EUTERPE Revived.
OR, Epigrams Made at several Times, In the years 1672, 1673, & 1674 On persons of the greatest Honour and Quality, Most of them now living.
In III BOOKS.
Printed at LONDON, And are to be sold by the Booksellers of London and Westminster. 1675.
THE Preface.
I Publish these Epigrams, as I make them, the last the first; which may excuse me, if I rank them accordingly. They are every year a new Work, by adding the new unto the old; and behold those of this present year. Their Subject is chiefly Heroick, as are the persons whose praises they contain. And I writ them chiefly to let the World know, That as we want not many praise-worthy persons, so ther want not some to praise them for't. And that you may not think me ambitious of names, I mention none, but those I have the honour to know, and be known unto. For the Style, you are no more to expect the force and grandeur of Epick and Heroick Poems, in an Epigram, than the force of a Ship of War, or grandeur of a huge Carrack in a Yaught, or Pleasure-boat. Suffice it, if it be such as I describe in this Epigram.
In point of writing is your Epigram,
Short, quick, and sprightly; and both these and those
When th' Ear expects it, comes unto a close.
'Tis but few lines, but those like Gold well-try'd,
Out of the dross of many lines beside;
And Poetry's language of the gods, but these
In brief, the language of the Oracles.
'Tis short, but in its shortness does comprize
The Point of Wit, wherein the sharpness lies.
And's nothing worth if any thing be sed,
Or tedious, dull, or vulgar-spirited.
Poets can't write, nor Orators declame,
But all their Wit, is chiefly Epigram.
In fine, in Verse, and Prose, and every thing,
Your Epigram is writing for a King.
Some may mislike them perhaps, because they treat not of Love, nor Love-matters; but others may like them the better; and for my part, since the itch of lascivious love is but the scab of Poetry, I should be sorry any one should find in my Writings, that I with my scratching had exulcerated it.
TO His Majesty.
VOuchsafe, Great Sire, on these to cast Your sight,
Made chiefly for Your MAJESTIES delight,
By him has cast off all Ambition,
But pleasing and delighting You alone;
Counting it highest Honour can befall,
To delight Him who's the Delight of all.
The first Book of EPIGRAMS, Written An. 1673.
On the Duke of ORMOND's going along with the KING in Banishment.
WHen I but onely mention Ormond's Name,
Methinks it is enough of Epigram.
Ormond, who never left the KING, but went
Alwayes along with Him in Banishment;
Whil'st many in that dark and cloudy Time,
Made too great difference 'twixt the KING and him.
So nearer Garments never quit their Master
When stormy winds do blow, but stick the faster;
While light and looser ones, like Scarfs, they find,
Are blown away with every storm of wind.
And so the KING rewards him now, we see,
With nearest Trust, for his Fidelity,
Who well discerns the difference betwixt them
Who follow His Fortune, and who follow Him:
And knows that who in adverse Times ne'r leave Him,
Are those in prosp'rous Times will ne'r deceive Him.
To the Earl of OSSORY, on his Return from SEA, An. 73.
MY LORD,
YOur Friends are glad y'ar safely come ashore,
And all desire you'd go to Sea no more:
Nor put your Life in danger to be lost
On Forreign Seas, nor on a Forreign Coast.
What need you go? Y'ave hazarded enough,
And put your Valour to th' extremest proof:
And as for Honour, y'ave by Land such store,
You need not go to Sea, to purchase more.
If't be to serve your Countrey that you go,
There's none so ignorant who does not know
You, with your head may serve it more by Land,
Than ever any at Sea did with their hand.
In fine, The Brave and Noble Ossory
Is known and honoured enough by Sea;
And now the Land desires to have its share
Of knowing and of honouring him there.
To the Lady MARY CANDISH.
MADAM,
IN this our Age, when thar so Critick grown,
They seek to find out spots even in the Moon
And Sun it self, I scarce should be believ'd
If I should tell how virtuously y'ave liv'd,
Pure as a Chrystal mirrour, chaste as Ice,
And full as free from stain or spot of Vice.
Nor Stars in Heaven, nor Ermins on the Snow,
In all their wayes could more unblemisht go.
One who the Secret and Receipt has got
To silence Rumour, and stop Slanders Throat,
When everywhere th'ar so outragious grown,
To bark and bite at Fames of every one:
The onely Sanctuary where Vertu's free,
And Feminin Honour safe; and finally
The best example of a Virgins life,
And perfect pattern of a married Wife.
These are your praises, and you may contest
With any of your Sex for all the rest.
To JAMES Duke of MONMOUTH, begun at his going into France, An. 1669, and ended at his coming from the Siege of Maestricht, An. 1673.
VVE to the French as much in Court did yield,
As they to us did formerly i'th' Field,
Till Manmouth went, and overcame them more
I'th' Court, than e'r we did i'th' Field before.
How fatal to the French is Monmouth's Name!
They shu'd be twice thus Conquer'd by the same:
By Valour first in War, and now no less
A second time, by Gallantry in Peace.
Now Noble Monmouth, Was it not enough
That thou in Court shu'dst give so great a proof
How gallant and how brave thou wert, but thou
I'th' Field shu'dst give no less a proof of't too?
Since thou so early dost begin to tread
The paths of Virtue which to Honour lead;
From this great Valour, and great Soul of thine,
What may the World expect of thee in time,
But for our glory thou shu'dst Conquer more
Than ever Harry Monmouth did before?
To the Duke of ALBEMARLE, going to SEA.
IN these our Warlike Times, when every one
Is going to Sea, and shames to stay at home,
Your King and Countrey have more care than so
Amongst the rest, my Lord, to let you go.
For th' honour which your Father left you, is
Not only yours, but your Posterities,
And they, as his Trustees, concerned ar,
Till y'ave an Heir, you shu'd not go to War.
Like falling Palaces which none repairs
Their Honours are, whose Houses have no Heirs ▪
And they but build without foundation,
Who have no Heirs to found their Houses on.
They know upon what ground you found your Right
Of being a Souldier, and of going to fight.
But if born of a General, as you ar,
You think y'ave so great Right to go to War,
Your Son will have a greater Right than you,
Not only born o'th' Race of one, but two.
These are their chiefest Arguments, and how
You'll answer them, my Lord, I do not know.
To FRANCES Dutchess of RICHMOND, on her Widowhood.
YOu like a Turtle when her Mate is gone,
All sad and mourning, Madam, sit alone;
Or if there's ought more sad and mourning, yet
You, Madam, well may be compar'd to it.
Y'ar all alone, and every one does know
It best becomes a Phoenix to be so;
And you ar one, as in all states of Life
Y'ave well declar'd, both Widow, Maid and Wife:
Only in this you want of being one,
You'll leave the World no Phoenix when y'ar gone;
But make Arabia Desert wanting you,
Who only make it happy Arabia now.
But if of Stuarts Name, Heaven has decreed
No more to Richmond's Title shu'd succeed;
As with the Noblest person it begun,
It ne'r cou'd end with a more Noble one.
To ELIZABETH, Countess of ARUNDEL and SURREY.
MADAM,
YOu alwayes have so virtuously been bred,
And such a virtuous life have alwayes led,
Virtue is to you as Con-natural
As life and being is unto us all.
Let others praise you then for other things,
As being descended from the Race of Kings;
I'll praise you for the virtues of your mind,
The true descendents of a Nobler kind;
Which you have so sublim'd, y'ave raised all
The Cardinal ones to Theological;
And Virtue's virtue in others, but in you,
Not only Virtue, but Religion too.
And here I'd praise you for your Piety,
But 'tis of late in so great obloquy
With th' vulgar sort, 'tis only look't upon
As Relique of the Old Religion,
Or Counterbanded Goods, which none, for fear
Of the Pragmatick, longer dares to wear;
Neither should I be safe, if I should praise
A thing that's held so dangerous now adayes:
Let Angels only priase you for it then,
Since 'tis too bold and high a praise for men.
To the Lady GERARD of BROMLEY.
MADAM,
I Who have writ the praise of many a one,
Whom I've had honour to have seen and known,
And alwayes had the honour 'mongst the rest,
To celebrate the Noblest and the Best,
This Testimony needs must give of you,
(And all who know you, know it to be true)
'Mongst all your Sex, I never yet did meet
With any, in their actions more discreet,
More prudent in their words, and in their mind
More nobly, nor more virtuously inclin'd.
And this not ta'n of others by Report,
But by mine own experience of't. In sort
As they shu'd rather be thought envious, who
Don't praise you for't, than Flatterers, who do;
Let none then think this Flattery in me,
For I can't flatter, nor you flatter'd be.
To the Lord JOHN BELLASIS, on his quitting all his Offices.
MY LORD,
IN Camps and Courts, and all the Offices
Y'ave been employ'd in, both in War and Peace,
There's none has been more fortunate than you;
But you were never happy until now,
When quitting all the Offices you had,
We well may say y'ar truly happy made.
For all along wherever you have been,
All know y'ave still been faithful to the King.
But in this latter Action you have shew'd
Your self both true to th' King, and true to God:
And th' King well knows there's none that can be true
To t'on, but those are so to t'other too.
Mean time, my Lord, i'th' Age we live in now,
Both such examples, and such men as you
Were ne'r more needful in the world, more rare,
Such men as you, and such examples are.
To the Lady, KATHARINE SEDLEY, Daughter to Sir CHARLES SEDLEY.
WHo know you, Madam, every day do find
New Beauties in your person, and your mind;
And more they know you, they discover more
Perfections in you than they did before.
Not all the numerous Train of them, nor yet
Of all the Graces in one person met,
Could make a fairer, or more beautious show,
In any person than they do in you.
