If hence thy silence be,

As 't is too just a cause;
AN ELEGIE.

Let this thought quicken thee,

Minds that are great and free,
THOUGH beautie be the marke of praise,

Should not on fortune pause,
And yours of whom I sing be such

Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.
As not the world can praise too much,
Yet is 't your vertue now I raise.

What though the greedie frie

Be taken with false baytes
A vertue, like allay, so gone

Of worded balladrie,
Throughout your forme; as though that move, And thipke it poësie?
And draw, and conquer all men's love,

They die with their conceits,
This subjects you to love of one.

And only pitious scorne upon their folly waites. Wherein you triumph yet: because

Then take in hand thy lyre,
'T is of your selfe, and that you use

Strike in thy proper straine,
The noblest freedome, not to chuse

With Japhet's lyne, aspire
Against or faith, or honour's lawes.

Sol's chariot for new fire,

To give the world againe:
But who should lesse expect from you,

Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's braine.
In whom alone Love lives agen?
By whom he is restor'd to men:

And since our daintie age
And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

Cannot indure reproofe,

Make not thy selfe a page,
His falling temples you have rear'd

To that strumpet the stage,
The withered garlands tane away;

But sing high and aloofe,

(hoofe. His altars kept from the decay,

Safe from the wolve's black jaw, and the dull ass's That envie wish'd, and nature fear'd.

THE

MIND OF THE PRONTISPICE TO A BOOKE.

And on them burne so chaste a flame,

With so much loyaltie's expence,

As Love t' aquit such excellence Is gone himselfe into your name. And you are he: the deitie

To whom all lovers are design'd;

That would their better objects find : Among which faithfull troope am l. Who as an off-spring at your shrine,

Have sung this hymne, and here entreat

One sparke of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant

Appeare, and that to shortest view,

Yet give me leave t'adore in you What I, in her, am griev'd to want.

From death, and darke oblivion, near the same,

The mistresse of man's life, grave historie,
Raising the world to good and evill fame,

Doth vindicate it to eternitie.
Wise Providence would so; that nor the good

Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,
But both might know their wayes were understood,

When vice alike in time with rertue dur'd:
'Which makes that (lighted by the beamie hand

Of truth that searcheth the most secret springs,
And guided by experience, whose straite wand
Doth mete, whose lyne doth sound the depth of

things :)
She chearfully supporteth what she reares,

Assisted by no strengths, but are her owne,
Some note of which each varied pillar beares,

By wbich, as proper titles, she is knowne,
Time's witnesse, herald of antiquitie,

The light of truth, and life of memorie.

AN ODE.

TO HIMSELFE.

AN

Where do'st thou carelesse lie

Buried in ease'and sloth ?
Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die;

ODE TO IAMES EARLE OF DESMOND,
And this securitie,
It is the common moth,

[both, WRIT IN QUEENE ELIZABETH'S TIME, SINCE LOST, That eats on wits, and arts, and quite destroyes them

AND RECOVERED.
Are all th’ Aonian springs

Wuere art thou, Genius? I should use
Dri'd up? lyes Thespia wast?

Thy present aide: arise, Invention,
Doth Clarius' barp want strings,

Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's Muse,
That not a nymph now sings!

To towre with my intention Or droop they as disgrac't, [fac't? High, as his mind, that doth advance To see their seats and bowers by chattring pies de- Her upright head, above the reach of chance,

Or the times' envie :
Cynthius, I applie

AN ODE.
My bolder numbers to thy golden lyre :
0, then inspire

High spirited friend, Thy priest in this strange rapture; heate my braine I send nor balmes, nor cor’sives to your wound, With Delphick fire:

Your fate hath found, That I may sing my thoughts, in some unyulgar | A gentler, and more agile hand, to tend straine.

The cure of that, which is but corporall,

And doubtfull dayes (which were nam'd criticall,) Rich beame of honour, shed your light

Have made their fairest flight, On these darke rymes; that my affection

And now are out of sight.
May shine (through every chincke) to every sight Yet doth some wholsome physick for the mind,
Graced by your reflection !

Wrapt in this paper lie,
Then shall my verses, like strong charmes, Which in the taking if you mis-apply,
Breake the knit circle of her stonie armes,

You are unkind.
That hold your spirit:
And keepes your merit

Your covetous hand,
Lock't in her cold embraces, from the view Happy in that faire honour it hath gain’d,
Of eyes more true,

Must now be rayn'd.
Who would with judgement search, searching con-

True valour doth her owne renowne command clude,

In one full action; nor have you now more (As prov'd in you)

To doe, then be a husband of that store. True noblesse Palme growes straight, though Thinke but how deare you bought, handled ne're so rude

This same which you have caught,
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth:

"T is wisdome, and that high, Nor thipke your selfe unfortunate,

For men to use their fortune reverently, If subject to the jealous errours

Even in youth.
Of politique pretext, that wryes a state,

Sinke not beneath these terrours :
But whisper; O glad innocence
Where only a mau's birth is his offence;
Or the dis-favonr,

AN ODE.
Of such as savour
Nothing, but practise upon honour's thrall.

