nay, sighed a sister, Venus' nun, Kate Arden,'
Kindled the Fire! But, then did one return,
   No Fool would his own harvest spoil, or burn!
If that were so, thou rather would'st advance
   The Place, that was thy Wives Inheritance.
O no, cry'd all. Fortune, for being a Whore,
   Scap'd not his Justice and Jot the more:
He burnt that Idol of the Revels too:
   Nay, let White-Hall with Revels have to do,
Though but in Dances, it shall know his Power;
   There was a Judgment shew'n too in an Hour.
He is true Vulcan still! He did not spare
   Troy, though it were so much his Venus care.
Fool, wilt thou let that in Example come?
   Did not she save from thence, to build a Rome?
And what hast thou done in these petty Spights,
   More then advanc'd the Houses, and their Rights?erroneous spelling for 'Rites'
I will not argue thee, from those of guilt,
   For they were burnt, but to be better built.
'Tis true, that in thy wish they were destroy'd,
   Which thou hast only vented, not enjoy'd.
So would'st th' have run upon the Rolls by stealth,
   And didst invade part of the Common-wealth,
In those Records, which were all Chronicles gone,
   Will be remembred by Six Clerks, to one.
But, say all Six, Good Men, what answer ye?
   Lyes there no Writ, out of the Chancery,
Against this Vulcan? No Injunction?
   No Order? no Decree? Though we be gone
At Common-Law, Methinks in his despight
   A Court of Equity should do us right.
But to confine him to the Brew-houses,
   The Glass-house, Dye-fats, and their Furnaces;
To live in Sea-coal, and go forth in Smoke;
   Or lest that Vapour might the City choak,
Condemn him to the Brick-kills, or some Hill-
   Foot (out in Sussex) to an Iron Mill;
Or in small Fagots have him blaze about
   Vile Taverns, and the Drunkards piss him out;
Or in the Bell-Mans Lanthorn like a Spy,
   Burn to a Snuff, and then stink out and dye:
I could invent a Sentence, yet were worse;
   But I'll conclude all in a civil Curse.
Pox on your Flameship, Vulcan; if it be
   To all as fatal as't hath been to me,

[column break]

And to Pauls-Steeple; which was unto us
   'Bove all your Fire-works, had at Ephesus,
Or Alexandria; and though a Divine
   Loss remains yet, as unrepair'd as mine.
Would you had kept your Forge, at Ætna still,
   And there made Swords, Bills, Glaves, and Arms your fill.
Maintain'd the Trade at Bilbo; or else-where;
   Struck in at Millan with the Cutlers there;
Or stay'd but where the Fryar, and you first met,
   Who from the Divels-Arse did Guns beget,
Or fixt in the Low-Country's, where you might
   On both sides do your mischiefs with delight;
Blow up, and ruine, mine, and countermine,
   Make your Petards, and Granats, all your fine
Engines of Murder, and receive the Praise
   Of massacring Man-kind so many ways.
We ask your absence here, we all love Peace,
   And pray the Fruits thereof, and the Increase;
So doth the King, and most of the Kings-men
   That have good Places: therefore once agen,
Pox on thee Vulcan, thy Pandora's Pox,
   And all the Evils that flew out of her Box
Light on thee: Or if those Plagues will not do,
   Thy Wives Pox on thee, and B. Bs.Bess Broughton's [a well-known prostitute] too.


A Speech according to Horace.

W
Hy yet my noble Hearts they cannot say,
   But we have Powder still for the Kings Day,
And Ord'nance too: so much as from the Tower
   T' have wak'd, if sleeping, Spain's Ambassadour,
Old Æsope Gundomar: the French can tell,
   For they did see it the last tilting well,
That we have Trumpets, Armour, and great Horse,
   Launces, and Men, and some a breaking force.
They saw too store of Feathers, and more may,
   If they stay here, but till Saint George's Day.
All Ensigns of a War, are not yet dead,
   Nor Marks of Wealth so from our Nation fled,
But they may see Gold-Chains, and Pearl worn then,
   Lent by the London Dames, to the Lords Men;
Withal, the dirty pains those Citizens take,
   To see the Pride at Court, their Wives do make;
And the return those thankful Courtiers yield,
   To have their Husbands drawn forth to the Field,
And coming home, to tell what Acts were done
   Under the Auspice of young Swynnerton.
What a strong Fort old Pimblicoe had been!
   How it held out! how (last) 'twas taken in!
Well, I say thrive, thrive brave Artillery-yard,
   Thou Seed-plot of the War, that hast not spar'd
Powder, or Paper, to bring up the Youth
   Of Lonndon, in the Military Truth,
These ten years day; As all may swear that look
   But on thy Practise, and the Posture-book:
He that but saw thy curious Captains drill,
   Would think no more of Vlushing,Flushing or the Brill:
But give them over to the common Ear
   For that unnecessary Charge they were.
Well did thy crafty Clerk, and Knight, Sir Hugh,
   Supplant bold Panton; and brought there to view
Translated Ælian Tacticks to be read,
   And the Greek Discipline (with the modern) shed
So, in that ground, as soon it grew to be
   The City-Question, whether Tilly, or he,
Were now the greater Captain? for they saw
   The Berghen Siege, and taking in Breda,
So acted to the Life, as Maurice might,
   And Spinola have blushed at the sight.
O happy Art! and wise Epitome
   Of bearing Arms! most civil Soldiery!
Thou canst draw forth thy Forces, and fight dry
   The Battels of thy Aldermanity;
Without        


             Under-woods. 565

Without the hazard of a drop of Blood:
   More then the Surfets, in thee, that day stood.
Go on, increast in Vertue; and in fame:
   And keep the Glory of the English Name,
Up among Nations. In the stead of bold
   Beauchamps, and Nevills, Cliffords, Audley's old;
[Waller.      
Insert thy Hodges, and those newer Men.
   As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen:
That keep the War, though now't be grown more tame
   Alive yet, in the noise; and still the same,
And could (if our great Men would let their Sons
   Come to their Schools,) show 'em the use of Guns.
And there instruct the noble English Heirs
   In Politick, and Militar Affairs;
But he that should perswade, to have this done
   For Education of our Lordings; Soon
Should he hear of Billow, Wind, and Storm,
   From the Tempestuous Grandlings, who'll inform
Us, in our bearing, that are thus, and thus,
   Born, bred, allied? what's he dare tutor us?
Are we by Book-worms to be aw'd? must we
   Live by their Scale, that dare do nothing free?
Why are we Rich, or Great, except to show
   All licence in our Lives? What need we know?
More then to praise a Dog? or Horse? or speak
   The Hawking Language? or our Day to break
With Citizens? let Clowns, and Tradesmen breed
   Their Sons to study Arts, the Laws, the Creed:
We will believe like Men of our own Rank,
   In so much Land a year, or such a Bank,
That turns us so much Monies, at which rate
   Our Ancestors impos'd on Prince and State.
Let poor Nobility be vertuous: We,
   Descended in a Rope of Titles, be
From Guy, or Bevis, Arthur, or from whom
   The Herald will. Our Blood is now become,
Past any need of Vertue. Let them care,
   That in the Cradle of their Gentry are;
To serve the State by Councels, and by Arms:
   We neither love the Troubles, nor the harms.
What love you then? your Whore? what study? Gate,
   Carriage, and Dressing. There is up of late
The Academy, where the Gallants meet ——
   What to make Legs? yes, and to smell most sweet,
All that they do at Plays. O, but first here
   They learn and study; and then practise there.
But why are all these Irons i' the Fire
   Of several makings? helps, helps, t' attire
His Lordship. That is for his Band, his Hair
   This, and that Box his Beauty to repair;
This other for his Eye-brows; hence, away,
   I may no longer on these Pictures stay,
These Carkasses of Honour; Taylors blocks,
   Cover'd with Tissue, whose prosperity mocks
The fate of things: whilst totter'd Vertue holds
   Her broken Arms up, to their empty Moulds.


An Epistle to Master Arth. Squib.

W
Hat I am not, and what I fain would be,
   Whilst I inform my self, I would teach thee,
My gentle Arthur; that it might be said
   One lesson we have both learn'd, and well read;
I neither am, nor art thou one of those
   That hearkens to a Jacks-pulse, when it goes.
Nor ever trusted to that friendship yet
   Was issue of the Tavern, or the Spit:
Much less a Name would we bring up, or nurse,
   That could but claim a Kindred from the Purse.
Those are poor Ties, depend on those false Ends,
   'Tis Vertue alone, or nothing that knits friends.
And as within your Office, you do take
   No Piece of Money, but you know, or make

[column break]

Inquiry of the worth: So must we do,
   First weigh a Friend, then touch and try him too:
For there are many Slips, and Counterfeits.
   Deceit is fruitful. Men have Masks and Nets,
But these with wearing will themselves unfold:
   They cannot last. No Lye grew ever old.
Turn him, and see his Threds: look, if he be
   Friend to himself, that would be friend to thee.
For that is first requir'd. A man be his own.
   But he that's too much that, is Friend of none.
Then rest, and a Friends value understand
   It is a richer Purchase then of Land.


An Epigram on Sir Edward Coke, when he was
Lord Chief Justice of England.

H
E that should search all Glories of the Gown,
   And steps of all rais'd Servants of the Crown
He could not find, then thee of all that store
   Whom Fortune aided less, or Vertue more,
Such, Coke, were thy beginnings, when thy good
   In others evil best was understood:
When, being the Srangers help, the poor mans aid,
   Thy just defences made th' Oppressor afraid.
Such was thy Process, when Integrity,
   And skill in thee, now, grew Authority;
That Clients strove, in Question of the Laws,
   More for thy Patronage, then for their Cause,
And that thy strong and manly Eloquence
   Stood up thy Nations fame, her Crowns defence,
And now such is thy stand; while thou dost deal
   Desired Justice to the publick Weal,
Like Solons self; explat'st the knotty Laws
   With endless Labours, whilst thy Learning draws
No less of Praise, then Readers in all kinds
   Of worthiest knowledge, that can take Mens minds.
Such is thy All; that (as I sung before)
   None Fortune aided less, or Vertue more.
Or if Chance must, to each Man that doth rise
   Needs lend an Aid, to thine she had her Eyes.


An Epistle answering to one that asked to be Sealed
of the Tribe of Ben.

M
En that are safe, and sure, in all they do,
   Care not what Trials they are put unto;
They meet the Fire, the Test, as Martyrs would;
   And though Opinion stamp them not, are Gold,
I could say more of such, but that I fly
   To speak my self out too ambitiously,
And shewing so weak an Act to vulgar Eyes;
   Put Conscience and my right to comprimise.
Let those that meerly talk, and never think,
   That live in the wild Anarchy of Drink,
Subject to quarrel only; or else such
   As make it their Proficiency, how much
They'ave glutted in, and letcher'd out that Week,
   That never yet did friend or friendship seek
But for a Sealing: let these Men protest.
   Or th'other on their Borders, that will jeast
On all Souls that are absent; even the dead
   Like Flies or Worms, which Mans corrupt Parts fed:
That to speak well, think it above all Sin,
   Of any Company but that they are in,
Call every night to Supper in these fits,
   And are receiv'd for the Covey of Wits;
That censure all the Town, and all th' Affairs,
   And know whose Ignorance is more then theirs;
Let these Men have their ways, and take their times
   To vent their Libels, and to issue Rhimes,
I have no Portion in them, nor their deal
   Of News they get, to strew out the long Meal,
I             


566 Under-woods.                 

I study other friendships, and more one,
   Then these can ever be; or else wish none.
What is't to me whether the French Design
   Be, or be not, to get the Vall-telline?
Or the States Ships sent forth belike to meet
   Some hopes of Spain in their West-Indian Fleet?
Whether the Dispensation yet be sent,
   Or that the Match from Spain was ever meant?
I wish all well, and pray high Heaven conspire
   My Princes safety, and my Kings desire;
But if for Honour, we must draw the Sword,
   And force back that, which will not be restor'd,
I have a Body, yet, that Spirit draws
   To live, or fall, a Carkass in the Cause.
So far without inquiry what the States,
   Brunsfield, and Mansfield do this year, my Fates
Shall carry me at Call; and I'll be well,
   Though I do neither hear these news, nor tell
Of Spain or France; or were not prick'd down one
   Of the late Mystery of Reception,
Although my Fame, to his, not under-hears,
   That guides the Motions, and directs the Bears.
But that's a blow, by which in time I may
   Lose all my Credit with my Christmas Clay,
And animated Porc'lane of the Court,
   I, and for this neglect, the courser sort
Of earthen Jars, there may molest me too:
   Well, with mine own frail Pitcher, what to do
I have decreed; keep it from waves and press;
   Lest it be justled, crack'd made nought, or less:
Live to that Point I will, for which I am Man,
   And dwell as in my Center, as I can,
Still looking too, and ever loving Heaven;
   With reverence using all the Gifts then given.
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent
   Such as are square, well-tag'd, and permanent,
Not built with Canvass, Paper, and false lights,
   As are the Glorious Scenes, at the great sights;
And that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds,
   Oily Expansions, or shrunk dirty Folds,
But all so clear, and led by Reasons Flame,
   As but to stumble in her sight were shame.
These I will honour, love, embrace, and serve;
   And free it from all question to preserve.
So short you read my Character, and theirs
   I would call mine, to which not many Stairs
Are asked to climb. First give me faith, who know
   My self a little. I will take you so,
As you have writ your self. Now stand, and then
   Sir, you are Sealed of the Tribe of Ben.