Nothing is wanting now unto the Fame
Of Noble Sedley's Family and Name,
Had all the masculine ones before, and now
Has all the Feminine Graces in it too.
So when two Sums are by Addition brought
Both into one, that which before was thought
Great in it self, does greater still become,
By adding t'on unto the other Sum.
In memory of his Noble Friend JAMES HAMILTON, who first lost his Leg at Sea, then his Life on Land, in our last Engagement with the Dutch.
HOw like a huge Colossus thou didst stand,
One Leg i'th' Sea, and t'other on the Land?
Betwixt which two ther being no standing fast,
Brave Hamilton, thou needs must fall at last.
Ah! Noble Youth! Never Innobled more,
Than when half lifeless thou wert brought ashore,
And both thy King and Countrey, Friends and All,
Griev'd and Lamented thy untimely fall.
Who would not choose, like thee, to fall and dye,
And live for't ever after gloriously;
Than for the use of a few hours breath,
To dye like others, an inglorious death?
For only War can give that happiness,
Whil'st 'tis no glory for to dye in Peace.
To the Duke of Newcastle; On my Lady-Dutchess writing of his LIFE:
MY LORD,
WHilst with your Noble Actions you Indite
Unto your Ladies Pen what she shud Write,
'T may well be said, as 'twas of Thetis son,
That you are doubly happie, both to have done
Such famous deeds, and to have had agen
A Pen so famous for the writing them:
And ne'r was Life more worthy to be writ,
Nor Pen more worthy of the writing it.
She makes you famous, and you her agen
By th' famous Subject you afford her Pen:
Whence 'tis a Question ever will remain,
Wh'er Fame makes Writers, or else Writers, Fame.
So whilst you live i'th' Life that she does give,
And she in writing of your Life will live;
Betwixt you both, your Fame will never die,
But t' on give t' other Immortality.
To DIG BY, Lord GERARD of Bromley; Recommending to him for Motto: Virtus vere Nobilitas.
MY Lord, you now unto that Age are com,
Y'are almost past Pythagoras Bivium:
And after, rarely any one forsakes
The way of Vice or Vertue which he takes.
If Vertue then be true Nobility,
Ther's a necessity that you vertuous be,
Or else that Noble-man who's otherwise,
But forfeits his Nobility to Vice.
Think then whatere you love, Vertue is that;
And Vice is whatsoever you most hate.
To end then: If you love Nobility,
Love Vertue, or you'll never Noble be.
If Baseness hate, hate to be one of those
Who put base Vices on, with Noble Clothes.
But I well know you bear a Noble minde,
And ar unto all vertuous things inclin'd.
Nature has done her part to make you so;
The rest, my Lord, depends on Heaven and you.
Love Vertue then, let it your Motto be,
Vertue is onely true Nobility.
To Mr. HENRY JERMIN, On his Retirement into the Country.
SInce Nen and Manners here ar all so bad,
By their Example w'ar still worser made;
And ther ar few can keep their Innocence,
Where every thing is scandal and offence.
You'r happie, Sir, who in the Country ar,
And nothing see but good Example ther;
Passing your time amongst your Country-sports,
More pleasantly than we in Towns and Courts,
Who just as silly Sheep 'mong Bushes stray,
Whilst every Bush takes part o'th' Fleece away:
So never com 'mongst others, but we finde
We still lose somewhat of our better minde.
Our morning-thoughts are Gold, by noon th'ar Lead,
And all turn'd Dross before we go to bed:
Mixture with others doth abase us so,
And such distractions ar wher e'r we go;
You'r happie Sir who in the Country ar;
And would I were so happie to be ther.
On A Fair Ladies NAME.
ALthough ther's none more carefully does flie
Clenches and Quibbles upon Names than I;
Counting words onely the outside of Wit,
Whilst matter chiefly is th' inside of it:
Yet when i'th' sence o'th' Name, and in the sound,
Somewhat o'th' nature of the person's found,
As is in yours, I can't but say that you
Are Swift by name, and Swift by nature too:
Swift in your Apprehension and Wit,
And Swift in every thing belongs to it.
Onely 'tis strange! being so in every thing,
You shud be now so slow in Marrying.
But as for that, if reason of't they'd know;
You think in Marrying one can't be too slow.
Of PERSECUTION.
I Never lik't this Persecution
Onely for Conscience and Religion;
And half suspect, that where it is not free,
'Tis not Religion, but Hypocrisie.
Who seek to force Opinion, make men more
Opiniatre than they were before:
And as for Conscience, ye make it none,
Unless ye leave it free for every one.
What gentleness can't do, it is in vain
To seek by force and violence to obtain.
And 'tis your Persecutors private hate,
Rather than care or love unto the State.
In fine, there's none has Jurisdiction
O'r minde and thoughts of men, but God alone;
And Princes pow'rs their bodies may controul,
But onely God has power o'er the Soul.
To a Fair Lady, On the Peoples Reports.
MADAME,
THe People, who sometimes on Truth do light,
Although they ar not always in the right,
Say y'ar a Dutchess now; and 'tis well guest,
Since you deserve for to be one at least:
And 'tis enough of reputation,
The world believes you worthy to be one.
But be you fair and beauteous, as you ar,
You for no other Titles need to care,
Neither of Dutchesses, nor Princesses,
Nor of great Queens, nor greater Empresses:
The Title of fair and beauteous is more
Than all those Titles they so much adore:
And they ar onely earthly ones, in fine;
But that of Beauty, heavenly and divine.
On an Angelical Beauty.
I Must confess, before I saw your face,
I never knew what perfect Beauty was;
Nor ever saw more heavenly features, nor
Angelical air, in any one before.
We paint Angels All face, and adde but wings
Unto them, and we make them Cherubins:
So adde but onely wings to yours, and you
Wou'd be All Cherubin, and Angel too.
The Face now being the Index of the Minde,
By which we persons dispositions finde,
We well may say, in seeing yours, that none
Had e'r a sweeter disposition;
More milde, more gentle, nor more debonair;
And full as heavenly good, as heavenly fair.
All this, from Rules of Physiognomy,
Madam, which never yet deceived me.
ON A Sceptick in Religion.
THose who did wonder when they saw men go
Walking in rooms backwards and forwards so,
Would wonder more to see how thou hast gon
Backwards and forwards in Religion.
Thou saist we'r bid try all, and chuse the best:
But when ther's one so far 'bove all the rest,
'Tis out o'th' way of all Comparison;
Whoere is wise, should chuse or that, or none.
But when the Soul is gon, and Body dead,
A thousand crawling worms i'th' Corpse are bred:
So when Religion's gone, we always finde
A thousand crawling Sects are left behinde.
As he's unwise, then, changes Gold for Brass,
Diamonds for Peble-stones, and Gems for Glass:
So he is more unwise, who chuses one
Of these false Sects, for th' true Religion.
In Memory of her Altezze BEATRICE de Cusance, Dutchess of LORAIN.
WHen this fair Soul did in her Body live,
She had some Angel been, you wou'd believe;
Thorow her bright exterior there did shine
So much from her interior of divine:
And now much more you wou'd believe her on,
When her immortal soul to Heav'n is gon;
Towards wch when here on earth she made such hast,
Her body could not follow her so fast,
But she must leave it here below to die,
Whilst she went up to Immortalitie.
Mean time, who had th' honour to know her here;
May, weeping, write upon her Sepulcher:
She who alive all Vertue and Beauty was,
T'on in her brest, and t'other in her face;
Now she is dead, just reason w'ave to fear
All Beauty and Vertue too are dead with her.
To her (now) Incomparable Sister, The Princess of AREMBERG.
ALl the Lay thoughts, I ever had
Of your fair Sex, you have Religious made
By seeing you; and I'm become by it
Your Sexes honourer, and your Convertit.
For just as to a Temple, all do come
Unto your Chamber, and from thence go home;
The bad converted, and the good much more
Confirm'd in goodness than they were before.
Besides, the world learns this from seeing you,
That noble Vertue, and Religion too,
Ar chearful things, and far from being so sad
As th'ar in Melancholy Cloysters made.
But ther's an artful silence, as ther was
An artful vailing Agamemnon's face;
And others praises we may speak of well,
But as for hers who's wholly ineffable,
'Tis praise enough to say, that she can ne'r
Be prais'd enough; and say no more of her.
To the Honourable, EDWARD HOWARD, Brother to the Duke of NORFOLK.
IT is not Travel makes a man, 'tis true,
Unless a man could travel, Sir, like you.
In putting off themselves, and putting on
The best of every Country where they com;
Their Customs, Manners, Fashions, and their use,
Purg'd of the dross, and stript of the abuse;
Till rich themselves with observation,
They come at last t'enrich their Country home:
Whilst the py'd Traveller that nothing knows
Of other Countries Fashions, but their Cloaths,
And speak their Language but as Parrats do,
Only perchance a broken word or two;
Goes, and returns the same he went agen,
By carrying still himself along with him.
On WILLIAM, Duke of Newcastle.
BUt now behold a Noble-man indeed,
Such as w' admire in Story when we read,
And love and honour, when we do but see
As perfect Pattern of Nobility;
Who does not proudly look that you should d'off
Your Hat, and make a reverence twelvescore off;
Nor takes exceptions if at every word
You call him not Your Grace, or else My Lord:
But is all Courtesie and Civility,
As best becoms a Noble-man to be;
And does appear a hundred times more great
By his neglect of 't, than by keeping State.
Whence, thorow all Degrees that he has past,
Of Vicount, Earl, Marquess, and Duke at last,
H'as always gain'd the general esteem
Of honouring them, more than they honour'd him.
To The Lady BRIDGET, Vicountess KILMURRAY.