Hellen, did Homer never see
O vertue's fall,

Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?
When her dead essence (like the anatomie

Did Sappho, on her seven-tongu'd lute,
In Surgeon's hall)

So speake (as yet it is not mute)
Is but a statist's theame, to read phlebotomie. Of Phaon's forme? or doth the boy,

In whom Anacreon once did joy,

Lie drawne to life, in his soft verse, Let Brontes, and black Steropes,

As he whom Maro did rehearse ? Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;

Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catullus? Pyracmon's houre will come to give them ease,

Or Delia's graces by Tibullus? Though but while mettal's heating:

Doth Cynthia, in Propertius' song And, after all the Ætnean ire,

Shine more, then she the stars among?
Gold, that is perfect, will out-live the fire.

Is Horace his each love so high
For fury wasteth,

Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
As patience lasteth.

With bright Lycoris, Gallus' choice,
No armour to the mind ! he is shot free

Whose fame hath an eternall voice.
From injurie,

Or hath Corynna, by the name
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;

Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
So fooles we see,

Of Cæsar's daughter, and the line
Oft scape an imputation, more through luck, then

Which all the world then stylid devine? wit.

Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd

Equall with her? or Ronsart prais'd But to your selfe, most loyall lord,

His new Cassandra 'bove the old,
(Whose heart in that bright sphere flames clearest, Which all the fate of Troy foretold ?
Though many gems be in your bosome storid,

Hath our great Sidney, Stella set,
Unknowne which is the dearest)

Where never star shone brighter yet?
If I auspitiously devine,

Or Constable's ambrosiack Muse (As my hope tells) that our faire Phæbus' shine, Made Dian not his notes refuse? Shall light those places,

Have all these done (and yet I misse
With lustrous graces,

The swan, that so relish'd Pancharis)
Where darknesse, with her glomie sceptred hand, And shall not I my Celia bring,
Doth now command.

Where men may see whom I doe sing, O then (my best-best lov’d) let me importune, Though I, in working of my song, That you will stand,

Come short of all this learned throng, As farre from all revolt, as you are now from for- Yet sure my tunes will be the best, tune.

So much my subject drownes the rest.

Scarce the hill againe doth flourish,
A SONNET,

Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,

To restore

Phæbus to his crowne againe ; TO THE NOBLE LADY, TAE LADY MARY WORTH.

And the Muses to their braine ;

As before,
I that have beene a lover, and could show it,

Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumbe, Vulgar languages that want
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become

Words, and sweetnesse, and be scant
A better lover, and much better poët.

Of true measure,
Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it

Tyrant rime hath so abused,
To those true numerous graces; whereof some, That they long since bave refused,
But charme the seoses, others over-come

Other ceasure:
Both braines and hearts; and mine now best doe
For in your verse all Cupid's armorie, [know it:

He that first invented thee,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,

May his joynts tormented bee, His very eyes are yours to overthrow.

Cramp'd for ever; But then his mother's sweets you so apply,

Still may syllabes jarre with time, Her joyes, her smiles, her loves, as readers take

Still may reason warre with rime,
For Venus' ceston every line you make.

Resting never.
May his sense, when it would meet
The cold tumour in his feet,

Grow unsounder.
And his title be long foole,
That in rearing such a schoole

Was the founder.
FIT OF RIME AGAINST RIME.

AN EPIGRAM

Rime the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits

True conceipt,
Spoyling senses of their treasure,
Cosening judgement with a measure,

But false weight.

ON

WILLIAM LORD BURLEIGH,

LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND.

Wresting words, from their true calling;
Propping verse, for feare of falling

To the ground.
Joynting syllabes, drowning letters,
Pasting vowells, as with fetters

They were bound!

Soone as lazie thou wert knowne,
All good poëtrie hence was flowne,

And was banish'd.
For a thousand yeares together,
All Pernassus' greene did wither,

And wit vanish d.