The Dedication of the Kings new Cellar to Bacchus.

S
Ince, Bacchus, thou art father
 Of Wines, to thee the rather
We dedicate this Cellar,
Where new, thou art made Dweller;
And Seal thee thy Commission:
But 'tis with a Condition,
That thou remain here Taster
Of all to the great Master.
And look unto their Faces,
Their Qualities and Races,
That both, their Odour take him,
And relish merry make him.
   For Bacchus thou art freer
Of Cares, and Over-seer,
Of feast, and merry meeting,
And still begin'st the greting:greeting
See then thou dost attend him
Lyæus, and defend him,
By all the Arts of Gladness
From any thought like sadness.

[column break]

   So mayst thou still be younger
Than Phœbus; and much stronger,
To give Mankind their eases,
And cure the Worlds Diseases:
   So may the Muses follow
Thee still, and leave Apollo,
And think thy Stream more quicker
Then Hippocrenes Liquor:
And thou make many a Poet,
Before his Brain do know it;
So may there never Quarrel
Have issue from the Barrel;
But Venus and the Graces
Pursue thee in all Places,
And not a Song be other
Then Cupid, and his Mother.
   That when King James, above here
Shall feast it, thou maist love there
The Causes and the Guests too,
And have thy Tales and Jests too,
Thy Circuits, and thy Rounds free
As shall the Feasts fair Grounds be.
   Be it he hold Communion
In great Saint Georges Union;
Or gratulates the Passage
Of some well-wrought Embassage:
Whereby he may knit sure up
The wished Peace of Europe:
Or else a Health advances,
To put his Court in Dances,
And set us all on skipping,
When with his Royal shipping
The narrow Seas are shady,
And Charles brings home the Lady.

Accessit fervor Capiti, Numerusq; Lucernis.


An Epigram on the Court Pucell.

D
O's the Court-Pucell then so censure me,
   And thinks I dare not her? let the World see.
What though her Chamber be the very Pit,
   Where fight the prime Cocks of the Game, for Wit?
And that as any are stroke, her Breath creates
   New in their stead, out of the Candidates?
What though with Tribade lust she force a Muse,
   And in an Epicæne fury can write News
Equal with that, which for the best News goes
   As airy Light, and as like Wit as those?
What though she talk, and cannot once with them,
   Make State, Religion, Bawdry, all a Theam.
And as Lip-thirsty, in each words expence,
   Doth labour with the Phrase more than the Sense?
What though she ride two Mile on Holy-days
   To Church, as others do to Feasts and Plays,
To shew their Tires? to view, and to be view'd?
   What though she be with Velvet Gowns indu'd,
And spangled Petticotes brought forth to Eye,
   As new Rewards of her old secresie?
What though she hath won on Trust, as many do,
   And that her truster fears her? Must I too?
I never stood for any Place: my Wit
   Thinks it self nought, though she should value it.
I am no States-man, and much less Divine
   For Bawdry, 'tis her Language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the Idolatry
   To Stuffs and Laces, those my man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
   In Contract twice, what can she perjure more?
Indeed, her Dressing some Man might delight,
   Her Face there's none can like by Candle-light.
Not he, that should the Body have, for Case
   To his poor Instrument, now out of grace.
Shall           


             Under-woods. 567

Shall I advise thee Pucell? steal away
   From Court, while yet thy Fame hath some small day;
The Wits will leave you, if they once perceive
   You cling to Lords, and Lords, if them you leave
For Sermoneers: of which now one, now other,
   They say you weekly invite with Fits o' th' Mother,
And practise for a Miracle; take heed
   This Age would lend no Faith to Dorrel's Deed;
Or if it would, the Court is the worst Place,
   Both for the Mothers, and the Babes of grace,
For there the Wicked in the Chair of scorn,
   Will call't a Bastard, when a Prophet's born.


An Epigram.
To the Honour'd------Countess of ------

T
He Wisdom Madam of your private Life,
   Where with this while you live a widowed Wife,
And the right ways you take unto the right,
   To conquer Rumour, and triumph on Spight;
Not only shunning by your act, to do
   Ought that is ill, but the suspicion too,
Is of so brave Example, as he were
   No Friend to Vertue, could be silent here.
The rather when the Vices of the Time
   Are grown so Fruitful, and false Pleasures climb
By all oblique Degrees, that killing height
   From whence they fall, cast down with their own
       weight.
And though all Praise bring nothing to your Name,
   Who (herein studying Conscience, and not Fame)
Are in your self rewarded; yet 'twill be
   A chearful Work to all good Eyes, to see
Among the daily Ruins that fall foul,
   Of State, of Fame, of Body, and of Soul,
So great a Vertue stand upright to view,
   As makes Penelope's old Fable true,
Whilst your Ulisses hath ta'ne leave to go,
   Countries, and climescomma omitted Manners and Men to know.
Only your time you better entertain,
   Than the great Homer's Wit, for her, could fain;
For you admit no Company, but good,
   And when you want those Friends, or near in Blood,
Or your Allies, you make your Books your Friends,
   And study them unto the noblest Ends,
Searching for Knowledge, and to keep your Mind
   The same it was inspir'd, rich, and refin'd.
These Graces, when the rest of Ladies view
   Not boasted in your Life, but practis'd true,
As they are hard, for them to make their own,
   So are they profitable to be known:
For when they find so many meet in one,
   It will be shame for them, if they have none.


Lord B A C O N 'S Birth-day.

H
Ail happy Genius of this ancient Pile!
How comes it all things so about thee smile?
The Fire, the Wine, the Men! and in the midst,
Thou stand'st as if some Mystery thou did'st!
Pardon, I read it in thy Face, the day
For whose returns, and many, all these pray;
And so do I. This is the Sixtieth year
Since Bacon, and thy Lord was born, and here;
Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal,
Fame and Foundation of the English Weal.
What then his Father was, that since is he,
Now with a Title more to the Degree;
England's High-Chancellor: the destin'd Heir
In his soft Cradle to his Father's Chair,
Whose even Thred the Fates spin round and full,
Out of their choicest and their whitest Wooll.

[column break]

   'Tis a brave Cause of joy, let it be known,
For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine own.
Give me a deep-crown'd-Bowl, that I may sing
In raising him the Wisdom of my King.


A Poem sent me by Sir William Burlase.
The Painter to the Poet.

T
O paint thy Worth, if rightly I did know it,
And were but Painter half like thee, a Poet;
                                       Ben, I would show it:
But in this skill, m' unskilful Pen will tire,
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found far higher;
                                       And I a Lier.
Then, what a Painter's here? or what an eater
Of great Attempts! when as his skil's no greater,
                                       And he a Cheater?
Then what a Poet's here! whom, by Confession
Of all with me, to paint without Digression
                                       There's no Expression.


My Answer.
The Poet to the Painter.

W
Hy? though I seem of a prodigious wast,
I am not so voluminous, and vast,
But there are Lines, wherewith I might b' embrac'd.

'Tis true, as my Womb swells, so my Back stoops,
And the whole Lump grows round, deform'd, and droops,
But yet the Tun at Heidelberg had Hoops.

You were not tied, by any Painter's Law
To square my Circle, I confess, but draw
My Superficies: that was all you saw.

Which if in compass of no Art it came
To be described by a Monogram,
With one great blot, yo' had form'd me as I am.

But whilst you curious were to have it be
An Archetype, for all the World to see,
You made it a brave Piece, but not like me.

O, had I now your manner, mastry, might,
Your Power of handling, Shadow, Air, and Spright,
How I would draw, and take hold and delight.

But, you are he can paint; I can but write:
A Poet hath no more but black and white,
Ne knows he flatt'ring Colours, or false Light.

Yet when of Friendship I would draw the Face
A letter'd Mind, and a large Heart would place
To all Posterity; I will write Burlase.


An Epigram.
To W I L L I A M Earl of Newcastle.

W
Hen first, my Lord, I saw you back your Horse,
   Provoke his Metal, and command his Force
To all the uses of the Field and Race,
   Me thought I read the ancient Art of Thrace,
And saw a Centaure, past those Tales of Greece,
   So seem'd your Horse; and you both of a Piece!
You shew'd like Perseus upon Pegasus;
   Or Castor mounted on his Cyllarus:
Or what we hear our home-born Legend tell,
   Of bold Sir Bevis and his Arundell:
Nay, so your Seat his Beauties did endorse,
   As I began to wish my self a Horse:
And          


568 Under-woods.                 

And surely had I but your Stable seen
   Before: I think my Wish absolv'd had been.
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,
   Nor any of their Houshold half so well.
So well! as when I saw the Floor and Room,
   I look'd for Hercules to be the Groom:
And cri'd, away, with the Cæsarian Bread,
   At these Immortal Mangers Virgil fed.


Epistle to Mr. A R T H U R  S Q U I B.

I
Am to dine, Friend, where I must be weigh'd
   For a just Wager, and that Wager paid
If I do lose it: And, without a Tale
   A Merchant's Wife is Regent of the Scale.
Who when she heard the Match, concluded streight,
   An ill Commodity! 'T must make good weight:
So that upon the Point, my Corporal fear
   Is, she will Play Dame Justice, too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
   Within the Balance; and not want a Mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
   Full twenty stone; of which I lack two Pound:
That's six in Silver; now within the Socket
   Stinketh my Credit, if into the Pocket
It do not come: One Piece I have in store,
   Lend me, dear Arthur, for a Week five more,
And you shall make me good, in Weight, and Fashion,
   And then to be return'd; or Protestation
To go out after— till when take this Letter
   For your security. I can no better.


To Mr. J O H N  B U R G E S.

W
Ould God, my Burges, I could think
Thoughts worthy of thy Gift, this Ink,
Then would I promise here to give
Verse, that should thee, and me out-live.
But since the Wine hath steep'd my Brain,
I only can the Paper stain;
Yet with a Dye, that fears no Moth,
But Scarlet-like out-lasts the Cloth.


Epistle to my Lady C O V E L L.

Y
Ou won not Verses, Madam, you won me,
   When you would play so nobly, and so free.
A Book to a few Lines: but, it was fit
   You won them too, your odds did merit it,
So have you gain'd a Servant, and a Muse:
   The first of which I fear, you will refuse;
And you may justly, being a tardy cold,
   Unprofitable Chattel, fat and old,
Laden with Belly, and doth hardly approach
   His Friends, but to break Chairs, or crack a Coach.
His weight is twenty Stone within two Pound;
   And that's made up as doth th' Purse abound.
Marry the Muse is one, can tread the Air,
   And stroke the Water, nimble, chast, and fair;
Sleep in a Virgins Bosom without fear,
   Run all the Rounds in a soft Ladies Ear,
Widow or Wife, without the jealousie
   Of either Suitor, or a Servant by.
Such, (if her Manners like you) I do send:
   And can for other Graces her commend,
To make you merry on the Dressing-stool
   A Mornings, and at Afternoons to Fool
Away ill Company, and help in Rhime,
   Your Joan to pass her melancholy time.
By this, although you fancy not the Man
Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can:this line should have been indented

[column break]

How many Verses, Madam, are your due!
   I can lose none in tendring these to you.
I gain, in having leave to keep my Day,
   And should grow rich, had I much more to pay.


To Master J O H N  B U R G E S.

            
F
Ather John Burges,
Necessity urges
My woful Cry,
To Sir Robert Pie:
And that he will venter
To send my Debenter.variant spelling of 'Debenture'
Tell him his Ben
Knew the time, when
He lov'd the Muses;
Though now he refuses,
To take Apprehension
Of a years Pension,
And more is behind:
Put him in mind
Christmas is near;
And neither good Chear,
Mirth, Fooling, nor Wit,
Nor any least Fit
Of Gambol or Sport
Will come at the Court,
If there be no Money,
No Plover, or Coney
Will come to the Table,
Or Wine to enable
The Muse, or the Poet,
The Parish will know it.
Nor any quick-warming-pan help him to Bed,
   If the Checker be empty, so will be his Head.