MADAME,
VVHen I wou'd praise you as I others do,
So many Vertues do appear in you,
As 'tis not in the pow'r of Art or Wit
To count them all, they are so infinit.
What shud I do then, but in brief conclude
As Painters when they paint a multitude,
Who when th'ave some o'th' chiefest heads exprest,
Under them darkly shadow all the rest?
So having said y'ar beauteous, vertuous, wise,
Under which heads I all the rest comprise;
I leave them darkly shadowed and hid
Under those heads, as t'other Painter did.
On The Dutchess of Monmouth's Happie Childbirth.
NOw thanks to Heaven! what we have hop'd for long,
And long have pray'd for, Monmouth has a son;
His Lady safe delivered, and with her
Thousands besides delivered of their fear.
Who hear this joyful News, and are not glad,
May they be ever deaf, and ever sad.
Now ye Physitians, you who said that she
With so great danger should delivered be;
Who'll ere believe you more, unless you say
You have no skill? and then indeed they may;
Or that each Midwife has more skill than you,
And then they safely may believe you too:
Mean time, the childe, and mothers life, do show
Ye ar all great Lyers, and do nothing know.
And O! to prove you greater Lyers, may
Sh'have many children, and live many a day.
On The Foyl of Nobility.
SEe you yond Thing, who looks as he would cry
I am a Lord, a mile ere he comes nigh;
And thinks to shew it by his being proud,
His strutting as he goes, and talking loud?
Behold him well, you'll hardly finde enough
In the whole man to make a Lacquey of,
And for true Honour, and Nobility,
His Groom and Coachman have as much as He.
Such empty things have nothing else of worth,
But Place and Titles, for to set them forth;
Being just like Dwarfs drest up in Gyants cloaths;
Bigger he'd seem, the lesser still he shows:
Or like small Statues on huge Basis set;
Their heights but only make them shew less great.
The Welcoming a Friend from SEA; In Drolling.
Dear N.
WElcom from Sea, and now th'art com a shore,
If thou beest wise, I prithee go no more.
Let Land-men keep a-land, and only they,
A Gods name, who are Sea-men, go to Sea.
Ther were som comfort, if the Wars wou'd cease
First Voyage one does make, and end in Peace.
But War's a Hydra; cut but off one head,
And straight seven others sprout up in the stead.
I know you went to learn Experience there;
And your Experience might have cost your dear;
Thank Heav'n y'ar come off with so little harm,
And scap'd without the loss of leg or arm;
Which that th' art scap'd, th' ast but small cause to boast
'Twas but a happpie rashness at the most.
And 't had been Fortune's fault, if the first time
Thou hadst been kill'd, but second 'twill be thine.
The end of the first Book of EPIGRAMS: All newly Made, or newly Revised.
The Second Book OF EPIGRAMS.
To His ROYAL HIGHNESS, IAMES Duke of York.
THe first Book be'ng his Majesties, and this
By Consequence your Royal Highness is:
The World doth scarcely any one afford,
After You Two, worthy to be the Third.
To Her ROYAL HIGHNESS IOSEPHA-MARIA d'Este, Dutchess of York.
Madame,
IF expectation makes the Blessing dear,
Your Highness long has been expected here.
And now y'are come, be pleas'd to know, you'll finde
Your Royal Lord above all Husbands kinde:
The KING and Him two of the Worthiest men
The World ere saw, or ere shall see agen.
The QUEEN so pious and devout, she's one
Who seems all Piety and Devotion.
The English Ladies generally fair,
Betwixt the French and your Italian air.
And th' Better sort and the Nobility
Nothing but Courtesie and Civility.
For th' rest, our hope of Civilizing 'um,
Next Heav'n, is in Your Highness, now y'are come:
Which if You do, You'll gain immortal Fame,
And make Ioseph-Maria d'Este's Name
Amongst the English full as famous as
Amongst the French, Clotilda's ever was.
Mean time, Your Highness bears along with You
Your House's Honour, and Your Nation's too.
To his Royal Highness, On his Return from our Naval VICTORY, An. 65.
GReater and Famouser than ere
Caesar or Alexander were,
Who has both done, and out-done too,
What those great Heroes could not do:
Till Empire of the Seas they get,
No Victory can be compleat.
For Land and Sea make but one Ball;
They had but half, you have it all.
Great Prince! the Glory of our days,
And utmost bound of humane praise:
Increas'd in Style, we well may call
You now, The whole Worlds Admiral;
Whilst mighty CHARLES with Trident stands,
And like some God, the Sea commands.
Having so gloriously orecome,
What now remains, but to come home,
And fixed in our British Sphere,
Shine a bright Constellation there,
Most pow'ful ore the Watry Main,
Next unto that of Charles his Wain?
To His Highness Prince RVPERT, On the same.
GReat and Heroick Prince! surpassing far
Him who was styl'd The Thunder-bolt of War.
The Belgick Lion stands amaz'd to see
A greater Lion than it self, in Thee:
And Zealand one, all trembling for fear,
Half sinks into the Waves, to hide it there.
Ne'r since the Greeks first call'd the World their own,
Or Romanes theirs, was greater Valour known.
And if there yet new worlds to Conquer were,
Brave Rupert were the fittest Conqueror;
Greatest Example of Heroick worth,
As ever yet this Later Age brought forth!
As formerly the Land of Britain was,
So now the Sea's too narrow for thy praise;
And 'twill in time become the work alone
Of Extasie and Admiration.
On the Death of His ROYAL HIGHNESS HENRY Duke of Gloucester.
HIgh-born and Great as any Prince on earth,
With Minde as great and high as was his Birth;
Wise 'bove his years, Valiant above a man;
And had he liv'd to end as he began,
The World would for Him scarce have any room,
So Mighty and so Great he had become:
Whose Life was just like the Arabian winde,
That so much fragrant sweetness leaves behinde,
The World is fill'd with odour of his Name,
After he's gone, from whom the sweetness came.
Who's now so dull, when this they hear but sed,
Who does not know the Duke of Gloster's dead?
The Gallantst Person Nature ever made,
And hopefulst Prince as England ever had.
Let those who trust this World then, learn by this,
What all their worldly hope and greatness is.
On the Death of Her ROYAL HIGHNESS, HENRIETTA Dutchess of Orleans.
THis Life of ours is like a Garden, where
The fairest Flow'rs always first gathered are;
Whilst common ones are onely left like Weeds,
To wither on their stalks, and fall to seeds.
And ne'r than this was fairer Flower known,
Where th' Rose and Lily both were joyn'd in one:
In which Conjunction did together meet
All that was heav'nly fair, and heav'nly sweet.
Hereafter then, as 'tis your Florists guise
New names for rarest Flowers to devise;
And more for the perpetuating their Fames,
To call them by some Royal persons Names:
Those which are fairest sweetest ones of all,
We Henrietta's by her name may call.
To HENRY Earl of Arlington, Principal SECRETARY of State.
My Lord,
THat ours and other Nations may know
How much to such Great men as you they owe,
Who for the State perpetual Vigil keep,
And with your Watchfulness secure their Sleep.
While dull Spectators, and the common Rout
Onely behold the Dyals hand without,
You are the Wheels give Motion to't within,
Next to the Primum Mobile, the KING.
You are th' Intelligences of the Sphere
Of Government, and all the Weight do bear;
Whilst, like great Iove, the KING does sit above,
And under him sees all in Order move.
Mean time, 'tis a great happiness for a King,
To meet men fit for th' Offices th'ar in;
And does commend their Judgments when they chose
To serve the State, such Ministers as those.
Great Offices require Great Souls, and you,
My Lord, have both the one, and t'other too.
On a Noble-man Whose MOTTO is, Cavendo Tutus.
WHo as the Flint bears Fire, so bears his worth▪
And is not always shewing of it forth;
But for more solid and profound respects,
The needless ostentation of 't neglects:
Who's that just man without all guile or fraud,
Who next to's first Religion unto God,
Counts what he is to Men his second one;
And for a world wou'd harm and injure none:
Who's wary and circumspect in all his ways,
And nothing rashly either does or says:
Nor any thing, in fine, that may offend
His Prince, his Country, Conscience, or his Friend.
If any now wou'd know who This may be,
By his Cavendo Tutus they may see:
It is a Cavendish, and that Devonshire's He.
TO The Lord GEORGE BERKLEY.
IT is an Axiome in Morality,
That Vertue's onely true Nobility;
If so, ther's none gives clearer proof than you,
My Lord, that your Nobility is true.
And that 't may so continue, you provide,
By adding to't true Piety beside.
For, Piety is but Vertue dy'd in grain,
Can ne'r change colour, nor take spot or stain.
In which pure garment whosoere are clad,
Are truly vertuous, truly noble made.
Such Courtiers Heav'n desires, and such Kings shou'd
Desire too, if they'd have them great and good.
Happie the whilst, my Lord, are such as you,
Fit for both th' earthly Court, and heav'nly too;
Whilst those who do not joyn them both together,
As you have done, my Lord, are fit for neither.
To Mr. HENRY IERMIN, On their demanding why he had no higher TITLES, &c.
STill Noble, Gallant, Generous, and Brave:
What more of Titles wou'd these people have?
Or what can they imagine more, to express
How great thou art, that would not make thee less?
He who is proud of other Titles, is
Proud of a thing that's other's, none of his.
And 'twere in thee but vain ambition
To seek by other Titles to be known;
When Henry Iermins name alone affords
As high and great a sound as any Lord's.
The title of a worthy person's more
Than all which they so obsequiously adore:
And ther's no Office they can greater call,
Than doing of good offices to all.
This is thy Office, these thy Titles are;
Let who list take the rest, thou dost not care.