If thou wouldst know the vertues of mankind
Read bere in one, what thou in all canst find,
And goe no farther: let this circle be
Thy universe, though his epitome.
Cecill, the grave, the wise, the great, the good :
What is there more that can ennoble blood ?
The orphan's pillar, the true subject's shield,
The poore's full store-house, and just servant's field.
The only faithfull watchman for the realme,
That in all tempests never quit the helme,
But stood unshaken in his deeds, and name,
And labour'd in the worke, not with the fame,
That still was good for goodnesse sake, nor thought
Upon reward, till the reward him sought.
Whose offices and honours did surprize,
Rather than meet him: and, before bis eyes
Clos'd to their peace, he saw his branches shoot,
And in the noblest families tooke root
Of all the land, who now at such a rate,
Of divine blessing, would not serve a state?

Pegasus did fie away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,

But bewail'd,
So to see the fountaine drie,
And Apollo's musique die,

All light failed!

AN

TO THE SMALL POXE.

So may the king proclaime your conscience is Against a multitude; and (with thy stile (while
Law to his law; and thinke your enemies his : So brightly brandish’d) wound'st, defend'st! the
So, from all sicknesse, may you rise to health, Thy adversaries fall, as not a word
The care and wish still of the publike wealth, They had, but were a reed unto thy sword.
So may the gentler Muses, and good fame

Then com’st thou off with victorie and palme,
Still flie about the odour of your pame;

Thy hearers nectar, and thy clients balme,
As with the safetie, and honour of the lawes, The court's just honour, and thy judge's love.
You favour truth, and me, in this man's cause. And (which doth all atchievements get above)

Thy sincere practise breeds not thee a fame

Alone, but all thy ranke a reverend name,
ANOTHER TO HIM.
The judge his farour timely then extends,
When a good cause is destitute of friends,
Without the pompe of counsell, or more aide,

EPIGRAM.
Then to make falshood blush, and fraud afraid :
When those good few, that her defenders be,
Are there for charitie, and not for fee.
Such shall you heare to day, and find great foes

Envious and foule disease, could there not be
Both arm'j with wealth and slander to oppose,

One beautie in an age, and free from thee? Who thus long safe, would gaine upon the times

What did she worth thy spight? were there not store A right by the prosperitie of their crimes;

Of those that set by their false faces more Who, though their guilt and perjurie they know,

Then this did by her true ? she never sought Thinke, yea and boast, that they have doue it so

Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought As, though the court pursues them on the sent,

Art her false servant; nor, for sir Hugh Plot, They will come of, and scape the punishment:

Was drawne to practise other hue, then that When this appeares, just lord, to your sharp sight, Her owne bloud gave her: she ne're had, nor hath Ile does you wrong, that craves you to doe right. Any beliefe, in madam Baud-bee's bath,

Or Turner's oyle of talck. Nor ever got

4
Spanish receipt, to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? thought'st thou, in dis-
Of beautie, so to nullifie a face,

(grace AN EPIGRAM

That Heaven should make no more; or should amisse,
Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this?
I, that thy ayme was; but her fate prevail'd:
And scorn'd, thou’ast showne thy mnalice, but hast

fail'd.
That I hereafter doe not thinke the barre,
The seat made of a more then civill warres,
Or the great ball at Westminster, the field
Where mutuall frauds are fought, and no side yeild;

AN EPITAPH.
That henceforth I beleeve nor bookes, nor men,
Who 'gainst the law weave calumnies, my-

What beautie would have lovely stilde,
But when I read or heare the names so rife

What manners prettie, nature milde, Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife,

What wonder perfect, all were fild Hook-handed barpies, gowned vultures, put

Upon record in this blest child. Upon the reverend pleaders, doe now shut

And, till the comming of the soule
All mouthes, that dare entitle them (from hence)

To fetch the flesh, we keepe the roll.
To the wolves studie, or dogs eloquence;
Thou art my cause: whose manners since I knew,
Have made me to conceive a lawyer new.
So dost thou studie matter, men, and times,

A SONG.
Mak'st it religion to grow rich by crimes !
Dar'st not abuse thy wisdome in the lawes,
Or skill to carry out an evill cause !

Come, let us here enjoy the shade,
But first dost vexe, and search it! If not sound,

For love in shadow best is made. Thou provist the gentler wayes, to clense the wound, Though envie oft his shadow be, And make the scarre faire; if that will not be,

None brookes the sun-light worse then he.
Thou hast the brave scorne, to put back the fee!
But in a businesse, that will bide the touch,
What use, what strength of reason! and how much Where love doth shine, there needs no sunne,
Of bookes, of presidents, bast thou at hand ? All lights into his one doth run;
As if the generall store thou didst command Without which all the world were darke;
Of argument, still drawing forth the best,

Yet he himselfe is but a sparke.
And not being borrowed by thee, but possest.
So com'st thou like a chiefe into the court

ARBITER.
Arm'd at all peeces, as to keepe a fort

A sparke to set whole world a-fire,
Who more they burne, they more desire,

And have their being, their waste to see;
? For a poore man.