Epigram, to my Bookseller.

T
Hou, Friend, wilt hear all Censures; unto thee
   All Mouths are open, and all Stomachs free:
Be thou my Books Intelligencer, note
   What each Man says of it, and of what Coat
His Judgment is; If he be wise, and praise,
   Thank him: if other, he can give no Bays.
If his Wit reach no higher, but to spring
   Thy Wife a fit of laughter; a Cramp-ring
Will be reward enough: to wear like those,
   That hang their richest Jewels i' their Nose;
Like a rung Bear, or Swine: grunting out Wit,
   As if that Part lay for a [         ] most fit!
      If they go on, and that thou lov'st a-life
      Their perfum'd Judgments, let them kiss thy Wife.


An Epigram.
To W I L L I A M Earl of Newcastle.

T
Hey talk of Fencing, and the use of Arms,
   The Art of urging, and avoiding harms,
The Noble Science, and the mastring skill
   Of making just Approaches how to kill:
To hit in Angels, and to clash with time:
   As all defence, or offence were a chime!
I hate such measur'd, give me metall'd Fire
   That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts higher!
A quick, and dazling motion! when a Pair
   Of Bodies, meet like rarified Air!
Their Weapons shot out, with that flame and force,
   As they out-did the Lightning in the Course;
This were a Spectacle! A sight to draw
   Wonder to Valour! No, it is the Law
Of      


             Under-woods. 569

Of daring, not to do a Wrong, is true
   Valour! to slight it, being done to you!
To know the Heads of Danger! where 'tis fit
   To bend, to break, provoke, or suffer it!
All this (my Lord) is Valour! This is yours!
   And was your Fathers! All your Ancestors!
Who durst live great, 'mongst all the Colds and Heats
   Of Humane Life! as all the Frosts and Sweats
Of Fortune! when, or Death appear'd, or Bands!
   And valiant were, with, or without their Hands.


An Epitaph on H E N R Y L. L A-W A R E.

To the Passer-by.

I
F, Passenger, thou canst but read:
 Stay, drop a Tear for him that's dead,
Henry, the brave young Lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the Muses Care!
What could their Care do 'gainst the Spight
Of a Disease, that lov'd no light
Of Honour, nor no air of Good?
But crept like Darkness through his Blood?
Offended with the dazling flame
Of Vertue, got above his Name?
No noble Furniture of Parts,
No love of Action, and high Arts.
No aim at Glory, or in War,
Ambition to become a Star,
Could stop the Malice of this ill,
That spread his Body o'er, to kill:
And only his great Soul envy'd,
Because it durst have noblier dy'd.


An Epigram.

T
Hat you have seen the Pride, beheld the Sport,
   And all the Games of Fortune, plaid at Court;
View'd there the Market, read the wretched rate
   At which there are, would sell the Prince and State:
That scarce you hear a publick Voice alive,
   But whisper'd Counsels, and those only thrive;
Yet are got off thence, with clear Mind and Hands
   To lift to Heaven: who is't not understands
Your Happiness, and doth not speak you blest,
   To see you set apart, thus, from the rest,
T' obtain of God, what all the Land should ask?
   A Nation's Sin got pardon'd! 'twere a Task
Fit for a Bishops Knees! O bow them oft,
   My Lord, till felt grief make our stone-hearts soft,
And we do weep, to water, for our sin.
   He, that in such a flood, as we are in
Of Riot, and Consumption knows the way,
   To teach the people how to fast, and pray,
And do their Penance, to avert God's Rod,
   He is the Man, and Favorite of God.


An Epigram.

To K. C H A R L E S, for an Hundred Pounds
He sent me in my Sickness, 1629.

G
Reat C H A R L E S, among the holy Gifts of Grace
   Annexed to thy Person, and thy place,
'Tis not enough (thy Piety is such)
   To cure the call'd Kings Evil with thy touch;
But thou wilt yet a Kinglier Mastry try,
   To cure the Poets Evil, Poverty:

[column break]

And, in these Cures, do'st so thy self enlarge,
   As thou dost cure our Evil at thy charge.
   Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more
   One Poet, than of other folk Ten Score.
O Piety! so to weigh the Poors Estates!
   O Bounty! so to difference the rates!
What can the Poet wish his King may do,
   But that he cure the Peoples Evil too?


To King C H A R L E S, and Queen M A R Y,
For the Loss of their First-born,

An Epigram Consolatory, 1629.

W
Ho dares deny, that all first-Fruits are due
   To God, denies the God-head to be true:
Who doubts, those Fruits God can with Gain restore,
   Doth by his doubt, distrust his Promise more.
He can, he will, and with large Int'rest pay,
   What (at his liking) he will take away.
Then Royal C H A R L E S and M A R Y, do not grutch
   That the Almighty's Will to you is such:
But thank his Greatness, and his Goodness too;
   And think all still the best that he will do.
That thought shall make, he will this loss supply
   With a long, large, and blest Posterity!
For God, whose Essence is so infinite,
   Cannot but heap that Grace he will requite.


An Epigram,

To our Great and Good King C H A R L E S,
On his Anniversary-Day, 1629.

H
Ow happy were the Subject! if he knew,
   Most pious King, but his own good in you!
How many times, Live long, CHARLES, would he say,
   If he but weigh'd the Blessings of this Day?
And as it turns our joyful Year about,
   For Safety of such Majesty cry out?
Indeed, when had Great Britain greater Cause
   Than now, to love the Soveraign and the Laws?
When you that reign, are her Example grown,
   And what are Bounds to her, you make your own?
When yonr'your' -- 'u' inverted assiduous practice doth secure
   That Faith, which she professeth to be pure?
When all your Life's a Presidentvariant spelling of 'Precedent' of Days,
   And murmur cannot quarrel at your ways?
How is she barren grown of Love! or broke!
   That nothing can her Gratitude provoke!
O Times! O Manners! Surfeit bred of Ease,
   The truly Epidemical Disease!
'Tis not alone the Merchant, but the Clown,
   Is Bank-rupt turn'd! the Cassock, Cloak, and Gown,
Are lost upon accompt, and none will know,
   How much to Heaven for thee, great C H A R L E S,
            they owe!


An Epigram on the Prince's Birth, 1630.

A
Nd art thou born, brave Babe? Blest be thy Birth,
   That so hath Crown'd our Hopes, our Spring,
           and Earth,
The Bed of the chaste Lily, and the Rose!
   WatWhat Month than May was fitter to disclose
This Prince of Flowers? Soon shoot thou up, and grow
   The same that thou art promis'd, but be slow,
And long in changing. Let our Nephews see
   Thee, quickly the Gardens Eye to be,
D d d d                             And         


570 Under-woods.                 

And there to stand so. Haste, now envious Moon,
   And interpose thy self, ('care not how soon.)
And threat' the great Eclipse. Two Hours but run,
   Sol will re-shine. If not, C H A R L E S hath a Son.

———— Non displicuisse meretur
Festinat Cæsar qui placuisse tibi.


An Epigram to the Queen, then lying in. 1630.

H
Ail Mary, full of Grace, it once was said,
   And by an Angel, to the blessed'st Maid,
The Mother of our Lord: Why may not I
   (Without profaneness) yet, a Poet, cry,
Hail Mary, full of Honours, to my Queen,
   The Mother of our Prince? When was there seen
(Except the Joy that the first Mary brought,
   Whereby the Safety of Mankind was wrought)
So general a Gladness to an Isle!
   To make the Hearts of a whole Nation smile,
As in this Prince? Let it be lawful, so
   To compare small with great, as still we owe
Glory to God. Then, Hail to Mary! Spring
   Of so much Safety to the Realm, and King.


An Ode, or Song, by all the Muses.

In Celebration of her Majesties Birth-day.
1630.

1. Clio.  
u

P, Publick Joy, remember
This Sixteenth of November,
   Some brave un-common way:
And though the Parish-Steeple
Be silent, to the People
   Ring thou it Holy-day.
2. Mel. What though the thrifty Tower,
And Guns there, spare to pour
   Their Noises forth in Thunder:
As fearful to awake
This City, or to shake
   Their guarded Gates asunder?
3. Thal. Yet, let our Trumpets sound;
And cleave both Air and Ground,
   With beating of our Drums:
Let every Lyre be strong,
Harp, Lute, Theorbo sprung,
   With touch of dainty Thums!
4. Eut. That when the Quire is full,
The Harmony may pull
   The Angels from their Sphears:
And each Intelligence
May wish it self a Sense;
   Whilst it the Ditty hears.
5. Terp. Behold the Royal Mary,
The Daughter of Great Harry!
   And Sister to Just Lewis!
Comes in the Pomp and Glory
Of all her Brother's Story,
   And of her Father's Prowess!
6. Erat. She shows so far above
The feigned Queen of Love,
   This Sea-girt Isle upon:
As here no Venus were;
But that she reigning here.
   Had got the Ceston on!
7. Call. See, see our active King
Hath taken twice the Ring

[column break]

   Upon his pointed Lance:
Whilst all the ravish'd Rout
Do mingle in a Shout,
   Hey! for the Flower of France!
8. Ura. This day the Court doth measure     
Her Joy in State and Pleasure;
   And with a Reverend Fear,
The Revels, and the Play,
Sum up this Crowned Day,
   Her two and twenti'th Year!
9. Poly.   Sweet! happy Mary! All
The People her do call!
   And this the Womb Divine!
So fruitful, and so fair,
Hath brought the Land an Heir!
   And C H A R L E S a Caroline.


An Epigram.

To the Houshold. 1630.

W
Hat can the Cause be, when the K. hath given
   His Poet Sack, the Houshold will not pay?
Are they so scanted in their store? or driven
   For want of knowing the Poet, to say him nay?
Well, they should know him, would the K. but grant
   His Poet leave to sing his Houshold true;
He'ld frame such Ditties of their Store, and Want,
   Would make the very Green-Cloth to look blue:
And rather wish, in their Expence of Sack,
   So, the allowance from the King to use,
As the old Bard, should no Canary lack,
   'T were better spare a But, than spill his Muse.
For in the Genius of a Poet's Verse,
   The King's Fame lives. Go now, deny his Tierce.


Epigram.

To a Friend, and Son.

S
On, and my Friend, I had not call'd you so
   To me; or been the same to you, if Show,
Profit, or Chance had made us: But I know
   What, by that Name, we each to other owe,
Freedom and Truth; with love from those begot.
   Wise-crafts, on which the Flatterer ventures not.
His is more safe Commodity, or none:
   Nor dares he come in the comparison.
But as the wretched Painter, who so ill
   Painted a Dog, that now his subtler Skill
Was, t' have a Boy stand with a Club, and fright
   All live Dogs from the Lane, and his Shop's sight,
Till he had sold his Piece, drawn so unlike:
   So doth the Flatt'rer with fair Cunning strike
At a Friend's Freedom, proves all circling means
   To keep him off; and howsoe'er he gleans
Some of his Forms, he lets him not come near
   Where he would fix, for the Distinctions fear,
For as at distance, few have Faculty
   To judge: So all Men coming near, can spy,
Though now of Flattery, as of Picture are
   More subtle Works, and finer Pieces far,
Than knew the former Ages: yet to Life
   All is but Web, and Painting; be the strife
Never so great to get them: and the ends,
   Rather to boast rich Hangings, than rare Friends.



To      


             Under-woods. 571

To the Immortal Memory, and Friendship of that
      Noble Pair, Sir L U C I U S C A R Y, and Sir
      H. M O R I S O N.

The Turn.

B
Rave Infant of Saguntum, clear
 Thy coming forth in that great year,
When the prodigious Hannibal did Crown
His Rage, with razing your Immortal Town.
Thou, looking then about,
Ere thou wert half got out,
Wise Child, did'st hastily return,
And mad'st thy Mothers Womb thine Urn.
How summ'd a Circle didst thou leave Mankind
Of deepest Lore, could we the Center find!

The Counter-Turn.

Did wiser Nature draw thee back,
From out the Horror of that Sack;
Where Shame, Faith, Honour, and regard of Right
Lay trampled on; the Deeds of Death, and Night,
Urg'd, hurried forth, and horl'd
Upon th' affrighted World:
Sword, Fire, and Famine, with fell Fury met;
And all on utmost Ruin set:
As, could they but Lifes Miseries fore-see,
No doubt all Infants would return like thee?

The Stand.

For, what is Life, if measur'd by the space,
Not by the act?
Or masked Man, if valu'd by his Face,
Above his Fact?
Here's one out-liv'd his Peers,
And told forth fourscore years:
He vexed time, and busied the whole State;
Troubled both Foes and Friends;
But ever to no ends:
What did this Stirrer, but die late?
How well at Twenty had he faln, or stood!
For three of his fourscore, he did no good.