On the Closet or Study OF MARGARET Dutchess of Newcastle.
WHat place is this! 't looks like some sacred Cell
Where holy Ermits anciently did dwell.
Is this a Ladies Closet? 't cannot be;
For nothing here of vanity you see,
Nothing of Curiosity or Pride,
As most of Ladies Closets have beside.
Here she's in rapture, here in extasie,
With studying high and deep Philosophy.
Here those clear lights descend into her minde,
Which by reflection in her Books you finde;
And those high notions and idea's too,
Which but her self, no Woman ever knew.
Whence she's the chiefest ornament and grace
O'th' Age, and of her Sex: hail sacred place,
To which the world in after-times shall come,
As unto Homers Shrine, or Virgils Tomb;
Honouring the place wherein she made abode,
The air she breath'd, and ground whereon she trod.
So Fame rewards the Arts, and so agen
The Arts reward all those that honour them.
Whilst whosoe'r in other Fames does trust,
Shall after death, lie in forgotten dust.
On MELCHBOVRN, The Residence of the Earl of Bullingbrook.
MElchbourn with such perpetual quiet blest,
As if the Halcyon there had built its nest,
Or 'twere the middle region of the air,
Where never storms nor tempests do repair.
Whether the Exorcism i'th' place doth lie,
Or rather in the peaceful company,
Whose Lord and Lady of a dove-like kinde,
Live so united, with one soul and minde:
Betwixt them never yet was other strife,
But who should kindest be, of man or wife.
All friendship, nobleness, and kindness, He;
All sweetness, gentleness, and mildness, She.
No Weathercocks of Humour, apt to change;
To day familiar, and to morrow strange:
But constant to their goodness, and their way;
The same to-morrow as they were to-day.
So men at ease and certainty live there;
In pain and in uncertainty elsewhere.
On the Duke of Albemarl's, AND And the Earl of Sandwich's Bringing in the KING.
THat present and all future times may know
How much to Monk and Montague they owe;
By them that great and mighty work was done,
O'th' Kings most happie Restauration.
A happiness so general, we may call
It well The Restauration of us all.
Whilst t'one restor'd him to possession
O'th' Royal Fleet, t'other o'th' Royal Throne.
One gave him full and absolute Command
O'th' Sea again, as t'other did o'th' Land.
For which, what Statues had erected been
In former times, what Titles giv'n to them;
And with what acclamations had they said,
Whilst to these Heroes they their thanks had paid!
"If others have their Honours well deserv'd,
"Who nobly have their King and Country serv'd;
"What Honours ever can be worthy You,
"Who have not onely serv'd, but sav'd them too!
On the Death OF The Earl of Sandwich.
NEver was greater Sacrifice than this,
Where Sea's the Temple, Fireship Altar is,
And Sandwich Victime offer'd up, to save
His Countries Honour by a death more brave
Than ever Heroe di'd, though we shou'd sum
All Greece ere boasted of, or ancient Rome.
O Noble Sandwich! while there's Memory,
O'th' British Seas thy Fame shall never die;
Who 'twixt two different deaths, at last wert found
In Water burnt, and in the Fier drown'd.
As if to kill thee once did not suffice
Thy mighty minde, but they must kill thee twice:
Or else, to serve thy Country, thou didst choose
More than one death, more than one life to loose.
Let then the Fabii, Decii, Curii, nor
Meltiade's be mentioned no more,
Who for to serve their Country chose to fall:
Our Noble Sandwich has out-done them all.
To the Earl of Ossory, On his going to SEA.
MOst Noble Ossory, who dost possess
So much of Honour and of Nobleness,
As were all Honour, all Nobility
In others lost, they might be found in thee.
In these our Wars at Sea, where Death does stand
With twice more force and terrour than at Land;
Into what danger thou thy life dost bear,
The less Thou fear'st, the more thy friends do fear.
But when we talk of danger unto him,
Who Life than Honour does far less esteem,
This onely's all the answer he does give;
There's need to go, but there's no need to live.
Go then, since nothing can be throughly done,
But where the Noble Ossory is one.
There's nothing now that England needs to fear,
When YORK is Leader, and He Follower;
Who's both in Peace and War, by Land and Sea,
so fit to serve his Country every way,
As for true Honour, true Nobility,
England had ne'r a braver man than He.
To the Lord HENRY HOWARD of Norfolk ▪ now Earl of Norwich, And Lord High Marshal of England; On his African Voyage.
COmmanded by your Prince, you did not say
For your Excuse, A Lion's in the way;
But by Obedience and by Honour led,
Even into Africh went, where they are bred:
Teaching of Subjects, by the haste you made,
How Kings and Princes are to be obey'd;
And how they obey but slowly, and too late,
When they demur, or else capitulate.
By your Example then, whoere are sent
By Kings abroad, may learn this Document,
How they but serve themselves, and not their Kings,
Who onely obey in fafe and easie things;
And how there's little Honour to obey,
When difficulty and danger is away.
Let then your talking Croud say what they will,
The greater Danger, greater Honour still;
And that, my Lord, you went to Africk for,
Let who's lift go to fetch the Golden Oar.
To the Same: On his Voyage to CONSTANTINOPLE.
WHilst Merchants Traffick for their lucre, You
Traffick for Honour wheresoere you go:
Of which brave Merchandize you always make
A noble and rich Return at coming back.
Witness that Voyage which you lately made
To the Levant, where is the richest Trade:
Besides, now into Italy again,
Now into France, and unto farthest Spain.
How Rich the while must th' Howards be of't? who
Have such brave Factors for't abroad, as You:
And are so honour'd for't at home, as they
Without offence and vanity may say,
As God first made the Light, then made the Sun
A bright and great Reserve for't when h'had done:
So Kings make Honour's, and the Howards are
The great Reserves of't, still you finde it there.
On WELBECK, the Duke of Newcastle's House, Where he so Royally Entertain'd the last KING.
WElbeck's a Royal place, where every thing
Seems made for Entertainment of a King;
And all the World confesses that he ne'r
Was entertain'd more Royally than there.
Whose Cellar and whose Larder seem t'have bin
Of ev'ry forraign Land the Magazin;
Whilst every where their Rarities were sought
By Land and Sea, and unto Welbeck brought.
Let others wonder at thy Lords expence,
And at the vastness of's magnificence,
Whose feast was but Preludium to the cost
With which soon after he maintain'd an Host.
He who would venture's Fortunes, Life, and all,
To serve his Master when his General;
For me, I ne'r shall wonder that he wou'd
Not spare his Purse, that wou'd not spare his Bloud.
TO FRANCES Dutchess of Albemarle.
Madame,
THe chiefest Office that the Poet has,
Is to give others their deserved praise;
And when they finde a true and real worth,
T' adorn it handsomely, and set it forth.
So, there are some they praise for nothing else
But Beauty, or the outside of themselves.
Others, and more deservedly, agen,
They praise for Vertue, or th' inside of them;
And sometimes for Nobility of Bloud,
When 'tis ennobled by some greater good
All which, of noble, fair, and vertuous too,
Being to perfection, Madam, found in You,
Whoever does not praise you for't, must be
No Poet, or else blinde, and cannot see:
And as for me, Madam, though I were none.
The seeing You were enough to make me one.
IN MEMORY OF The Lady IANE CHEYNEE.
THe gentlest temper, and the mildest brest,
Most apt to pardon, needing pardon least;
Whose Blush was all her Reprehension,
And none ere heard her chide, or saw her frown;
Who was so liberal to the Poor, she scant
Thought any thing her own, whilst they did want;
And scarce had any Passion of her own,
But was for others All compassion.
So Innocent she was in guiltiest time,
Omission of doing good was all her Crime;
And those omissions chiefly did proceed
From the abundance too o'th' good she did.
In fine, a Saint she liv'd, and so she di'd;
And now is gone where onely they abide.
Make much of her, ye Saints, for Heav'n knows when
Your Quires will ever have her like agen.
On MARY Dutchess of Richmond.
WHether a chearful air does rise,
And elevate her fairer Eyes,
Or a pensive heaviness
Her lovely Eye-lids does depress;
Still the same becoming Grace
Accompanies her Eyes and Face:
Still you'd think that habit best
In which her Count'nance last was drest.
Poor Beauties! whom a look or glance
Can sometimes make looks fair by chance;
Or curious dress, or artful care,
Can make seem fairer than they are.
Give me the Eyes, give me the Face,
To which no Art can adde a Grace;
Give me the Looks no garb nor dress
Can ever make more fair, or less.
On GEORGE Duke of Buckingham her Father, To the Lord Duke her Brother.
THe Gallantst Person, and the Noblest Minde,
In all the World his Prince could ever finde,
Or to participate his private cares,
Or bear the publick weight of his affairs:
All which he bore as steady, and as even
As ever Atlas did the Globe of Heaven:
Like well-built Arches, stronger with their weight;
And well-built Mindes, the steadier with their height
Such was the Composition and Frame
O'th' Noble and the Gallant Buckingham.
These, whilst he liv'd, your Fathers praises were;
And now he's dead, are Yours, my Lord, his Heir.
The winning Carriage, and the smiling Grace
Of his exterior Person, and his Face;
The noble Vertues of's interiour Brest;
And in's Example you have all the rest.
To LILLY, DRAWING The Dutchess of Cleveland's Picture.
STay, daring man, and ne'r presume to draw
Her Picture, till thou mayst such Colours get
As Zeuxis or Apelles never saw,
Nor ere were known by any Painter yet.
Till from all Beauties thou extracts the grace,
And from the Sun, the Beams that gild the Skies,
Never presume to draw her Beauteous face,
Nor paint the radiant brightness of her Eyes.
