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I could say more of such; but that I flie
Are asked to climbe. First give me faith, who know To speake my selfe out too ambitiously,
My selfe a little. I will take you so,
OF THE KING'S NEW CELLAR,
Since, Bacchus, thou art father
Of wines, to thee the rather Call every night to snpper in these fitts,
We dedicate this cellar,
Where new, thou art made dweller;
Of all to the great master.
And looke unto their faces,
That both their odour take him,
And-relish merry make him. What is 't to me, whether the French designe
For, Bacchus, thou art freer Be, or be not, to get the Val-telline?
Of cares, and over-seer Or the state's ships sent forth belike to meet
Of feast, and merry meeting,
See then thou dost attend him,
From any thought like sadnesse.
· So mayst thou still be younger And force back that, which will not be restor'd, Then Phæbus; and much stronger I have a body yet, that spirit drawes
To give mankind their eases, To live, or fall, a carkasse in the cause.
And cure the world's diseases : Șo farre without inquirie. what the states,
So may the Muses follow
And thinke thy streame more quicker
Before his braine doe know it;
So may there never quarrell That guides the motions, and directs the beares. Have issue from the barrell; But that 's a blow, by which in time I may
But Venus and the Graces Lose all my credit with my Christmas clay,
Pursue thee in all places, And animated porc'lane of the court,
And not a song be other I, and for this neglect, the courser sort
Then Cupid, and his mother.
That when king James above here
Thy circuits, and thy rounds free,
As shall the feast's faire grounds be. Still looking to, and ever loving Heaven;
Be it he hold communion
Of some wel-wrought embassage:
The wished peace of Europe:
Or else a health advances, Oylie expansions, or shrunke durtie folds,
To put bis court in dances, But all so cleare, and led by reason's flame,
And set us all on skipping, As but to stumble in ber sight were shame.
When with his roy all shipping These I will honour, love, embrace, and serve :
The narrow seas are shadie,
And Charles brings home the ladie.
Accessit fervor capiti, numerusque luccrnis.
And though all praise bring nothing to your name, AN EPIGRAM
Who (herein studying conscience, and not fame)
Are in your selfe rewarded; yet 't will be
A cheerefull worke to all good eyes, to see
Among the daily ruines that fall foule Does the Court-Pucell then so censure me, Of state, of fame, of body, and of soule, And thinkes I dare not her? let the world see.
So great a vertue stand upright to view, What though her chamber be the very pit
As makes Penelope's old fable true, Where fight the prime cocks of the game, for wit ? Whilst your Ulisses bath ta'ne leave to goe, And that as any are strooke, her breath creates Countries and climes, manners and men to know. New in their stead, out of the candidates ?
Only your time you better entertaine, What though with tribade lust she force a Muse, Then the great Homer's wit for her could faine; And in an epicæne fury can write newes
For you admit no companie but good, Equall with that, which for the best newes goes, And when you want those friends, or neere in blood, As aërie light, and as like wit as those ?
Or your allies, you make your bookes your friends, What though she talke, and can at once with them, And studie them unto the noblest ends, Make state, religion, bawdrie, all a theame.
Searching for knowledge, and to keepe your mind And, as lip-thirstie, in each word's expense, The same it was inspir'd, rich, and refin'd. Doth labour with the phrase more then the sense ? | These graces, when the rest of ladyes view What though she ride two mile on holy-dayes Not boasted in your life, but practis'd true, To church, as others doe to feasts and playes, As they are bard for them to make their owne, To shew their tires ? to view, and to be view'd ? So are they profitable to be knowne: What though she be with velvet gownes indu'd, For when they find so many meet in one, And spangled petticotes brought forth to eye, It will be shame for them if they have none. As new rewards of her old secrecie! What though she hath won on trust, as many doe, And that her truster feares her? must I too? I never stood for any place: my wit Thinkes it selfe nought, though she should valew it. LORD BACON'S BIRTH-DAY. I am no states-man, and inuch lesse divine for bawdry, 't is her language, and not mine. Hatle happie Genius of this antiënt pile ! Farthest I am from the idolatrie
How comes it all things so about the smile? To stuffes and laces, those my man can buy. The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst And trast her I would least, that hath forswore Thou stand'st' as if some mysterie thou did'st! In contract twice; what can she perjure more? Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day Indeed, her dressing some man might delight, For whose returnes, and many, all these pray: Her face there 's none can like by candle light. And so doe I. This is the sixtieth yeare Not he, that should the body have, for case Since Bacon, and thy lord was born, and here; To his poore instrument, now out of grace.
Sonne to the grave wise keeper of the seale, Shall I advise thee, Pucell? steale away [day; Fame and foundation of the English weale. From court, while yet thy fame hath some small What then his father was, that since is be, The wits will leare you, if they once perceive Now with a title more to the degree; You cling to lords ; and lords, if them you leave England's high chancellor : the destin'd heire For sermoneeres; of which now one, now other, In his soft cradle to his father's chaire, They say, you weekly invite with fits o'th' mother, Whose even thred the Fates spinne round and full, And practise for a miracle ; take heed
Out of their choysest, and their whitest wooll. This age would lend no faith to Dorrel's deed; 'T is a brave cause of joy, let it be knowne, Or if it would, the court is the worst place, *For 't were a narrow gladnesse, kept thine owne. Both for the mothers, and the babes of grace, Give me a deep-crown'd-bowle, that I may sing For there the wicked in the chaire of scorne, In raysing him the wisdome of my king. Will call 't a bastard, when a prophet's borne.