The Turn.

He entred well by Vertuous Parts,
Got up and thriv'd with Honest Arts:
He purchas'd Friends, and Fame, and Honours then,
And had his noble Name advanc'd with Men:
But weary of that flight,
He stoop'd in all Mens sight
To sordid flatteries, acts of Strife,
And sunk in that dead Sea of Life
So deep, as he did then Death's Waters sup:
But that the Cork of Title buoy'd him up.

The Counter-Turn.

Alas, but Morison fell young:
He never fell, thou fall'st, my Tongue.
He stood a Soldier to the last right end,
A perfect Patriot, and a noble Friend;
But most a vertuous Son.
All Offices were done
By him, so ample, full, and round,
In weight, in measure, number, sound,
As though his age imperfect might appear,
His Life was of Humanity the Sphere.

[column break]

The Stand.

Go now, and tell our Days summ'd up with Fears,
And make them Years:
Produce thy Mass of Miseries on the Stage,
To swell thine Age:
Repeat of things a throng,
To shew thou hast been long
Not liv'd; for Life doth her great actions spell,
By what was done and wrought
In season, and so brought
To light: her measures are, how well
Each Syllable answer'd, and was form'd; how fair
These make the Lines of Life, and that's her air.

The Turn.

It is not growing like a Tree
In bulk, doth make Man better be;
Or standing long an Oak, three hundred year
To fall a log, at last, dry, bold, and sear:
A Lily of a Day,
Is fairer far, in May,
Although it fall, and die that Night;
It was the Plant, and FowerFlower of Light.
In small proportions, we just Beauties see:
And in short measures, Life may perfect be.

The Counter-Turn.

Call, Noble Lucius, then for Wine,
And let thy Looks with gladness shine:
Accept this Garland, plant it on thy Head,
And think, nay know, thy Morison's not dead.
He leap'd the present age,
Possest with Holy Rage,
To see that bright Eternal Day:
Of which we Priests, and Poets say
Such truths, as we expect for happy Men,
And there he lives with Memory; and Ben.

The Stand.

Johnson, who sung this of him, ere he went
Himself to rest,
Or taste a part of that full Joy he meant
To have exprest,
In this bright Asterism!
Where it were Friendship's Schism,
(Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry)
To separate these Twi-
Lights, the Dioscuri;
And keep the one half from his Harry.
But Fate doth so alternate the Design,
Whilst that in Heaven, this Light on Earth must shine.

The Turn.

And shine as you exalted are;
Two Names of Friendship, but one Star:
Of Hearts the Union. And those not by chance
Made, or Indenture, or Leas'd out t'advance
The Profits for a time.
No Pleasures vain did chime,
Of Rhimes, or Riots, at your Feasts,
Orgies of Drink, or feign'd Protests:
But simple love of Greatness, and of Good;
That knits brave Minds, and Manners, more than Blood.

The Counter-Turn.

This made you first to know the Why
You lik'd, then after, to apply
D d d d 2                              That     


572 Under-woods.                 

That liking; and approach so one the tother,
Till either grew a Portion of the other:
Each stiled by his end,
The Copy of his Friend.
You liv'd to be the great Surnames,
And Titles, by which all made Claims
Unto the Vertue. Nothing perfect done,
But as a C A R Y, or a M O R I S O N.

The Stand.

And such a force the fair Example had,
As they that saw
The good, and durst not practice it, were glad
That such a Law
Was left yet to Mankind;
Where they might read, and find
Friendship, indeed, was written, not in words:
And with the Heart, not Pen,
Of Two so early Men,
Whose Lines her Rolls were, and Records.
Who, ere the first down-bloomed on the Chin,
Had sow'd these Fruits, and got the Harvest in.


To the Right Honourable the Lord High Treasurer
of England.

An Epistle Mendicant. 1631.

        M Y  L O R D,
P
Oor wretched States, prest by Extremities,
 Are fain to seek for Succours and Supplies
Of Princes Aids, or good Mens Charities.

Disease, the Enemy, and his Ingineers,
Want, with the rest of his conceal'd Compeers,
Have cast a Trench about me, now five years;

And made those strong approaches by False Braies,
Reduicts, Half-Moons, Horn-Works, and such close ways,
The Muse not peeps out, one of Hundred Days.

But lies block'd up, and streightned, narrow'd in,
Fix'd to the Bed, and Boards, unlike to win
Health, or scarce Breath, as she had never bin.

Unless some saving Honour of the Crown,
Dare think it, to relieve, no less Renown,
A Bed-rid Wit, than a besieged Town.


To the King. On his Birth-day, Nov.19. 1632.

An Epigram Anniversary.

T
His is King Charles his Day. Speak it, thou Tower,
   Unto the Ships, and they from Tier to Tier,
Discharge it 'bout the Island, in an Hour,
   As loud as Thunder, and as swift as Fire.
Let Ireland meet it out at Sea, half way,
   Repeating all Great Britain's Joy, and more,
Adding her own glad accents to this Day,
   Like Echo playing from the other Shore.
What Drums, or Trumpets, or great Ord'nance can,
   The Poetry of Steeples, with the Bells,
Three Kingdoms Mirth, in Light, and aëry Man,
   Made lighter with the Wine. All Noises else,

[column break]

At Bonefires, Rockets, Fire-Works, with the Shouts
   That cry that gladness, which their Hearts would pray,
Had they but Grace, of thinking, at these Routs,
   On th' often coming of this Holy-day:
      And ever close the Burden of the Song,
      Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long.

         The Wish is great; but where the Prince is such,
         What Prayers (People) can you think too much!


On the Right Honourable and Vertuous Lord
      W E S T O N, Lord High Treasurer of Eng-
      land, upon the Day He was made Earl of Port-
      land, Feb. 17. 1632.

To the Envious.

L
Ook up, thou Seed of Envy, and still bring
   Thy faint, and narrow Eyes, to read the King
In his great Actions: view whom his large Hand,
   Hath rais'd to be the Port unto his Land!
W E S T O N! that waking Man! that Eye of State!
   Who seldom sleeps! whom bad Men only hate!
Why do I irritate, or stir up thee,
   Thou sluggish Spawn, that canst, but wilt not see!
Feed on thy self for spight, and shew thy Kind:
   To Vertue and true Worth, be ever blind.
Dream thou could'st hurt it, but before thou wake,
   T' effect it: Feel, thou'ast made thine own Heart ake.


To the Right Honourable Hierome, Lord Weston,

An Ode Gratulatory,

For his Return from his Embassy, 1632.

S
Uch Pleasure as the teeming Earth,
 Doth take in easie Natures Birth,
When she puts forth the Life of ev'ry thing:
And in a dew of sweetest Rain,
She lies deliver'd without pain,
   Of the prime Beauty of the Year, the Spring.
The Rivers in their Shores do run,
The Clouds rack clear before the Sun,
   The rudest Winds obey the calmest Air:
Rare Plants from ev'ry Bank do rise,
And ev'ry Plant the Sense surprize,
   Because the Order of the whole is fair!
The very Verdure of her Nest,
Wherein she sits so richly drest,
   As all the Wealth of Season, there was spread;
Doth show, the Graces, and the Hours
Have multipli'd their Arts and Powers,
   In making soft her Aromatick Bed.
Such Joys, such Sweets doth your Return
Bring all your Friends, (fair Lord) that burn
   With love, to hear your Modesty relate
The bus'ness of your blooming Wit,
With all the Fruit shall follow it,
   Both to the Honour of the King and State.
O how will then our Court be pleas'd,
To see great Charles of Travail eas'd,
   When he beholds a Graft of his own Hand,
Shoot up an Olive fruitful, fair,
To be a Shadow to his Heir,
   And both a Strength, and Beauty to his Land!



E P I T H A-


573

E P I T H A L A M I O N:

O R,   A

S  O  N  G,

C E L E B R A T I N G

The N U P T I A L S of that Noble Gentleman, Mr. H I E R O M E W E S T O N,
   Son and Heir of the Lord W E S T O N, Lord High Treasurer of England, with the Lady
   F R A N C E S  S T U A R T, Daughter of E S M E, D. of L E N O X, deceased, and Sister
   of the Surviving Duke of the same Name.


E P I T H A L A M I O N.

T

Hough thou hast past thy Summer standing,
            stay
   A while with us, bright Sun, and help our
            Light:
Thou canst not meet more Glory on the way,
   Between thy Tropicks, to arrest thy sight,
      Than thou shalt see to day:
         We woo thee, stay,
      And see, what can be seen,
The Bounty of a King, and Beauty of his Queen!

See, the Procession! what a Holy Day
   (Bearing the promise of some better Fate)
Hath filled, with Cacoches, all the way,
   From Greenwich, hither, to Row-hampton-Gate!
      When look'd the Year, at best,
         So like a Feast?
      Or were Affairs in tune,
By all the Sphears consent, so in the Heart of June?

What Beauty of Beauties, and bright Youth's at charge
   Of Summers Liveries, and gladding Green;
Do boast their Loves, and Brav'ries so at large,
   As they came all to see, and to be seen!
      When look'd the Earth so fine,
         Or so did shine,
      In all her bloom and flower,
To welcome home a Pair, and deck the Nuptial
         Bower?

It is the kindly Season of the time,
   The Month of Youth, which calls all Creatures forth
To do their Offices in Natures Chime,
   And celebrate (perfection at the worth)
      Marriage, the end of life,
         That holy strife,
      And the allowed War:
Through which not only we, but all our Species are.

[column break]

Hark how the Bells upon the Waters play
   Their Sister-tunes, from Thames his either side,
As they had learn'd new Changes for the day,
   And all did ring th' approaches of the Bride;
      The Lady Frances, drest
         Above the rest
      Of all the Maidens fair;
In graceful Ornament of Garland, Gems, and Hair.

See how she paceth forth in Virgin-white,
   Like what she is, the Daughter of a Duke,
And Sister: darting forth a dazling light
   On all that come her Simpless to rebuke!
      Her tresses trim her back,
         As she did lack
      Nought of a Maiden Queen,
With Modesty so crown'd, and Adoration seen.

Stay, thou wilt see what Rites the Virgins do!
   The choicest Virgin-Troop of all the Land!
Porting the Ensigns of united Two,
   Both Crowns and Kingdoms in their either hand;
      Whose Majesties appear,
         To make more clear
      This Feast, than can the Day,
Although that thou, O Sun, at our intreaty stay!

See how with Roses, and with Lilies shine,
   (Lillies and Roses, Flowers of either Sex)
The bright Brides paths, embellish'd more than thine
   With light of Love, this Pair doth intertex!
      Stay, see the Virgins sow,
         (Where she shall go)
      The Emblems of their way.
O, now thou smil'st, fair Sun, and shin'st, as thou would'st stay!

With what full hands, and in how plenteous showers
   Have they bedew'd the Earth, where she doth tread,
As if her airy steps did spring the Flowers,
And all the Ground were Garden where she led!this line should be indented
      See, at another door,
         On the same floor,
      The Bridegroom meets the Bride
With all the Pomp of Youth, and all our Court beside.
Our              


574 Under-woods.                 

Our Court, and all the Grandees; now, Sun, look,
   And looking with thy best Inquiry, tell,
In all thy age of Journals thou hast took,
   Saw'st thou that Pair, became these Rites so well,
      Save the preceeding Two?
         Who, in all they do,
      Search, Sun, and thou wilt find
They are th' exampled Pair, and Mirror of their Kind.

Force from the Phœnix then, no Rarity
   Of Sex, to rob the Creature; but from Man
The King of Creatures; take his Parity
   With Angels, Muse, to speak these: Nothing can
      Illustrate these, but they
         Themselves to day,
      Who the whole Act express;
All else we see beside, are Shadows, and go less.

It is their Grace, and Favour, that makes seen,
   And wonder'd at the Bounties of this day:
All is a Story of the King and Queen!
   And what of Dignity, and Honour may
      Be duly done to those
         Whom they have chose,
      And set the Mark upon,
To give a greater Name, and Title to! their own!

Weston, their Treasure, as their Treasurer,
   That Mine of Wisdom, and of Counsels deep,
Great Say-Master of State, who cannot err,
   But doth his Carract, and just Standard keep
      In all the prov'd assays,
         And legal ways
      Of Tryals, to work down
Mens Loves unto the Laws, and Laws to love the Crown.

And this well mov'd the Judgment of the King
   To pay with Honours, to his noble Son
To day, the Father's Service; who could bring
   Him up, to do the same himself had done:
      That far-all-seeing Eye
         Could soon espy
      What kind of waking Man
He had so highly set; and in what Barbican.