In vain the while thou dost the labour take,
Since none can set her forth to her desert;
She who's above all Nature ere did make,
Much more's above all can be made by Art.
Yet be n't discourag'd: for whoere does see't,
[...]t least with admiration must confess
[...]t has an air for charming and for sweet,
Much more than others, though than hers much less.
[...]o those bold Gyants who would scale the Skie,
[...]lthough they in their high attempt did fall,
[...]his comfort had, They mounted yet more high
[...]han those who never strove to climb at all.
[...]omfort thee then, and think it no disgrace,
[...]om so great height a little to decline;
[...]nce all must grant, the reason of it was
[...]r too great Excellence, and no want of thine.
To the Dutchess of Cleveland: On her new Accession of TITLES, An. 1670.
ALthough your Graces Modestie is so great,
You won't admit of your own praises, yet
We well may praise you under Beauties name;
And You and Beauty, Madam, are the same.
To ask then, what in Beauty we can finde
To honour so' is question of the blinde;
Since all have any sense, or eyes, may see
It self alone is its own dignity,
And, Monarch-like, does in it self comprise
All other Titles, Stiles, and Dignities.
Th'are envious then, at its advancement grutch,
Or think it can be honour'd here too much.
That might in aneient times, if it had been,
Have chose what Constellation 'twou'd be in;
Either t'have sat in Cassiopoei's Throne,
Or to be crown'd with Ariadne's Crown.
There is no Honour underneath the skie,
That is for Beauty too sublime and high.
To the Earl of S. Albans, Lord Chamberlain to His Majestie.
My Lord,
THough we allow Fortune no Deity,
Yet sure there's some such fickle thing as She,
That has great pow'r over th' unwiser sort,
And, next to Vertue, can do much in Court.
For since i'th' Court y'ave stood, and honoured been,
How many Revolutions have we seen?
How many strange Examples have we known,
Of Favourites sh'has rais'd and overthrown?
Whilst none but such as You can firmly stand,
Not rais'd by Fortune's, but by Vertue's hand.
Live ever honour'd then, ever the same,
Still more and more ennobling Iermin's Name,
And live a Great Example unto all
Who tottering stand in Court, and fear to fall;
How none but those are rais'd by Vertues hand,
Can either safely rise, or firmly stand.
On Mris STVART.
STVART, a Royal Name that springs
From Race of Caledonian Kings;
Whose vertuous minde, and beautious frame,
Addes Honour to that Royal Name.
What praises can we worthy finde,
To celebrate your form and minde?
The greatest pow'r that is on Earth
Is giv'n to Princes by their Birth;
But there's no pow'r in Earth nor Heav'n,
Greater than what's to Beauty given:
That, makes not onely Men relent,
When unto rage and fury bent,
But Lions tame, and Tygers mild,
All fierceness from their brests exil'd.
Such Wonders yet could ne'r be done
By Beauties pow'r and force alone,
Without the force and power to boot
Of excellent goodness added to't.
For just as Iewels we behold
More brightly shine when set in Gold:
So Beauty shines far brighter yet,
In goodness and in vertue set.
Continue then but as you are,
So excellently good and fair;
Let Princes by their Birthrights sway,
You'll have a Power as great as they.
On her Dancing at White-hall, All shining with JEWELS.
SO Citharea in th'Olympick Hall,
And th'rest o'th' Stars dance their Celestial Ball,
As Stuart with the rest o'th' Nymphs does here,
The brightest Beauties of the British Sphere.
Who wou'd not think her Heav'n, to see her thus
All shine with Starry Iewels as she does?
Or some what heavenlier yet, to see her Eyes
Out shine the Starry Iewels of the Skies?
Onely their splendour's so exceeding bright,
Th' excess confounds and blindes us with the sight.
Just like the Sun, who's bright to that degree,
Nothing is more, nothing less seen than he.
Mean time the rapid motion of the Spheres
Is not more sweet nor ravishing than hers:
And 'tis not th' harmony makes her dance, but She
With dancing 'tis that makes the harmony.
Next to divinest Cynthia Queen of Light,
Never was seen a Nymph more fair and bright,
Nor ever shall 'mongst all her Starry train,
Though those in heav'n shou'd all come down again.
On her Marriage WITH The Duke of Richmond.
THe fairest Nymph in all Diana's train,
For whom so many sigh'd, and sigh'd in vain:
She who so oft had others captive made,
And who so oft o'r others triumpht had,
Is Hymens captive now her self, and led
In triumph to the Noble Richmond's Bed.
Nor is it strange to see about her flie
As many Cupids as are Stars i'th' skie,
As many Graces as are Sands i'th' Sea,
Nor yet as many Venus's as they:
But to behold so many Vertues throng
About a Nymph so beautiful and young,
Is strange indeed, and does enough declare
That she is full as vertuous as fair;
And all those lovely graces has beside,
As ere made Bridegroom happie in a Bride.
TO IAMES Earl of Northampton.
WHilst you your Father's Noble steps did trace,
And still were found where greatest danger was,
As none i'th' Wars more active was than you,
So none has since more suffer'd for it too,
By Plundring, Harassing, Imprisonment,
And all successful Rebels could invent
To punish Loyalty with, in such a time,
When being Loyal was the greatest Crime:
All which you not with patience alone,
But ev'n with chearfulness have undergone;
Wishing your danger, loss, and suffering,
Far greater yet, in serving of your King:
And that far from the merc'nary regard
Of those did less for Honour than Reward.
And you've the Honour of't; let other men
Take the Reward, you do not envie them.
To Sir WILLIAM DVCEI, On his Three Entertainments; Of the KING, Prince of Tuscany, and Prince of Denmark, All the same Year, An. 1669.
DVcei, who bravely knows to spend
When 'tis for any noble end,
And never sticks at the expence,
When 'tis to shew magnificence;
For th' Royal Entertainment that
Thou gav'st unto thy Prince of late,
The Honour onely is thine own:
But what's to other Princes done,
The honour which to that is due
Is both thine own, and others too:
In that, th'art but a private man;
In this, a publike person; and
Thy Country shou'd ungrateful be,
Shou'd it not always honour Thee,
Who know'st so bravely how to spend,
When 'tis for any noble end;
And never sticks at the expence,
When 'tis to shew magnificence.
To Mr. BERNARD HOWARD, Brother to the Duke of Norfolk. Segnite il Pocchi, & non li vulgare genti.
I Grant you, Sir, I have a minde unfit
For my low fortune, and too high for it:
But sure you'll grant 'tis better have it so,
Than for high fortune t'have a minde too low.
By that, a man is elevated to
An Angels pitch, attain'd by onely few:
By this, the Noble soul is ev'n deprest
Unto the Vulgar, almost to the Beast.
This Sentence I have ta'n for Motto then:
Follow the few, not vulgar sort of men.
Nor care I what the common people say,
For being not of their number, nor their way:
They do but talk, and can't in judgement sit,
Nor lies it in their Verge to judge of Wit.
I put my self upon the onely few;
That is, the best and Noblest, such as You.
To the truly Honourable, Mr. THOMAS HOWARD, Brother to the Earl of Carlisle.
Noble Sir,
THough ne'r so many confidently aver
That Honour's onely in the Honourer;
Yet we may well affirm of such as You,
'Tis both i'th' Honourer ann Honour'd too.
Nay, You'd be Honourable, Sir, thou there were none
Extant in all the world but You alone.
As th' Sun wou'd still be luminous and bright,
Though men, like moles, were all depriv'd of sight.
Let others glory in the Honours then
And Titles they receive from other men;
You have no Titles by the which y'are known,
Nor Honours, but what's properly Your own.
The End of the Second BOOK.
The Third Book of Miscellany Epigrams.
On our Town-LIBELLERS.
WE have a sort of Libellers in Town,
For base & villanous Rhyme put Withers down,
Men semi-Atheists, and who want not much,
In lives and manners to be wholly such.
So perfect bad, they laugh at Machiavil
For saying None can be extremely ill:
And in their Writings, as in all the rest,
Satyrs, half Men, half Goats, and wholly Beast.
These, when they write of Dildoes and such stuff,
May be allow'd, though scurrilous enough:
But when they write 'gainst others, nay don't spare
Ev'n Kings themselves, had best in time beware
Lest as wilde horses, which unless they check
In their Carreer, oft break their Riders neck:
So may their Wits in time break their necks too,
Unless they rule them better than they do.
Such are your Libellers, who 're but the same
Savage and wilde, as Ballad-makers tame:
Hated by th' nobler sort, and, to conclude,
Lov'd and applauded by the multitude,
For writing as they do 'gainst every one,
And counted Wits, when rather they have none;
Employ their Pens and Wits in such a way,
As none in Bedlam's half so mad as they.
And now if any take exceptions for
Writing 'gainst these, let them take Hellebor.
The Pourtrait.
SUch a stature as they call
Nor too low, nor yet too tall,
And each part, from head to foot,
With a just proportion to't;
Hair so black, and skin so white,
Never was a fairer sight:
And her fairer yet to make,
Eye and Eyebrows too, as black:
Forehead smoother than the Glass
Where she sees her lovely face:
Cheeks where naturally grows
The Lilly and the blushing Rose:
Lips all other Lips excelling,
Th'ar are so ruddy, and so swelling:
Voice that charms you, 'tis so sweet,
Made more charming by her Wit.
In fine, for symmetry and fear [...]ure,
Nature ne'r made a fairer creature.
If any'd know who this may be,
Name but Bellasis, and 'tis she.
The Young Couple, I. D. and B. S.
THey well faign'd Cupid yong: for then's the time,
As Roses in the bud, when he's in's prime.
