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Two, Joseph-like, from sire to sage,
Sprung in autumne of his age;
But a Benjamin the other,

Gain'd with losing of his mother.

This fruit of some spare hours, I spent,

To your Honours I present.

A king I for my subject have,
And noble patrons well may crave:
Things tripartite are fit for three,
With youth things youthful best agree:
Take then therfore, in good part,
Of him that ever prayeth in heart,
That as in height ye waxe apace,
Your soules may higher grow in grace.

Whilst you, father, (like the greene
Eagle in his scutcheon seene,
Which with bill his age doth cast,)
May longer still and longer last,
To see your virtues o're increase
Your years, ere he departs in peace.
Thus I, my booke, to make an end,
To you; and you to God commend.

Your Honours in all service,


The poem is divided into three parts, according to its leading title: the first contains 47, the second 26, and the third 71 stanzas. I cite the exordium.

"How Zion's psalmist grievously offended, How Israel's harper did most foulely slide; Yet how that psalmist penitent amended,

And how that harper patient did abide

Deserved chastisement; (so fitly stil'd)

Which wrath inflicted not, but love most mild,
Not for to hurt, but heale a wanton child.

How one by her owne brother was defiled;
And how that brother by a brother slaine;
And how a father by his sonne exiled,
And by a subject, how a soveraigne :
How peace procured after battels fierce;
As Sol at length doth sullen cloudes dispierce,
My Muse intends the subject of her verse.

Great God of might! whose power most soveraigne,
Depends of none, yet all of thee depend,
Time cannot measure, neither place containe,
Nor wit of man thy Being comprehend:

For whilst I thinke on Three, I am confin'd
To One, and when I One conceive in minde,
I am recal'd to Three, in One combin'd.

Thy helpe I crave, thy furtherance I aske,
My head, my heart, my hand, direct and guide,
That, whilst I undertake this weighty taske,
I from thy written lore start not aside :

Alas! 'tis nothing, Lord, with thee to breake
The strong, 'tis nothing to support the weake,
To make men dumb, to make an infant speake."

Poems by Hugh Crompton; the son of Bacchus and god-son of Apollo. Being a Fardle of Fancies, or a Medley of Musick, stewed in four Ounces of the Oyl of Epigrams.

Aut prodesse volunt, aut delectare poetæ.

London, printed by E. C. for Tho. Alsop, at the two sugar-loaves, over against St. Antholin's Church, at the lower end of Watling-street, 1657.

Small 8vo.

THIS very scarce little volume is inscribed to the author's "well-affected, and no lesse respected friend and kinsman, Colonel Tho. Crompton.'

It is divided into two parts: the first contains sixtyseven poems of an amatory complexion; the second consists of twenty-one epigrams. I subtract a specimen of each.

The Retreat.

"Tell me, Tyresias, was it thou
Bewitch'd me into Cupid's bow?
Why should I hold this deer in chace?
Or wrack my fancy on her face?
What hope is there to win the prize,
That still refuses and denies?

With weary labours, night and day,
Early and late, through clods and clay,
In health and sicknesse, blisse and bale,
I woo'd her-but 'twould not prevail.
My time, my coyn, and spirits too,
I spent ; but yet all would not do.

I manacled each strugling thought,
And my aspiring soul I brought
Into subjection; and did spill
Full seas of tears to gain her will:
All this I did and more; but yet
Her marble heart would not submit.

Therefore, I will decline the suit,
And pluck up fancy by the root.
I'll bid my straggling heart go home,
And leave thee to the next that come.
But may I perish for my pain,
If ere I cringe to thee again.


I' th' petty fourm this lady sits,
Learns innocency more than wits;
Reads duty-lectures to her sons;
Bids her but go, and straight she runs.
Poor, she at all times, and all places,
Waits, servant-like, upon the Graces.
She owns herself most vile and base;

Yet her descent's the royall race."

See an allusion to this miscellany, and part of the title cited in Restituta, vol. i. p. 281; where several extracts are given from the same author's " Pierides, or Muses' Mount." 1658.

The Passionate Poet. With a Description of the Thracian Ismarus. By T. P.

Pallas habet plures spurios quàm genuinos pueros.

London, printed by Valentine Simmes, dwelling on Adling hill, at the signe of the white Swanne, 1601. 4to. 26 leaves.


THE author of this extremely rare, if not unique production, appears to be unrecorded in the annals of our poetic history. His name, which does not appear in the title of his work, is revealed in his dedicatory verses, which are thus inscribed.

"To the right honorable and my most vertuous Ladie, the Ladie Frauncis, Countesse of Kildare, T. P. wisheth all perseverance, with soule's happynes.

Thrice did we read what passion wrought at once;
It pleas'd, displeas'd us, and it pleas'd againe.
Front-fallowed Athens ministred in frownes,
Which Ismarus to comick did reclaime.

May she propugne those wronges, and onely those
But Thracian refuge do not we propose.
They weare not Athens' furrowes that offended,

And be she powerfull in her reprehension,

But want of worthiness to thee intended,
To thee, great Ladie! life of my invention :
'Tis from thy favour, or severer sence,
We smyle, or take acquaintance with offence.

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