And waste still, that they still might be.

TO THE COUNCELLOUR THAT PLEADED AND CARRIED THE

CAUSE.

LOVER.

MISTRES.

CHORUS.

And fills my powers with perswading joy, Such are his powers, whom time hath stil'd,

That you should be too noble to destroy. Now swift, now slow, now tame, now tild;

There may some face or menace of a storme Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild ;

Looke forth, but cannot last in such a forme.

If there be nothing wortby you can see
The eldest god, yet still a child.

Of graces, or your mercie, here in me,
Spare your owne goodnesse yet; and be not great
Jn will and power, only to defeat.

God, and the good, know to forgive, and save;
AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND: The ignorant, and fooles, no pittie have.

I will nor stand to justifie my fault,
Sir, I am thankfull, first to Heaven, for you; Or lay the excuse upon the vintner's vault;
Next to your selfe, for making your love true: Or in confessing of the crime be nice,
Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due. Or goe about to countenance the vice,

By naming in what companie 'twas in,
You have unto my store added a booke,

As I would urge authoritie for sinne. On which with profit I shall never looke,

No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be But must confesse from whom what gift I tooke. The subject of your grace in pardoning me,

And (stil'd your mercie's creature) will live more Not like your countrie-neighbours, that commit Your bonour now, then your disgrace before. Their vice of loving for a Christmasse fit ;

Thinke it was frailtie, mistris, thinke m man, Which is indeed but friendship of the spit :

Thinkethat your selse, like Heaven, forgive me can :

Where weaknesse doth offend, and vertue grieve, But, as a friend, which name your selfe receave, There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve. And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave Thinke that I once was yours, or may be now, In letters, that mixe spirits, thus to weave.

Nothing is vile, that is a part of you:

Errour and folly in me may have crost Which, how most sacred I will ever keepe, Your just commands; yet those, not I, be lost. So may the fruitfull vine my temples steepe, I am regenerate now, become the child And Fame wake for me, when I yeeld to sleepe. Of your compassion; parents should be mild :

There is no father that for one demerit, Though you sometimes proclaime ine too severe, Or two, or three, a sonne will dis-inherit, Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere

That is the last of punishments is meant; In friendship, I confesse: 'but deare friend, heare. No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent :

An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile) Little know they, that professe amitie,

We cut not off, till all cures else doe faile: And seeke to scant her comelie libertie,

And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone, How much they lame her in her propertie. Would live bis glory, that could keepe it on.

Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust And lesse they know, who being free to use Before you prove a medicine, is unjust : That friendship which no chance but love did chuse, You may so place me, and in such an ayre, Will unto licence that faire leave abuse.

As not alone the cure, but scarre be faire.

That is, if still your favours you apply, It is an act of tyrannie, not love,

And not the bounties you ha' done, deny. In practiz'd friendship wholly to reprove,

Could you demand the gifts you gave, againe ! As flatt'ry, with friends' humours still to move. Why was't? did e're the cloudes aske back their raine?

The Sunne his heat and light? the ayre bis dew? From each of which I labour to be free,

Or winds the spirit, by which the flower so grew ? Yet if with either's vice I teynted be,

That were to wither all, and make a grave Forgive it, as my frailtie, and not me.

Of that wise Nature would a cradle have?

Her order is to cherish, and preserve, For no man lives so out of passion's sway,

Consumption's nature to destroy, and sterve. But shall sometimes be tempted to obey

But to exact againe what once is given,
Her furie, yet no friendship to betray.

Is nature's meere obliquitie ! as Heaven
Should aske the blood, and spirits he bath infus'd
In man, because man hath the flesh abus'd.
O may your wisdome take example hence,

God lightens not at man's each fraile offence,
AN ELEGIE.

He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,

And then his thunder frights more then it kills. 'Tis true, I'm broke ! vowes, oathes, and all I had He cannot angrie be, but all must quake, Of credit lost. And I am now run madde:

It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake. Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill;

And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill. In a oalme skie; then when the heaven is horld It is a darknesse hath blockt up my sense,

About in cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather, And drives it in to eat on my offence,

As all with storme and tempest ran together.
Or there to sterve it. Helpe, O you that may O imitate that sweet serenitie
Alone lend succours, and this furie stay.

That makes us live, not that which calls to die. Offended mistris, you are yet so faire,

In darke and sullen mornes, doe we not say, As light breakes from you, that affrights despaire, This looketh like an execution day?