And such an early love is this of theirs,
Who now are married in their tender years.
Now, like soft Wax, they aptest are to take
The sweet impressions which their Loves shall make.
And like young Plants, they'll easily bend and bow,
Which, older grown, they'd not so easily do.
Let none the whilst object their Pupillage;
For Love and Marriage none are under age.
For what does Hymens rites to Lovers more
Than joyn their hands, whose hearts were joyn'd before?
And here on earth, by sacred Pledges given,
Confirm that Marriage which was made in Heaven?
To th' Temple then, and as they pass along,
Let Youths and Virgins sing their Nuptial song;
And thus conclude: For noble, good, and fair,
Hymen ne'r coupled a more equal pair.
To M. M. Davies, On her excellent Dancing and Singing.
HOw I admire thee, Davies! the delight
Both of the ravisht hearing and the sight!
Whose dancing and whose singing added to't,
Shews thee all Harmony from head to foot.
Who would not say, to see thee dance so light,
Thou wert all air, or else all flame and spright?
Or who'd not think, to see thee onely tread,
Thy feet were Feathers, others feet but Lead?
Athlanta well cou'd run, and Hermes flee,
But none e'r mou'd more gracefully than thee.
And Circes charm'd with Wand and Magicklore,
But none like thee ere charm'd with feet before.
Thou Miracle, whom all men must admire!
To see thee move like air, and mount like fire.
Whoe'r would follow thee, and come but nigh
To thy perfections must not dance, but flie.
But now she sings, let's peace, and say no more:
For just as when she onely danc'd before,
We wisht our selves all Eyes to see her, so
We wish our selves all Ears to hear her now.
Onely we'll say, Never did mortal ear
On earth before such heavenly musick hear.
And we her singing well may heavenly call,
Whose skill's divine, and voice Angelical.
On her pretty Daughter.
PRetty childe, in whom appears
All the seeds, above thy years,
Of every Beautie, every Grace,
As ere was sown in minde or face.
Never by Nature yet was made
A Childe who more perfections had;
Nor ever, though she'd ne'r so fain,
Can she make the like again.
Thou art th' Epitome of all
We pretty, fair, and sweet do call:
And for the more Conformity,
This is th' Epitome of Thee.
On a Ladies Blushing When the KING beheld her.
SO Roses blush when lookt on by the Sun,
As she when by the King she's lookt upon:
And so of all fair things we nothing see
More fair in nature than the Rose and She.
If things take names from their Original,
We well her Blushes Royal ones may call;
And if we've lost the Royal Purples Stain,
It in her Cheeks may well be found again.
In brief, as 'tis a signe the Sun draws neer,
When fair Aurora blushing does appear;
To see her blushing when the King does come,
You'd say He were Aurora, she the Sun.
On a famous Running Horse.
LEt Fabulous Antiquity no more
Boast of the Running horses 't had before:
Here is a Horse, to whom they'd all seem lame
Who ran i'th' Isthmos or Nemean Game;
Surpassing far the Horses of the Sun
So many thousand miles a day do run;
Or Gynets of the Andalusian kinde,
For swiftness far outstrip their Sire, the Winde:
Whom we had prais'd before, but that there's none
Had time to do it till the Race was done.
Swifter than thought, or lightning from the skie,
Begins and ends in twinkling of an Eye:
Such is his speed when he begins to run,
Whose ending and beginning is all one;
And now w'ave time to praise him, then w'ad none.
Let none then talk of Pegasus, not yet
O'th' t'other Flying horse of Pacolet;
While we have—here, we well may say,
We have our Flying horse as well as they.
On a Pretty Little Person.
SHe is pretty, and she knows it;
She is witty, and she shows it:
And besides that she's so witty,
And so little, and so pretty,
Sh' has a hundred other parts,
For to take and conquer Hearts.
'Mongst the rest, her Air's so sprightful,
And so pleasant and delightful,
With such Charms, and such Attractions,
In her words, and in her actions,
As whoe'r does hear and see,
Say there's none do charm but she.
But who have her in their arms,
Say sh' has hundred other Charms,
And as many more Attractions
In her words and in her actions:
But for that, suffice to tell ye
'Tis the little pretty Nelly.
ON Mris IEAN ROBERTS.
ROberts, whom rather we Rob-hearts may call,
Since of our hearts her Beauty robs us all;
And does it with such gentle force and slight,
As she even robs us with her very sight.
Nay, what few Beauties else cou'd ever do,
Her sight not onely robs, but kills us too.
Though none so fond of life was ever found,
Who wou'd not gladly die of such a wound.
Nor talk of Law to her, who is above
All other Laws, but onely those of Love.
Whence she's so high and absolute become,
As she gives Laws to all, but takes of none.
Such priviledge Beauty has: whence we may see,
Less Thieves are punisht, great ones lawless be;
And mighty Conquerors, whom no Laws can touch,
Do rob and kill, like her, but not so much.
To CLARISSA, Too curious in her Dress.
ANd why, Clarissa, all this pain and care,
To gain the Reputation of fair?
When without all this care, and all this pain,
You have already what you strive to gain.
All other Arts in you would show as poor,
As theirs would do who seek to guild Gold ore:
And you'd appear as vain in it, as they
Who seek by Art to Blanch the Milkie way.
Men well this curious dressing may suspect,
Since Beauty still shows best in the neglect;
And Truth and it needs so small setting sorth,
As all you add to't, takes but from it's worth.
Leave then, Clarissa, these poor helps to those,
Who need to piece their Beauties out with Clothes.
So Politicks when th' Lyons skin does fail
Do use to piece it out with Foxes tail:
But when th' have Lyons skin enough, 'tis poor
And beggerly to add a piece to't more.
To CAELIA, Disswasion from Marriage.
CAElia, Who now are in your Beauties prime,
Courted by all the Gallants of the time,
Who nothing else the whilst of Heaven do crave,
But tha' for Wife, they might fair Celia have:
I'le tell you what your Beauty is, and what
Y' are to expect, when come to Marriage state.
Beauty is just like Sweet-meats, which before
Th' have tasted of, nothing they long for more:
But after once 'tis tasted, and enjoy'd,
Nothing with which your Men are sooner cloy'd.
Your Marriage then is such a Tepid thing,
And's flames become so dull and languishing,
As losing all their force i'th' Marriage-Breast,
'Tis Ice to them, that's Fire to all the rest.
Go Caelia then, and Marry if you will;
If not, be wise, and live a Virgin still.
TO SIR K. D.
WHilst with thy mighty Wit I but compare
Our Petty ones, methinks they Pigmies are,
And thine the Gyant, with whose vast discourse
Whilst we'd be meddling fain, but want the force,
Thy Wit comes to't, and takes it up with ease,
And turns and winds which way so'er thou please.
Whence we perceive 'tis not for every one
To manage Hercules Club but him alone.
Mean time, how I have long'd when I have been
Where I some insolent talking Sir have seen
Usurping all discourse o'th' company,
Whil'st none must speak, none must be heard but he,
T'ave some such Tyrant-Conquerour as thou
To undertake him, onely to see how
My talking Sir would presently be husht,
And all's swoln pride just like a Bladder crusht.
So have I seen some Chattering Pye or Iay
Fright with their noise the lesser Fowl away,
Untill some mighty Eagle comes in sight,
When straight themselves are husht and put to flight.
To Mr. Ed: Waller, ON His Excellent POEMS. Poco e bono.
'TIs not in Wits, as 'tis in horses found,
Where those who run the fastest get most ground.
Nor does't with Books, as't does with Cattle fare,
Where those are counted best that greatest are.
Yet such voluminous Authors think it brave,
When they, like thos o'th' Alps, their swelling have;
Which other men more learned and more wise,
Do look upon but as deformities.
If Writing much did make a learned man.
Scriveners write more than Learned'st Authors can;
Or th' Imploying much Paper were the way,
A hundred Tradesmen Imploy more than they.
The Italian wisely say's, A little and good;
By which best way of writing's understood.
And never any Author more then you,
Did in their writings make that saying true.
On a most fair Beautiful Youth.
WHat more than fair and Beauteous Youth is this,
Seems Nature's chiefest Pride & Master-piece?
When doubtful whether sex to make, she made
One, who of either all perfection had.
You'd think him young Apollo, or the Sun,
But that his face has two, Phoebus but one;
Or else that Cupid God of Love he were,
Did he like him, but Bow and Quiver bear.
Who e're he be, you by his Eyes and Face,
May see he's born of more-than-mortal Race,
And that ther's somewhat in's Nativitie
Approaches nigh to a Divinitie.
Live then, Fair Youth, and may the Fates still twine
New Treads of life, and add them unto thine,
Till thou at last Immortal may'st become,
As bright Latona's or fair Venus Son.
Which if the Fates and destines deny,
Thine own Immortal fame may well supply.
Of Miss's and Mistresses.
TO know the derivation of a Miss,
She the diminutive of a Mistress is,
Or little Mistress, who as yet's not come
Unto the honour of a greater one.
But you may call her by her Christen name,
Whil'st t' other must at least be call'd Ma-dame.
And she most commonly unmarried is,
Whil'st Married wives commonly are Mistresses.
For th'rest, 'bating but difference of the name,
To all intents and purposes they'r the same;
Living the merriest and the pleasant'st lives,
With all the priviledges of Married wives;
And are to their Gallants more costly far
Than Married wives unto their Husbands ar;
They giving more, how e're the Devil it comes,
For lawless pleasures, then for lawful ones.
Whence now Son of a Whore's a name more common,
Then ever was Son of an honest Woman.
Of one Sweating IN CORNELIVS's TVB.
WHo's this? that lives so like Diogenes:
For he liv'd in a Tub, and so does this.