SENT ME BY SIR WILLIAM BURLASE.
TO THE HONOURED
THE PAINTER TO THE- POET.
Ben, I would show it:
But in this skill, m' unskilfull pen will tire, Is of so brave example, as he were
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found farre higlier; No friend to vertue, could be silent here.
And I a lier. The rather when the vices of the time Are growne so fruitfull, and false pleasnres climbe Then, what a painter's here? or what an eater By all oblique degrees, that killing height [weight. Of great attempts ! when as bis skill's no greater, From whence they fall, cast downe with their owne
And he a cheater? VOL. V.
Then what a poet's here! whom, by confession
There 's no expression.
TO MR. ARTHUR SQUIE.
THE POET TO THE PAINTER.
Why? though I seeme of a prodigious wast,
"Tis true, as my wombe swells, so my backe stoupes, And the whole lúmpe growes round, deform'd, and
droupes, But yet the tun at Heidelberg bad houpes.
I am to dine, friend, where I must be weigh'd
You were not tied by any painter's law
Which if in compasse of no art it came
But whilst you curious were to have it be
TO MR. JOHN BURGES.
Would God, my Burges, I could thinke
Thoughts worthy of thy gift, this inke,
Verse that should thee and me out-live.
But since the wine hath steep'd my braine, But, you are he can paint ; I can but write:
I only can the paper staine; A poet hath no more but black and white,
Yet with a dye that feares no moth,
But scarlet-like ont-lasts the cloth.
TO MY LADY COVELL.
TO WILLIAM, EARLE OF NEWCASTLE.
When first, my lord, I saw you backe your horse,
You won not verses, madam, you won me,
TO THE PASSER-BY.
By this, although you fancie not the man,
To hit in angles, and to clash with time: Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can, As all defence, or offence were a chime! How many verses, madam, are your due?
I hate sucht measur'd, give me mettall'd fire, I can lose none in tendring these to you.
That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts I gaine, in having leave to keepe my day,
higher! And should grow rich, had I much more to pay. A quick, and dazeling motion! when a paire
of bodies meet like rarified ayre!
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 daring not to doe a wrong; 'tis true
Valour to sleight it, being done to you!
To know the heads of danger! where 't is fit
To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it!
All this (my lord) is valour! this is yours!
And was your father's! all your ancestours' !
Who durst live great, 'mongst all the colds, and Knew the time, when
heates He lov'd the Muses;
Of nane life! as all the frosts, and sweates Though now he refuses,
Of fortune! when, or death appear’d, or bands!
And valiant were, with or without their hands.
ON HENRY LORD LA-WARE.
If, passenger, thou canst but reade,
Stay, drop a teare for him that 's dead :
Henry, the brave young lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the Muses' care!
What could their care doe 'gainst the spight
Of a disease, that loy'd po light Nor any quick-warming-pan helpe him to bed,
Of honour, nor no ayre of good;
Bụt crept like darknesse through his blood,
No love of action, and high arts,
No aime at glorie, or in warre,
Could stop the malice of this ill,
Because it durst have noblier dy'd.
At which there are would sell the prince and state, If they goe on, and that thou lov'st a-life
That scarce you heare a publike voyce alive, Their perfum'd judgements, let them kisse thy wife. But whisper'd counsells, and those only thrive;
Yet are got off thence with cleare mind and hands
Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,
To see you set apart thus from the rest,
A nation's sinne got pardon'd! 't were a taske
My lord, till felt griefe make our stone hearts soft, The noble science, and the maistring skill
And we doe weepe to water for our sinne, Of making just approaches how to kill:
He, that in such a food as we are in
TO MY BOOK-SELLER.
TO WILLIAM EARLE OF NEWCASTLE.
Of riot and consumption, knowes the way When all your life's a president of dayes,
How is she barren growne of love ! or broke ! He is the man, and favorite of God.
That nothing can her gratitude provoke!
'T is not alone the merchant, but the clowne AN EPIGRAM
Is banke-rupt turn'd! the cassock, cloake, and gowne,
TO KING CHARLES FOK ONE HUNDRED POUNDS HE SENT
ME IN MY SICKNESSE.
Great Charles, among the holy gifts of grace
And art thou borne, brave babe? blest be thy birth!
KING CHARLES, AND QUEENE MARY.
Non displicuisse meretur
FOR THE LOSSE OF THEIR FIRST-BORN,
AN EPIGRAM CONSOLATORIR.
Wgo dares denie that all first fruits are due
TO THE QUEENE, THEN LYING IN. 1630.
Haile, Mary, full of grace, it once was said, Then royall Charles, and Mary, doe not grutch
And by an angell, to the blessed'st maid That the Almightie’s will to you is such :
The mother of our Lord: why may not I But thanke his greatnesse, and his goodnesse foo;
(Without prophanenesse) yet, a poet, cry And thinke all still the best that he
Haile, Mary, full of honours, to my queene,
will doe. That thought shall make, he will this losse supply The mother of our prince? when was there seene With a long, large, and blest posteritie!
(Except the joy that the first Mary brought, For God, whose essence is so infinite,
Whereby the safetie of man-kind was wrought) Cannot but heape that grace he will requite.
So generall a gladnesse to au isle !
Glorie to God. Then, baile to Mary! spring
Of so much safetie to the realme, and king.
TO OUR GREAT AND GOOD KING CHARLES ON HIS ANNI
How happy were the subject ! if he knew,
Clio. Up, publike joy, remember
This sixteenth of November,
Some brave un-common way:
Ring thou it holy-day.