make dark his skie Strike new day-light from your eye And if e're he think amisse May you cure him with a kisse But to keep his heart at home Be rich in treasures of your womb And taught by examples of your love With every Olive-branch a Dove A Letter to the Lady D. S. sent with a New Comedy MAdam who make the glory of your blood No priviledge at all to be lesse good Pardon the rudenes of a Comedy That taught too great ambition would flie To kisse your white hand and receive from thence Both an authority and innocence 'T is not this great man nor this Prince whose fame Can more advance a Poem then your name To whose dear vertue truth is bound and we That there is so much left for history I do acknowledge custom that to men Such Poems are presented but my pen Is not engaged nor can allow too far A Salique law in Poetry to bar Ladies th' inheritance of wit whose soul It active and not able to controul At some usurp the chair which write a stile To breathe the Reader better then a mile But no such empty titles buy my flame Nor will I sin so much to shew their name In print some servile Muses be their drudge That sweat to find a Patron not a Judge To you great Lady then in whom do meet Candor and Judgement humble at your feet I throw these papers wishing you may see Joyes multiplyed to your eternity To the never enough Honoured E. of St. on New-yeares day at night after other entertainment SIr give me leave to Court your stay There is somthing I must pay Due to your greatnesse and the day Which by a revolution of the Sphere Is proud to open the New-year And having look'd on you hath hid his face And chang'd his robe with stars to grace And light you going to bed so wait With trembling lustre on your state Shine brighter yet y are not the same Cleer Lamps you were shine like the name Of him I bow to while a flame Active and burning here with pure desires Shall equal your best borrow'd fires May health the bosoms friend stream through your blood And know no end of the chast flood And though time shift and yeers renew May yet the Spring be still in you May she whom heaven hath sweetly grac'd And in your noble bosome plac'd Whose heart by onely you embrac'd Hath made one true and holy Gordian prove Fruitful in children as in love And may that fair top branch whose early bloom Doth promise all the fruit can come To vertue and your name be blest And live a story to the rest All honour with your same increase In your bosome dwell soft peace And Justice the true root of these Wealth be the worst and outside of your fate And may not heav'n your life translate Till for your Royal Master and this Isle Your acts have fill'd a Chronicle In all that 's great and good be bold And every yeer be coppy of the old To W. M. of N. HAil great Preserver of the King And your owne honour such a thing At Court but rare appears And when in calmer years So much vertue so much crime Shall be read both at one time Treason shall want a Child and your worth knowne Posterity shall thank the Kingdoms grone When I before did fancy Men Of a most glorious soul my pen Did Prophesie of you To whom so much is due That each Patriot must rise To court you with a sacrifice And boldest Writers telling ages why Need fear no fiction in their Poetry Great both in Peace and War thus fame Did honour Sidney on your name Two Laurels grew and they That speak them both may say Thus the fluent Ovid wrote And thus too wise Caesar fought For when your story shall be perfect you May both deserve and have their envies too To M. Phil. Massenger on his Renegado DAblers in Poetry that onely can Court this weak Lady or that Gentleman With some loose wit in time Others that fright the time Into belief with mighty words that tear A passage through the ear Or nicer men That through a perspective will see a play And use it the wrong way Not worth thy pen Though all their pride exalt them cannot be Competent Judges of thy lines or thee I must confesse I have no glorious name To rescue judgement no Poetick flame To dresse thy Muse with praise And Phoebus his owne bayes Yet I commend this Poem and dare tell The World I lik't it well And if there be A Tribe who in their wisdom dare accuse The Off-spring of thy Muse Let them agree Conspire one Comedie and they will say 'T is easier to commend then make a Play Io. YOu Virgins that did late despair To keep your wealth from cruel men Tye up in silk your eareles hair Soft peace is come agen Now Lovers eyes may gentle shoot A flame that wo'not kill The Drum was angry but the Lute Shall whisper what you will Sing Io Io for his sake Who hath restor'd your drooping heads With choice of sweetest flowers make A garden where he treads Whil'st we whole groves of Laurel bring A petty triumph to his brow Who is the Master of our Spring