Some holy Anchorite perhaps does dwell
In Tub instead of Solitarie cell;
Or some Tub-preacher, who does take such pain
To Preach 'gainst Babel, as he sweats again.
Pox! now I know he's one, i'th' case he's in,
Who Sweats far more for's own than Adam's sin;
And's in so sweet a pickle, I suppose,
He's glad himself that he has n'er a Nose.
Yet he's so far from rayling against Women,
Or sorrow and repentance for his sinning,
He call's it still the sweet sin of the flesh,
Though it be rather powder'd now then fresh:
And as for Women, says, howe're th'have serv'd him,
A Woman made him, and a Woman marr'd him.
To a LADY Too confident of her Innocence.
MAdam, That you are Innocent I know,
But th'world wants Innocence to think you so;
And you must seek, now, slander to prevent,
As well as to be Chast and Innocent:
When men are so unjust, they'll scarce allow
That any can be fair and vertuous now.
In Saturn's days, perhaps, it might suffice,
When to be Innocent, was to be wise:
But now, without the Serpents wisdom too,
The Innocence of the Dove will hardly do.
You must provide, then, some more sure defence
'Gainst slanderous Tongues, besides your Innocence.
For Innocence is Vertue but unarm'd;
The more you trust unto't, the more y'are harm'd.
The Ladies name in Aenigma.
HEr first name somewhat of Elysium has;
And second is in a more mystick phrase,
That colour which showes venerable age,
And does i'th' morning a fair day presage.
Unriddle now, and tell whose name this is,
Or forfeit a discretion if you miss.
To Mr. IOHN DRYDEN.
DRyden the Muses darling and delight,
Than whom none ever flew a Braver flight,
Nor ever any's Muse so high did soar
Above the Poets Empyreum before.
Some are so low and creeping, they appear
But as the reptils of Parnassus were;
Others but water-Poets, who have gone
No farther then to'th' Fount of Helicon:
And they but Airy ones, whose Muse soars up
No higher than to mount Parnassus top.
Whil'st thou with thine does seem t'have mounted higher
Than him who fetch't from Heaven Coelestial fire,
And do'st as far surpass all others, as
The fire all other Elements do's surpass.
Of an Excellent Actor: OR, The praises of Richard Burbadge. To Charles Hart.
WHo did appear so gracefully o'th' Stage,
He was th' Admir'd example of the Age;
And so observ'd all your Drammatique Laws,
He n'ere went off the Stage but with applause:
Who his Spectatours and his Auditours
Led in such silent Chains o'th' Eyes and Ears,
As none whilst he o'th' Stage his part did play,
Had power to speak or look another way:
Who a delightful Protaeus was, and cou'd
Transform himself into what shape he wou'd;
And of an excellent Oratour had all
In voice and gesture we delightful call:
Who was the Soul o'th' Stage, and we may say,
'Twas onely he gave Life unto a Play,
Which was but dead as 'twas by th' Author writ,
Till he by's Action animated it.
And finally, he did o'th' Stage appear
Beauty to th' Eye, and Musique to the Ear.
Such even the nicest Criticks must allow
Burbadge was once, And such Charles Hart is now.
In one who Slandered A Fair LADY.
THou enemy of all that's bright and Fair,
As of the light your Fowls of darkness are:
Monster of Monsters, Basilisk of spight,
That kills with Tongue, as t'other does with sight.
Who takes our Purse, does but as Robbers do;
Who takes our Fames, Robs us and kills us too;
And with their venomous tongues, and poysonous breath,
Wou'd, if they cou'd, even kill us after death.
Beautie's a thing Divine, and he who wou'd
Wrong that, wou'd wrong Divinity if he cou'd.
But I mistake; it is no infamy
To be calumniated by such as thee:
Thou rather praisest them against thy will,
Like him who our'd by chance whom he wou'd kill.
For 'tis the same thing, tightly understood
To be disprais'd by'th' bad, as prais'd by'th' good.
A Ladies thoughts defended:
AS 'tis a Godlike disposition
To think, and speak the best of every one;
So 'tis a spirit Diabolical,
To think the worst, and to speak ill of all.
And what fau't is't others can find with you,
Of which themselves are not as guilty too?
'Less Beauty be a fault, and then who wou'd
Not gladly be as guilty, if they cou'd?
All have their faults, and those who have the least,
We shou'd account the happiest and the best.
'Tis the condition of humanity,
None in this world without some faults can be:
And who'd have those with none at all, must go
To th' world above, there's none in this below.
This world's a Race, where some do nothing else
But find fault wi'ye, and never run themselves.
But do you well, and then let them speak ill:
The more their shame, the more your honour still.
In Execration of the Small POX.
OF all Diseases of Pandora's Box,
Was none more foul nor ugly than the Pox.
Not that for honour sake the Great we call,
But that dishonourable one the Small;
The greatest enemy that Beauty has,
And very Goth and Vandal of a face,
On which it makes as bad or worser work
Than does it's Cousin Measels upon Pork:
One of those Devils which in former time
Cast out of man, went to the herd of Swine,
And giving them the Pox, is come again
To play the Devil as it did with men.
For that which is already, all curse-proof,
What Execration then can be enough?
For, bid a plague upon it, and that curse
'T anticipates already, for 'tis worse;
Or great Pox on it, we shou'd curse but ill;
For 'tis more great, in being the small Pox still.
Since 'tis so bad, nothing can worser make it,
'Twere no harm then to bid the Devil take it.
In Small-Beer.
HOw cold am I with drinking of this small-Beer,
we may well the Devils Iulip call?
Distill'd from Lembeck of some Lapland-Witch,
With North-winds Bellowes blowing in her britch:
Or Stale of some old Hagg o'th' Marshes, who
Than water never better Liquor knew.
A poenitential Drink, for none, by right,
But those i'th' morning, who were drunk ore night.
Sure t'was the poyson, as we well may think,
They gave condemned Socrates to drink;
Or that the Macedonian drank, so cold,
As nothing but an Asses-boof wou'd hold.
We are deceiv'd, it was not Niobe's moan,
But drinking small-Beer, turn'd her into stone;
And's onely that which ever since has made
Our Charity so cold, and th' world so bad.
If then Divines wou'd mend it, let them Preach
'Gainst small-Beer onely, and no Doctrine Teach
But drinking Wine, and then we soon shou'd see
All in Religion easily wou'd agree.
This were a Doctrine worthy of their heat,
And furious beating th' Pulpit till they sweat,
And wou'd do far more good i'th' Pulpit too,
Than all their endless Controversies do.
The PATRON's Lives. To the Lord M.
MY Noble Lord, if you wou'd tell
How to live, and to live well,
Please you but attention give,
I'le tell you how the Patron's live.
First of all, they neither care
Nor for Clook nor Kalendar:
Next, they ne're desire to know
How affairs o'th' world do go.
Above all, they ne're resort
To the busie Hall or Court,
Where poor men do nothing else
But trouble others and themselves.
All the business they look after,
Onely is their sport and laughter,
With a Friend and chearful cup
Merrily to Dine and Sup,
Hear good Musique, see a Play:
Thus they pass the time away
With so great an Innocence,
And so free from all offence;
When they go to bed at night
Their sleeps are ne're molested by't.
If you like our living thus,
Come, my Lord, and live with us.
On a Hector beaten, &c.
STill to be dragg'd! Still to be beaten thus!
Hector, I fear thy name is Ominous,
And thou for fighting did'st but ill provide,
To take thy name thus, from the beaten side:
To have the Watch, like band of Myrmidons,
Beat thee with Halberts down, and break thy bones,
And every petty Constable thou meets,
Achilles-like, to dragg thee through the streets
Poor Hector! when thou art beaten blind and lame,
I hope thou'lt learn to take another name.
On a Famous Doctor,
WHo so Famous was of late,
He was with Finger pointed at.
What cannot learning do, and single State?
Being Married, he so Famous grew,
As he was pointed at with two.
What cannot learning and a wife now do?
Posthume EPIGRAMS.
In memory of CHARLES Lord Gerard of Bromley.
WHo alive so far had been,
He almost every Land had seen;
And almost every thing did know,
A man cou'd in this world below.
At last his knowledge to improve,
Is gone unto the World above.
Where his knowledge is so much,
And his happiness is such;
'T wou'd envy, and not sorrow seem
In those too much shou'd grieve for him.
Of Col. William Evers, Slayn in the Battle of Marston-moor.
EVen such a person, such a mind as thine,
Brave Evers, Emperours had in Ancient time,
When choosing men for Empire only fit,
The bravest minde and person carryed it,
And thou well shewd'st it by thy dying so,
No Emperour e'r cou'd bravelyer dye than thou.
Of ANNE PACKINGTON, Lady AVDLEY.
STay Reader, and if ever thou wilt hear
A story worthy thy attentive Ear;
Know, here lyes Buryed in this Sepulcher
One who had all those excellent qualities,
A Mortal creature cou'd Immortalize,
Of Vertuous, Noble, Beautiful, and Wise,
Who after all degrees sha'd past, of Wife,
Mother, and Mayd, and left them all at strife
Which state she most had honoured in her life,
At last, (too worthy of this world below)
She dyed, and to a higher World did go,
To honour there the state of Angels too.
Of Henry Petre, Son to the Lord William Petre.
THough, noble Petre, thou long since didst dye,
Thou still dost live yet in my Memory;
To shew the knot of friendship 'twixt us two
Was tyed so fast, as death cou'd ne'r undo.
On the BARBADOES.
HOw rich Barbadoes is in other things,
We well may see by'th' wealthy trade it brings:
How rich it is in men, we well may see,
By bringing forth, brave Drax, such men as thee.
