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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,
And showing so weake an act to vulgar eyes, As you have writ your selfe. Now stand, and then
Put conscience and my right to comprimise. Sir, you are sealed of the tribe of Ben.
Let those that meerely talke, and never thinke,
That live in the wild anarchie of drinke,
Subject to quarrell only; or else such
As make it their proficiencie, how much
They ’ave glutted in, and letcher'd out that weeke,

THE DEDICATION
That never yet did friend, or friendship seeke
But for a sealing: let these men protest.

OF THE KING'S NEW CELLAR,
Or th other on their borders, that will jest
On all soules that are absent; even the dead,

TO BACCHUS.
Like flies, or wormes, which man's corrupt parts fed:
That to speake well, thinke it above all sinne,

Since, Bacchus, thou art father
Of any companie but that they are in,

Of wines, to thee the rather Call every night to snpper in these fitts,

We dedicate this cellar,
And are receiv'd for the covey of witts ;

Where new, thou art made dweller;
That censare all the towne, and all th' affaires, And seale thee thy commission :
And know whose ignorance is more then theirs; But 't is with a condition,
Let these men have their wayes, and take their times That thou remaine here taster
To vent their libels, and to issue rimes,

Of all to the great master.
I have no portion in them, nor their deale

And looke unto their faces,
Of newes they get, to strew out the long meale; Their qualities, and races,
I studie other friendships, and more one,

That both their odour take him,
Then these can ever be ; or else wish none.

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,
Some hopes of Spaine in their West-Indian feet ? And still begin'st the greeting:
Whether the dispensation yet be sent,

See then thou dost attend him,
Or that the match from Spaine was ever meant? Lyæus, and defend him,
I wish all well, and pray high Heaven conspire By all the arts of gladnesse,
My prince's safetie, and my king's desire;

From any thought like sadnesse.
But if for honour we must draw the sword,

· 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
Brunsfield, and Mansfield doe this yeare, my fates Thee still, and leave Apollo
Shall carry me at call; and I'le be well,

And thinke thy streame more quicker
Though I doe neither heare these newes, nor tell Then Hippocrenes liquor:
Of Spaine or France; or were not prick'd downe one And thou make many a poet,
Of the late mysterie of reception,

Before his braine doe know it;
Although my fame, to his, not under-heares,

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.
Of earthen jarres there may molest me too:

That when king James above here
Well, with mine owne fraile pitcher what to doe Shall feast it, thou maist love there
I have decreed; keepe it from waves, and presse; The causes and the guests too,
Lest it be justled, crack'd, made nought, or lesse : And have thy tales and jests too,
Live to that point I will, for which I am man,

Thy circuits, and thy rounds free,
And dwell as in my center as I can,

As shall the feast's faire grounds be. Still looking to, and ever loving Heaven;

Be it he hold communion
With reverence using all the gifts thence given. In great saint George's union;
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent - Or gratulates the passage
Such as are square, wel-tagde, and permanent,

Of some wel-wrought embassage:
Not built with canvasse, paper, and false lights, Whereby he may knit sure up
As are the glorious'scenes at the great sights;

The wished peace of Europe:
And that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds,

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 free it from all question to preserve.

And Charles brings home the ladie.
So short you read my character, and theirs
I would call mine, to which not many staires

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
ON THE COURT-PUCELL.

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.

A POEME

AN EPIGRAM

SENT ME BY SIR WILLIAM BURLASE.

TO THE HONOURED

COUNTESSE OP

THE PAINTER TO THE- POET.
The wisdome, madam, of your private life,
Where with this while you live a widowed wife, 'To paint thy worth, if rightly I did know it,
And the right wayes you take unto the right, And were but painter halfe like thee a poët,
To conquer rumour, and triumph on spigot;

Ben, I would show it:
Not only shunning by your act, to doe
Ought that is ill, but the suspition too,

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.

li

Then what a poet's here! whom, by confession
Of all with me, to paint without digression

There 's no expression.

EPISTLE

TO MR. ARTHUR SQUIE.

MY ANSWER.

THE POET TO THE PAINTER.

Why? though I seeme of a prodigious wast,
I am not so voluminous and vast,
But there are lines wherewith I might b'embracd.

"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
For a just wager, and that wager paid
if I doe lose it: and, without a tale,
A merchant's wife is regent of the scale.
Who when she heard the match, concluded streight,
An ill commoditie! 't must make good weight.
So that upon the point my corporall feare
Is, she will play dame justice too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
Within the ballance, and pot want a mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
Full twentie stone, of which I lack two pound :
That's six in silver; now within the socket
Stinketh my credit, if into the pocket
It doe not come: one piece I have in store,
Lend me, deare Arthur, for a weeke five more,
And you shall make me good, in weight, and fashion,
And then to be return'd; or protestation
To goe out after till when take this letter
For your securitie. I can no better.

