Upon the Gunpowder-Treason.

Each me a quill, pluckt from the flaming wing Of Pluto's Mercury, that I may sing Death to the life. My inke shall be the blood Of Cerberus, or Alecto's viperous brood. Unmated malice! Oh unpeer'd despight! Such as the sable pinions of the night Never durst hatch before: extracted see The very Quintessence of villanie.

I feare to name it; least that he, wch heares,
Should have his soule frighted beyond the spheres.
Heaven was asham'd, to see our mother Earth
Engender with the Night, & teeme a birth
Soe foule, one minutes light had it but seene,
The fresh face of the morne had blasted beene.
Her rosy cheekes you should have seene noe more
Dy'd in vermilion blushes, as before:

But in a vaile of clouds mufling her head
A solitary life she would have led.
Affrighted Phoebus would have lost his way,
Giving his wanton palfreys leave to play
Olympick games in the' Olympian plaines,
His trembling hands loosing the golden raines.
The Queene of night gott the greene sicknes then,
Sitting soe long at ease in her darke denne,
Not daring to peepe forth, least that a stone
Should beate her headlong from her jetty throne.
Jove's twinckling tapers, that doe light the world,
Had beene puft out, & from their stations hurl'd.
Eol kept in his wrangling sonnes, least they
With this grand blast should have bin bloune away.
Amazed Triton with his shrill alarmes

Bad sporting Neptune to pluck in his armes,
And leave embracing of the Isles, least hee
Might be an actor in this Tragoedy.

Nor should wee need thy crisped waves, for wee
An Ocean could have made t' have drowned thee.
Torrents of salt teares from our eyes should runne,

And raise a deluge, where the flaming sunne
Should coole his fiery wheeles, & never sinke
Soe low to give his thirsty stallions drinke.
Each soule in sighes had spent its dearest breath,
As glad to waite upon their King in death.
Each winged Chorister would swan-like sing
A mournfull Dirge to their deceased King.
The painted meddowes would have laught no mo
For joye of their neate coates; but would have t
Their shaggy locks, their flowry mantles turn'd
Into dire sable weeds, & sate, & mourn'd.
Each stone had streight a Niobe become,
And wept amaine; then rear'd a costly tombe,
T'entombe the lab'ring earth. for surely shee
Had died just in her delivery.

But when Jove's winged Heralds this espied,
Upp to th' Almighty thunderer they hied,
Relating this sad story. streight way hee
The monster crusht, maugre their midwiferie.
And may such Pythons never live to see
The Light's faire face, but still abortive bee.

Upon the Gunpowder-Treason.

G

Row plumpe, leane Death; his Holinesse a feast Hath now præpar'd, & you must be his guest. Come grimme destruction, & in purple gore Dye sev'n times deeper than they were before Thy scarlet robes. for heere you must not share A common banquett. noe, heere's princely fare. And least thy bloodshott eyes should lead aside This masse of cruelty, to be thy guide Three coleblack sisters, (whose long sutty haire, And greisly visages doe fright the aire; When Night beheld them, shame did almost turne Her sable cheekes into a blushing morne, To see some fowler than herselfe) these stand, Each holding forth to light the aery brand, Whose purer flames tremble to be soe nigh, And in fell hatred burning, angry dy, Sly, lurking treason is his bosome freind, Whom faint, & palefac't feare doth still attend. These need noe invitation. onely thou Black dismall horro', come; make perfect now Th' Epitome of hell: oh lett thy pinions Be a gloomy Canopy to Pluto's minions. In this infernall Majesty close shrowd Your selves, your Stygian states; a pitchy clowd Shall hang the roome, & for your tapers bright, Sulphureous flames, snatch'd from æternall night. But rest, affrighted Muse; thy silver wings May not row neerer to these dusky Kings. Cast back some amorous glances on the cates, That heere are dressing by the hasty fates, Nay. stopp thy clowdy eyes. it is not good, To droune thy selfe in this pure pearly flood. But since they are for fire-workes, rather prove A Phenix, & in chastest flames of love Offer thy selfe a Virgin sacrifice To quench the rage of hellish deities.

But dares destruction eate these candid breasts, The Muses, & the Graces sugred neasts? Dares hungry death snatch of one cherry lipp? Or thirsty treason offer once to sippe One dropp of this pure Nectar, wch doth flow In azure channells warme through mounts of snow? The roses fresh, conserved from the rage, And cruell ravishing of frosty age, Feare is afraid to tast of: only this, He humbly crav'd to banquett on a kisse. Poore meagre horror streightwaies was amaz'd, And in the stead of feeding stood, & gaz'd. Their appetites were gone at th' very sight; But yet their eyes surfett with sweet delight. Only the Pope a stomack still could find; But yett they were not powder'd to his mind. Forthwith each God stept from his starry throne, And snatch'd away the banquett. every one Convey'd his sweet delicious treasury To the close closet of æternity: Where they will safely keepe it, from the rude, And rugged touch of Pluto's multitude.

Upon the King's Coronation.

Ound forth, cœlestiall Organs, lett heavens quire
Ravish the dancing orbes, make them mount higher
With nimble capers, & force Atlas tread
Upon his tiptoes, e're his silver head
Shall kisse his golden burthen. Thou, glad Isle,
That swim'st as deepe in joy, as Seas, now smile;
Lett not thy weighty glories, this full tide
Of blisse, debase thee; but with a just pride
Swell swell to such an height, that thou maist vye
With heaven itselfe for stately Majesty.
Doe not deceive mee, eyes: doe I not see
In this blest earth heaven's bright Epitome,
Circled with pure refined glory? heere
I veiw a rising sunne in this our sphere,
Whose blazing beames, maugre the blackest night,
And mists of greife, dare force a joyfull light.
The gold, in wch he flames, does well præsage
A precious season, & a golden age.
Doe I not see joy keepe his revels now,
And sitt triumphing in each cheerfull brow?
Unmixt felicity with silver wings
Broodeth this sacred place. hither peace brings
The choicest of her olive-crownes, & praies
To have them guilded with his courteous raies.
Doe I not see a Cynthia, who may
Abash the purest beauties of the day?
To whom heavens lampes often in silent night
Steale from their stations to repaire their light.
Doe I not see a constellation,

Each little beame of wch would make a sunne?
I meane those three great starres, who well may scorn
Acquaintance with the Usher of the morne.
To gaze upon such starres each humble eye
Would be ambitious of Astronomie.
Who would not be a Phoenix, & aspire
To sacrifice himselfe in such sweet fire?
Shine forth, ye flaming sparkes of Deity,
Yee perfect emblemes of divinity.
Fixt in your spheres of glory, shed from thence,
The treasures of our lives, your influence.
For if you sett, who may not justly feare,
The world will be one Ocean, one great teare.