A question on a Ladies letting Blood.
Q. OF this just mixture and equality Of Water and Blood, what shou'd the reason be?
Resp. The Reason's clear; forced to part with her, Each drop of Blood for grief did shed a Tear.
Of Neglects.
LEt it not trouble thee, if any wou'd
Put a Neglect upon thee if they cou'd.
But minde it not, and thy Neglect will be
More great of them, then their's can be of thee.
In Avaros.
WHo wholly spends his life in getting Wealth,
And to encrease his store, consumes himself,
We well may to that foolish sot compare,
Who sold his Horse, to buy him provender.
The Anagram.
EVery one may see by this,
How worthy Lawrel, Waller is,
When look but on his Anagram,
You find it in his very Name.
On Simple.
SImple made much ado, and much offence
He took, at saying he scarce had common sence;
Till saying he had, and very common too,
Simple was plea'd, and made no more ado.
On Madam Virago.
OF Madam it may well be sed
That Madam's head has little Wit,
Since Madam's Husband is her head,
And Madam makes a fool of it.
On his praising of Many.
I Many praise; and what th'are praised for
I'm sure is true: I'll answer for no more.
On Friends and Foes.
TWo Painters, Friend and Foe, once went about
To Paint Antigones, whose one Eye was out:
T' one at half-face, his Friend's defect to hide,
Set onely forth to sight his better side ▪
T' other o'th' contrary, did paint him so,
He onely set his blinde side out to show.
So between Friends and Foes men are exprest
By halfs set forth whil'st they conceal the rest.
None as their Friends and Foes depaint them wou'd,
Being ever half so bad, or half so good.
To a Friend; Recommending a Memorial to him, Anno 52.
I Must beg of you Sir, nay! what is more,
'Tis a disease so Infectious to be poor,
Must beg you'd beg for me, which whilst I do,
What is't, but even to make you begger too?
But poverty being as honourable now
As 'twas when Cincinnatus held the Plow,
Senators Sow'd, and Reap't; and who had bin
In Car of Tryumph, fetcht the Harvest in.
Whil'st mighty Peers do want, nay! what is worse,
Even greatest Princes live on others Purse;
And very Kings themselves are beggers made,
No shame for any, Sir, to be o'th' Trade.
To an Enemy.
WHen ere thou seest me take delight
In any thing, thou bursts with spight;
And so thou dost at every thing
That does me good and profit bring.
Thou bursts with spight, to see that I
Am still in noble Company;
And honour I receive from them,
Make thee to burst with spight agen.
If then my honour, my delight
And profit makes thee burst with spight,
And all my good does prove thy ill,
I pray thee burst with spight of 't still.
In Pravos Aulicos.
IF, as they say, Courts are like Heaven, and Kings
Like Gods, sure Courtiers shou'd be holy things
Like Angels: from which state when once they fall,
As Devils did, the Devil take them all.
On an Epicure.
AN Epicure is one of those
No God besides his Belly knows;
And who besides his Bill of Fare,
Does for no other Scripture care:
Who for his Palat and his Gust
Has quite forgot all other Lust;
And hugs a Bottle as he wou'd
A Mistress, when the Wine is good:
Who layes about him like a Gyant,
When a meets a morsel Fryant;
And so long has cram'd his Gut,
He's nothing else from Head to Foot.
When you such a one do meet
Or in Tavern, or in Street;
By his Bulk you may be sure
Such a one's an Epicure.
On Dame Tannakin, in Burlesque verse.
TO tell you what Dame Tannakin was
For Beauty both of person and face;
Her face was good, if with faces at least
It goes as with Bucklers, the broadest the best;
And person fair, if with fairness it goes
In Women but as in Cattle it does.
In plainer Terms, without mincing the matter,
She had a face as broad as a Platter,
And person such, to see't you'd fancy
'T were some Dutch Iugg come from beyond Sea,
Which made her look like a Bawd or a Midwife,
And as unweildy as Vrsula the Pigwife.
As for the qualities of her Interiour,
Which to the rest were nothing Inferiour,
She car'd for none, and 'twas less to be piti'd,
Since none car'd for her, and so they were fitted:
And was such a Scrat at making a Bargain,
As she wou'd wrangle and scold for a Farthing.
In fine, she was so very a Devil,
As all her delight was in doing of Evil.
From whom Good Heaven deliver Great Britany,
And so I make an end of my Lytany.
To a Lady newly Married.
YOu having wholly chang'd your State of life
From that of Virgin, unto that of Wife,
And, what is yet more uncouth, even your name
And family being changed with the same:
No wonder, Madam, at so great a change,
That all shou'd seem unto you new and strange;
And even you your self do hardly know
Whether as yet you be your self or no.
So those who to the Elyzian shades do come,
At first are lost in Admiration,
Till growing more familiar by degrees,
At last they all their Admiration leese.
And Marriage is that blest Elyzian shade,
Where those who truly love, are happy made,
As you'll experience now y'are thither come,
And so you are welcome to Elyzium.
To his Horse at grass in C. Park.
AFter my hearty Commendations,
Hoping thou hast nor Botts nor Fassions,
But art in good health, and as pleasant
As I'm at writing of this present;
I having like a careful Master
Left thee i'th' Country there at Pasture,
And well considering the danger
Of one like thee who's but a stranger,
Send thee these few Instructions down
How th'art to live whilst I'm in Town,
First then, if Serving-man or Groom
To take thee up, does flattering come,
With Bridle in hand and Oats in Sieve,
Run from 'm fast as thou canst drive.
For if they once but get that haunt,
Imployment thou shalt never want:
Grey Flecknoe here, Grey Flecknoe there,
Grey Flecknoe must go every where,
Till thou of every one does back thee
Become at last the Common Hackney.
Next, I need not bid thee fly
All such wild Rambling company
May lead thee over Hedge and Ditches,
As if they'd Bryars in their Britches,
Till for their Penance they be found
Half starv'd at last in Country-Pound.
[Page 93]Nor need I bid thee to be beware
Of playing Horse-tricks there with Mare,
Since being Marr'd by Squire Sow-guelder
For ever getting Hans in Kelder,
I imagine there's no great danger
Thou shou'dst or Stallion prove or Ranger.
As for the rest, I know my Lady
Will take all care of thee as may be,
And thou perchance at last be made
A Horse of quality and parade.
And so I leave thee to thy Pasture,
And remain
Thy Loving Master, R. F.
POSTSCRIPT. To the Lady of the place.
NOw Madam, since my Horse can't read,
Be pleas'd to do it in his stead;
And so Interpret this my Letter,
As he may understand it better.
Of your Fanaticks or Cross-haters.
WHo will not be Baptiz'd, onely because
In Baptism they make the signe o'th' Cross ▪
And hates all Christendom in such a manner,
Onely because they bear that signe for Banner.
Who with the Cross makes as unchristian work
Where ere he comes, as Pagan, Iew, or Turk:
And on his way, does flye a Cross-stile so,
He'll rather chuse a Mile about to go:
Who seeing how every one in Swimming does
Stretch forth their limbs & make the signe o'th' Cross
Were he to Swim, rather than make (I think)
The signe o'th' Cross, he'd sooner chuse to sink:
To show, in fine, how well the Devil and he
In hating of the signe o'th' Cross agree.
Of their burning the POPE.
WHat rumour's this o'th' burning of the Pope?
They do not take this wisp for him, I hope;
Or man of straw whom they have thus dress't up
With Triple Crown, as if he were the Pope?
He sits at Rome, and cares not what they do,
Though they should burn all th' signes o'th' Popes head too.
Though other Princes wonder they shou'd dare
Do this to those who Soveraigne Princes are!
For shame then cease your mad Phanatick sport,
By which your selves, and not the Pope you hurt;
And do not make your selves and Nation thus
To him and all the world ridiculous:
As I have seen some mad Dogg bite a stone,
To be reveng'd on him by whom 'twas thrown;
Whil'st unconcern'd, he smiling stands, and seeth
How they in vain do spoil and break their teeth.
If't be to make the Papists odious by't,
That all your Squibs and Bonefires are to night,
There's none but knows they might as well remember
Your Ianuary, as you do their November.
Of Modern EPIGRAMS.
HOw stramgely Wit's refin'd from what it was
When empty words for Epigrams might pass!
But now they must have substance in 'em too,
Or else the Tinckling sound will hardly do.
Then when they heard a Clench or Quible spoke,
They'd claw you for't, as if some Iest were broke.
Now when they hear but any such Toyes sed,
The Wits are ready strait to break your head;
Who just as Chymists when they Spirits make
Of matter which they from gross Bodies take.
So never leave a Lembecking of Wit,
Till they extract th' Elixar out of it:
So goes the world; nor must we think it strange,
The fashion of our Wits with time shou'd change.
'Tis so we see with fashion of our Clothes,
And why not of our Wits as well as those?
Of WITS.
WIts like Hawkes are for their sport;
Some are long wing'd, some are short:
The first do flye so high a flight,
They often sour quite out of sight;
The second, far the fitter for ye,
Keep 'um close unto the Quarry
Nor too low, nor yet too high:
Of this latter sort am I.
[...] Book.
L'ENVOYE.
I Shou'd never make an end of these Epigrams, which like a flowing River by the continual accession of new parts, and revolution of the old, you may go twice in two, and not twice into the same again, had I not considered that I am now arriv'd to such an Age, when it Imports more to seek to make a good end of my Life, than of my Book: Wherefore I give it over, with this Resolution, to retire, for greater quietness, into some Solitude, where when I dye, I desire to be onely remembred by this Epitaph.
[...]
A vita fide vixit & mortuus est.
FINIS.