And all the bloom we owe To a L. upon a Looking-Glasse sent WHen this Crystal shall present Your beauty to your eye Think that lovely face was meant To dresse another by For not to make them proud These glasses are allow'd To those are faire But to compare The inward beauty with the outward grace And make them fair in soul as well as face A Song in a Play called Hide-Parke 1. Come Muses all that dwel nigh the fountain Made by the winged horses heel Which firked with his Rider over each mountain Let me your galloping raptures feel I do not sing of fleas or frogs Nor of the well mouthed hunting dogs Let me be just all praises must Be given to the wel-breath'd Iilian thrust 2. Young Constable and kill Deers famous The Cat the Mouse and Noddy Gray With nimble Pegabrig you cannot shame us With Spanjard nor with Spinola Hill climbing whit-erose praise doth not lack Handsome Dunbar and yellow Jack But if I be just all praises must Be given to the well-breathed Iilian thrust 3. Sure spurred sloven true running Robin Of young Shaver I do not say lesse Strawberry Some and let Spider pop in Fine Bruckly and brave lurching Besse Victorious too was Herring Shotten And spit in his Arse was not forgotten But if I be just all honour must Be given to well breathed Iilian thrust 4. Lusty George and Gentleman hark yet To wining Mackarel fine mouthed Freak Bay Tarral that won the cup at New-market Thundring tempest black dragon eak Precious sweetlips I do not lose Nor Tobie with his golden shooes But if I be just all honour must Be given to well-breathed Iilian thrust Epithalamium 1. OH look anon if in the seeded sky You
common place Be judg your selves that know what 't is to leave A friend then wisely teach me how to grieve Be judge you that did want him while he liv'd But more now since he then your lives repriv'd Forfeit to miseries and let me know What height and method you 'l prescribe your wo Be judge that were companions of his wit And knew with what wise Art he manag'd it When Natures darling bleeds who can be found Whose heart would not drop balme into the wound Last be you Judges who best teach the way And steer our erring souls to heaven then say How much Divinity is gone and by Your grief I le learn to write his Elegie Vpon the death of K. James WHen busie Fame was almost out of breath With telling to the world King James his death I gave the voice no credit not that I Beleev'd in Law That Kings can never die For though of purer mold at last they must Resolve to their cold principle the dust Distinguish'd onely from the common men That being dead their dust is Royal then What though the King were old as soon must they Be at home whose journey 's down-hill all the way But I would trust my eye not every sound The ear oft catches things at false rebound To cleer my doubts some told me that did bring By Torch-light the dead body of the King When every star like kinsmen to the dead That night close-mourners hid their golden head And had repos'd that Royal burden where His people might embalm him with their tear Sorrow finds quick direction I came To a fair House I cannot giv 't a name It had so many onely this I know It might be aptly call'd the House of wo Deaths Inne of late for Princes who there lay As taking but a Lodging in their way To the dark Grave Entred the Court I see Many attir'd in black but this might be Their abstinence for Lent for who is there That cannot fast from Colours once a yeer After some justling with the guard I came Toth' presence which but mockt me with a name For it presented nothing to my eye But blacks and tears for absent Majesty Thence to the Privie-chamber I did passe In hope to find him there but there alas I found new shapes of sorrow Men whose eyes Drunk up by tears shew'd life in a disguise The mourning state here did renew my wo For the lost Presence Velvet hangings too Made sorrow of more value which beheld The ' Scutcheon Royal in a Sable Field To the bed-chamber then the shrine some said Where the pale body of the King was laid My wild devotion brought me This sad room At first did fright me opening like a Tomb To shew me death where Tapers round about Flameles would tell me that our light was out But by that melancholy day was lent I might discover on his monument A King with subtle Artifice so set My sense did stagger at the Counterfet Alas was this the way to gain belief That he was dead to paint him now to life As if when we had lost him it had been Enough to have thought him but alive agen But to these sad Remonstrances I give No faith the King I sought might be alive For all these figures and their Makers be At least as my soul wish'd more dead then he From thence to hite-hall when I came with wing Nimble as fear could make I found the King I triumph'd here and