Stand there; for when a noble Nature's rais'd,
   It brings Friends Joy, Foes Grief, Posterity Fame;
In him the times, no less than Prince, are prais'd,
   And by his Rise, in active Men, his Name
      Doth Emulation stir;
         To th' dull, a Spur
      It is: to th' envious meant,
A meer upbraiding Grief, and tort'ring punishment.

See now the Chapel opens; where the King
   And Bishop stay, to consummate the Rites:
The holy Prelate prays, then takes the Ring,
   Asks first, Who gives her (I Charles); then he plights
      One in the others Hand,
         Whilst they both stand
      Hearing their Charge, and then
The solemn Quire cries, Joy; and they return, Amen.

O happy Bands! and thou more happy place,
   Which to this use, wer't built and consecrate!
To have thy God to bless, thy King to grace,
   And this their chosen Bishop celebrate;
      And knit the Nuptial Knot,
         Which Time shall not,
      Or canker'd Jealousie,
With all corroding arts, be able to untie!

[columm break]

The Chapel empties, and thou may'st be gone
   Now, Sun, and post away the rest of day:
These two, now Holy Church hath made them one,
   Do long to make themselves so, another way:
      There is a Feast behind,
         To them of kind,
      Which their glad Parents taught
One to the other, long ere these to light were brought.

Haste, haste, officious Sun, and send them Night
   Some Hours before it should, that these may know
All that their Fathers, and their Mothers might
   Of Nuptial Sweets, at such a Season, owe,
      To propagate their Names,
         And keep their Fames
      Alive, which else would die;
For Fame keeps Vertue up, and it Posterity.

Th' Ignoble never liv'd, they were a-while
   Like Swine, or other Cattel here on Earth:
Their Names are not recorded on the File
   Of Life, that fall so; Christians know their Birth
      Alone, and such a Race,
         We pray may grace,
      Your fruitful spreading Vine,
But dare not ask our Wish in Language fescennine:

Yet, as we may, we will, with chaste desires,
   (The Holy Perfumes of the Marriage-Bed)
Be kept alive, those Sweet and Sacred Fires
   Of Love between you, and your Lovely-head:
      That when you both are old,
         You find no cold
      There; but renewed, say,
(After the last Child born:) This is our Wedding-
         day.

Till you behold a Race to fill your Hall,
   A Richard, and a Hierome, by their Names
Upon a Thomas, or a Francis call;
   A Kate, a Frank, to honor their Grand-dames,
      And 'tween their Grandsires thighs,
         Like pretty Spies,
      Peep forth a Gem; to see
How each one plays his part, of the large Pedigree.

And never may there want one of the Stem,
   To be a watchful Servant for this State;
But like an Arm of Eminence 'mongst them,
   Extend a reaching Vertue, early and late:
      Whilst the main Tree still found
         Upright and sound,
      By this Sun's Noonsted's made
So great; his Body now alone projects the shade.

They both are slipp'd to Bed; shut fast the Door,
   And let him freely gather Loves First-Fruits,
He's Master of the Office; yet no more
   Exacts than she is pleas'd to pay: no Suits,
      Strifes, Murmurs, or Delay,
         Will last till Day:
      Night, and the Sheets will show,
The longing Couple, all that Elder Lovers know.





The


             Under-woods. 575

The Humble Petition of Poor Ben.

To th' best of Monarchs, Masters, Men,
King  C H A R L E S.

——— Doth most humbly show it,
To your Majesty, your Poet:

T
Hat whereas your Royal Father
 J A M E S  the blessed, pleas'd the rather,
Of his special Grace to Letters,
To make all the  M U S E S  Debtors
To his Bounty, by Extension
Of a free Poetick Pension,
A large Hundred Marks Annuity,
To be given me in Gratuity
For done Service, and to come:
   And that this so accepted Sum,
Or dispens'd in Books, or Bread,
(For with both the  M U S E  was fed)
Hath drawn on me, from the times,
All the Envy of the Rhimes,
And the ratling Pit-pat-noise
Of the less Poetick Boys,
When their Pot-Guns aim to hit,
With their Pellets of small Wit,
Parts of me (they judg'd) decay'd,
But we last out, still unlay'd.
   Please your Majesty to make
Of your Grace, for Goodness sake,
Those your Fathers Marks, your Pounds;
Let their Spite (which now abounds)
Then go on, and do its worst;
This would all their Envy burst:
And so warm the Poets Tongue
You'ld read a Snake, in his next Song.


To the Right Honourable, the Lord Treasurer
of England.

An Epigram.

I
F to my Mind, great Lord, I had a State,
   I would present you now with curious Plate
Of Noremberg, or Turky: Hang your Rooms
   Not with the Arras, but the Persian Looms:
I would, if Price, or Prayer could them get,
   Send in, what or Romano, Tintaret,
Titian, or Raphael, Michael Angelo
   Have left in Fame to equal, or out-go
The Old Greek Hands in Picture, or in Stone.
   This I would do, could I know Weston, one
Catch'd with these Arts, wherein the Judge is wise,
   As far as Sense, and only by the Eyes.
But you, I know, my Lord; and know you can
   Discern between a Statue and a Man:
Can do the things that Statues do deserve,
   And act the business, which they paint, or carve.
What you have studied, are the arts of Life;
   To compose Men, and Manners; stint the strife
Of murmuring Subjects; make the Nations know
   What Worlds of Blessings to good Kings they owe:
And mightiest Monarchs feel what large increase
   Of Sweets, and Safeties, they possess by Peace.
These I look up at with a reverend Eye,
   And strike Religion in the standers-by:
Which though I cannot, as an Architect,
   In glorious Piles, or Pyramids erect
Unto your Honour: I can tune in Song
   Aloud: and (happ'ly) it may last as long.

[column break]

An Epigram.

To my  M U S E,  the Lady D I G B Y,  on her
Husband, Sir K E N E L M E  D I G B Y.

T
Ho', happy Muse, thou know my Digby well,
   Yet read him in these lines: He doth excel
In Honour, Courtesie, and all the parts
   Court can call hers, or Man could call his Arts.
   He's Prudent, Valiant, Just, and Temperate:indented as in the original
   In him all Vertue is beheld in State:
And he is built like some Imperial Room
   For that to dwell in, and be still at home.
His Breast is a brave Palace, a broad Street,
   Where all Heroick ample Thoughts do meet:
Where Nature such a large Survey hath ta'en,
   As other Souls, to his, dwelt in a Lane:
Witness his Action done at Scanderone;
   Upon myGifford replaces 'my' with 'his', but Jonson is now believed to have been born on June 11 Birth-day, the Eleventh of June;
When the Apostle Barnaby the Bright
   Unto our year doth give the longest light,
In sign the Subject, and the Song will live,
   Which I have vow'd Posterity to give.
Go, Muse, in, and salute him. Say he be
   Busie, or frown at first; when he sees thee,
He will clear up his Forehead: think thou bringst
   Good Omen to him, in the Note thou sing'st:
For he doth love my Verses, and will look
   Upon them, (next to Spencer's noble Book)
And praise them too. O! what a Fame 't will be?
   What Reputation to my Lines, and me,
When he shall read them at the Treasurer's Board?
   The knowing Weston, and that Learned Lord
Allows them? Then, what Copies shall be had,
   What Transcripts begg'd? how cry'd up, and how
            glad,
Wilt thou be, Muse, when this shall them befall?
   Being sent to one, they will be read of all.


N
Ew Years, expect New Gifts: Sister, your Harp,
   Lute, Lyre, Theorbo, all are call'd to day.
Your Change of Notes, the Flat, the Mean, the Sharp,
   To shew the Rites, and t' usher forth the way
Of the New Year, in a new Silken Warpe.
      To fit the Softness of our Years-Gift: When
      We sing the best of Monarchs, Masters, Men:
For had we here said less, we had sung nothing then.



A New-Years-Gift sung to King C H A R L E S,
1635.

[Rector Chori.      
T
O day old Janus opens the New Year,
   And shuts the old. Haste, haste, all Loyal Swains,
That know the Times and Seasons when t' appear,
   And offer your just Service on these Plains;
Best Kings expect First:Fruits of your glad Gains.

1.   P A N  is the great Preserver of our bounds.
2.   To him we owe all Profits of our Grounds,
3. Our Milk.  4. Our Fells.  5. Our Fleeces.  6. And first Lambs.
7. Our teeming Ewes.  8. And lusty mounting Rams.
9. See where he walks with M I R A by his side.
Sound, sound his Praises loud, and with his, hers divide.
[Chor.      

Of      


576 Under-woods.                 

Of P A N we sing, the best of Hunters, P A N,
   That drives the Hart to seek unused ways,
[Shep.
 Chor.
And in the Chase, more than S Y L V A N U S can,
   Hear, O you groves, and, Hills, resound his Praise.          

Of brightest M I R A, do we raise our Song,
   Sister of P A N, and Glory of the Spring:
Who walks on Earth, as May still went along,
[Nym.Chor.
   Rivers and Valleys Echo what we sing.

Of P A N we sing, the Chief of Leaders, P A N,
   That leads our Flocks and us, and calls both forth
[Shep.Chor.
To better Pastures than great P A L E S can:
   Hear, O you Groves, and, Hills, resound his Worth.

Of brightest M I R A, is our Song; the Grace
[Nym.Chor.
   Of all that Nature, yet, to Life did bring;
And were she lost, could best supply her place,
   Rivers and Valleys Echo what we sing.

   1. Where'er they tread th' enamour'd Ground,
       The fairest Flowers are always found:
   2. As if the Beauties of the Year,
       Still waited on 'em where they were.
   1. He is the Father of our Peace;
   2. She, to the Crown, hath brought Increase.
   1. We know no other Power than his,
       P A N only our great Shep'erd is,
[Chorus.
Our great, our good. Where one's so drest
In truth of Colours, both are best.

Haste, haste you hither, all you gentler Swains,
That have a Flock, or Herd, upon these Plains:
This is the great Preserver of our Bounds,
To whom you owe all Duties of your Grounds;
Your Milks, your Fells, your Fleeces, and first Lambs,
Your teeming Ewes, as well as mounting Rams.
Whose Praises let 's report unto the Woods,
That they may take it echo'd by the Floods.
      'Tis he, 'tis he, in singing he,
      And hunting, P A N, exceedeth thee.
      He gives all Plenty, and Increase,
      He is the Author of our Peace.

Where'er he goes upon the Ground,
The better Grass, and Flowers are found
To sweeter Pastures lead he can,
Than ever P A L E S could, or P A N:
He drives Diseases from our Folds,
The Thief from Spoil his Presence holds:
P A N knows no other Power than his,
This only the great Shep'erd is.
      'Tis he, 'tis he, &c.

Fair Friend, 'tis true, your Beauties move
   My Heart to a Respect:
Too little to be paid with Love,
   Too great for your Neglect.

I neither love, nor yet am free,
   For though the Flame I find
Be not Intense in the Degree,
   'Tis of the purest kind.

It little wants of Love, but Pain,
   Your Beauty takes my Sense,
And lest you should that Price disdain,
   My Thoughts too feel the Influence.

'Tis not a Passions first Access
   Ready to multiply,
But like Love's calmest State it is
   Possest with Victory.

[column break]

It is like Love to Truth reduc'd
   All the false Value's gone,
Which were created, and induc'd
   By fond Imagination.

'Tis either Fancy, or 'tis Fate,
   To love you more than I:
I love you at your Beauties rate,
   Less were an Injury.

Like unstamp'd Gold, I weigh each Grace,
   So that you may collect,
Th' intrinsick Value of your Face,
   Safely from my Respect.

And this Respect would merit Love,
   Were not so fair a sight
Payment enough; for who dare move
   Reward for his Delight?


On the King's Birth-day.

R
Ouse up thy self, my gentle Muse,
   Though now our Green Conceits be Gray,
And yet once more do not refuse
   To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play,
   In honour of this cheerful Day:
      Long may they both contend to prove,
      That best of Crowns is such a love.

Make first a Song of Joy, and Love,
   Which chastly flames in Royal Eyes,
Then tune it to the Spheres above,
   When the benignest Stars do rise,
   And sweet Conjunctions grace the Skies.
      Long may, &c.

To this let all good Hearts resound,
   Whilst Diadems invest his Head;
Long may he live, whose Life doth bound
   More than his Laws, and better led
   By high Example, than by dread.
      Long may, &c.

Long may he round about him see
   His Roses, and his Lilies bloom:
Long may his only Dear, and He
   Joy in Idæas of their own,
   And Kingdoms Hopes so timely sown.
      Long may they both contend to prove,
      The best of Crowns is such a love.


To my L. the  K I N G.

On the Christening His Second Son
J A M E S.