You were not tied by any painter's law
To square my circle, I confesse; but draw
My superficies: that was all you'saw.

Which if in compasse of no art it came
To be described by a monogram,
With one great blot yo' had form'd me as I am.

But whilst you curious were to have it be
An archetipe for all the world to see,

TO MR. JOHN BURGES.
You made it a brave piece, but not like me.

Would God, my Burges, I could thinke
O, had I now your manyer, maistry, right,
Your power of handling, shadow, ayre, and spright, Then would I promise here to give

Thoughts worthy of thy gift, this inke,
How I would draw, and take hold and delight.

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,
Ne knowes he flatt'ring colours, or false light.

But scarlet-like ont-lasts the cloth.
Yet when of friendship I would draw the face,
A letter'd mind, and a large heart would place
To all posteritie; I will write Burlase.

EPISTLE

TO MY LADY COVELL.

AN EPIGRAM

TO WILLIAM, EARLE OF NEWCASTLE.

When first, my lord, I saw you backe your horse,
Provoke his mettall, and command his force
To all the uses of the field and race,
Me thought I read the ancient art of Thrace,
And saw a centaure, past those tales of Greece,
So seem'd your horse and you both of a peece!
You show'd like Perseus upon Pegasus;
Or Castor mounted on his Cyllarus :
Or what we heare our home-borne legend tell
Of bold sir Bevis and his Arundell:
Nay, so your seate his beauties did endorse,
As I began to wish my selfe a horse;
And surely, had I but your stable seene
Before, I thinke my wish absoly'd had beene.
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,
Nor any of their houshold halfe so well.
So well! as when I saw the floore and roome,
I look'd for Hercules to be the groome:
And cri'd, away with the Cæsarian bread,
At these immortall mangers Virgil fed.

You won not verses, madam, you won me,
When you would play so nobly, and so free.
A booke to a few lynes : but it was fit
You won them too, your odrles did merit it:
So have you gain'd a servant, and a Muse:
The first of which I feare you will refuse;
And you may justly, being a tardie, cold,
Unprofitable chattell, fat and old,
Laden with bellie, and doth hardly approach
His friends, but to breake chaires, or cracke a coach.
His weight is twenty stone within two pound;
And that's made up as doth the purse abound.
Marrie, the Muse is one can tread the aire,
And stroke the water, nimble, chast, and faire,
Sleepe in a virgin's bosome without feare,
Run all the rounds in a soft ladye's eare,
Widow or wife, without the jealousie
Of either suitor, or a servant by.
Such (if her manners like you) I doe send,
And can for other graces her commend,
To make you merry on the dressing stoole
A mornings, and at afternoones to foole
Away ill company, and helpe in rime,
Your Joane to passe her melancholie time.

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!
Their weapons shot out with that flame and force,

As they out-did the lightning in the course ;
TO MASTER JOHN BURGES.

This were a spectacle! a sight to draw

Wonder to valour! No, it is the law
FATHER, Jobn Burges,

Of daring not to doe a wrong; 'tis true
Necessitie urges

Valour to sleight it, being done to you!
My wofull crie,

To know the heads of danger! where 't is fit
To sir Robert Pie :

To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it!
And that he will venter

All this (my lord) is valour! this is yours!
To send my drbentur.

And was your father's! all your ancestours' !
Tell him his Ben

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!
To take apprehension

And valiant were, with or without their hands.
Of a yeare's pension,
And more is behind :
Put him in mind
Christmas is neere;

AN EPITAPH
And neither good cheare,
Mirth, fooling, nor wit,

ON HENRY LORD LA-WARE.
Nor any least fit
Of gambol, or sport,
Will come at the court;
If there be no money,

If, passenger, thou canst but reade,
No plover, or coney

Stay, drop a teare for him that 's dead :
Will come to the table,

Henry, the brave young lord La-ware,
Or wine to enable

Minerva's and the Muses' care!
The Muse, or the poet,

What could their care doe 'gainst the spight
The parish will know it.

Of a disease, that loy'd po light Nor any quick-warming-pan helpe him to bed,

Of honour, nor no ayre of good;
If the chequer be emptie, so will be his head.