boldly did revive King James not dead he was in Charles alive Vpon the death of Sr. Th. Nevill SWelling Eyes forbear to weep Can the marble that doth keep So rich a Nevill not appear Full of cold drops without your tear Or the Earth beneath his Tombe Not feel a labour in her wombe When with her profaner dust His ashes mingle Sure it must Break with burden of new pain And from her root he grow again An Elegie upon the honourable fair and vertuous M. Borlase COme hither Virgins that are good and fair Insteed of flowers here carelesse strew your hair Pay down the tribute due from all your eyes For underneath this dewy Marble lies One worth you all although you cannot make Her live again 't is justice for her sake To weep your selves blind for in vain you keep Your eye-sight while Marya's gone to sleep That was your path and Leader but away You are but common mourners for this day Hid in a storm of tears doth wait the name Of great Borlase wounded and led by fame The mist is blown away I see it come With temper'd hast to look into her Tomb To find an arme which from his body rent Does lie enbalmd in this white monument Forbear chief mourner and consent to be Without this limb more must be torne from thee And kept by death till the whole body meet And sleep together in one winding sheet Vpon the Death of C. D. Engineere who died upon service to which had no command IF we those men for gallant justifie Who when they are commanded on dare die Tell me how glorious shall their valour stand That dare like Dalby die without command Though order be the life of war the sword And bullet will not ask us for the word Nor did his courage know to make a pause When honour call'd so loud and such a cause As would untame a Hermit and make room With his own fire to meet the Martyrdome All that the sons of Flegm and fear can say Is that he might have liv'd and so will they Like earth-wormes safe in their owne slime and sleep Till the last Trumpet wake'em and then creep Into some Blind and wish this worthy then Alive to hide them in some Turfes agen But his soul wing'd with nobler flame found out Not to be active is the way about To Glory which he being fond to taste They are too wise that blame him for his haste Epitaph On the Duke of BVCKINGHAM HEre lies the best and worst of Fate Two Kings delight the peoples hate The Courtiers star the Kingdoms eye A man to draw an Angel by Fears despiser Villiers glory The Great mans volume all times story An Elegie upon the truly Honourable Tho. Viscount Savage IS Savage dead and can the Rock which bears His Name not strait dissolve it self in tears And weep into the Sea where it may have A Burial too whilst every frighted wave At this new guest may raise his curled head And in a storm tell all the world who 's dead But here 's no want of Flood for every eye Conspires in melting to an Elegie But first see where the King and Queen are come To pour their grief into their servants Tombe Let publike sorrow be first serv'd 't is cleer The Kingdom weeps in every Princes tear And now his children drop their pious rain Though none can soften his stiffe clay again And sigh they had a Father from whose care And wealth in vertue every Child 's an Heir
Their Tribute paid close not the shrine see where The Treasure of his bosome doth appear Now coming to her Saint with her drown'd eyes For sorrow leads her where her dead Lord lies To whose pale Relique she devoutly payes A kisse as holy as his life and prayes With many tears till quite dissolv'd in them She seems contriv'd into a walking stream As Destiny had meant her to descend From Rivers but to satisfie this end More sorrow doth attend this herse for here 's A train of Lords that follow though no Peers For all the stock of honour is too low for competition yet upon this woe Wait all that in Nobility are good And he that weeps not hath no gentle blood Nor are these all the Mourners see how fast The Reer advances I suspect their hast And weight may overbear his Sepulcher Friends to the dead contain your selves nor fear You that were servants crowding to the urne Of your dead lord but you 'l have time to mourn This your immortal losse But why among Set shapes of mourning suffer ye to throng Those that prophane his monument the poor What make they at his tomb and leave his door He was their bread and miracles not gone They hope to find it in his Funeral stone He gave the blind men eyes too and they can Do no lesse now then weep them out again Be sorrow free for all men since he dies Worth love of heaven and the worlds sacrifice Vpon Mr. Charles Beaumont who died of a Consumption WHile others drop their tears upon thy herse Sweet Charles and sigh to increase the wind my verse Pious in naming thee cannot complain Of death or fate for they were lately