T
Hat thou art lov'd of God, this Work is done,
   Great King, thy having of a Second Son:
And by thy blessing, may thy People see
   How much they are belov'd of God in thee;
Would they would understand it! Princes are
   Great aids to Empire, as they are great care
To pious Parents, who would have their Blood
   Should take first Seisin of the publick good,
As hath thy J A M E S; cleans'd from Original Dross,
   This day, by Baptism, and his Saviour's Cross:
Grow up, sweet Babe, as blessed, in thy Name,
   As in renewing thy good Grandsires Fame;

Me            


             Under-woods. 577

Me thought Great Britain in her Sea, before,
   Sate safe enough, but now secured more.
At Land she triumphs in the triple shade,
   Her Rose, and Lily, intertwin'd, have made.

Oceano secura meo, securior umbris.


An Elegy on the Lady A N Nshould be 'Jane' (see below)  P A W L E T,
Marchioness of Winton.

W
Hat gentle Ghost, besprent with April Dew,
   Hails me, so solemnly, to yonder Yew?
And beck'ning wooes me, from the fatal Tree
   To pluck a Garland, for her self or me?
I do obey you, Beauty! for in death,
   You seem a fair one! O that you had breath,
To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feel
   A horror in me! all my Blood is Steel!
Stiff! stark! my Joints 'gainst one another knock!
   Whose Daughter? ha? Great Savage of the Rock?
He's good, as great. I am almost a Stone!
   And e'er I can ask more of her she's gone!
Alas, I am all Marble! write the rest
   Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my Breast:
It is a large fair Table, and a true,
   And the disposure will be something new,
When I, who would the Poet have become,
   At least may bear th' Inscription to her Tomb.
She was the Lady Jane, and Marchioness
   Of Winchester; the Heralds can tell this.
Earl River's Grand-Child — serve not forms, good Fame,
   Sound thou her Vertues, give her Soul a Name,
Had I a thousand Mouths, as many Tongues,
   And Voice to raise them from my brazen Lungs,
I durst not aim at that: The dotes were such
   Thereof, no notion can express how much
Their Carract was! I, or my Trump must break,
   But rather I, should I of that part speak!
It is too near of kin to Heaven, the Soul,
   To be describ'd! Fames Fingers are too foul
To touch these Mysteries! We may admire
   The blaze, and splendor, but not handle fire!
What she did here, by great example, well,
   T' inlive Posterity, her Fame may tell!
And, calling truth to witness, make that good
   From the inherent Graces in her Blood!
Else, who doth praise a Person by a new,
   But a fain'd way, doth rob it of the true.
Her Sweetness, Softness, her fair Courtesie,
   Her wary Guards, her wise Simplicity,
Were like a Ring of Vertues, 'bout her set,
   And Piety the Center, where all met.
A reverend State she had, an awful Eye;
   A dazling, yet inviting Majesty:

[column break]

What Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact
   Could summ to a perfection, was her Act!
How did she leave the World? with what contempt?
   Just as she in it liv'd! and so exempt
From all affection! when they urg'd the Cure
   Of her Disease, how did her Soul assure
Her suff'rings, as the Body had been away!
   And to the Torturers (her Doctors) say,
Stick on your Cupping-glasses, fear not, put
   Your hottest Causticks to, burn, lance, or cut:
'Tis but a Body which you can torment,
   And I, into the World, all Soul was sent!
Then comforted her Lord! and blest her Son!
   Chear'd her fair Sisters in her Race to run!
With gladness temper'd her sad Parents Tears!
   Made her Friends Joys, to get above their Fears!
And, in her last act, taught the Standers-by,
   With admiration, and applause to die!
Let Angels sing her glories, who did call
   Her Spirit home, to her Original!
Who saw the way was made it! and were sent
   To carry, and conduct the Complement
'Twixt death and life! Where her Mortality
   Became her Birth-day to Eternity!
And now, through circumfused light, she looks
   On Natures Secrets, there, as her own Books:
Speaks Heavens Language! and discovereth free
   To every Order, ev'ry Hierarchy!
Beholds her Maker! and, in him, doth see
   What the beginnings of all Beauties be;
And all Beatitudes, that thence do flow:
   Which they that have the Crown are sure to know!
Go now, her happy Parents, and be sad,
   If you not understand, what Child you had.
If you dare grudge at Heaven, and repent
   T' have paid again a Blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay
   At pleasure, to be call'd for, every day!
If you can envy your own Daughters bliss,
   And wish her state less happy than it is!
If you can cast about your either Eye,
   And see all dead here, or about to die!
The Stars, that are the Jewels of the Night,
   And Day, deceasing! with the Prince of Light,
The Sun! great Kings! and mightiest Kingdoms fall!
   Whole Nations! nay Mankind! the World, with all
That ever had beginning there, to 'ave end!
   With what injustice should one Soul pretend
T' escape this common known necessity,
   When we were all born, we began to die;
And, but for that contention, and brave strife,
   The Christian hath t' enjoy the future life,
He were the wretched'st of the Race of Men:
   But as he soars at that, he bruiseth then
The Serpents Head: Gets above Death, and Sin,
   And, sure of Heaven, rides triumphing in.








E e e e          E U P H E M E


578

E  U  P  H  E  M  E :

O R,  T H E

F  A  I  R    F  A  M  E

Left to Posterity, of that truly Noble Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby,
   late Wife of Sir Kenelm Digby, Knight: A Gentleman absolute in
   all Numbers.

Consisting of these Ten Pieces.

The Dedication of her CRADLE,    |    Her fair OFFICES.
The Song of her DESCENT. | Her happy MATCH.
The Picture of her BODY. | Her hopeful ISSUE.
Her MIND. | Her 'APOQEWSIS, or Relation to the Saints.
Her being chosen a MUSE. | Her Inscription, or CROWN.

Vivam amare voluptas, defunctam Religio.   Stat.



I.

The Dedication of her C R A D L E.

F
Air FAME, who art ordain'd to crown
With ever-green, and great renown,
TheirHeads,'Their Heads' that ENVY would hold down
                                    With her, in shade

Of Death, and Darkness; and deprive
Their names of being kept alive,
By THEE, and CONSCIENCE, both who thrive
                                    By the just trade

Of Goodness still: Vouchsafe to take
This CRADLE, and for Goodness sake,
A dedicated Ensign make
                                    Thereof, to TIME:

That all Posterity, as we,
Who read what the CREPUNDIA be,
May something by that twi-light see
                                    'Bove rattling Rhime.

For, though that Rattles, Timbrels, Toys,
Take little Infants with their noise,
As prop'rest gifts, to Girls, and Boys
                                    Of light expence;

Their Corals, Whistles, and prime Coats,
Their painted Masks, their paper Boats,
With Sails of Silk, as the first notes
                                    Surprize their sense:

[column break]

Yet, here are no such Trifles brought,
No Cobweb Call's; no Surcoats wrought
With Gold, or Clasps, which might be bought
                                    On every Stall.

But, here's a Song of her DESCENT;
And Call to the high Parliament
Of Heaven; where SERAPHIM take tent
                                    Of ord'ring all.

This, utter'd by an ancient BARD,
Who claims (of reverence) to be heard,
As coming with his Harp, prepar'd
                                    To chant her 'gree,

Is sung: as als' her getting up
By JACOB's Ladder, to the top
Of that eternal Port, kept ope'
                                    For such as SHE.


II.

The Song of her D E S C E N T.


I
 Sing the just, and uncontrol'd Descent
   Of Dame V E N E T I A   D I G B Y, stil'd the Fair:
For Mind, and Body, the most excellent
   That ever Nature, or the later Air
Gave two such Houses as N O R T H U M B E R L A N D,
   And S T A N L E Y, to which she was Co-heir.




Speak


             Under-woods. 579

Speak it, you bold P E N A T E S, you that stand
   At either Stem, and know the Veins of good
Run from your Roots; Tell, testifie the grand
   Meeting of Graces, that so swell'd the Flood
Of Vertues in her, as, in short, she grew
   The wonder of her Sex, and of your Blood.
And tell thou, A L D E-L E G H, None can tell more true
   Thy Nieces Line, than thou that gav'st thy Name
Into the Kindred, whence thy Adam drew
   Meschines honour with the Cestrian fame
Of the first Lupus, to the Family
   By Ranulph ———
      The rest of this Song is lost.


III.

The Picture of the B O D Y.

S
Itting, and ready to be drawn,
   What makes these Velvets, Silks, and Lawn,
         Embroideries, Feathers, Fringes, Lace,
         Where every Limb takes like a Face?

Send these suspected helps to aid
    Some Form defective, or decay'd;
    This Beauty, without falshood fair,
    Needs nought to cloath it but the Air.

Yet something to the Painters view,
    Were fitly interpos'd; so new:
    He shall, if he can understand,
    Work with my fancy, his own Hand.

Draw first a Cloud, all save her Neck,
    And, out of that, make Day to break;
    Till, like her Face, it do appear,
    And Men may think, all Light rose there.

Then let the Beams of that disperse
    The Cloud, and show the Universe;
    But at such distance, as the Eye
    May rather yet adore, than spy.

The Heaven design'd, draw next a Spring,
    With all that Youth, or it can bring:
    Four Rivers branching forth like Seas,
    And Paradise confining these.

Last, draw the circles of this Globe,
    And let there be a starry Robe
    Of Constellations 'bout her horld;
    And thou hast painted Beauties World.

But, Painter, see thou do not sell
    A Copy of this Piece; nor tell
    Whose 'tis: but if it favour find,
    Next sitting we will draw her Mind.


IV.

The M I N D.

P
Ainter yo' are come, but may be gone,
   Now I have better thought thereon,
         This work I can perform alone;
         And give you reasons more than one.

Not, that your Art I do refuse:
    But here I may no Colours use.
    Beside, your hand will never hit,
    To draw a thing that cannot sit.

[column break]

You could make shift to paint an Eye,
    An Eagle tow'ring in the Sky,
    The Sun, a Sea, or soundless Pit;
    But these are like a Mind, not It.

No, to express a Mind to sense,
    Would ask a Heavens Intelligence;
    Since nothing can report that flame,
    But what's of kin to whence it came.

Sweet Mind, then speak your self, and say,
    As you go on, by what brave way
    Our sense you do with knowledge fill,
    And yet remain our wonder still.

I call you Muse; now make it true:
    Hence-forch'Hence-forth' may every Line be you;
    That all may say, that see the Frame,
    This is no Picture, but the same.

A Mind so pure, so perfect fine,
    As 'tis not Radiant, but Divine:
    And so disdaining any trier;
    'Tis got where it can try the Fire.

There, high exalted in the Sphere,
    As it another Nature were,
    It moveth all; and makes a flight
    As circular, as infinite.

Whose Notions when it will express
    In speech; it is with that excess
    Of Grace, and Musick to the Ear,
    As what it spoke, it planted there.

The Voice so sweet, the Words so fair,
    As some soft chime had strok'd the Air;
    And, though the sound were parted thence,
    Still left an Echo in the sense.

But, that a Mind so rapt, so high,
    So swift, so pure, should yet apply
    It self to us, and come so nigh
    Earths grossness; there's the how, and why.

Is it because it sees us dull,
    And stuck in Clay here, it would pull
    Us forth, by some Celestial slight,
    Up to her own sublimed hight?

Or hath she here, upon the Ground,
    Some Paradise, or Palace found,
    In all the bounds of Beauty, fit
    For her t' inhabit? There is it.

Thrice happy House, that hast receipt
    For this so lofty form, so streight,
    So polisht, perfect, round, and even,
    As it slid moulded off from Heaven.

Not swelling like the Ocean proud,
    But stooping Gently, as a Cloud,
    As smooth as Oil pour'd forth, and calm
    As showers; and sweet as drops of Balm.

Smooth, soft, and sweet, in all a flood,
    Where it may run to any good;
    And where it stays, it there becomes
    A nest of odorous Spice, and Gums.

In action, winged as the Wind,
    In rest, like Spirits left behind
    Upon a Bank, or Field of Flowers,
    Begotten by that Wind, and Showers.
E e e e 2                              In         


580 Under-woods.                 

In thee, fair Mansion, let it rest,
    Yet know, with what thou art possest,
    Thou entertaining in thy Breast,
    But such a Mind, mak'st God thy Guest.

   A whole quaternion in the midst of this Poem is lost, containing
entirely the three next pieces of it, and all of the fourth (which
in the order of the whole, is the eighth) excepting the very end:
which at the top of the next quaternion goeth on thus,

B
Ut, for you (growing Gentlemen) the happy
 Branches of two so illustrious Houses as these, where
from your honour'd Mother, is in both Lines descend-
ed; let me leave you this last Legacy of Counsel; which
so soon as you arrive at years of mature Understanding,
open you (Sir) that are the eldest, and read it to your
Brethren, for it will concern you all alike. Vowed by
a faithful Servant, and Client of your Family, with his
latest Breath expiring it,
B. J.