Bụt crept like darknesse through his blood,
Offended with the dazeling flame
Of vertue, got above his name?
No noble furniture of parts,

No love of action, and high arts,
EPIGRAM

No aime at glorie, or in warre,
Ambition to become a starre,

Could stop the malice of this ill,
Taou, friend, wilt heare all censures, unto thee Tbat spread his body o're, to kill:
All mouthes are open, and all stomacks free: And only his great soule enry'd,
Be thou my booke's intelligencer, note

Because it durst have noblier dy'd.
What each man sayes of it, and of what coat
His judgement is; if he be wise, and praise,
Thanke him: if other, he can give no bayes.
If his wit reach no higher, but to spring

AN EPIGRAM.
Thy wife a fit of laugher, a cramp-ring
Will be reward enough, to weare like those, That you have seene the pride, beheld the sport,
That bang their richest jewells i' their nose; And all the games of fortune plaid at court;
Like a rung beare, or swine, grunting out wit View'd there the mercat, read the wretched rate
As if that part lay for a [ .] most fit!

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
To lift to Heaven: who is 't not understands

Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,
AN EPIGRAM

To see you set apart thus from the rest,
T' obtaine of God what all the land should aske?

A nation's sinne got pardon'd! 't were a taske
They talk of fencing, and the use of armes, Fit for a bishop's knees! O bow them oft,
The art of urging, and avoyding harmes,

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,
To teach the people how to fast, and pray, And murmure cannot quarrell at your wayes?
And doe their penance to avert God's rod,

How is she barren growne of love ! or broke ! He is the man, and favorite of God.

That nothing can her gratitude provoke!
O times! O manners! surfet bred of ease,
The truly epidemicall disease!

'T is not alone the merchant, but the clowne AN EPIGRAM

Is banke-rupt turn'd! the cassock, cloake, and gowne,
Are lost upon accompt! and none will know
How much to Heaven for thee, great Charles, they

one!

TO KING CHARLES FOK ONE HUNDRED POUNDS HE SENT

ME IN MY SICKNESSE.

AN EPIGRAM
ON THE PRINCE'S BIRTH.

Great Charles, among the holy gifts of grace
Annexed to thy person, and thy place,
"T is not enough (thy pietie is such)
To cure the call d king's evill with thy touch;
But thou wilt yet a kinglier mastrie trie,
To cure the poet's evill, povertie :
And, in these cures, do'st so thy selfe enlarge,
As thou dost cure our evill, at thy charge.
Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more
One poet, then of other folke ten score.
O pietie! so to weigh the poores' estates !
O bountie! so to difference the rates !
What can the poet wish his king may doe,
But that he cure the people's evill too?

And art thou borne, brave babe? blest be thy birth!
That so hath crown'd our hopes, our spring, and
The bed of the chast lilly, and the rose! (earth,
What month then May, was fitter to disclose
This prince of flowers? soone shoot thou up, and grow
The same that thou art promis'd, but be slow
And long in changing. Let our nephewes see
Thee quickly (come) the garden's eye to be,
And there to stand so. Haste, now envious Moone,
And interpose thy selfe, ('care not how soone.)
And threat'the great eclipse. Two houres but runde,
Sol will re-shine. If not, Charles hath a sonne.

TO

KING CHARLES, AND QUEENE MARY.

Non displicuisse meretur
Festinat Cæsar qui placuisse tibi.

FOR THE LOSSE OF THEIR FIRST-BORN,

AN EPIGRAM CONSOLATORIR.

Wgo dares denie that all first fruits are due
To God, denies the god-head to be true:

AN EPIGRAM
Who doubts those fruits God can with gaine restore,
Doth by his doubt distrust his promise more.

TO THE QUEENE, THEN LYING IN. 1630.
He can, he will, and with large int'rest pay,
What (at his liking) he will take away.

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 !
To make the hearts of a whole nation smile,
As in this prince ? let it be lawfull, so
To compare small with great, as still we owe

Glorie to God. Then, baile to Mary! spring
AN EPIGRAM

Of so much safetie to the realme, and king.

TO OUR GREAT AND GOOD KING CHARLES ON HIS ANNI

VERSARY DAY.

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How happy were the subject ! if he knew,
Most pious king, but bis owne good in you !
How many times, Live long, Charles, would he say,
If he but weigh'd the blessings of this day?
And as it turnes our joyfull yeare about,
For safetie of such majestie cry out?
Indeed, when had great Brittaine greater cause
Then now, to love the soveraigne and the lawes ?
When you that raigne are her example growne,
And what are bounds to her, you make your owne?
When your assidious practise doth secure
That faith which she professeth to be pure ?

Clio. Up, publike joy, remember

This sixteenth of November,

Some brave un-common way:
And though the parish-steeple
Be silent to the people,

Ring thou it holy-day.

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