slain By thy own conflict and since good men know What Heaven to such a Virgin Saint doth owe Though some will say they saw thee dead yet I Congratulate thy life and victory Thy flesh an upper garment that it might Aide thy eternal progresse first grew light Nothing but Angel now which thou wer 't neer Almost reduc'd to thy first Spirit here But fly fair soul while our complaints are just That cannot follow for our chains of dust The Passing Bell. HArk how chimes the Passing bell There 's no musick to a knell All the other sounds we hear Flatter and but cheat our ear This doth put us still in mind That our flesh must be resign'd And a general silence made The world be muffled in a shade He that on his pillow lies Tear enbalm'd before he dies Carries like a sheep his life To meet the sacrificers knife And for eternity is prest Sad Bell-weather to the rest Et longum Formosa vale FRIENDSHIP Or Verses sent to a Lover in Answer of a Copie which he had writ in praise of his Mistris O How I blush to have ador'd the face Of any Mistris when I gave the grace For which I rob'd the flowers How I did swear Her eyes were stars and loves soft nets her hair Disgrac'd the chiming of the Spheres to tell Her voice and in her breath profest to smell The Eastern spices on the Phoenix pile And for her Chin and Forehead did beguil Heaven of his milky way these trimmings must Be paid again they 're taken all on trust But let the Mistris thou dost serve be fair With her owne beauty as some such there are Compound with the whole sex to make a mind Include the Graces of fair woman-kind I shall not think her worth my praise or smile And yet I have a Mistris all this while But am a convert from that Sex and can Reduc'd to my discretion love a man With Honour and Religion Such a one As dares be singly vertuous gainst the Town A man that 's learned too and for his parts Is held a Prodigie of all the Arts A man of a cleer soul bold temperate free Fortune and Passion wear his liverie And do obey and when he will resigne To mirth is in at all things but the Wine Of an extraction Noble and to do Him and the wonder right he is young too As handsome as thy Mistris more divine And hath no fault but that I call him mine My jealousie doth cloud his name 't is fit Nor art thou ripe for thy conversion yet The Garden THis Garden does not take my eyes Though here you shew how art of men Can purchase Nature at a price Would stock old Paradise agen These glories while you dote upon I envie not your Spring nor pride Nay boast the Summer all your own My thoughts with lesse are safisfied Give me a little plot of ground Where might I with the Sun agree Though every day he walk the Round My Garden he should seldom see Those Tulips that such wealth display To court my eye shall lose their name Though now they listen as if they Expected I should praise their flame But I would see my self appear Within the Violets drooping head On which a melancholy tear The discontented Morne hath shed Within their budds let Roses sleep And virgin Lillies on their stemme Till sighes from Lovers glide and creep Into their leaves to open them I th' Center of my ground compose Of Bayes and Ewe my Summer room Which may so oft as I repose Present my Arbour and my Tombe No woman here shall find me out Or if a chance do bring one hither I le be secure for round about I le moat it with my eyes foul weather No Bird shall live within my pale To charme me with their shames of Art Unlesse some wandring Nightingale Come here to sing and break her heart Upon whose death I 'le try to write An Epitaph in some funeral stone So sad and true it may invite My self to die and prove mine owne Câ—rse WOman I cannot call thee worse For thy vow-break take this curse May that man whom thy embrace Shall make happy in my place At a time when all thy blood Lust hath poyson'd and no good Left in a thought strike with that aire He breathes upon thee next despair Some death in his curld forehead fit And every kisse more cold then it Yet live and my revenger be For when thou dost this Gorgon see Betwixt thy horror and no doubt But that thou art a stone throughout With some knife or poniard wound Thy heart till falling to the ground And pale the world beleeve thee dead But not one tear upon thee shed No matter where thy spirit flies Or whose pity close thine eyes To the proud M. PRoud woman know I am above As much thy anger as thy love I did once think thou hadst a face But when next thou tak'st thy glasse If thou canst see through so much paint Pray to thy owne no more my Saint Thy eyes those glouring twinnes shall be No more misleading fires to me Nor hope they shall continue bright For I will curse out all their light But this would shew that I were vext And so thy Tryimph might be next That thou