To K E N E L M, J O H N, G E O R G E.

B
Oast not these Titles of your Ancestors;
   (Brave Youths) th' are their possessions, none of
            yours:
When your own Vertues, equall'd have their Names,
   'Twill be but fair, to lean upon their Fames;
For they are strong Supporters: But, till then,
   The greatest are but growing Gentlemen.
It is a wretched thing to trust to Reeds;
   Which all Men do, that urge not their own deeds
Up to their Ancestors; the Rivers side,
   By which yo' are planted, shew's your Fruit shall bide:
Hang all your Rooms, with one large Pedigree:
   'Tis Vertue alone, is true Nobility.
Which Vertue from your Father, ripe, will fall;
   Study illustrious Him, and you have all.


IX.

Elegy on my Muse.

T
He truly honoured Lady, the Lady Venetia Digby;
 who living, gave me leave to call her so.
Being
Her APOQEWSIS, or Relation to the Saints,

Sera quidem tanto struitur medicina dolori.

An Elegy on my Muse.

'
T
Were time that I dy'd too, now she is dead,
   Who was my Muse, and life of all I did.
The Spirit that I wrote with, and conceiv'd,
   All that was good, or great in me she weav'd,
And set it forth; the rest were Cobwebs fine,
   Spun out in name of some of the old Nine!
To hang a Window, or make dark the Room,
   Till swept away, th' were cancell'd with a Broom!
Nothing, that could remain, or yet can stir
   A sorrow in me, fit to wait to her!
O! had I seen her laid out a fair Course,
   By Death, on Earth, I should have had remorse
On Nature, for her: who did let her lie,
   And saw that portion of her self to die.
Sleepy, or stupid Nature, couldst thou part
   With such a Rarity, and not rouse Art
With all her aids, to save her from the seize
   Of Vulture Death, and those relentless Cleys?
Thou wouldst have lost the Phœnix, had the kind
   Been trusted to thee: not to 't self assign'd.

[column break]

Look on thy sloth, and give thy self undone,
   (For so thou art with me) now she is gone,
My wounded mind cannot sustain this stroke,
   It rages, runs, flies, stands, and would provoke
The World to ruine with it; in her Fall,
   I summ up mine own breaking, and wish all.
Thou hast no more blows, Fate, to drive at one,
   What's left a Poet, when his Muse is gone?
Sure, I am dead, and know it not! I feel
   Nothing I do; but, like a heavy Wheel,
Am turned with anothers powers. My Passion
   Whirls me about, and to blaspheme in fashion!
I murmur against God, for having ta'en
   Her blessed Soul, hence, forth this Valley vane
Of Tears, and Dungeon of Calamity!
   I envy it the Angels amity!
The joy of Saints! the Crown for which it lives,
   The glory, and gain of rest, which the place gives!
Dare I prophane, so irreligious be
   To 'greet, or grieve her soft Euthanasee!
So sweetly taken to the Court of bliss,
   As Spirits had stol'n her Spirit, in a kiss,
From off her Pillow, and deluded Bed;
   And left her lovely Body unthought dead!
Indeed, she is not dead! but laid to sleep
   In Earth, till the last Trump awake the Sheep
And Goats together, whither they must come
   To hear their Judge, and his eternal doom.
To have that final retribution,
   Expected with the Fleshes restitution.
For, as there are three Natures, Schoolmen call
   One Corporal, only; th' other Spiritual,
Like single; so, there is a third, commixt,
   Of Body and Spirit together, plac'd betwixt
Those other two; which must be judg'd, or crown'd:
   This as it guilty is, or guiltless found,
Must come to take a sentence, by the sense
   Of that great Evidence, the Conscience!
Who will be there, against that day prepar'd,
   T' accuse, or quit all Parties to be heard!
O Day of joy, and surety to the just!
   Who in that Feast of Resurrection trust!
That great eternal Holy-day of rest,
   To Body, and Soul! where Love is all the guest!
And the whole Banquet is full fight'sight' of God!
   Of joy the Circle, and sole Period!
All other gladness, with the thought is barr'd;
   Hope, hath her end! and Faith hath her reward!
This being thus: why should my Tongue, or Pen
   Presume to interpel that fulness, when
Nothing can more adorn it, than the Seat
   That she is in, or, make it more compleat?
Better be dumb, than superstitious!
   Who violates the God-head, is most vicious
Against the Nature he would worship. He
   Will honour'd be in all simplicity!
Have all his actions, wondred at, and view'd
   With silence, and amazement! not with rude,
Dull, and prophane, weak, and imperfect Eyes,
   Have busie search made in his mysteries!
He knows, what work h' hath done, to call this Guest,
   Out of her noble Body, to this Feast:
And give her place, according to her Blood
   Amongst her Peers, those Princes of all good!
Saints, Martyrs, Prophets, with those Hierarchies,
   Angels, Arch-angels, Principalities,
The Dominations, Vertues, and the Powers,
   The Thrones, the Cherub, and Seraphick Bowers,
That, planted round, there sing before the Lamb,
   A new Song to his praise, and great I Am:
And she doth know, out of the shade of Death,
   What 't is t' enjoy, an everlasting Breath!
To have her captiv'd Spirit freed from Flesh,
   And on her Innocence, a Garment fresh
And


             Under-woods. 581

And white, as that: put on   and in her handPossible printing error in this line. Gifford punctuates the line thus: 'And white as that put on: and in her hand'
   With Boughs of Palm, a crowned Victrice stand!
And will you, worthy Son, Sir, knowing this,
   Put Black, and Mourning on? and say you miss
A Wife, a Friend, a Lady, or a Love;
   Whom her Redeemer, honour'd hath above
Her Fellows, with the Oyl of Gladness, bright
   In HeavenHeaven's Empire, and with a Robe of Light?
Thither, you hope to come; and there to find
   That pure, that pretious, and exalted Mind
You once enjoy'd: A short space severs yee,
   Compar'd unto that long Eternity,
That shall re-joyn ye. Was she, then, so dear,
   When she departed? you will meet her there,
Much more desir'd, and dearer then before,
   By all the Wealth of Blessings, and the store
Accumulated on her, by the Lord
   Of Life, and Light, the Son of God, the Word!
There, all the happy Souls, that ever were,
   Shall meet with gladness in one Theatre;
And each shall know, there, one anothers Face:
   By beatifick Vertue of the Place.
There shall the Brother, with the Sister walk,
   And Sons, and Daughters, with their Parents talk;
But all of God; They still shall have to say,
   But make him All in All, their Theme, that Day:
That happy Day, that never shall see night!
   Where He will be, all Beauty to the Sight;
Wine, or delicious Fruits, unto the Taste;
   A Musick in the Ears, will ever last;
Unto the Scent, a Spicery, or Balm;
   And to the Touch, a Flower, like soft as Palm.
He will all Glory, all Perfection be,
   God, in the Union, and the Trinity!
That Holy, Great, and Glorious Mystery,
   Will there revealed be in Majesty!
By light, and comfort of Spiritual Grace;
   The Vision of our Saviour, Face to Face
In his Humanity! To hear him preach
   The price of our Redemption, and to teach
Through his inherent Righteousness, in death,
   The safety of our Souls, and forfeit Breath!
What fulness of Beatitude is here?
   What Love with Mercy mixed doth appear?
To stile us Friends, who were, by Nature, Foes?
   Adopt us Heirs, by Grace, who were of those
Had lost our selves? and prodigally spent
   Our native Portions, and possessed Rent;
Yet have all Debts forgiven us, and advance
   B' imputed right to an Inheritance
In his Eternal Kingdom, where we sit
   Equal with Angels, and Co-heirs of it.
Nor dare we under Blasphemy conceive
   He that shall be our Supreme Judge, should leave
Himself so un-inform'd of his Elect,
   Who knows the Hearts of all, and can dissect
The smallest Fibre of our Flesh; he can
   Find all our Atoms from a Point t' a Span!
Our closest Creeks, and Corners, and can trace
   Each Line, as it were graphick, in the Face.
And best he knew her noble Character,
   For 'twas himself who form'd, and gave it her.
And to that Form, lent two such Veins of Blood
   As Nature could not more increase the Flood
Of Title in her! All Nobility
   (But Pride, that Schism of incivility)
She had, and it became her! she was fit
   T' have known no Envy, but by fuffring'suffring' it!
She had a Mind as calm, as she was fair;
   Not tost or troubled with light Lady-air;
But, kept an even Gate, as some streight Tree
   Mov'd by the Wind, so comely moved she.
And by the awful manage of her Eye
   She swaid all Bus'ness in the Family!

[column break]

To one she said, Do this, he did it; So
   To another, Move; he went; To a third, Go,
He run; and all did strive with diligence
   T' obey, and serve her sweet Commandments.
She was in one, a many parts of Life;
   A tender Mother, a discreeter Wife,
A solemn Mistress, and so good a Friend,
   So Charitable, to religious End
In all her petite Actions, so devote,
   As her whole Life was now become one Note
Of Piety, and private Holiness.
   She spent more time in Tears her self to dress
For her Devotions, and those sad Essays
   Of Sorrow, then all pomp of gaudy days:
And came forth ever cheered, with the Rod
   Of divine Comfort, when sh' had talk'd with God.
Her broken Sighs did never miss whole Sense:
   Nor can the bruised Heart want Eloquence:
For, Prayer is the Incense most perfumes
   The Holy Altars, when it least presumes.
And hers were all Humility! they beat
   The Door of Grace, and found the Mercy-Seat.
In frequent speaking by the pious Psalms
   Her solemn hours she spent, or giving Alms,
Or doing other Deeds of Charity,
   To clothe the Naked, feed the Hungry. She
Would sit in an Infirmer,'Infirmary' whole days
   Poring, as on a Map, to find the Ways
To that eternal Rest, where now sh' hath Place
   By sure Election, and predestin'd Grace!
She saw her Saviour, by an early light,
   Incarnate in the Manger, shining bright
On all the World! She saw him on the Cross
   Suffring, and dying to redeem our loss:
She saw him rise, triumphing over Death
   To justifie, and quicken us in Breath!
She saw him too, in Glory to ascend
   For his designed work the perfect end
Of raising, judging, and rewarding all
   The kind of Man, on whom his Doom should fall!
All this by Faith she saw, and fram'd a Plea,
   In manner of a daily Apostrophe,
To him should be her Judge, true God, true Man,
   Jesus, the only gotten Christ! who can
As being Redeemer, and Repairer too
   (Of lapsed Nature) best know what to do,
In that great Act of Judgment: Which the Father
   Hath given wholly to the Son (the rather
As being the Son of Man) to shew his Power,
   His Wisdom, and his Justice, in that hour,
The last of hours, and shutter up of all;
   Where first his Power will appear, by call
Of all are dead to Life! His Wisdom show
   In the discerning of each Conscience, so!
And most his Justice, in the fitting Parts,
   And giving dues to all Mankinds Deserts!
In this sweet Extasie, she was rapt hence.
   Who reads, will pardon my Intelligence,
That thus have ventur'd these true Strains upon;
   To publish her a Saint. My Muse is gone.

In pietatis memoriam
quam prestas
Venetiæ tuæ illustrissim:
Marit: dign: Digbeie
Hanc APOQEWSIN, tibi, tuisq; sacro.

The Tenth, being her Inscription, or C R O W N, is lost.



Vitæ


582 Under-woods.                 

Vitæ Rusticæ Laudes.Horace, Ode II. Book V. Jonson's translation appears in the 2nd column, posted below.

B
Eatus ille, qui procul negotiis,
   Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis,
   Solutus omni fœnore:
Nec excitatur classico miles truci,
   Nec horret Iratum mare:
Forumq; vitat, & superba Civium
   Potentiorum limina.
Ergo aut adultâ vitium propagine
   Altas maritat Populos:
Aut in reducta valle mugientium
   Prospectat erranteis Greges:
Inutileisque falce ramos amputans,
   Fœliciores inserit:
Aut pressa puris mella condit amphoris,
   Aut tondet infirmis Oveis:
Vel cum decorum mitibus pomis caput
   Autumnus arvis extulit:
Ut gaudet infitiva decerpens pyra,
   Certantem & uvam Purpuræ,
Quâ muneretur te, Priape, & te, Pater
   Sylvane, tutor finium!
Libet jacere modò sub antiqua Ilice:
   Modò in tenaci gramine.
Labuntur altis interim ripis aquæ:
   Queruntur in Sylvis aves,
Fontesque Lymphis obstrepunt manantibus,
   Somnos quod invitet leveis.
At cum tonantis annus hibernus Jovis
   Imbreis niveisque comparat;
Aut trudit acreis hinc, & hinc multâ cane
   Apros in obstanteis plagas:
Aut amite levi rara tèndit retia;
   Turdis edacibus dolos,
Pavidumque leporem, & advenam laqueo gruem
   Jucunda captat præmia:
Quis non malorum, quas amor curas habet
   Hæc inter obliviscitur?
Quòd si pudica Mulier in partem juvet
   Domum, atque dulces liberos,
(Sabina qualis, aut perusta solibus
   Pernicis uxor Appuli
Sacrum vetustis extruit lignis focum
   Lassi sub adventum viri)
Claudensque textis cratibus lætum pecus
   Distenta siccet ubera;
Et horna dulci Vina promens dolio
   Dapes inemptas apparet;
Non me Lucrina juverint Conchylia,
   Magisve Rhombus, aut Scari,
Si quos Eois intonata fluctibus
   Hyems ad hoc vertat Mare:
Non Afra avis descendat in ventrem meum:
   Non Attagen Ionicus
Jucundior, quam lecta de pinguissimis
   Oliva ramis arborum:
Aut herba Lapathi prata amantis, & gravi
   Malvæ salubres corpori:
Vel Agna festis cæsa Terminalibus:
   Vel Hœdus ereptus Lupo.
Has inter epulas, ut juvat pastas Oveis
   Videre properanteis domum!
Videre fessos vomerem inversum Boves
   Collo trahenteis languido;
Positosque vernas, ditis examen domus,
   Circum renidenteis Lareis!
Hæc ubi locutus fœnerator Alphius,
   Jam jam futurus rusticus,
Omnem relegit Idibus pecuniam,
   Quærit Calendis ponere.

[column break]

The Praises of a Country-life.

H
Appy is he, that from all Business clear,
   As the old Race of Mankind were,
With his own Oxen tills his Sires left Lands,
   And is not in the Usurers Bands:
Nor Soldier-like started with rough Alarms,
   Nor dreads the Seas inraged harms:
But flees the Bar and Courts, with the proud bords,
   And waiting Chambers of great Lords.
The Poplar tall, he then doth marrying twine
   With the grown issue of the Vine;
And with his Hook lops off the fruitless Race,
   And sets more happy in the Place:
Or in the bending Vale beholds a-far
   The lowing Herds there grazing are:
Or the prest Honey in pure Pots doth keep
   Of Earth, and shears the tender Sheep:
Or when that Autumn, through the Fields lifts round
   His Head, with mellow Apples crown'd,
How plucking Pears, his own hand grafted had,
   And Purple-matching Grapes, he's glad!
With which, Priapus, he may thank thy Hands,
   And, Sylvane, thine that keptst his Lands!
Then now beneath some ancient Oak he may
   Now in the rooted Grass him lay,
Whilst from the higher Banks do slide the Floods?
   The soft Birds quarrel in the Woods,
The Fountains murmur as the Streams do creep,
   And all invite to easie sleep.
Then when the thundring Jove, his Snow and Showers
   Are gathering by the Wintry hours;
Or hence, or thence, he drives with many a Hound
   Wild Boars into his Toils pitch'd round:
Or strains on his small Fork his subtil Nets
   For th' eating Thrush, or Pit-falls sets:
And snares the fearful Hare, and new-come Crane,
   And 'counts them sweet Rewards so ta'en.
Who (amongst these delights) would not forget
   Loves cares so Evil, and so great?
But if, to boot with these, a chaste Wife meet
   For Houshold aid, and Children sweet;
Such as the Sabines, or a Sun-burnt-blowse,
   Some lusty quick Apulians Spouse,
To deck the hallow'd Harth with old Wood fir'd
   Against the Husband comes home tir'd;
That penning the glad flock in Hurdles by
   Their swelling Udders doth draw dry:
And from the sweet Tub Wine of this year takes,
   And unbought Viands ready makes:
Not Lucrine Oysters I could then more prize,
   Nor Turbot, nor bright Golden Eyes:
If with bright Floods, the Winter troubled much,
   Into our Seas send any such:
Th' Ionian God-wit, nor the Ginny-hen
   Could not go down my Belly then
More sweet than Olives, that new gather'd be
   From fattest Branches of the Tree:
Or the Herb Sorrel, that loves Meadows still,
   Or Mallows loosing Bodies ill:
Or at the Feast of Bounds, the Lamb then slain,
   Or Kid forc't from the Wolf again.
Among these Cates how glad the sight doth come
   Of the fed Flocks approaching home!
To view the weary Oxen draw, with bare
   And fainting Necks, the turned Share!
The wealthy Houshold swarm of Bondmen met,
   And 'bout the steeming Chimney set!
These thoughts when Usurer Alphius, now about
   To turn more Farmer, had spoke out
'Gainst th' Ides, his Moneys he gets in with pain,
   At th' Calends puts all out again.
Ode


             Under-woods. 583

Ode 1. Lib. 4.
Ad Venerem.Horace. Jonson's translation appears in the 2nd column, posted below.

I
Ntermissa Venus diu,
   Rursus bella moves: parce precor, precor,
Non sum qualis eram bonæ
   Sub regno Cynaræ: desine, dulcium
Mater sæva Cupidinum,
   Circa lustra decem flectere Mollibus
Jam durum imperiis: abi
   Quò blandæ Juvenum te revocant preces.
Tempestivius in domo
   Pauli purpureis ales oloribus,
Comessabere Maximi,
   Si torrere jecur quæris idoneum.
Namque & nobilis, & decens,
   Et pro sollicitis non tacitus reis.
Et centum puer Artium,
   Latè Signa feret militiæ tuæ.
Et quandoque potentior
   Largis muneribus riserit æmuli,
Albanos prope te lacus
   Ponet marmoream sub trabe Cyprea.
Illic plurima Naribus
   Duces tura, lyræque, & Berecynthiæ
Delectabere tibiæ
   Mistis carminibus non sine fistula.
Illic bis pueri die,
   Numen cum teneris virginibus tuum
Laudantes, pede candido
   In mortem Salium ter quatient humum.
Me nec fœmina, nec puer,
   Jam, nec spes animi credula mutui,
Nec certare juvat mero:
   Nec vincere novis tempora floribus.
Sed cur, heu Ligurine, cur
   Manat rara meas lachryma per genas?
Cur facunda parum decoro
   Inter verba cadit lingua silentio?
Nocturnis te ego Somniis
   Jam captum teneo, jam volucrem sequor:
Te per gramina Martii
   Campi, te per aquas, dure, volubileis.


Ode ix. lib. 3. Ad Lydiam.
Dialogus Horatti & Lydiæ.Jonson's translation appears in the 2nd column, posted below.

Hor. 
D
Onec gratus eram tibi,
Nec quisquam potior brachia candida
   Cervici juvenis dabat;
Persarum vigui rege beatior.
Lyd.    Donec non alia magis
Arsisti, neque erat Lydia post Chloën,
   Multi Lydia nominis
Romana vigui clarior Illia.
Hor.    Me nunc Thressa Chloë regit,
Dulceis docta modos, & Citharæ sciens:
   Pro qua non metuam mori,
Si parcent animæ fata superstiti.
Lyd.    Me torret face mutua
Thurini Calais filius Ornithi:
   Pro quo bis patiar mori,
Si parcent puero fata superstiti.
Hor.    Quid si prisca redit Venus,
Diductosque jugo cogit aheneo?
   Si flava excutitur Chloë
Rejectæque patet janua Lydiæ?
Lyd.    Quanquam sidere pulchrior
Ille est, tu levior Cortice, & improbo
   iracundior Adria,
Tecum vivere amem, tecum obeam libens.

[column break]

Ode the first. The fourth Book.
To Venus.Horace (see above)

V
Enus, again thou mov'st a War
   Long intermitted, pray thee, pray thee spare:
   I am not such, as in the Reign
Of the good Cynara I was: Refrain
   Sowre Mother of sweet Loves, forbear
To bend a Man now at his fiftieth year,
   Too stubborn for Commands, so slack:
Go where Youths soft Intreaties call thee back.
   More timely hie thee to the House,
With thy bright Swans of Paulus Maximus:
   There jest, and feast, make him thine Host,
If a fit Liver thou dost seek to toast;
   For he's both Noble, lovely, young,
And for the troubled Client fill's'files' his Tongue,
   Child of a hundred Arts, and far
Will he display the Ensigns of thy War.
   And when he smiling finds his Grace
With thee 'bove all his Rivals Gifts take place,
   He will thee a Marble Statue make
Beneath a Sweet, wood Roof, neer Alba Lake:
   There shall thy dainty Nostril take
In many a Gum, and for thy soft Ears sake
   Shall Verse be set to Harp and Lute,
And Phrygian Hau'boy, not without the Flute.
   There twice a day in sacred Lays,
The Youths and tender Maids shall sing thy praise:
   And in the Salian manner meet
Thrice 'bout thy Altar with their Ivory Feet,
   Me now, nor Wench, nor wanton Boy,
Delights, nor credulous hope of mutual Joy,
   Nor care I now Healths to propound;
Or with fresh Flowers to girt my Temple round.
   But, why, oh why, my Ligurine,
Flow my thin Tears, down these pale Cheeks of mine?
   Or why, my well-grac'd words among,
With an uncomely silence fails my Tongue?
   Hard-hearted, I dream every Night
I hold thee fast! but fled hence, with the Light,
   Whether in Mars his Field thou be,
Or Tybers winding Streams, I follow thee.


Ode ix. 3 Book, to Lydia.
Dialogue of Horace, and Lydia.

Hor. 
W
Hilst, Lydia, I was lov'd of thee,
And ('bout thy Ivory neck,) no youth did fling
   His Arms more acceptably free,
I thought me richer than the Persian King.
Lyd.    Whilst Horace lov'd no Mistris more,
Nor after Chloe did his Lydia sound;
   In name, I went all names before,
The Roman Ilia was not more renown'd.
Hor.    'Tis true, I' am Thracian Chloe's, I
Who sings so sweet, and with such cunning plays,
   As, for her, I'ld not fear to die,
So Fate would give her life, and longer days.
Lyd.    And, I am mutually on Fire
With gentle Calais Thurine, Ornith's Son,
   For whom I doubly would expire,
So Fates would let the Boy a long thred run.
Hor.    But, say old Love return should make,
And us dis-join'd force to her brazen Yoke,
   That I bright Chloe off should shake;
And to left-Lydia, now the Gate stood ope.
Lyd.    Though he be fairer than a Star;
Thou lighter than the Bark of any Tree,
   And than rough Adria angrier far;
Yet would I wish to love, live, die with thee.
Fragmentum


584 Under-woods.                 

Fragmentum Petron. Arbitr.

F
Oeda est in coitu, & brevis voluptas,
Et tædet Veneris statim peractæ.
Non ergo ut pecundes libidinosæ,
Cœci protinùs irruamus illuc:
Nam languescit Amor peritq; Flamma.
Sed sic, sic, sine fine feriati,
Et tecum jaceamus osculantes:
Hic nullus labor est, ruborq; nullus;
Hoc juvit, juvat, & diu juvabit:
Hoc non deficit, incipitq; semper.


Epigramma Martialis.
Lib. viii. Lxxvii.

L
Iber, amicorum dulcissima cura tuorum,
   Liber in æterna vivere digne rosâ,
Si sapis Assyrio semper tibi crinis amomo
   Splendeat, & cingant florea serta caput:
Candida nigrescant vetulo chrystalla Falerno,
   Et caleat blando mollis amore thorus.
Qui sic, vel medio finitus vixit in ævo,
   Longior huic facta, quam data vita fuit.

[column break]

The same translated.i.e. 'Fragment of Petron. Arbiter' (see above)

D
Oing, a filthy pleasure is, and short;
And done, we straight repent us of the sport:
Let us not then rush blindly on unto it:
Like lustful Beasts, that only know to do it:
For Lust will languish, and that Heat decay,
But thus, thus, keeping endless Holy-day,
Let us together closely lie, and kiss,
There is no labour, nor no shame in this;
This hath pleas'd, doth please, and long will please; never
Can this decay, but is beginning ever.


The same translated.i.e. 'Martial Epigram Lib. viii. 77.' (see above)

L
Iber, of all thy Friends, thou sweetest care,
   Thou worthy in eternal Flower to fare,
If thou be'st wise, with 'Syrian Oil let shine
   Thy Locks, and rosie Garlands Crown thy Head;
Dark thy clear Glass with old Falernian Wine;
   And heat, with softest Love, thy softer Bed.
He, that but living half his days, dies such,
   Makes his Life longer than 'twas given him, much.











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