And help'd to put her dressings on.

Secure

Rest thou that thy name herein shall endure
To th' end of age: and Annabella be

Gloriously fair, even in her infamy.

THOMAS ELLICE.*

To my Friend Mr. JOHN FORD, (on his Love's Sacrifice.)
UNTO this altar, rich with thy own spice,
I bring one grain to thy Love'S SACRIFICE;
And boast to see thy flames ascending, while
Perfumes enrich our air from thy sweet pile.
Look here, thou, that hast malice to the stage,
And impudence enough for the whole age;
Voluminously ignorant!+ be vext

To read this tragedy, and thy own be next.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

To my own Friend, Master JOHN FORD, on his justifiable Poem of Perkin Warbeck, this Ode.

THEY who do know me, know that I,

Uns', ill'd to flatter,

Dare speak this piece, in words, in matter,

A work, without the danger of a lie.

* A relative, perhaps, of Mr. Robert Ellice, one of the three respected friends' to whom our poet inscribed the Lover's Melancholy.'

Voluminously ignorant, &c.] Antony Wood has adopted and justified this characteristic designation of Prynne. He may as well be called " voluminous Prynne," he says, "as Tostatus Abulensis was, two hundred years before him, called voluminous Tostatus," &c.

Believe me, friend, the name of this and thee,

Will live, your story:

Books may want faith, or merit glory; This neither, without judgment's lethargy.

When the arts doat, then some sick poet may

Hope that his pen,

In new-stain'd paper, can find men

To roar, "He is the Wit;" his noise doth sway:

But such an age cannot be known; for all

Ere that time be,

Must prove such truth, mortality:

So, friend, thy honour stands too fix'd to fall.

GEORGE DONNE.*

To his worthy Friend, Master JOHN FORD, upon his
Perkin Warbeck.

LET men, who are writ poets, lay a claim
To the Phœbean hill, I have no ́name,

* GEORGE DONNE.] Here again credit is given to Ford for the praises of such a celebrated pen as Dr. Donne's; who, as the commentator is not afraid to assert, was the steady friend of the the poet, and peculiarly attached to him.'

Between Jonson and Donne, indeed, there was a warm and lasting attachment; their studies lay much in the same way at one period of their lives. Ben, like himself, was a profound scholar, and deeply versed in his favourite pursuit, a knowledge of the early Fathers of the Church. But it is more than probable that Ford was not even known to him by name. It is one of the most venial of Mr. Weber's oscitancies to be ignorant that Dr. Donne had, at the time this was written, been two years in his grave.

Nor art in verse; true, I have heard some tell
Of Aganippe, but ne'er knew the well:
Therefore have no ambition with the times,
To be in print, for making of ill rhymes;
But love of thee, and justice to thy pen,
Hath drawn me to this bar, with other men
To justify, though against double laws,
(Waving the subtle business of his cause,)
The GLORIOUS PERKIN, and thy poet's art,
Equal with his, in playing the king's part.

RA. EURE, baronis primogenitus.*

To my faithful, no less deserving Friend, the Author (of Perkin Warbeck), this indebted oblation.

PERKIN is rediviv'd by thy strong hand,

And crown'd a king of new; the vengeful wand
Of greatness is forgot; his execution

May rest unmention'd, and his birth's collusion
Lie buried in the story; but his fame

Thou hast eternis'd; made a crown his game.
His lofty spirit soars yet: had he been
Base in his enterprise, as was his sin
Conceiv'd, his title, doubtless, prov'd unjust,
Had, but for thee, been silenced in the dust.

GEORGE CRYMES, miles.

"The son of William, Lord Eure." Of the Miles who follows, I can say nothing. I have, however, corrected his verses, which were shamefully misprinted in the former edition.

To the Author, his Friend, upon his Chronicle History (of Perkin Warbeck.)

THESE are not to express thy wit,

But to pronounce thy judgment fit,
In full-filled phrase, those times to raise,
When Perkin ran his wily ways.
Still, let the method of thy brain
From Error's touch and Envy's stain
Preserve thee free; that ever thy quill
Fair Truth may wet, and fancy fill.
Thus Graces are with Muses met,
And practic critics on may fret:
For here thou hast produced a story
Which shall eclipse their future glory.

JOHN BROGRAVE, Ár.

To my Friend and Kinsman Master JOHN FORD, the Author (of Perkin Warbeck.)

DRAMATIC poets, as the times go now,
Can hardly write what others will allow;

The cynic snarls, the critic howls and barks,
And ravens croak, to drown the voice of larks:
Scorn those stage-harpies! This I'll boldly say,
Many may imitate, few match thy play.

JOHN FORD, Graiensis.

To Master JOHN FORD, of the Middle Temple, on his Bower of Fancies (or, Fancies Chaste and Noble.)

I FOLLOW fair example, not report,

Like wits o' th' university or court,

To show how I can write,

At mine own charges, for the time's delight:

But to acquit a debt,

Due to right poets, not the counterfeit.

These Fancies Chaste and Noble are no strains
Dropt from the itch of over-heated brains:
They speak unblushing truth,

The guard of beauty, and the care of youth;
Well relish'd might repair

An academy for the young and fair.

Such labours, friend, will live; for though some new
Pretenders to the stage, in haste pursue

Those laurels, which of old

Enrich'd the actors: yet I can be bold,

To say, their hopes are starv'd ;
For they but beg, what pens approved deserv'd.

EDW. GREENFIELD.

Upon the Sun's Darling.

Is he then found? Phoebus, make holiday,
Tie up thy steeds, and let the Cyclops play:
Mulciber, leave thy anvil, and be trim;
Comb thy black muzzle, be no longer grim: