Amanda, a sacrifice to an unknown goddesse, or, A free-will offering of a loving heart to a sweet-heart by N.H. of Trinity Colledge in Cambridge

AMANDA, A SACRIFICE To an Unknown GODDESSE, OR, A Free-will Offering Of a loving Heart to a Sweet-Heart.

By N. H. of Trinity-Colledge in CAMBRIDGE.

—Unus & alter Forsitan haec spernet juvenis— —Sed quisquis es accipe chartas, Scribe.—

LONDON, Printed by T. R. and E. M. for Humphrey Tuckey, at the signe of the black Spread-Eagle, near St. Dunstans Church. 1653.

To the Honourable EDWARD MOVNTAGVE, SONNE and HEIRE Apparent TO THE Honours, Estate and Vertues Of the Right Honourable EDWARD LORD MOUNTAGUE, BARON of Boughton. SIR,

IT may be happily guest I am Planet-struck, and deeply in love with some red and white rarity; I confesse Beautie is a delectable philtre, especially when the glances of the eyes are amorous; I know love is both Febris Diaria and Hectica: but I thank my Starres, I never as yet felt those Ephemerical Fevers; I have had as few fits, and as gentle Paroxysmes of such hearty Agues, as it is possible for flesh and blood in the like tempes to conceive; I am neither Atheistical nor Superstitious, neither hot nor cold: I give the world leave to conclude me tepid and luke-warm, and shall take the like freedome in conjectures of my next neighbours constitution and motions: But say I were wounded, and Cupids shast struck fast in my liver, I should think my self in no respect blameable, but that I stood in the way, and this may passe for a childes fault: Besides, Amanda is more tempting then ordinary, and (as much as her sexe admits) like your selfe, good and beautiful; I mean not the issue of my fancie, for then I should not only basely fall in love with my own off spring, but commit a Soloecism, worse then that of Incest, in the comparison of things, which make no more approach to an equality of strength, then taplash and the best Nectar of the Grape; It is Amanda my Dear Mistris, that bright lamp of beauty and goodnesse, which vies perfections with the best constellated goddesse, that ever was deified by the most amorous Enthusiast, and beyond all, with the admirable Idea of your person. She it is, in whom I love and worship your picture, in whose likenesse I adore you. And in truth, I think my Religion in this transcendently reasonable to that of the common Catholique, whose best devotions have not more zeal, but lesse sense, and not half so lively a resemblance of a Seraphical being. Had I Vandikes pencil, I durst not give a draught of your person, I must of necessity forbear that to keep the best and most chaste Madams from longing; As for your high-borne soul, we can only see the Sunne in the water by some reflexe beames, it is too gloriously resplendent, and dazles our weak eyes, if we gaze on it in its fiery chariot, whose horses are flames trapped with rayes, whose wheeles are lightning without ratlings of thunder, and whose driver is a bright Angelical Intelligence, ever darting irresistible flashes of Beautie: I will not undertake to sound a Triumph of your Vertues, unlesse my trumpet were silver, and I my self more blab-check't, that the report and Echo of your name, which hereafter I am confident wil run mazes in the meanders of mens ears, might be clearer, stronger and more lasting. Yet as short-winded as I am, I cannot but venture at one blast, and I dare sound it boldly. Neither is your Honour nor Estate, (though you stand richly possest of both) equivalent to your Beautie, nor the incomparable Fabrick of your body, (from which a Tytian might learn proportion) sufficiently answerable to the complexion of your soul, which the best Princesse, might securely take for her tutelar genius, and the most religious Zealot for his good Angel. And if this be not a publick and more general Confession, the world hath not eyes enough to esteem you at your worth. It is no matter whether I call it want of judgement or over-sight; those fine sober things which the world termes discreet, may be a little guiltie of both.

But to give you the main reason of this present to your Honour, beside the many private obligations, which enforce me; I know none a more competent Judge in Poesie then your self. You have surveyed more ground in the sweet Tempe of the Muses, and to better purpose, then many who have walk't Parnassus, as often as Duke Humphreys spider-catchers do Pauls, only to tell steps, and take the height of a cob-web fancie. You might better have writ man at fifteen, then not a few; (and those of no mean thoughts,) who have half doubled your age; At those yeares when others do usually ride Hobbies, and swagger astride broomsticks: Your Honour was mounting the great horse, and learning to manage the noble swift-winged Courser. Me thinks I see the best wits strive to be your Lackeys, as if you only could create Laureats, which is no small preferment, for every Poet is Apollo's footman, and consequently Worshipful, and an Esquire by his place. You differ as much from an ordinary Poet, as a Traveller srom a Map-Geographer, who by the help of old Ortelius, or Iohn Speed our English Mercator, hath gone beyond sea, and rid post over the Alpes in his chamber. Thalia is proud you admit your self her Familiar, your hands must be kist, when others stand aloof, bare-headed like her waiting Gentlemen; you carouse with the srolique Lady at the Fountain, and sip Helicon in gold goblets, while poor vulgar Students only refresh their temples with? wet finger, and beg rithmes in a night-cap. Had you liv'd sooner at Sucklings Sessions, you had sav'd Sir W. Davenant an oath, and wiser Apollo would have known better where to bestow his Laurel, and given more content to the lesser wits. I assure you, it is seldome the Muses Nag findes such good pasture amongst Noblemens horses; for most commonly a Gentlemans Pegasus is as ill favour'd as Pharaohs lean Cowes, not pamper'd, plump and faire buttock't, like the Asse his Master, and yet feeds upon thistles. You are borne to that which others must ditch and hedge for, and yet come short, as if Poëta nascitur were your birth-right; For my part, if your Honour shall but smile on Amanda, and entertaine the chaste Girle as your Handmaid. I shall think her better adopted, then if she had brave old Ben, or some pregnant famous Court-wit for her father.

Sir, though my sweet Amanda dare not venture abroad to see her friends without you, and your presence be the best of any I know, to make way for a Lady, yet she presumes not to take so Honourable a personage for a Gentleman-Usher, or one with broad shoulders to thrust aside the croudes and throngs of censures she shall meet with in her walks; But being yet childish, and not able to go alone, she humbly kisses the hands of her most noble Guardian, in whose armes the little Moppet loves to be dandled, and shewn out at the window. Indeed she is so much an Infant, that were not the face of a Godfather, in these Anabaptistical Antichristian times, worn quite out of fashion, I should have made bold to call your Honour to the Font; Many a poor man hath had (witnesse Charles Murrey the Cripple) his Majestie the King himself, (some would have said, God blesse him good man) for his Gossip. But I most of all wish the Sponsalia were at hand, you might affiance and betroth my Dearest, (I know whom) to him who never knowes sufficiently how to expresse himselfe, what he is ever ambitious to be

The Humblest and most Faithful amongst your Honours most devoted Servants, N. HOOKES.

To the Author upon his Amanda. COurage, (my friend,) boldly assay the stage, Maugre the uncouth humours of the age, Though wit th' unsavoury thing be out of date, And judgement triumph in the fancies fate, Poetry's heresie, aud schisme pure, (As is free-will or humane literature.) Yet shall thy Mistresse thaw the Stoicks breast, And prove Amanda to discretions test. But doubtful whether Muse or Mistresse be, The faire Amanda that is meant by thee; Resolv'd that though thy Madam lovely be, She paints t' inhance her endlesse tyrannie. Hadst thon (without a rithme) said, Good and Faire, Th' hadst matcht the highest loves that couchant are In mortal breasts, thy zeal forgetting bound, Has quite o'reshot loves landmarke, and gaines ground On admiration, dull without desire, As without warmth the elemental fire: The famous Grecian beauty's stollen face, And most choice borrow'd parts fell short of grace, She had been more then the intended she, Had she but filch't Amanda's Poetrie. I'le not assesse thy merits, wise men soon Will judge thee worthy, and for this thy boon Each Amarado-Proselyte of thine Pays his devotion to Amanda's shrine. But if to please lesse knowing men seem safe, Raile at Socinus in a Paragraph: Confute Arminius in English phrase, So shall dull men yield suffrage to thy praise. M. P. Midd. Temp. Gent.

To the most ingenious Authour upon his excellent Poems. THe Presse growes honest, and in spite of fate, Now teems a Wit, that is legitimate: No thundring Muse, although Ioves daughter still, Drawing smooth lines 'twixt th' hornes of Parnasse hill And yet so strong, that with these nervs I know Cupid will henceforth string's triumphant bowe. Doubt not (sweet friend) the Infant-Archer will Brag that his shafts are feather'd from thy quill. Within thy book an harmlesse Venus moves, Yet gen'rous, drawn as anciently by Doves; Nor dost thou make her sonne obscenely speak, A bowe though Cupids too much bent may break Thou art not like those wits, whose numbers jump, Not with Apollo's Lyre, but Flora's trump. Thou drink'st to th' bottome of the Muses stood Fam'd Helicon, and yet canst shun the mud. Thy fancie's steadie, not like those that rove Thorow Arabia, then to th' Indies move, To fetch in jests, but when the totall's come, Alas, Caligula brings cockles home. Thy book's thine own, so rare a Muse 'twas fit Should not be periwigg'd with dead mens wit. Yet lives their genius in thee: true it is, Arts have a kinde of metempsychosis. R. MOYLE, Trin. Col. Soc.

Upon his ingenious friend's most ingenious Poeme, intituled Amanda. J Am mistaken, 'tis not he, Though Doctour of loves Harmonie; The Musick of all Plato's blisse, But a Praeludium was to this. Sure 'tis some nobler genius, one That teaches him perfection In 5 Song, whilst he was penning it, His lips drop't honey as he writ. Nay tis more heav'nly, more divine, Sweet Nectar flowes from ev'ry line, Whil'st he did quaffe the gods Canarie. An Angel was his Secretarie. 'Tis pure, although not sanctifi'd, Clean gold, and current, though untri'd, A piece as full of beauty, as The Authors fairest object was. Nor lesse inimitable then That mirrour, which if ever seen, Never exprest by th' best conceit, For who can reach his fancies height? It makes a question whether she Or it, be th' greatest raritie. Such as some think soar'd above, And took from thence this grace for love, No, no, it hover'd 'bout his minde, Amanda there a Heav'n will finde. A pretty pertly Cupid here, A Cherubim residing there. Love with all her glory waiting, And thus innocently prating, As if that were a wile to balk The Iustice to do nought but talk. Reade him you must, admire him too, Courting Amanda, he'l winne you. C. IRETON, of Trin. Col. Cambr.

To his Honoured friend the Author upon his Amanda. WHoe're shall ask what these rude lines do here, Tell him Amanda may black patches weare, Faire Amanda, whom if I name, my heart, As if I'd sinn'd in naming, feels the smart Of hers, not Cupids arrow, Reader please To turn the leafe, thou'lt catch the same disease, We're all in love (Dear Sir) who e're you see, Know it, he is or will your rival be; The world's grown love-sick, and may seem to prove, Your wit hath been injurious to your love. There's none shall read Amanda, but ev'ry line, (Heavens!) ten thousand worlds that she were mine! She's sure too good to be enjoy'd (but I) Oh that I might but see her once, and die! Is't not some goddesse [that having long desir'd] At length hath stoll'n from Heav'n to be admir'd? To love her 'tis presumption, wish I cou'd That I were better, she not quite so good: Go boy, go sleep, Cupid unbend thy bowe, Btreak all thy darts, thou'st lost thy trading, go, Turn Physician, if again thou'dst be A heart-wounder, study Loves remedie. What meant you, Sir, to set the land on fire? Some wish, some hope, some envie, some desire; I pray the gods (let me not pray in vain) Enjoy your love, and put us out of pain; Amanda deserves the best, 'tis as true, There's none deserves Amanda's love but you. But let her still retain her name, that all May her Amanda, you Amandus call. THO. ADAMS. Trin. Coll. D.

To my deserving friend the Author upon his excellent Poeme Amanda. I Lov'd thee Dearly, it would soon be guest That I thus boldly croud up to be prest Amongst thy Giant friends, though he that will Draw thee to th' life must needs have thine owne quill, For who durst boast he could have limm'd so well, As thou hast done thy truest parallell Amanda thou that vertue thus hast drest, Do'st tell the world it lived in thy breast; If any yet objecting say, no one, Thou knew'st ingross't so much perfection, Thy only subject then they'l plainly finde, Could be no orher then thy vertuous minde, From which rich wardrobe thou canst eas'ly spare, Enough to deck and furnish the most rare; I've done, for none can reach thy Poems worth, Amanda wants no foiles to set her forth. I. A. Gent.

The Author to the READER. HEav'n blesse thy sweet face, for in troth, I know, Though 't's ne'er so ugly, sweet thou think'st it though, 'Tis a good cast o'th' eye, thou'st look't upon Things which brought here make no comparison: Women love gazing eyes, Amanda (Sir) Is such a toy, then pray now pleasure her; Perhaps she may seem beautiful, and then I'm sure she'l please and pleasure you agen; He that cracks Opticks, and doth lose his sight In viewing Beautie, is no loser by t; Oh what a sinner that poor mortal is, That viewes and scannes his Maker's Artifice! We draw from th' order this great world hath in't, An Atheist-confuting Argument; Then sure in womens world • so little and faire, More forcing Logick, better Topicks are; Why is't w' admire th' Apostles i'th' cherrie stones, Traduskin shewes, but cause they're little ones? Who knowes, whil'st he at female Beauties stares, But he may see an Angel unawares; Howe're'tis not unlikely he may move, If she be kinde, into a Heav'n of love; Yet I'le not make a Stoick an Amorato, No, I shall leave him still to reade his Cato, Some fine grave head, there be, whose brains are adle, [A carelesse Nurse 'twas crack't their sculls i'th' Cradle] Whose dull old wrinkled brow, and rotten tooth, Accept of nothing that is faire and smooth, By whom my harmlesse lines will termed be, Nought lesse then speculative adulterie, But age and eating crabs, must needs excuse Their doting, peevish humours, to my Muse: Some new-found changeling Saints, with looks precise, Rolling the goggles of their bloodshed eyes, Will call Amanda light and trull, and scorn her, Yet reade her o're, and kisse her in a corner. But how the things call'd wits will fling about, To see my paultrie Mistresse new come out! Oh these are angrie beasts, they'l kick and throw, Ware hornes, my Dear, or up thy smock will go. Troth rather then their flings we will endure, We'l get some slie-slaps for their gad-flies sure: Yes, yes wits wanton humours to prevent, We'l shortly have an Act of Parliament. You noble, Civil soules, whoe're you be Whose modest, frolick ingenuitie Cleanseth your hearts from self-conceit and gall, If on Amanda you but smile, and call Her faire, may you finde Mistresses as good As I can fancie, real flesh and blood.

The Authour to the Ladies. GReat and faire Madams, you whose star-like eyes, Sunne-burn the world and do mock the skies: You Constellations, who are never seen, But w' are half blinded, had your Beautie been Where Hero's blinking Conduct taper stood, To guide Leander sculling through the flood, Ne'er had he lost his way for want of light, He'd swum by day, though he had swum by night: Confest, you might have vail'd, but then your praise Were lost true Beautie scornes to mask its rayes: Therefore Amanda comes with open face, Daring to vie this feature, or that grace, With the most heav'nly, sweetest, lovely, she That deserves duel: Ladies, pardon me, And pardon her, she only blushing stands To mingle lilies with your lilie hands.

ERRATA.

PAge 28 line 6, To Amanda his friend, desiring him, &c. for On Amanda, his friend desiring him, &c. p. 88. v. 6. down my staires for down staires. p, 94. l, 3, & è contra, pro ut è contra, p, 160, l, 1, nutres cambucá nguines, pro putris cambucam inguinis. p, 162. fracessis pro fraceseis. p, 128, notho pro noto p. 120. Ità pro Ito, & fuis pro fuit, in the Epist. Dedic. blab-cheek't for blub-check't. p, 80, l, 23, Tradesmen for Aradesmen, ibid, Querp. coat for Querpo coat.

AMANDA.

Beautie. BEAUTY is Nature's, and the Woman's glory, The loudest Emphasis in the story Of female worth and praise, the Alphabet Where love doth spell it's first desire, The field where red and white are met To mingle wonder; 'tis the match, The spark and tinder, which doth quickly catch And light the fire O'th' lamp of love, Which flames within the eyes Of those who towards Cupids Altar move To offer up their hearts in sacrifice. 2. Beautie's an honest kinde of sorcerie It hath a sweet bewitching facultie; It is the sauce doth tempt loves appetite, Which to intemperance it doth oft incite, Till it provoke a lustful gluttonie Beyond the satisfaction of the eye; Love is but Beauties creature, It hath its being from its Makers feature; 'Tis Beautie deifies The goddesse Woman, She whom we now so idolize; Without it, would be ador'd by no man. 3. Beautie is Magick works by qualities Are lesse occult, how it doth charme the eyes Is visible, but ne're enough: for still The more 'tis seen and view'd, more lovely 'twill Appear, and tempt with stronger Argument Then the first glances rais'd, i'th' cast Of punie thoughts and fancies, till at last It breeds a discontent I'th' other senses, which all mutinie, (Starv'd in the surfet of the eye) To share in its delight, And never lin Till they are slain, or fairely win The place where Beauties flags to love invite. 4. Both eyes were made for Beautie purposely, The most delightful object we can see, 'Tis that gilds Cupid's wings, and makes the boy Be entertain'd with extasies of joy; 'Tis the best kinde of Natures handicraft, Her choicest piece of pencil-work, her draft, In colours to the life, suppose The spotlesse lilie and the rose, Should blend their damask and their snow, The mixture which doth flow From their embrace, Is Beauty in its pride and state, Which (ne're till then) I spi'd of late In the rare features of Amanda's face.

LOVE. 1. LOve is that harmony doth sympathize Betwixt two soules tun'd Diapason-wise; 'Tis waking mans most pleasant dream, delight And comfort, makes day passe as sleep doth night, 'Tis the best part of Heav'n man hath on earth, And heav'n in heav'n 'twill be Nothing but lovely, loving souls to see Souls mingling loves, love getting love i'th' birth. 2. Love is the Gordian knot, which once unti'd Or cut, gives way to th' Tyrant Victors pride, 'Tis honest Cupid's Atlas of the world; Into a Chaos all things would be hurl'd, Were't not for love, the peoples hate Or love, make or undo The best of Kings and Kingdomes too: Love is the moving sinew of the State. 3. Where it is absent, nothing present is, But envie, hatred, malice, jealousies, Deceit and basenesse, whence are alwayes born Horrour and anguish, grief, despight and scorn, Mischief, revenge and wrath, which do torment, Distract and teare the heart, Gripe, and unhinge the man in ev'ry part, Till all his bowels burst, and life be spent. 4 Love is our Empresse, all that beauteous be Are maids of Honour to her Majestie, Yet Love to Beauty often Presents brings, Presented by the hands o'th' greatest King; And 'tis no wonder Love this course doth take, That th' Mistris thus should fee Her maids, 'tis pretty ridling Usurie, For Love bribes Love, for Love and Beauties sake. 5. Love is our Governesse, me thinks on high I see her, greatest goddesse in the skie, Sitting and holding all in chaines; I see She labours hard, that all things joyn'd may be To their most proper objects; but base spight, Her black Antagonist, By man and th' devils help, whom e're she list, Forces to deeds of discord, sinne and night. 6. Love is mans health and food, a wealthie feast Where Beautie oft hath made great Iove her guest, Then my Dear, fairer then the fairest she, Amanda shall be courted by Divinity, If in her sacred love she prove devout, With all the viand-joyes that be In Love, she shall be fed eternally, Angels themselves shall set the banquet out.

Against Platonick Court-Love. 1. NO greater comfort to well-minded men, Then 'tis to love and be belov'd agen: And this sweet love hath goodnesse for its mother, On which one love doth still beget another; Though beautie nourish love, and make it grow, Love feeds on other food, Which is as pleasant, and as highly good; From other richer sweeter springs doth flow. 2. Love several cellsi' th' wombe, and Cradles hath, To breed and rock, it's Cupids in; the path Wherein, with close desire it doth pursue, The started object may be divers too, But who the same hare chase, their loves do hit, And ever meet in this: What e're their seigned speech and progresse is, All i' th' shine sent do hunt and follow it. 3. Loves of one rise, ne're differ in their end, What ever Lovers in their love pretend, Making blinde Cupid nothing else but eye, 'Tis counterfeit, false, cheating modestie, Whil'st superficial beauty strikes the eyes The Consort heart-strings move, And play, within a tempting fit of love To ev'ry sense; love it self multiplies. 4. 'Tis of a spreading nature, not content To be at stands, till all its strength be spent; It is a pleasant itch, infects the blood, Still gathers heat, whilst it receives its food; It cannot rest i'th' eye, the senses do Mingle joyes, what e're we see And like, if sweet and edible it be, Surely, we have some minde to eate it too. 5. 'Tis true, I know sometimes we use to play, With fruit that's pleasing to the eye, and say, 'Tis pittie troth to eat them, they're so faire, So often keep them till they rotten are, Yet the teeth water while they rotting lie; But love provides for you To eat your apple and have it too: Cloy th'appetite, and after feast your eye. 6. Is Admiration love? 'tis nothing so, 'Tis but loves Herauld, which before doth go To usher in that Regent Queen to th'heart, Its Palace-royal; only acts the part Of loves Scenographer, to pitch the tent In that Elysian field, Where it encamps; the Ensigne who doth wield And flourish beauties flags of ornament. 7. Platonick love! 'tis monstrous heresie, Would scare an Adamtte, in's innocencie: No Eunuch holds it, but where e're he likes And loves the bait, at least in wish he strikes; And curses him that blanch't him so; the Nun When she can please her eye, Though her vow curb her thoughts, yet happily She wishes all that might be done, were done. 8. Platonick love if love it call'd may be, Is nothing else but lust in 'ts infancie; Lust in the wombe of thought, which stayes not there, (If thought miscarry not through startling fear,) But comes abroad and lives, doth act and move To reach its centre-end; And in the birth, (both which the childe commend,) Francie is Midwife, Beauty Nurse to Love. 9. Love only plac't in Admiration! Complacencie in Contemplation! Love and no Cupid! It can never be, To fancie beautie is thoughts venerie: 'Tis new-borne childish lust, which puling lies, Like th' babe more innocent I'th' Cradle then the standing stool, where pent It gads, and at each pleasing object flies. 10. Love flowes like time, our motions cause and measure; What's past is lost; the life of all our pleasure, Is in our present instant joy; but yet As thoughts of past injoyments do beget New hopes, and those new hopes get new desire, Which differs not, but is all one With lustful love and fond devotion, So last nights sparks kindle the morning fire. 11. Nor doth a glance only a glance beget, One lookes gets love, the next doth nourish it, And so the next, and next, and th' other doth, Till it attain and rise to 'ts perfect growth: I must confesse love may be starv'd, or fed With dazie roots or so, But let it take its course, 'twill surely grow To flames, and though't must lose its maiden-head. 12. If beauty do but once inslave the eyes, It straight takes captive all the faculties; The Soul invites the senses to a feast, Wishing the object would allow each guest The dish it liketh most, it would employ (If nothing hinder from without) Contrive, and lay its utmostpowers out T' enrich it selfe with loves most wealthie joy. 13. Affection is not fed to please one sense, 'Tis ne're maintained at so high expence Of spirits, to so small and poor intents, As t' have a thing to please with complements: In such love-masques, what e're we speak or do, Surely there is some promise made [Which hopes and fancie easily perswade] That we shall please our other senses too. 14. That love Camelion-like can live by aire Of womens breath, without some better fare; That man can love, and yet consine his blisse To th' outside kickshaw pleasure of a kisse, Nay, be surpriz'd with such thin joyes as these, And like them too; yet wish no more, Platonick love! Say Plato kept a whore, And lost his smell-smock nose by th' French disease. 15. Well my Amanda, 'tis no glance o'th eye I court thee for, that will not satisfie; 'Tis not the pretty babies there I praise, As if to love were nothing but to gaze; No, guesse the best; that love what e're it be, Chaste, lawful, clean, sincere, And without smoke, if it be any where; 'Tis, 'tis Amanda betwixt thee and me.

A Mistris. A Mistris is not what the fancie makes her, But what her vertue and her beautie speaks her; She is a jewel, which a rich esteem Values below its worth, she doth not deem Each servant mad in love, but reconciles Their feares and hopes, she only smiles When others laugh and giggle; her lips severe And close, as if each kisse a promise were: Fresh as the blossomes of the Apple-tree, Sweet in the perfumes of Virginitie: She puts a price on love; not proudly coy, But modest in returnes; the life of joy Which she conceives, i'th'thought o'th' nuptial bed, Is not the losing of her Maiden-head, Or some such ticklish point, but to unite And knit her Bridegrooms soul in the delight Of a close twine, and when their lips do greet, She mingles flesh, that heart with heart may meet. She's wary in her gift and choice, but yet Like an enchanted Lady doth not set, Making her Lover a green-armour-Knight In a Romance-adventure, who must fight With monstrous giants, and with conqu'ring hand Win her from a fantastick-fairie-land; No she's discreetly chaste, not fond of love, Nor cruel in her frownes; her heart doth move, Poys'd with her servants worth, and the advice Of her good friends; she's neither cold as ice, Nor yet inflam'd; she's neat and delicate, Yet not lascivious in her dresse; her gate Tempting, yet not affected, it hath more Of nature then the dance; her cast o'th' eye Is amorous, yet not a glance doth flie, That hath a sparkle of lust; she's all divine, And to be courted like a Cherubin: Such is Amanda, who deserves to be Mistris in Cupids Universitie.

In praise of Amanda's beautie. THe daring and most learned Grotius Writ, (I must not venture, though to credit it,) The book of Canticles was made in love: Love to some tempting beauty, which did move, Turne and command the wisest Solomons heart, Forcing a King to play the Courtiers part: The little foxes which so much displease, In spoiling of his Vine, are little fleas, Rude fleas which still leave freckles, where they stood To suck the Nectar of a Ladies blood: But who so e're that royal creature were, Compar'd to all that's good beyond compare, To whom that Prince the Song of Songs did sing, Though to the daughter of th' Egyptian King, Or some more lovely am'rous Concubine, My faire Amanda who is more divine, Can make me, if my heart she breath upon, Court her beyond the Critick's Solomon.

His love to Amanda. THere's nought like love that pleaseth me, Love, love, Amanda, love to thee: My fancie hath no other theam, Nor while I'wake, nor while I dream; Not gold, that's made a god by men; Not gold, which makes men gods agen; Gold which makes men most sordidly, To Mules and Asses bend the knee; Not Honour, Glory, or Renown, To have my name flie up and down: No title of Worship pleaseth me, 'Tis every Beggars briberie; I nothing will commit to Fame, Only my dear Amanda's name; I only care to live with thee, To live without thee death 'twill be: I envie not the Heirs delight, The hound in's course, the hawke in's flight Love playes a better game with me, I alwayes hawke and hunt for thee; I ne're frequent the bowling green, In those mad antick postures seen, Where in their bowles men court and pray, And curse and swear their time away: On what designe so e're I go, Whatever bowle it be I throw, Amanda's hand doth bias it, She is the Mistris I would hit: If with they voice thou blesse my eare, May I no other Musick hear; I'le never drink one drop of wine, May I but sip those lips of thine; I'le never go abroad to feast: Oh that I were thy constant guest! How gladly would I make on you, My breakfast and my Beaver too! On thee I'd alwayes dine and sup, Oh I could almost eate thee up! All night on thee might I be fed, Supperlesse would go to bed: Thy sweetest flesh if I might taste, Fore such a feast who would not fast? No greater pleasure can I seek, Then 'tis to kisse thy blushing cheek: No further joy will I demand, Then 'tis to touch thy lilie hand; My heart so lively ne're doth move, As when I heare thee call me love; No flowers pleasant are to me, But roses which do smell of thee: The primrose and the violet, Which from thy brest their odours get; No rich delights can please my eyes, With all their colour'd rarities; But those that represent my Faire, Such as the matchlesse, tulips are, Where Beautie's flourish't flags invite, I'th' purest streames of red and white. Here, here, Amanda, take my heart, There's my soul where e're thou art: I'le be the Monarch, thou to me A Kingdom and a Queen shalt be: I'le be the Elme, and thou the Vine About me close shall twist and twine; And whil'st my Dear like th' Ivie cleaves, The Oak shall bend to kisse her leaves; I'le be thy Landlord, and content, My body be thy tenement; I'le be thy Landlord, and consent That thou with kisses pay me rent; Then shall I kisse thee o're and o're, And daily raise my rent the more: 'Tis thee, my Dear, I love alone, No beautie drawes me but thine own; I ne're shall see, I ne're shall finde Another so much to my minde; Should I pick, and chuse, and cull, Amongst a whole Seraglio full: There's nought like love that pleaseth me, Love, love, Amanda, love to thee.

To Amanda doubting her mortality. I Cannot be an Atheist in my love; And as the dull Cretenses did for Iove, Build thee a Sepulchre, no, goddesse, no; I nee're shall weeping to thy grave-stone go, And beg thy lovely ghost, to represent To one short glance thy beauties monument; Nor haunt the melancholy tombes, to try If my strong fancie can possesse my eye, With ablest shadow, like to thee my Faire, Drawing thy portraicture and shape i'th' aire; Then gaze and wonder till my soul desert Its trembling dust, and where thou never wert, Flie t' an imbrace; then look so long about, To finde my fancies vanish't Consort out; Till my unruly Atomes dispossesse The Agent spirits of their Governesse; And me to marble feare do petrifie, Leaving my hand to write thy Elegis: No these are dreams fit for an Infidel, Whose saucie reason doth 'gainst faith rebel; I'm better taught, and with an Eagles eye, Admit the rayes of thy Divinity; Diana bathes her in the purer Springs Of thy chaste blood; and when Amanda sings, My greedy eares let chanting Angels in, And each notes Eccho calls thec Cherubin: Even at noon, thy blushing modestie Calls up Aurora; Canst thou mortal be? Then Venus and the graces too must die, For they're confin'd, and live within thine eye.

A Sacrifice to Amanda. 1. J Have an eye for her that's fair, An eare for her that sings, Yet don't I care For golden haire, I scorne the portion lech'ry brings, To baudy beautie I'm a churle, And hate though a melodious girle Her that is nought but aire. 2. I have a heart for her that's kinde, A lip for her that smiles; But if her minde Be like the winde, I'd rather foot it twenty miles, Then kisse a lasse whose moisture reeks, Left in her clammie glew-pie cheeks I leave my beard behinde. 3. Is thy voice mellow, is it smart? Art Venus for thy beautie? If kinde and tart, And chaste thou art, Then am I bound to do thee dutie: Though pretty Mal, or bonnie Kate, Hast thou one haire adulterate, I'm blinde, and deaf, and out of heart. 4. Amanda, thou art faire, well-bred, Harmonious, sweetly kinde; If thou wilt wed My Virgin-bed, And taste my love, thou 'rt to my minde; Take hands, lips, heart and eyes, All are too mean a sacrifice To th' Altar of thy maiden-head.

To Amanda putting flowers in her bosome. TIs not the pinck I gaze upon, Nor th' pleasant Cowslip I look on; No nor the lovely violet, Shutting its purple Cabinet: Nor the white lilie now and then, For envie looking pale and wan. Nor th' ruddie scarlet damask rose, Like thy lips where Coral growes; Nor th' yellow Caltha, whose fair leaves, From thy bright beauty day receives; That gilt Sunne-dial which doth catch And hug the Sun-beames, Natures watch, Which by its strange horoscopic, To the working whispering Bee, What time of day 'twas once did tell, Now like the pretty Pimpernel, When shut, when open it shall lie, Takes its direction from thine eye: No nor the primrose, though it be Modest, and simper too like thee: Which gladly spoiled of its balme, Ravish't this morning in its bed, Bequeath's thy hand its maiden-head. No, but the rarest of the bower, Leap-up-come-kisse me, is the flower; I look to see how that lookes proud Made in thy bosome Cupids shroud, Then whil'st you there those flowers, strow, My love doth in Procession go; Cupid awakes, and is not dead, His shroud's a garland on his head; Throu'dst make a posie fit for me, Oh that my hand might gather thee. Or could those flowers leave me when they die, Those sweeter flower-pots a legacie.

To Amanda ouer-hearing her Sing. HEark to the changes of the trembling aire! What Nightingals do play in consort there! See in the clouds the Cherubs listen you, Each Angel with an Otocousticon! Heark how she shakes the palsie element, Dwells on that note, as if 'twould ne'er be spent! What a sweer fall was there! how she catch't in: That parting aire, and ran it o're agen! In emulation of that dying breath, Linnets would straine and sing themselves to death; Once more to hear that melting Eccho move, Narcissus-like, who would not die in love! Sing on sweet Chauntresse soul of melodie; Closely attentive to thy harmonie: The Heavens check't and stop't their rumbling spheres, And all the world turn'd it self into eares; But if in silence thy face once appear, With all those jewels which are treasur'd there, And shew that beautie which so farre out-vies Thy voice; 'twill quickly change its eares for eyes.

To Amanda Reading. WHat Book or subject. Fairest, can it be, Which can instruct, delight or pleasure thee? Poems! Kisse me but once and I'le out-vie The Authors Master-piece of Poetrie; And rather then not win and please thee in't, All the nine Muses shall be drest in print; I'le quaffe Pyrene off, and write a line Shall charm Amanda's heart, and make her mine, I'le drink a Helicon of sack to thee, And fox thy sense wieh Lovers stuponie. Reade on my Fairest, I am reading too, A better book, my Dear, I'm reading you; A fine neat volume, and full fraught with wit, The womans best Encomium e're was writ; Off of my book I never cast my eye, A Scholar I shall be most certainly; Nay, who so er'e derives his learning hence, Doctor of Civil Court-ship may commence; For who (my pretty Fancie) reades but thee, Reades o're a whole Vatican Librarie Of womans worth, most women in compare But Ballads, Pamphlets and Diurnals are: The life and beauty of Art and Learning is I'th' very Preface and the Frontispice; If in my Study reade thee o're I might, Oh I could con my lesson day and night; I and my book in all things treat of thee, Then prethy dedicate thy book to me; Make me the binding to't, I only plead I may be cover to the book I read. On these my lines if e're thou chance to look, Reade me, Amanda, when thou read'st my book; If in the print there any errours be, Accuse the carelesse Presse, and blame not me.

To Amanda leaving him alone. WHat businesse calls thee hence, and calls not me? My businesse ever is to wait on thee; Therefore where e're you go I must go too What e're your businesse is, Bee't that or this: Yet still my businesse is to wait on you; Nay prethy, my Dearest, why So coy and shie? Yes, yes, you'l come agen, But prethy when? Here must I moap alone; Whil'st you some other love, Or in your Cabinet above, Some letters doat upon, Which teach you how to say me nay; But know, Amanda, if too long you stay, My soul shall vanish into aire, And haunt and dodge thee ev'ry where. 'Tis sit when thou tak'st Heav'n from me, Thou take at least my soul with thee.

A melancholly Fit. SAd newes was sent me that a friend was dead, It dash't my braines, and my dull heavy head, Drowsie with thoughts of death, could hardly be Supported in its doleful agonie; Nature was lost, grief stop't, my circling blood, All things alike were ill, and nothing good; Awak't I dream't, then round about I saw Death sable Curtains of confusion draw; All things were black where e're I cast my eye, The wainscot walls mourn'd in dark Ebonie, My giddy fancie into th' earth did sink, I wept, and saw the clouds weep teares of ink; Ruine and death me thoughts were penitent, And did in sheers and vailes their sinnes lament: Then ghosts and shades in mourning did I see, All threw deaths-heads, and dead mens bones at me; But when the pale Idaea of my friend Past by, I wish't my life were at an end; And courting-night to shut my sullen eyes, In came Amanda, and did me surprise; Taught me to live in death, kist me, and then Out of a Chaos made me man agen.

An Enthusiasm to Amanda feasting. COme fill a glasse with the best blood o'th' Vine, Troth it looks well; 'tis a fresh vaulting wine; A perfum'd Nectar, yet beyond compare, Amanda's lips more brisk and lively are; See, see, here's pretty Hebe brings from Iove A golden Cup fill'd to the brims in love! Amongst the tipling gods, me thinks I see Blithe purple-fac't Augustus drink to thee: Come, ye immortal Feasters, quaffe it round, With heads in stead of hats Hung to the ground; Lay down your godheads in idolatrie, Turne Priests to my Amanda's Deity; Ne'er fear to stoop and change your selves to men, Amanda can create you gods agen.

To Amanda pledging him. HOw the wine smiles, and as she sips, Tempts her most sweet, coy, modest lips! The Claret friskes, and faine it woo'd Help its pale colour in her blood, And mingling spirits hopes to be Within her veines immortallie; I envie it perhaps for ever, It may dwell within her liver; Howe're 'twill be conveighed at least Through the chaste cloysters of thy breast, And entertain'd before it part, In both the chambers of thy heart; Oh might I too obtaine my Faire, Such friendly entertainment there: Most happy man then should I be, As thy heart-blood is dear to thee,

To Amanda drinking to him. A Better Cordial Heaven cannot give, Sprinkle a dead man with't, 'twill make him live; And force the soul, hudling its atomes up To a retreat only to kisse the Cup; 'Tis a soul-saving kindnesse, can recal Love to a frolick in its Funeral: My heart shall ne'er be sad more through despair, I feel a world of Heavens created there; I conceive swarmes of Cupids newly born, To which Amanda's Midwife; I'le be sworn, My flesh turnes all to Cupids; here, and there How I engender Cupids ev'ry where! Still I teem Cupid's; Cupids chaste and pure, I shall be eaten up with Cupids sure; On my chap't heart I feel them creep about, Like Emmets at their crannies in and out; More and more Cupids still are borne anew, And all these Cupids are begot on you; You are their Mother-nurse; Dear, prethy then Drink to thy Dearest once agen. Then I'le be all o're Cupid • , my best blood Shall be their drink, my heart their chiefest food; Cupids shall eate me whil'st thou drink'st to me. Eate whil'st I pledge thee too; who would not be Meat for such pretty loving wormes my Faire, Such loving wormes as these sweet Cupids are? Whil'st me their feast these wormes, these Cupids have, Amanda shall interre me, she's my grave.

To Amanda not drinking off her wine. 1. PIsh, modest tipler, to't agen My sweetest joy, The wine's not coy As women are; My Dearest puling, prethie then, Prethie, My Faire, Once more bedew those lips of thine, Mend thy draught, and mend the wine. 2. Since it hath tasted of thy lip, (Too quickly cloy'd) How overjoy'd, It cheerfully Invites thee to another sip! Me thinks I see (The wine perfum'd by thee, my Faire,) Bacchus himself is dabling there. 3. Once more, dear soul, nay prethy trie; Bathe that cherrie In the sherry; The jocant wine, Which sweetly smiles and courts thy eye, As more divine. Though thou take none to drink to me, Takes pleasure to be drunk by thee. 4. Nay, my Fair, off with't, off with't clean; Well I perceive Why this you leave, My love reveales, And makes me guess what 'tis you mean, Because at meales My lips are kept from kissing thee, Thou need'st must kisse the glasse to me.

To Amanda upon her smile. NOw in the joy of strength me thinks I finde Armies of pleasures, troop and storme my mind! How with a Giants armes I could embrace, And closely clasp my sweet she Boniface! Amanda gave a pleasant glance, and while Her flowrie lips bloom'd in the modest smile, Winter withdrew, I felt a forward spring, As when great Birtha doth Elixir bring, To drench the boughs, which by her Chymistrie, Mantles i'th' blossomes of the Apple-tree, Stil'd from the cloysters of the spungie earth; Dead drunk I was, and all embalm'd in mirth; Heaven past through my soul, th' Elysian fields, Are but meer shadowes of the joy it yields: My heart-strings move in tune, to its Almains My panting breast keeps time; through all my veins, Bubling in wantonness, now here, now there, My fresh blood frisks in circles every where: Thus in the Court the fawning Favourite, When from the King his Master he can get One pleasing look with vigour tuggs and hales, Hope and Ambition hoist his full-cheek't sailes, Top and top-gallant-wise, worth or no worth, Into preferments Ocean lancheth forth. Thus the blithe Merchant, when with even train, His wealthie vessel glides through th' marble main Hugs his good fortune, and begins to sport, While Neptune kindly laughs him to the Port, Propitious lights which at my birth did shine! My starres speak dotage in this smile of thine.

To Amanda his friend, desiring him to fall to A Thousand thanks, good Sir, thanks for you cheer And this good signe of welcome to your feast; If you observe your guest, How heartily he feeds On these delicious viands h • re: You'l finde his love no invitation needs, Beleeve me, Sir, I do not spare. 2. I am all appetite, my hungry minde Feeds almost to a surfeit on desire, This dish 'tis I admire, No cates so sweet as these; Here, here, I feed, here I am pin'd; And starv'd with meat, these juncates only please, Hither my senses are confin'd. 3. Here's my rich banquet, hither, the little lad Cupid invites, in sugar here are store, Of sweet meats candid o're, From those faire lips I see What choice of Conserves may be had, The modest cherrie and the barberrie, The best and sweetest marmalade. 4. Here I can taste the grape and mulberrie, No blush of fruits (though served in they are In pure white China ware) Is like those cheeks of thine, Where the freshest straw-berries be, Most finely tipled in brisk Claret-wine, Me thinks they seem to swim to me. 5. Beauty in stead of tempting sauce doth wooe, Love feeds my heart, love feeds my eyes, I for no rarities Of quailes and phesants wish (Sir, I am well-com'd well by you) Amanda is my first and second dish: Would she would make me well-come too.

To Amanda desirous to go to bed. SLeepie, my Dear? yes, yes, I see Morpheus is fall'n in love with thee, Morpheus, my worst of rivals, tries To draw the Curtains of thine eyes; And fanns them with his wing asleep, Makes drowsie love play at hopeep; How prettily his feathers blow, Those fleshie shuttings to and fro! Oh how he makes me Tantalize With those faire Apples of thine eyes! Equivocates and cheats me still, Opening and shutting at his will; Now both now one, the doting god Playes with thine eyes at even and odde; My stamm'ring tongue doubts which it might Bid thee good-morrow or good-night; So thy eyes twinkle brighter farre, Then the bright trembling, ev'ning starre; So a waxe taper burnt within The socket playes at out and in: Thus doth Morpheus court thine eye, Meaning there all night to lie; Cupid and he play hoop-all hid, Thy eye 's their bed and cover-lid; Fairest, let me thy night-clothes aire, Come I le unlace thy stomacher; Make me thy maiden-chamber-man, Or let me be thy warming-pan; Oh that I may but lay my head At thy beds feet i'th' trundle-bed; Then i'th' morning e're I rose I'd kisse thy pretty pettitoes. Those smaller feet, with which i'th' day My love so neatly trips away: Since you I must not wait upon, Most modest Lady, I'le be gone, And though I cannot sleep with thee, Oh may my dearest dream of me, All the night long dream that we move To the main centre of our love; And if I chance to dream to thee, Oh may I dream eternallie: Dream that we freely act and play, Those postures which we dream by day, Spending our thoughts i th' best delight. Chaste dreams allow of in the night.

To Amanda igoing to Prayer. STay, stay, Amanda, take a wish from me, And blesse a cushion with thy softer knee; Whither are all those Virgin-Angels gone, Who strew their wings, for thee to kneel upon, Those pretty pinion'd boyes, fat, plump and faire, Who joy to be the Ecchoes of thy prayer. Those golden Cupids fall'n in love with thee Thy little Nancioes to thy Deitie. Prethy, Amanda, Dearest, prethy stay, The Cushion, wench, where art? come bring't away You use your Mistris kindly; here, my love, Come kneel upon't, and kneel to none but Iove: What o'th' bare boards! no sure it cannot be, Look how they sink, and will not touch thy knee; They dare not sinne so farre (my Dear) to presse That flesh, and make it know their stubbornnesse, Were there no bones within, thou should'st command Under each tender knee thy lover's hand; Nay, my Amanda, take my better part, And at thy prayers kneel upon my heart.

On Amanda praying. AManda kneel'd, I straight a Canopie Of Saints and Angels o're her head did see; Amanda pray'd, and all the Spheres stood still, The Heavens bow'd, and stoop't to know her will: She pray'd with zeal, and then the chanting quires Of Cherubs, lift'ning to her chaste desires, Stop't their sweet Anthems; still Amanda pray'd; Then on her bosome her pure hand she laid. Call'd for her heart, and lifting up her eyes, Turned her prayer into sacrifice; Her heart was fix't, She more and more devout, Did sob and groan as if she'd sigh it out; At length she wept, but could not shed a tear To wash her cheeks, or th' roses that grew there, Fine, pretty lads came thick about her still, Their Crystal bottles at her eyes to fill; Some lodg'd upon her lips, all as they passe, Hover, and make her eye their Looking-glasse; Some set upon her cheeks, hard by the springs, Her blush reflecting on their golden wings, Some on her eye-lids sate, so greedy were, They spoil'd the pearle, and snatch't at half a tear: At last she ended all in giving praise, Her head was sainted with a crown of rayes, Then I no longer could Spectator be, Amanda's glory had so dazled me; But then I heard all Heaven cry Amen, And pray, and sing her prayers o're agen.

To Amanda after her Prayers. WHat watrie still with reliques of a tear? Oh prethie let me kisse them dry, my Dear. Religious fountains which still delug'd stand, Where Infant-Angels wade it hand in hand! What still bedew'd? sure yet remaining there Some of those pretty tankard-bearers are, Thy late Attendant at thy sacrifice, Yes, yes, I see those babies in thine eyes, Those yellow-winged Fairies in thy well Till thou shalt pray agen intend to dwell, Earnest expectants for a tear to fall, They make within thine eyes a water-gall. Amanda pray'd, I saw the Angels flie To hear her lectures of Divinity, And when my Fairest held up those hands of hers, Thousands of sweet celestial Choristers Danc't on each fingers end, delighting there To fanne themselves in the perfumed aire Of my Ammanda's breath, swarm'd at her lip, As Bees o're flowers, where they Nectar sip, Then some did on her silver bosome rest, Prunning their golden feathers in her breast, And when my Dearest sang Te Deum out, Th' Intelligences twirl'd the Orbes about, But when she chanted her Magnificat, The Angels then first learn't to imitate. Yes, yes, thy prayer alwayes so pithie is, So full of noly zeale and emphasis, So fraught with Hallelujahs it might be, Heavens Landamus, and mans Letanie, Prethie, my Dearest, since with greatest Iove, Thy prayers are so prevalent above: I'm now thy subject, once thy Prince may be, Pray for thy Prince, Amanda, pray for me.

To Amanda undressing her. THy hood's pull'd off, nay then I'm dead and gone, Prethie, Amanda put thy night-coif on. I see a thousand am'rous Cupids there. Which lie in Ambush, lurking in thy haire; Look with what haste within those locks of thine, They string their bowes to shoot these eyes of mine? Look how that little blinde rogue there with his dart, Stands aiming and layes level at my heart! The sympthomes of my wounds, Amanda, see, Oh I bleed inwards, prethie pitty me. I am all stuck with arrowes which are shot So thick and fast, that there is ne'er a spot About me free, each distinct atome smarts By't selfe, pierc't with a thousand thousand darts, And as a man with pangs surpriz'd by death Struggles for life to keep his parting breath; My nerves and sinews stretch, and all within My body earne to graspe and reach thee in; How could I knit and weave eternally, And mingle limbs into a Gordian tie? Shoot on, sweet Archers, till I'm slain with love, Then like the bedlam who in's talk doth prove What made him mad, my happy blessed ghost Of this nights vision shall for ever boast. Kill me, my boyes, 'tis mercy to be kill'd With love; who would not die in such a field Of damask rose, slain by her lilie hand? Dart me to death, you pretty b • yes, that stand Upon her breast, the shafts which thence you send, Tell me, I am Amanda's bosome-friend.

To Amanda lying in bed. IN bed, my Dearest? thus my eye perceives A primrose lodg'd betwixt its rugged leaves; Lain down, Amanda? thus have I often seen A lily cast upon a bed of green; So the sweet Alablaster Babie lies Cradled in fresher mosse; thy sparkling eyes Dart forth such active beams, the god of sleep Dare not come in his nightly court to keep, He dares not lull thee, whil'st so bright they shine. All Argus eyes watch in each eye of thine: But when the humour takes you, that you please To draw your eye-lids close, and take your ease; He hovers o're the tester of your bed, And gently on them will his poppies shed: Then, my Amanda, (with his leaden crown And scepter queen'd) let those faire vallins down, Those fine white sattin vallins o're thy eye, With their silk linings of a scarlet die. Let that soft hand into the bed repaire, Safe from the moisture of the dampish aire, Yet let me taste it first; so keep thee warm, Lie close, would I might lay thee in mine arme. Good night, my Dear, ne'er say good night to me, Till I all night, Amanda sleep with thee.

On Amanda fallen asleep. SLeep is a kinde of death, why may not I Write my Deares Epitaph, her Elegie? Here lies Amanda fast asleep, Whom Cupid guards, and Angels keep; Here lies the rarest prize Two pearles within her eyes, So have I seen a gem A Princely diadem Shut in a Cabinet, A whole treasury In a small box of ivorie, Inlaid with bars and grates of jet. For such Amanda's eye-lids are White and fringed with black hair. Here lies Amanda dead asleep: Hither lovers come and weep: Here's a hand which doth out-goe In whitenesse driven snow; Upon that sweet bag cast your eye, There on fine, fresh, green sattin see it lie, With knots of scarlet ribbon by: Thus interwoven have I seen Virgius wax candles red and green, Proud with a fine white twist between. Hither lovers haste and see, Her slender fingers circled be, Like Rings enamel'd with the Galaxie; Her locks as soft as sloven silke, Through her Alpes do make their way, And on her breasts which do out-vie The icie rocks of frozen milk, And th' lovely Swans soft downie thigh, Her stately amorous curles The saucie wantons play. Whil'st two fierce Cupids on her niples sit, To wound the hearts of stupid churles, Who passe Amanda's tomb-stone by, And with so much as half an eye, Will not vouchsafe to look on it. Here lies my Dear Amanda chaste and faire, Don-Cupids charge and Angels care, Here she lies, and yet not here, For she's buried otherwhere. She's pris'ner in my heart, From whence she can no sooner part Then dead men from the grave; And yet she there doth move, Not only in the ghost of love, No, though a pris'ner, yet she's free, Alas, too free for me, She lives my bleeding heart t' enslave. Here my sweetest sweet Amanda lies, The best, the rarest of all rarities, Shrouded she is from top to toe, With lilies which all o're her grow, In stead of bayes and rosemarie, Roses in her cheeks there be, Oh would I thy coffin were! Amanda's living sepulchre! Or would within that winding sheet Our happy limbs might closely meet! There would I chastly lie till th' day of doom, And mingle dust till th' resurrection come; But since as yet this cannot be, For Heavens sake, My Dearest, now awake, For whil'st Amanda sleeps, she's dead to me.

To Amanda waking. AWake at length! oh quickly, Fairest, rise, And let the day break from thy brighter eyes, Heark how the early cockrel crowes, my Dear, 'Tis not Aurora's, but thy chaunticlere; Heark how the merry cherpers of the spring To thee their goddesse do their mattens sing! The purple violets startle from their beds, Gently erecting their sweet pearly heads On their fresh leaved boulsters, each would be A Benefactresse to thy treasury, And shake into thy snowie breast a tear, To be congeal'd into a jewel there: Look how that woodh • ne at the window peeps, And slilie underneath the casement creeps! It's honey-suckle shewes, and tempting stands To spend its morning Nectar in thy hands; Look in the gardens of thy cheeks, and see Aurora painting in thy rosarie: The ripest mulberries do blush it thus, Made guilty of the blood of Pyramus: Nay had that modest fruit been stain'd with thine, How like thy lips farre brighter would it shine! Compar'd with which, who e're betimes hath seen The ruddy, damask, Nabathean Queen, With her red crimson morning wastcoat on, Though in her glory she were look't upon Newly with Sun-beams brush't, shall say at th' best; 'Tis a pale waterish rednesse in the East; Nay, and that beauty which in her we see, Is not her own, but borrow'd too from thee; The Sunne himself reflects, he's but thy Moon, Hide but thy face, and he is eclipst at noon. Cast off that drowsie mantle of the night, And rise, Amanda, or 'twill ne'er be light, Thy beautie only can drive night away, Rise, rise, my Fairest, or we lose a day.

A morning Salute to Amanda. NOw a good morning to my sweetest love, Health from all mankind and the Saints above; Ave, Amanda; spare that dew that lies On thy faire hand to wash my love-sick eyes, That at my prayers I may better see, Virgin most sweet, to tell my beads to thee: I am a Papist, zealous, strict, precise, Amanda is the Saint I idolize.

To Amanda washing her hands. HOw prettily those dabchick fingers play, And sport with the cool Nymph, which doth obey Their doubtful motions, opens every where, Where e're they please to dive and ravish her! Cupid with a gold bason and Ewre stands, Shedding rose-water on thy lilie hands; Officious Venus too her self stands by With towels like thy maid to wipe them dry. See from thy fingers pretty bubbles fall, A faire Narcissus cloyster'd in them all! No, no, that broken bubbles eccho there, Told me Narcissus was not half so faire: See in each bubble a bright smiling lasse, Each bubble is Amanda's looking-glasse.

To Amanda after she had wash't. HEark how these bubbles talk of thee, and break Themselves in their last breath thy name to speak! Heark how they sigh and wish they Crystal were, They might be ever pendents in thy eare! That water slung away! No, no, my Faire, With it no Chymick Essence can compare; 'Tis clarifi'd and quick'ned with the balme, The morning philter of thy dewie palme. The sweetnesse of thy hands remaineth yet, 'Twill make me faire to wash my face with it: Oh I must drink; Amanda, give it me, 'Tis Nectarella, and doth taste of thee.

To Amanda walking in the Garden. ANd now what Monarch would not Gard'ner be, My faire Amanda's stately gate to see; How her feet tempt! how soft and light she treads, Fearing to wake the flowers from their beds! Yet from their sweet green pillowes ev'ry where, They start and gaze about to see my Faire; Look at yon flower yonder, how it growes Sensibly! how it opes its leaves and blowes, Puts its best Easter clothes on, neat and gay! Amanda's presence makes it holy-day: Look how on tip-toe that faire lilie stands To look on thee, and court thy whiter hands To gather it! I saw in yonder croud That Tulip-bed, of which Dame-Flora's proud, A short dwarfe flower did enlarge its stalk, And shoot an inch to see Amanda walk; Nay, look, my Fairest, look how fast they grow! Into a scaffold method spring! as though Riding to Parl'ament were to be seen In pomp and state some royal am'rous Queen: The gravel'd walks, though ev'n as a die, Lest some loose pebble should offensive lie, Quilt themselves o're with downie mosse for thee, The walls are hang'd with blossom'd tapestrie; To hide her nakednesse when look't upon, The maiden fig-tree puts Eves apron on; The broad-leav'd Sycomore, and ev'ry tree Shakes like the trembling Aspe, and bends to thee, And each leaf proudly strives with fresher aire, To fan the curled tresses of thy hair; Nay, and the Bee too, with his wealthie thigh, Mistakes his hive, and to thy lips doth flie; Willing to treasure up his honey there, Where honey-combs so sweet and plenty are: Look how that pretty modest Columbine Hangs down its head to view those feet of thine! See the fond motion of the Strawberrie, Creeping on th' earth to go along with thee! The lovely violet makes after too, Unwilling yet, my Dear, to part with you; The knot-grasse and the dazies catch thy toes To kisse my Faire ones feet before she goes; All court and wish me lay Amanda down, And give my Dear a new green flower'd gown. Come let me kisse thee falling, kisse at rise, Thou in the Garden, I in Paradise.

To Amanda seeming to deny his request. PRetty, coy, modest thing! how lovingly She seems to grant me, what she doth deny! Troth, little Cupid, 'tis a pretty Art To look another way, and strike a heart; But why, my boy dost teach the women it, Who whil'st they say they will not shoot, do hit? Well-plaid, good Angler, with thy sportive bait, To catch it from me when I think I ha't. But why, Amanda, am I thus deni'd, And after so long treatie cast aside? Perhaps thou lov'st to hear me ask of thee, To laugh at my poor Courtship beggerie: Canst thou be so unkinde? must I forbear To love Amanda? Strange! well though, my Faire, We must return our Pledges, prethie then Take all thy suretie kisses back agen. First my indebted lips shall pay thee thine, Then thou shalt kisse me till thou pay'st me mine: Paying our debts shall make's indebted more, Wee'l kissing pay, and paying run o'th' score, And run so long, so deep in debt, my Dear, Till neither on's can pay his vast Arrear; So in loves lawful action by my troth The catch-heart Cupid shall arrest us both; And if that little hum-Bayliffe in my suite Arrest Amanda, and she prosecute Her Creditor for debt agen; for thee I'le take no bayle, none shall be giv'n for me, But these my armes shall thy close prison be, And thou shalt finde a prison too for me; Bridewel or Gatehouse, Heaven to my heart, Whil'st thou my Keeper and my Prison art: Nor do I care, but pray there may not be These hundred yeares a Goal-delivery. But what's the meaning of this feign'd denial, Was it to check my hopes, or make a trial Of my undoubted love? Amanda, know, The hastie current stop't doth overflow. Thou art a richer jewel, 'tis not fit So little asking should obtain thee yet; Porters with whom such wealthie treasures are, Ope not the door till they know who is there; Let my Dear know I will not pillage her, I only ask to be her treasurer. I love to feel that hand that pats me so, And seems to say me yes in saying no.

To Amanda desirous to drink. CAlling for beer! know not the gods they ought To send thee Nectar for thy mornings draught I'm sure the Heavens do allow it you, Ambrosia-Caudles for your break-fast too; How is't? surely this lazie Ganimed Sleeps it, and is not yet got out of's bed: What not yet come! Amanda, by that face I'le turne this punie Butler out of's place. And drain the skies till there no Nectar be, But what the gods shall beg as almes from thee.

To Amanda inviting her to walk. COme, 'tis a morning like thy self, my Faire, Sweet as thy breath the spring perfumes the air With the fresh fragrant odours of its balme, Still'd from the last nights dew, a pleasing calm Invites thee forth; there's no unruly blast, No saucie winde to give the least distaste; In the disordering of those curles, which move As if each haire were with it self in love; Thy fingers made those rings, and ev'ry haire, Thinks it doth still embrace thy finger there: Heark how the birds play Consorts o're and o're! Heark to that modest begger at the door, Whose lungs breath spices! gentle Zephyrus Whispers, and through the key-hole calls to us; The Sunne himself yonder expectant stayes, And strewes the golden atomes of his raies, To guild thy paths; though in post-haste he be, Yet he stands still to look and gaze on thee. The Heavens court thee, Princely Oberon And Mab his Emp'resse both expect thee yon, They wait to see thee, sport the time away, And on green beds of dazies dance the hay; In their small acorn posnets, as they meet Quaffe off the dew, lest it should wet thy feet. The black-birds whistle, and the Finches sing To welcome thy approach, and not the Spring. Come then, my Turtle, let us make our flight, And browse it in the arbours of delight; To the next me low-Tempe let us move; Let's flie to Heaven on the wings of love, And when kinde Cupid has conveigh'd us thither, Wee'l chastely sit and mingle bills together.

To Amanda walking abroad. COme, come, Amanda, hand in hand wee'l walk Heark how the birds of Love and Cupid talk As if they lately had been drinking wine, Each chirps a dialogue to his Valentine: Nay, to their downie breasted Ladies yet, At yon clear Crystal spring they'r bibbing it, As if all bowles too narrow-belli'd were, And cups too shallow, with a heartie prayer. Health afret health, each to his plumie lasse Carowseth in the brook, and scornes the glasse, Nay, and as if they fear'd to drink it dry, The hot cock-sparrow doth still, Fill it, cry; See how to's Mistris with his tipling bill, The Nightingal doth sweetly jugge it still! That pretty Linnet seems to drink to me, I'le pledge thy health, Amanda, kissing thee. And whil'st those feather'd lovers water sip, I'le quaffe the Orleans-claret of thy lip, And suck those bloody mulberries in, Till like that fruit my lips seem'd stain'd with sinne; Then sinne in 'ts blush shall make me more devout, I'le kisse and sinne, and sinne a pardon out; For thou 'rt so chaste, that who once kisse thee may, In that one kisse wipes all his sinne away; Though blasphemie and murther it remit, Pope Ioans Indulgence doth come short of it, 'Tis Heaven it self, and on that lip to dwell Is to be sainted; of no greater hell Can lovers dream, no greater sin commit Then to leave kissing, and to part with it.

To Amanda like to be taken in a showre. WEll done, kinde unexpected AEolus, Thy boyes have bravely kept the raine from us, Thank thee, as yet we have not wet a thread; Me thoughts I saw over Amanda's head Thy huff't-puff't blub-cheek't Caitiffes hover, And stretch their lungs to blow th' last showre over; Then the sweet plump-fac't rogues, when fair And clear it was, as if they breathlesse were To save Amanda, begg'd and kept a stir To get my leave they might take breath from her I gave my grant, they kist, each kisse did prove They were no windes, but Angels fall'n in love. How can my Dearest, then my dotage blame, If I so oft call on Amanda's name; The courtly Cherubims my rivals be, And Heaven makes thee it's Penelope.

To Amanda fearing a second showre. WHat means this woman-like unconstant weather, These spungie clouds so strangely squeez'd together! Should my Deares face be once so over-cast, My eyes would deluge till the storme were past; But when her pleasing Sunne-shine once appears, Her rayes of beauty dry up all my teares: See the clouds blown away, be then to me Kinde as the stormes and tempests are to thee; And like the Heavens cast those vailes away, Unmuffle, sweetest, and thy beams display; It has cleer'd up, yet still 'tis cloudie though, The weather's faire, when my Faire makes it so Fear not, Amanda, but unmask thy eyes, Come prethy, I'le unpin those mummeries. 'Twill raine no more, I'le kisse thy cheeks, my Fair, 'Tis May without an April showre there.

An Answer to Amanda's question. PHilosophers, who in old dayes did live, Say it is Iove makes water through a sieve; Perhaps their god is drunk he leakes so fast, Or else some Doctor must his urine cast; I'le tell thee Fairest, Heavens bank'ront King, Grown poor through lust doth silver hailstones fling In stead of gold, the shower aim'd at thee, He faine would take thee as his Danäe. I'le tell thee, my Amanda, whence it is, It rain'd so much to day, the reason's this, The Sunne espi'd thy beauty, look't upon't, And Heaven sneez'd with looking too much on't.

To a Rivall. KEep off presumption; horrid impudence, Bold monstrous traitor to my love, get hence; Strange daring faith! venture to step between A jealous Monarch, and a chaster Queen, Go tempt a Kingdom kept by the magick spell Of a Prince politick; I'm loves Machavel; This is my Florence, and thou tempt'st from me Not an Italians wife, but Italy; Ransack the great Turks Seraglio, try T' out-pimp the lustful Sultans jealousie; Hug the coy lawrel, and expect to see Daphne throw off her bark and follow thee: Make old Endymion Pander, and conferre With Luna, till thou get new moones on her; Surprize an Abbesse and her Nunnerie, Reconcile love to its antipathie; Go dive amongst the haddocks and the whales, Make love to Mare-maids and their Conger-tailes Court some faire skillet-face, and swear she's neat, For pricking skewers well and spitting meat; Some greasie Cook-maid whose sweet dugs suck in Receive and mingle dripping with her chin, Who nightly with her knife her smock put off, Scrapes thence some pipkins full of kitchin-stuffe, Or wooe some driv'ling Hag, whose pitfal skin Makes lust mistake the wonted place of sinne. On some thrum'd Baucis spend thy hopes and labour, Where thou mayest bathe thy lips in slime and slabber. Cuckold the devil, get some Proserpine, Some Succuba to be thy Concubine. Engender with the night-mare, and beget Dreams which may stang thy blood, and jellie it; This once accomplish't, thou may'st freely ask Amanda's love, but 'fore thou'st done thy task, If thou dare once come near this sacred Court, Wherein my Princesse love and beauty sport, I le stifle thy rebel heart in clotted gore Of blood, with knives and daggers shroud thee o're, And make thee bear i'th' face, throat, heart and back, More signes then he in Swallows Almanack.

A game at Chesse with Amanda. J And Amanda on a day, Sat down a game at Chesse to play, Passing my Bishops with their Lawnes, She was still for taking pawnes, She play'd, I play'd, she chect me straight, She wish't, I wish't it might be mate: But then (said I) I must check you, Or else you'l check and beat me too.

To his most Noble Friend Sir T. L. B. of Shingle hall. SIR, THat th' only vertue is Nobility, 'Twas spoke in malice, and you'l prov't a lie. The Author of that sentence, liv'd he now Would know his wit a scandal, knew he you. Nay, Sir, that Nobles are the better sort; Alas! the very times upbraid him for't; And yet some hope to see our Noblemen Some such as you consute the times agen; Though in their wisdomes now they dormantly, Hush't in their private mansions quietly; Had they such Martial souls, such fighting hands, Redemption of their rights, three 〈☐〉 and lands Were easie work, and they might bravely get More honour then a bene latuit, And th' Art of keeping heads on safe; But I Intend no plots, although a liberty Of tongue to speak in this and th' other sense, Is safer farre then that of conscience; Yet te'nt allow'd of; but howe're 'tis fit, That Poets still should have their Quidlibet: It is their charter, notwithstanding now I'le make no use on't; only thus to you. Sir, in each cast of your commanding eye, Such reverend imperious glances flie, Such royal stately looks, so sweet a grace Of presence, that when now there is no face Of Monarch in the land, amongst so many Kings of the times, if'twill agree to any; Better I cannot make the Court-salute, Then with your stature and your greatnesse suit (Setting all Steeples and all Fat-guts by) If't please your Highnesse or your Majestie: Such a well-timber'd man, of such a height, And yet your years be hardly ten and eight! What ever Nature's second thoughts might be, Her first allowance was for Gemini. Sir, there's such mixture in your countenance Of Mars and Cupid, such a ridling glance, We doubt what in your eyes those sparklings move; Or warlike lightnings or the flames of love? Sometimes I've seen you (like Prince Paris stand Ready to kisse his Helens lilie-hand) All smiles, and then again me thinks I see Within your face a whole Artillerie: Thus looks a bold advent'rous Amazon, A Lady with Knight-Errant's armour on: Sure that Greek Cavalier look't something like To you, who 'mongst the Spinsters tost a pike, Which you may be, I doubt, and pause upon't, A young Achilles or a Bradamant; Would any see Venus and Mars embrace, They meet, and mingle loves upon your face; By which I mean there's to be seen in you, Sir Thomas Leventhorp, and Madam too; Minos was such a Gallant sure, had you been there, Nisus had sooner lost his purple haire, (Sylla as love-sick, and as mad to wed) You'd had a Kingdome and a Maiden-head; Of all the beauties which in women shine, Your Nature's ward-robe, but yet masculine. Sir, in all this, I must commend with you; Your well-belov'd, the Princely Mount ague.

To Mr. LILLY, Musick-Master in Cambridge. SIR, I have seen your scip-jack singers flie, As if their motion taugh't Ubiquitie: I've seen the trembling Cat'lin's smart and brisk Start from the frets, dance, leap, and nimbly frisk In palsie capers, pratling (a most sweet Language of Notes) Curranto's as they meet: I've heard each string speak in so short a space As if all spoke at once; with stately grace The surley tenour grumble at your touch, And th' ticklish-maiden treble laugh as much, Which (if your bowe-hand whip it wantonly,) Most pertly chirps and jabbers merrily; Li'e frolic Nightingals, whose narrow throats Suck Musick in and out, and gargle notes; Each strain makes smooth, and curles the air agen, Like currents suck't by narrow whirlepits in; Sometimes they murmur like the shallow springs, Whose hastie streams forc't into Crystal rings, And check't by pebbles, pretty Musick make In kisses and such language as they speak, 'Tis soft and easie, Heaven can't out-do't, That under Fairie-ground is nothing to't: Who e're that earthly mortal Cherub be, Whose well-tun'd soul delights in melodie: He ventures hard, if for an houre he dares To your surprizing straines apply his eares, We finde such Magick in your Harmony, As if to hear you were to hear and die. Were you a Batchelour, and bold to trie Fortunes, what Lady's she, though ne're so high And rich by birth, should see the tickling sport Your finger makes, and would not have you for't; Beyond those Saints who speak ex tempore, Your well-spoke viol scornes tautologie; And I in truth had rather hear you teach O'th' Lyra, then the rarest tub-man preach: In's holy speeches he may strike my eares With more of Heav'n; you with more o'th' spheres, I've heard your base mumble and mutter too, Made angry with your cholerick hand, while you With hastie jirks to vex and anger't more Correct its stubbornnesse and lash it o're: I've heard you pawse, and dwell upon an aire, (Then make't i'th' end (as lost to part it were) Languish and melt away so leasurely,) As if 'twere pity that its Eccho die; Then snatch up notes, as if your viol broke, And in the breaking every splinter spoke: I've seen your active hands vault to and fro, This to give grace, that to command your bowe; As if your singers and your instrument By conspiration made you eminent. We have good Musick and Musicians here, If not the best, as good as any where: A brave old Irish Harper, and you know English or French way few or none out-go Our Lutanists; the Lusemores too I think For Organists, the Sack-buts breath may stink, And yet old Brownes be sweet, o'th' Violin Saunders plays well, where Magge or Mel han't been. Then on his Cornet brave thanksgiving Mun, Playes on Kings Chappel after Sermon's done: At those loud blasts, though he's out-gone by none, Yet Cambridge glories in your self alone: No more but thus, he that heares only you, Heares Lillie play, and Doctor Coleman too. You in the swiftnesse of your hand excel All others, my Amanda sings as well, No Musick like to hers; I wish in troth, That we with her might play in Consort both; Might I my self, and you my friend prefer, You with her voice should play, and I with her.

A Passion. 1. SOlicit not my chaster eyes, With those faire breasts that fall and rise, I'le not lie betwixt those dugs Where Cupid nestles, sleeps and snugs; There is no goddesse I adore, To fight with those that call her whore: Thou shalt not surfeit in thy pride, By me so falsely deifi'd. No, hang a Mistris, I le ha' none, No such toy to dote upon. 2. Beauties faring, Loves conceit, "Though her face be eighty-eight; Called faithful, constant, faire, Though Vaux i'th' dark plot treason there; The Phenix too must build his nest, I'th' blest Arabia of her breast; Without her little dog though she Or musk or civet dare not be. Fie, fie, a Mistris I'le ha' none, No such toy to doat upon. 3 I'le be no Merchant; nor saile nigh, Those tempting India's of thy thigh; Make an adventure, hit or misse, And wrack my fancie for a kisse; Fool to your laughing Ladyship, To get a smile, or touch your lip; Protest with oathes high and mighty, That your spittle is aqua vitae. No, hang a Mistris, &c. 4. Amongst the gallants swear and rant, And of your kindnesse boast and vant; Then drink diseases down, and wave All thoughts of sicknesse or the grave, Pledge your health, and pledge it stoutly, Pray o're my cups, and drink devoutly; Increase the Feaver of my lust, And never dream I am but dust. Oh hang a Mistris, &c. 5. Then vault and do some tumblers knack That speaks me man, and shewes my back; Run in debt and pawne my goods, To buy you fancies, gloves and hoods; Then if the catch-pole chance to hale And drag me to the loathsome goal; There may your servant die and rot, You never send, you see him not. Shame on't, a Mistris, &c. 6. At least I shall be curst in this, Your love, your beauty common is, Then I receive my Rivals glove, Murther, or else renounce my love; Or late at night must walk the street, Where ten to one some rogues I meet, Only to watch till one o'th' clock I'th' cold to see you in your smock; And nothing do But look at you And through the key-hole too. Oh hang a Mistris, I'le ha' none No such toy to doat upon. All that faire and am'rous be, Are Mistresses alike to me; I'm in love with every one, No, hang't, in love with none. Amanda prethy pardon me, In love with none, with none but thee.

To Amanda mistrusting her love. IF any Stranger but appear, Thy jealous Lover straight begins to feare; If any letters come to thee, Suspicion swiftly doth come post to me; In private if thou reade them o're, I read 'tis love, and still suspect the more; If after this thou chance to frown, Despair brings night on, and my Sunne goes down; From me in anger if thou part, A fearful palsie shakes my trembling heart; But should'st thou bid me once abstain, My breath would go, and ne'er return again: To rid me of these killing doubts, Would I could see thee once make Babie-clouts.

To Amanda, on her picture drawn with a Lute in her hand A Sweet faire draught, yet not compleatly true, No, it must paint agen to be like you; Niggardly Art must be at greater cost, Else your complexion is in colours lost; A neat resemblance, yet who e'er did do't, Envi'd my eye, and drew a curtain to't; A whimsie limner strange, what meant the toy, Not like your selfe to make your picture coy! Oh it was providence, thoughts of a wife, Had kill'd me there, had you been drawn to th' life; But Fairest; that's beyond our modern powers, Apelles hand ought to be seen in yours, And Art must to that work a pupil show, Durst cut a line with skilful Angelo; Yet in the cast o' th' eye would like't you'd be, And then where e're I stand, you'd look on me; It was my chance to see't by candle-light, Had you been there I could have stay'd all night; I kist those hands, no lesse nor more could do, But yet my fancie kist the substance too, Me thoughts my lips did some impressions make, The awful Cat'line seem'd to tremble and shake: Had you been there to play as I did wis, I'd have kept time with an observant kisse; A sweeter Lute for you would I prepare, In tune you should have found my heart-strings were; So mingling aires and lips till break of day, We would a sweet chaste ravishing Consort play Without a discord, only this I'd do, I'd keep false time, false time in kissing you. Oh Fairest, that thou were't but drawn on me, Then blest should I thy happy picture be; I stretch my armes out, and still wish the same, Oh that you were but hanging on this frame; Then for your beauties sake, straight should I be, Hang'd in some princely Monarchs gallery; Nor would I care could I but often see, You come, and kindly look and smile on me. Then would I draw y' agen upon my heart, And be loves masterpiece of Love and Art.

A Dream. AS in the perfum'd garden yesterday, Amongst the primrose fast asleep I lay, My busie soul upon a ramble went, By love and fancie on an errand sent. In at Amanda's private chamber door She made her slight, and view'd her o're and o're. The more she look't, the more she lik't, and fain She would have staid, and ne'er return'd again; First on her cherrie lip she plaid, and then On her faire cheek, so to her lip agen; Where having suck't till she was fill'd with love, She drop't into her downie breast; the next remove Was to the chamber of her heart, to see If she could take possession there for me; When in she came, there pretty Cupid sat In state, and laugh't at her, she glad of that Kindly embrac't and kist the smiling boy, And whil'st they kist, my Sweet-heart leap't for joy; Then could my jocant soul no longer stay, But straight to bring the newes came post away: Her flight was swift, and with her lovingly She brought along, [most willing companie] Amanda's soul, so loth to part they were; The best on't is, she left a Cupid there.

To Amanda on her dimples. WHen e're I let my meditations flie, And give them wings to take their libertie, Like the neat Cyprian bird, the cleanly Dove, Which no fowl sloven stenement doth love, But a faire stately house and nere forsakes The pleasant fabrick to which once it takes, So my thoughts flie, (from whence they ne're will part) So th' comely mansion of a candid heart; Each winged thought to thee, Amanda, flies, And under th' crystal windowes of thine eyes Lights on thy damask cheeks, where they do play, The wooing turtles winding every way, Till by young Cupids craft they're taken in, Love's dimpled pitfalls of thy cheeks and chin, Three nests of new-flown smiles on roses near, To which a thousand unslegg'd Angels are, Chirping pin-feather'd, pirking Cherubs sit, Sweet blushing Babes playing at cherrie-pit, Some win and smile, some lose their cherries, then Down to thy lips, and gather fresh agen, Sweet kissing lips, which all the Winter shew The ripest cherries, and their blossomes too, When e're thou weep'st, each Grace doth snatch a tear, And fill a dimple with't, then wash her there, That pimping Cupids come, to cool their wings, In these chaste vailes, each from thine eye-lid bring A liquid crystal pearle, whose parts in love Unto each other as a centre move, So it remaines a gemme (though moist and wet) Whose superficies is its Cabinet, And loth to break it is, till hastily, An Infant having snatch't it from thine eye, Flies to a pleasant dimple, and within't Dissolve the Jewel, and so bath him in't, Baths in a dimple, which of rosebuds smells, Thine eyne and cheeks the Graces Bath and Wells.

On Amanda's black eye-browes. NEar to an eye that sparkles so, 'Tis strange so dark an hair should grow Upon a skin so white and faire, 'Tis strange there is so black an hair, At first 'cause it so near doth lie, I guest 'twas Sunne-burnt with thine eye, But then I thought if so it were, 'T would melt the snow which lies as near, And scorch and make those lilies die, Upon the shuttings of thine eye, And those fresh roses to which grow, Upon thy sweeter cheeks below. Then I conceiv'd that there might be, In those black browes a mystery, That Venus for Adonis sake, Commanded nature there to make. (A pretty strange conceited thing) Two arches of a mourning ring. Thence 'tis that those black haires do grow, Thence are thy browes enamel'd so.

Good wishes to Amanda. MAy my Amanda live, And live in health, May no desease, no crosse, No sudden losse, Nor want of wealth, No angry push, no pain nor smart, Afflict or grieve, Her tender melting heart. 2. May th' Heavens and the earth Conspire her mirth, By Io I conjure thee Love, May all that's good Club her delight, May Cupid give her all the sweets of love, And kindly in the coolest night Most chastely warm her blood. 3. Ne'er may she wipe a teare, From her bright eye, Ne'er may she sigh or weare, A mourning vale, In black, look pale, Till in her cheeks those fresher roses die, And where they blush it so, Nothing but gastly lilies grow. 4. Ne'er may she scowl or frown, Or chafe or fret. Ne'er may she meet a Clown, That smells of sweat, By him be kist Ne'er may the bristles of a bumpkin's chin, Or th' gripes o's callow fist, Injure her softer sweeter skin. 5. Ne'er may my Dearest die, A sudden death Nor on her death-bed lie, Gasping for breath, Whilst all about Her friends drop teares. But like a brighter lamp i'th' end, May she burn clear and spend, Her store of oyle, and so go out. 6. Ne'er may her slender wrist, Be over-prest, Nor rudely wrung too hard; May her faire hand, Be luckie still; At what e're game she playes, may she command The surest winning card, And never may she want her will. 7. Amongst great Madams whatsoe're, My faire appear, Ne'er may she want an eye, T' admire and gaze, Nor tongue to praise Her rare well-featur'd physnomie, Still may she called be The sweetest and the fairest she. 8. And if the greatest Love Shall blesse me so, So as to make her mine, And she shall know No other love, All the night long upon her slumbring eyne, May Cupids lodge in swarmes, Ne'er may she startle from mine armes. 9. But if I can't be thought Worthy that love, For which so long I've sought, For which I've strove, So zealously, When I am gone and lost, oh may she finde A heart as kinde, That knowes to love as well as I.

Amanda's Beautie preferr'd. OF noted pearlesse beauties I shall tell, Yet leave Amanda without parallel, From thy bright eyes I have receiv'd a wound, Deeper then Henry from his Rosamond, I'le be thy Knight and Vaughans office do, I'le bo thy Labyrinth and Keeper too As thou art fairer then French Isabel, So in thy breast farre greater comforts dwell; Thy love can me to richer joyes prefer, Then, e're she did her lovely Mortimer: Had'st thou been living when that famous Lasse Fitz-waters daughter so admired was, Sweetest Matilda when to Dunmow gone, Had ne'er been courted by the Princely Iohn; If my Amanda e're shall be a Nun, Oh Heavens may she be a wedded one, I'le answer all her Vowes of chastity, I'le be her constant Monk and Monastry, I'le be the careful Abbot, she shall be My pretty Abbesse and my Nunnerie, What though the Nunn'rie fall, we'l love, and then Replenish with young Monks and Nunns agen; Because thy beautie is of greater power, Then that of Alice walking on the tower, Storm'd by all features in their excellence, Edward the black (that stout victorious Prince,) With lesse disdain might have been check't by thee, Then by the Lady of Count Sal'sburie, If Owen Tudor prais'd his Madams hue, 'Cause in her cheeks the rose and lilie grew, Thou'rt more praise-worthy then was Katherine, There's fresher York and Lancaster in thine: Had thy sweet features with thy beauty met In William de-la-pool's faire Margaret, The Peers surpriz'd had never giv'n consent, For th' Duke of Suffolks five years banishment, For the Exchange of Mauns, Anjou and Main, T' have giv'n a Kingdom for thee had been gain: What King would not his Crown and Scepter pawne, To purchase lilies, and the whitest lawne, From thy pure hands, jems from thy sparkling eyes, Thy rubie lips, and such rich rarities? Who would not leave a throne one night to lie Upon the sweet bags of thy Rosarie? Most princely Virgin, had'st thou lived, when The goddesse Beautie was ador'd by men; Edward would have preferr'd thee farre before, The Goldsmiths Jewel, famous Missresse Shore, Had he but seen thy face, and heard thy wit, To thee that King his sugred lines had writ, The great Controwler Love had made thee be, Great Lady Governesse to's Majestie: For who Amanda would not put off state, And lose a Heav • n with thee t'inoculate? Who would not forfeit all his libertie, Lock't up and folded in thine armes to be? Were I a Sultan or an Emperour, Thus would I write to thee my Paramour. "Off go my robes and these gold chaines of mine, "To twist my legs with those fost legs of thine; "I'le be no longer Prince, may I but be, "Square o'th' body to so faire a she; "I'le lose my honour and my royal throne, "And think I have them all in thee alone; "I who am worship't with a bended knee, "Will be thy servant, and bend mine to thee; "Off goes my Crown, I'le be no King of men, "That Princely name I'le ne'er put on agen; "Till thou unto thine armes when I am hurld, Shalt make me King of thy sweet lesser world; "No kingly pleasure like to loves delight, "Thy kisse shall crown me, I'le be crown'd all night; "And when the pleasant night is past away, "Then shall succeed my Coronation day; "Wee'l spend our time in love's sweet merriments, "In stately tiltings, justs nad tournaments; "Like the stout Brandon in the Court of France. "His loved Mary's honour to advance; "Had he then took (thou brightest Queen of light "Thy name his signal when he 'gan to fight, "Without chastisements from his piercing steel, "The Giant Almain had been forc't to kneel; "Were Surrey travel'd now to Tuskanie, "Off'ring to reach his gauntlet out for thee; "If on the guilt tree in the Lift he set. "Thy pretty, lovely, pretty counterfeit, "All Planet-struck with those two stars, thy eyne, "(Outshining farre, his heav'nly Geraldine;) "There would no staffe be shiver'd, none would dare, "A beautie with Amanda's to compare: "All those faire Ladies which we Beauties call, "Are Mauritanians, and not faire at all, "The proudest Madam, and the brightest she, "Is but a Gypsie, if compar'd with thee, "And all those Princely faire ones that live nigh, "Are tawnie, tann'd and sun-burnt with thine eye; "Off goes my robe, and these gold chains of mine, "To twist my legs with those soft legs of thine. Thou art so faire, that in a Sun-shine day, When Phoebus beams are darted ev'ry way, If thou walk out with thy encountring eyes, Sweet Daphne fills me with strange jealousies, Should thy chaste body turn t' a Lawrel tree, Oh may my browes be e're impal'd with thee; If I'm a Poet thou hast made me so; Then if thy armes to Lawrel branches grow, 'Tis fit in justice, and in love thou twine, Those leavie armes about this head of mine. In the green pastures, if thou walk about, Where crooked crystal streams flow in and out, If Iove should change thee as his Inach is, Streight would I wish my metempsycosis; A female shape my loving soul should take, So would I be a Milkmaid for thy sake; My lips should milk thee, and thy milk should be Sack possets, and sweet Syllibubs to me; Into a Cow by Iove wert thou bettaid, I'd stroke thy tetts, and be thy darie-maid; The god must needs change me in changing you, If thou wert Iò I'd be Argus too. Within the wood, when thou walk'st here and there, The chaste Calisto's storie makes me fear; Up to the Sun if thou but lift thy eyes, I'd read the peevish Clytie's jealousies; Thinking thou may'st by Phoebus be preferr'd, I think on her who was alive interr'd, Interr'd alive should'st thou (my Dearest) be, For Phoebus sake, as was Lencothoe; Surely the mournful Sunne to solemnize His fairest well-beloveds obsequies; Would weep upon thy grave, (to sprinkle thee) Showres of Nectar to eternity; Stil'd from thy Corps then would arise from thence Nothing but perfumes and sweet frankincense; From thy dew'd grave still there would flow agen, Odours and incense for the gods of men. When e're I see the kindled fire flame, I think how Iove unto AEgina came; Though I am not so hot a flame as Iove, His flame was fire, mine's the flame of love; And if good lawes shall stand in force with us, We will beget the world an AEacn • : I feare all shapes what e're appear to me, Least in't some god be come to ravish thee; It was a Bull that took Europa up, Bright Theophane makes me dread the tup; The shepheard mindes me of Mnemosyne. The Eagle, Astria makes me think on thee, Still I suspect when e're from thee I go, Some rival counterfeit Amphitrio, For Laeda's sake I hate the lovely Swan, I hate not only animals but man. Nay when I drink a Cup of wine to thee, I think how Bacchus took Erigone. Should'st thou be crusted up like Niobe, And turn'd to marble like the Parian she, In Guido's Temple hugg'd by th' noble boy,) Thou couldst not lover want, nor they love's joy; For should'st thou die, and o're thy grave have set, Thy heavenly featur'd carved counterfeit; Hard by thy tomb I'd stand immoveably, And on thy image ever fix my eye, As if both eyes (too narrow flood gates) kept The moisture back, and I too slowly wept; Like marble I'd sweat, each pore should drop a tear, Tear after tear, till dry as dust I were; Then should my body into ashes fall, Black ashes, mourners for thy Funeral; Sweet Cupid, Sexton to this dust of mine, Should throw in dust to dust, my dust to thine; Should'st thou not love me whil'st thou livest here, But give thy heart to some one other where, If thou t' Elysium 'fore thy servant went, I'd make thy very Statue penitent, So strange a mourner for thy death I'd be. Thy tombe or ghost should fall in love with me, Wert thou to passe over Cocytus ferrie In that old Sculler, Grandsire Charons wherrie, The wrizled gray-beard for his hapennie Would lick his lips, and ask a kisse of thee; On those black lakes should'st thou but drop a tear, Styx and Cocytus would run crystal clear; The Cells of darknesse shouldst thou go to view, The scorched souls would 'gin their Barichu; If with one kiss great Iove thou would'st but please, Ixion's ransom'd and the Bellides; Heaven would readmit poor Tantalus, And grant reprieve to th' Pirate Sisyphus: For one sweet smile from thy pure lip can quell The wrath of furies, and redeem half hell; Oh my Amanda thou'rt so rate a she, There's none hath features to compare with thee, Should the age present, and the ages past Club for a beautie, they'l come short at last; I'le name no Helen snatch't by old Priam's boy, For whom a ten yeares siedge was laid at Troy, With so great slaughter both of horse and men; Those we count trulls would have been handsome then: I'le name no Hero, for the stars have blest us, With better beauties then that starre of Sestus; Holland's Diana, and another Moon, The faire Philippa, like the Sunne at noon. A heavenly daughter of Northumberland's, Young Cappell's glory, and the Lady Sands, That blithe smooth Madam; had I thee alone Amanda, I'd enjoy these all in one; Thou art a matchlesse peerlesse Paragon, One that an Angel might well doat upon; Had that comparison bin made by thee, Which once was made by proud Cassiope, Those water Fairies the Neriades. Sending no horrid Monster from the seas, To eate up beasts, and men; would proudly tell, That thy sweet Beautie was their paralell; Or to a rock suppose thou chained were, To be devoured by a Monster there, As was the heav'nly faire Andromeda, The rock would moulder or else melt away: With thy sweet self, as deeply fall'n in love; Each Angel would thy Guardian Perseus prove: With lesse presumption then Antigone, Heaven's proud Iuno can't compare with thee; No, my Amanda, for I dare prefer, Thee 'sore the stately Queen o'th' Thunderer, Fore her and comely Venus both together, Though Iove bring bolts, and Mars his gauntlet hither.

On Amanda's dimples. ONce more I'm fall'n into an extasie! How I could gaze, gaze till I've lost my eye Gaze on those dimples in thy cheekes and chin, Where the three Graces play at in and in: Three sacred vaults within whose rosie wombes, Sweet Venus all her pretty smiles entombes; Babes which born laughing, laughing live and die Then are interr'd within thy rosarie: They haunt thy lovely cheeks, and here and there, Their smiling ghosts appearing disappear; Each from his head hath hanging down to's feet, A lilie leafe in stead of's winding sheet; Shrouded in damask rose from top to toe, About thy dimples they passe to and fro, Still to thy dimples little shades do come, Thinking thy dimples their Elysium; And I my selfe finde such an Eden there, Such heav'nly features, Heav'n so ev'ry where, That with a willing heart I could resigne, My clay to th' dust and shut my dying eyne; Might my soul be when from my Corps it flies, Amanda's Saint, and she its Paradise.

To Amanda on her black browes. THou'rt faire and black, thy browes as black as jett, But ne'er were black and white so lovely met, The Moor's black Prince would court thee, there's in you The English Beautie and the Negro's too: I've read of Goshen which the light did cover, When a thick darknesse was all Egypt over, Here's a transcendent wonder, here is ev'n, Cimmerian darknesse in the face of Heav'n: Enamel'd black upon thy browes is set, Which other Madams do but counterfeit; And those black patches which our Ladies weare, To set their lilie out, is in thy haire: Nor do thy twinkling eyes like two, clear, bright Faire starres appear, 'cause in thy browes 'tis night, No but thy browes because so nigh they stand With thy bright eyes, are Sun-burn't, black't and tan'd, Thy browes do mourn, and sit it is if e're Thy ey'n, Amanda, shed one single tear; • fe're thou weep 'st but once, although thou never, Weep more, 'tis sit thy eye-brows mourn for ever.

To his best friend Mr. T.H. True SIR, THe Countrey Gentleman who never mist, When he walk't out his Faulc'ner at his fist: Who once besides his hounds was able, To keep a pack of servants at his Table; Now trudges through the streets in any fashion, To a Committee, and returnes in passion, Chewing his lips for cud; it is not hard, To know'n by's silver-haire malignant beard, And his delinquent boots, in which he goes, Wetshod i'th' sweat of's dirtie mellow toes; 'Tis pity troth such good old Gentlemen, Are forc't to wear their old boots o're agen. Nay Sir, the Prelates beg, his Lordships grace, Walks with a scurvie Sequestration face, The good old honest Priest is grown so poor, He sayes his grace at another mans door; You may know'n by the reliqus of's old Querp-coat, By's Canonical rags he's a Priest you must know't, His girdle is greasie, he doth all to befat it, Black puddings he hangs, and sauciges at it, Though once he preach't well, and learnedly spoke, Now he hath not so much as a pig in a poke. True Sir, the Clergie suffers, none can teach, The truth with freedome, or with courage preach, In stead of some good worthy pious Knox, W' have nothing now but a Iack in a box; The people without life or soul lie dead, As under th' aspect of Medusa's head; The Gentrie groans, the Nobles muzled are, The heavie taxes make the Bumpkins swear, And Aradesmen break; the truth o'th' storie's this, The times are bad, and all things are amisse; It is an iron age, an age that swarmes With vipers, yet had I within mine armes My lovely sweet one, that same Fairest she, Whose love accepts my bribing Poetrie; Pretty Amanda's kissing Alchymie, Can make this age a golden age to me.

To my Noblest and ever-Honoured friend, Sir Thomas Leventhorp, Baronet. SIR, ME thinks 'tis time to know the joyes of love, 'Toward great Hymens altar time to move; And now no longer ward, 'tis fit you be Guardian to some transcendent Deitie, And make some wealthie beauty fortunate, Not only in the share of your estate And honours, but i'th' richer treasury Of your faire person, and your sparkling eye, Where a bright, radiant soul displayes Its chaster twinkling flames, like the Sunnes rayes In a clear Crystal font, when Zephyrus That modest, luke-warme, Virgin-incubus Makes the sweet Nimph hold out (the lovers blisse) Cool trembling lips to take a passant kisse: 'Tis pity that so rare a soul should be Confin'd to thought, and in the Nunnerie Of its own lodge, lead a monastick life, Barr'd of all Consort joyes, which a good wife Diffuseth like an Amber-box, wherein Unguents, balme, spice, and perfum'd oile have been Closely imprison'd, which now first take th' aire, Like myrrhe and spikenard, when they bruised are, And vie their odours with the violet, The roses and carnations which are set In my Amanda's cheeks, whose early breath I'th' morning is an Antidote to death; Sweeter then Cynamon, like Frankincense, Preservative against the pestilence Of melancholy fits, the dull disease Of nods, brown studies, and such plagues as these; 'Tis fit so rare a bodie be possest By two faire souls; so faire a soul be blest With two faire bodies too; may both your minde And bodie pleasure in its likenesse finde; May she you choose be such, whose shape and feature Shall speak her goddess rather then a creature; May she be Eccho to your worth, in which I fully wish she may be rarely rich, In whatsoe're doth Admiration move, In all the dainties of her sexe and love, As for a single life, 'tis nothing lesse Then Hermitage amongst a wildernesse Of women, who do vaile their rarities, Or else are fruitlesse or forbidden trees; Besides, he studies Nature best 'tis known, Who hath a Physick-garden of his own; Which is most state, anothers land to till And plough in common, or be Lord at will In a Free-hold? Nay, then consider, Sir, In robbing Orchards what the troubles are; Though now from climbing private walls you free Yet think what tis that tempts to th'robberie; Youth and faire lovely fruit, though ne'er so good And clean, sometimes the chastest flesh and blood Must needs be bobbing, now to Tantalize, And alwayes live by feeding of the eyes, Is a poor silly banquet, on the thin, Small, saplesse species that are served in, By colourd atomes, which an Elephant Is as soon cloid with as the smallest Ant. I know you have a Martial warlike heart, Your looks speak valour, which 'tis fit y' impart To the next age, and though you'd rather make Your sword eate men, then have a woman take Your noble spirits pris'ners, 'yet to give Birth to an heire, and that your name may live, Do like your fathers, left you guilty be O'th' murther of your blood and familie.

Nothing like his love to Amanda. GO ye great Ranters, into th' wilde embraces Of your stew'd Madams; lick their varnisht faces, Where slimie snailes have crept; brag of the fee, Wherewith they bribe your spending lecherie; Then swash it to the Taverne, and confesse That lust maintaines your pride and drunkenness. Go, you mad City-Huffs, who fright young heirs, And fill those Lack-wits with strange jealous feares Of your pretended valour make fair showes, But dare as little as they to come to blowes; Go with your Guardian Hectors who maintain (Some petty booty, some small prize to gaine,) A windfall Ladies honour, keep for pay The old Troy-ruines of some Hecuba; Jumble her bones within her shrivled skin, And take the mud-walls of her carcase in; Hug rotten Countesses which pockeaten are, As if their Master-Coffin-wormes were there, Who for a legacie would swear 'twere sweet To spend o'th' stinking Corps i'th' winding sheet. Go, cursed Misers, dammed o're and o're, For grinding the lean faces of the poor; Morgage your carking soules and bodies to A Usurer as mercilesse as you: To fill your bags seek and scrape every where, Dig to the centre, and die beggars there; Go cheat and over-reach only to fill, And take up paper with a tedious Will; Create trouble to th' Executors to prize Your wealthie goods, and pay out legacies, Then your heir laughing, play at Hoop-all-hid As once yonr rustie cossin'd money did: Depart in hopes to be sav'd after all, For the repairing an old Hospital, Or some poor School-masters augmentation, An exhibition to some Corporation To set young Tradesmen up or so, then die Rich in your gifts, and poor in charitie. Go, ye State-leaches, in your blessings curst, Sweetly suck blood and money till you burst, Fleece a whole Kingdom, then like silly sheep, Which butchers in some fat'ning pastures keep Only for slaughter, amongst cut-throats fall, Pil'd, poll'd and snip't, shier'd and cashier'd of all, Empsons and Dudleyes, Speakers and men o'th chair, Spoil'd as the Sultans griping Basha's are. Go, ye Court-spaniels, quest in honours sent, Perfum'd and polish't with a complement, Fawne and shake tailes to Ladies, keep them fed With bribing viands of the banquet-bed, With them their little dogs and Cupids play, Till you be crack't and broken too as they, Then your hope's lost, you slighted and forgot, Down quickly to some Countrey goal, and rot; But say, your Princes Favourite you be, Grace't with the loose-hamm'd Courtiers knee, Know there is Autumne in the midst o'th' spring • 'th' Court, and if the smiling face o'th' King In which your honour lives, be overcast With clouds, you only blossome to a blast. Go, plodding Students, ramble through the Arts, Learn all that science to the soul imparts, Let notions huddle, swim and multiplie, Till they do muster into heresie; Receive those Centaur's and Chimera's in, Which monster-like against true Reason sinne; Go crack your braines with Elenches which are bred By swarmes within a crazie brooding head, Bring to the wrack your judgement, reason, sense, To screw a truth from non-Intelligence; Infect thy wits, with buzzing thoughts which flie About like gnats, and sting out Reasons eye; Reade errors till thou squint on truth; and make Unity double and treble seem, so mistake, And then at last be serv'd like th' Logick elfe, Prov'd two egges three, supp'd on the third himself; What a great businesse 'tis! what strength we spend, What wit and time, all to no other end 〈◊◊〉 parts and words, and wrangle still, As 〈◊◊〉 , we needs must prove free-will! To hold predistimation or decrees, Or some such ridling, needlesse points as these! What an act 'tis to write a book, then die, And be confuted by posterity! These are sad heavy thoughts of working brains, Most fruitlesse projects, yet require paines; The Huffes and Hector do contrive and plot To hug a Madam or a pottle-pot. Both which they love alike, although their drink And wine be sweet, perhaps their Madams stink: The Miser toyles, and all his carking care Can seldom purchase from his heire a teare, Nay, whil'st he labours, strives and gaspes for breath The frolick wag laughs the old fool to death, The Statesman hatches Cuckows egges, gets in A stock, then bever-like dies for his skin: The Courtier lives on hopes, his Princes frown Till the next smile kills him, and casts him down, Still his preferment is adulterate, Subject alike to honour and to hate: The Scholar keeps a stir t' immortalize His name, tumbles and tosses Libraries, Puts on his doting winter-rug at night, Sits up till two, two or three lines to write. Well, well, Amanda, be but rul'd by me, We'l spend our time in no such foolerie, May I but make thee Dearest to my minde, We will leave children, and not books behinde.

To Amanda supposing and wishing she were with childe. WIth what delight and joy, me thinks I see Thy swelling wombe increase its treasurie! What a sweet poison 'twas! if all maids past Fifteen, could themselves poison so, how fast They'd kick up heels, be venom'd in their beds; And murther those Chimera's Maidenheads; How stately my Amanda looks! she seems to me Diana in her crescent Majestie. What frozen creature is't, won't wish as soon As Phebe's spi'd himself the man i'th' Moon? What Virgin thy faire Lunar globe can see, And not straight wish to be i'th' full like thee? I wish, my Dearest, I could heare thee say, The little boy kicks, willing to make his way Into his fathers armes: Oh may he be His own sweet mothers picture, not like me Ah could I heare it, [I have often smil'd To think upon't] Amanda's great with childe! She looks within a mon'th; would past all feare I once might say, Welcome down my stairs, my Deare; Would thou were't church't, and the good wives were come A gossipping! Now 'twil be guest by some The maine thing that I wish implicitly Is this, would I were brought to bed with thee.

MISCELLANEA Poetica: Carmina exequialia, Epigrammata & diversi generis Poëmata colligata in Manipulum; cui Annectuntur Epistolae, ROSAMVNDAE HENRICO, ET HENRICI ROSAMVNDAE, Quas clarissimus olim Poëta nostras MICHAEL DRAITON Armiger Nostratibus dedit; Carminibus Latinis redditae; Quarum quae secunda est OVIDIANO plané stylo nobilitatur ab Elegantissimo & Honoratissimo Iuvene, Dno EDVARDO MONTACUTIO.

Di • quis Patronus, quis nunc erit? — Nos tamen haec agimus, tenuique in pulvere sulcos Ducimus. —

LONDINI, Excusum Anno Dom. 1653.

Ornatissimo viro, M•o. ALEXANDRO AKEHVRST, S. S. & Individuae Trin. Col. Cantab. Vice-Praesuli Dignissimo.

NE essem ingratitudinis [quâ non est turpior naevus] vel diutulè notatissimus labe, paginas hasce, nominis tu • & virtutis breve monumentum, tibi, (Gravissime vir) tutelaris Angeli mei fidelis cultor, non imprudenter, tun bonâ, cum veniâ, dedicaverim; Nec revera naihi t • ore meo colliquescere solet, qui memoriam adimat, Galectites, nec socordiâ seu papaveris lacte, consopitus discubui, ut qui tantae tuae Beneficentiae indormire potuerim; saciliùs utique decrevero, benè merenli non omninò deberi gratias, quàm à me non usquequ aque pro virili meo & obnixiùs animo rependi: Beneficia vestra, non adeò sinam deperdita esse, ut quae simul ac data sint, labantur illicò & avolent; Humanitas vestra, tot literis & characteribus se expressit, tot sententias aureas est locuta, ut, si in me esse • , amori tuo & Bonitatis gloriae, praesens aetas, nec comma sufsigcret, nec periodum posteritas. At ero ingenii mei egreg • us Gnatho si eas me putem honori tuo, hoc dispalato carmine, columnas ponere, quas Poëtae majorum Gentium Moecenatibus suis, — Quas nec Jovis ira nec ignis, &c.

Quinimè tam diversum cogito, & è contrà persentiscam h • nc Camoenam meam, (si vita suppetat) iisdem auspiciis tuis superfuturam quibus olim est nata, nec enim agere potestillam animam quam à te hausit, quam & puram insuper & vivacem conservas. Gloriabor tutiùs tuo nomine, quam si singulus propemodum versus stricto gladio se defenderet, & quaeque pagina acutissime mucronata frameas pugionesque minitaret.

At quidego tibi Heliconem cui nihil sapit praeterq •••• anima Saturni & Jovis Spiritus qui Chymicorum — Caput inter nubila condis. Et adea tantum lectionem adhibes, quae scribuntur calamis, à Philosophorum Aquilâ & Phoenice desumptis? Verim Doctrissime Vir, nonsunt genus hominum inter se t •• omninò dissimile Poëta & Chymicus; Hic 〈◊〉 Aphronitrum & Salem gemmae, ille Veneres & slorem Salis; Clibanos hic furnòsque & equisimum ille Pegasum & mellificia Attica; Hic venenum & philtrum jactas, ille quesvis in Cupidinis ignem, imi potest in patibulum agere; Hicherbarum cineribus pristi • as sormas & 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 induit, Ille etiam jubet ut vivat post funera virtus, Sac neque vei cineri glora ferò venit, Quin & homines facit Poëta, quam diù manserit mortalitas, immortales; pulcherrimas fabulas hic & ille ventilat, esque 〈…〉 , quae veritatem magìs significare, quám exprimere videntur verisimile; jam verò etiam, quicquid id est quod ostentavit Agrippa, iste scilicet Simon Magus vester, quod medicorum omnium praestantissimus Theophrastus, quod Hispanus ille cum campanula, quod illa denique Maga Virgiliana. Quae se carminibus promisit solvere mentes, Quas velit, ast aliis duras immittere curas, Sistere aquam fluviis, &c. Quantácunque sint, à nobilissimis Chymicis, vel effecta, vel excogitata & ficta tantummodò, non minora a certè prodigia, nec veritatis ratione impari inventa, attribuebantur olim & etiam nunc hodie ascribuntur Poëtis. Vtrique in monte quodam sublimi & aureo

Quaerunt quod nusquam est gentium, reperiunt tamen. Notum est quod effutiunt labeones quique, utriusvis facultatis studiosos degeneratum iri in pannosos mendiculos, at illi nequam homines 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 qui otiosam pecuniam, nummulorum aeruginem, & captensularum sordes, Chymicorum Poëtarúmque sapientiae praefexunt invincibilis ignorantiae rei, me judice, damnabuntur ad Plutonem; quo nimirum in pretio fuerint, quam ubique gentium cohonestati & celebres, satìs eloqui possunt in Pandulphi Cathedra Rheginus, pro Archia Poëta ipse Cicero.

At ne hîc molem struam, Chymicorum Poetarúm que laudes accumulando, inclyta nomina recensendo, & percurrendo virtutes reciprocas, Argumenti & amoris duplici catenâ, eos breviter astringam; qui etenim magis continuò invicem ad complexum currant & oscula, quàm (fraterrima capita Gemellorum) Poëta & Chymicus? uterque nimirum naturae primogenitus; hic materno gremio delectatur; ille matris subuculá involvebatur delicatulus pusio; & — Post obitum supremaque funera. — inter flores & herbas utriusquc circumvolabit animula, hortulorum illa, haec Parnassi apecula, vagula, blandula;

Quare (Spectatissime Vir) ut comitatem tuam & mansuetudinem taceam (de quibus permulta nunc essent dicenda) si haec cerebri mei aqua stillatitia percoletur in capitello tuo, si lagunculam è doliolo nostro, si pusillum hoc & levidense munusculum, bono animo acceperis, Humanitas tua erit mihi 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 , Et precabor superos, ut Adech tuus & bonus Daemon, Antimonii Ar • ana ac novum indies 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 tibi suggerat, ut idem ille Cherubin coelestis tibi ipsi, qui & ipsi olim Paracelso opituletur jugiter, & semper adsit ad manus usque eo dum à coelo avoles spagyrico ad Aniada Paradisi.

VALE. Amplissimo nomini vestro perpetua observantia & officio devotissimus. N. H.

In obitum gravissimi senis Dni Doctori-COLLINS, Theologiae Professoris Regii Cantabrigiae. AMica, (Lector) suneri pedissequa Attendat aemula lacryma, Viduaque mater lugeat Academia Sponsi ad senilis naenias, Et veste nubilâ induantur lugubres Ecclesiastici chori; Non janu • e Libitina cardines quatit Non ostium excussit modò, Sed ausa vel scientiarum Regium Evertere monasterium. Compressus est silentio sidissimus Propheta & Interpres Dei Veteranus emeritús que linguae Hebraica Professor clinguis silet. Exhaustus est ditissimus Theologiae Thesaurus, & Oraculum. Casús que jam tandem per omnes mors rudis Heterocliton flexit vagum. Variatur ille quem monoptoton diù Credidimus invariabile; • niqua certè mortis absurdae manus Hominem ferire tam senem, Veneranda fatis occubuit Antiquitas Obiit senectus non senex.

Somnus mortis imago. STabat in Eliaco, nebulis vestita, sacello, Foemina poenè suo nescia stare loco, Sydera su adebant circumlucentia somnum, Miscebátque suas Cynthia amica faces; Visa est nutare & pulvinar quaerere mento, Inque suo sirm • labra sepulta sinu; Nox fuit haec, laevâ nigrum est amplexa puellum, Et puer ad dextram qui stetit albus erat, Illa fuit somni, fuit alter a mortis imago, Sic morti semilis somnus, & alba nigris,

To his loving friend M T. G. upon covering his head in the Colledge-Butteries. WHat is the matter Tom, thou 'rt grown so old, Hoarie and white o'th' sudden? fear'st thou cold Salt brackish rheumes should falling on thy chest Thy windpipe rot, thy spungie lungs infest? Yes, taplash breeds catarrhs, and thereupon The Butler needs must starch thy night-cap on; Tom, thou wert sudl'd o're night, and 'twas for fear, Thou should'st i'th' morning drink too much small beer After so hot an Orgyan sacrifice, 'Twas wholesome moral Physick not to size. O're night thou know'st it was thy fatal lot, To mug, to quaffe, carouse and bownce the pot; Next morne I hast'ned to the butterie-hatch, How much Col-tisse thou'dst drink I meant to watch; But when I came, I view'd, look't every where, The duce of any Tom or heal was there. First from the bottom of the Tables I spi'd, And upwards ev'ry name I straightly ey'd; Each name a round o'th' ladder seem'd to me Then come to th' blank which put m' in minde of thee; It emblem'd out a thief, who 'fore he dies Lookes like thy head with's night-cap o're his eyes: How! proud and coy! Prethy now what do'st aile, That like the wenches thou must mask and vaile, And hide thy face (like them in heat of blood,) In such a daintie, fine, white sarc'net hood? Way with that muster, shew thy face, let's see't: Prethee leave off doing penance in a sheet. Thou look'st like some old scurvie Countrey-Hag, That makes a biggen of an oat-meal bag, Whose face is mask'd with chin-cloth fine and gay, To ride on Dick or Brown o'th' market-day: Thou 'rt like a Corps old women have laid out, Whose meagre visage is cover'd with a clout; I think they'l shroud thee too with time and bayes; For they complain how thou hast spent thy dayes; Die, Tom, in these bad times? thou must despair Of being interr'd with Common-prayer. Rise prethee, feare not, thou shalt namelesse be, Rascal, dost think, we can't new christen thee; Nay in the old way too boy, and rather Then not, I mean to be thy Godfather: 'Tis but small charges Sirrah; there needs no fee Unto the Midwife or the Nurcerie; Nor need I give my Golson some fine boon, A Coral-whistle with bells, or silver-spoon: When thou art grown, canst go alone and prattle, Please thy Nurse and Godfather with tittle tattle; I'le give thee schooling; for thy books I'le pay, Horne-books and Primmers, childe, to sling away; Then thou shalt ask me blessing, pretty toy, I'le stroke th' oth' head, God blesse thee, rise my boy; Then chuck th' oth' chin, and with a Godfathers grace, 'Tis my good boy, here's for thee, learn apace: Now if the black-coat come and cat'chize thee; Answer him M. or N. Sir, T. or G, If urgent still he ask thee, what's thy name? Conjure and mum, crie, Oh Sir, Yes, that same. But heark thee Tom, hast lost thy Sirname quite? Wert thou degraded like a new dub'd Knight, Cashier'd with good Sir Hal, Sir Iames, Sir Iohn, Who had their Honours dated fourtie one, Whose pride by act of State was made a sinne, Calling the last edition of titles in? Stay th' next Platonick fourty one, and then For some few yeares you shall be Knights agen Thou i'th' mean while (it is an honourable word Amongst the Hunch-backs) shalt be call'd my Lord: Or else some Carter, rather then have none, Shall lash and name thee, Robbin, Hob or Rhoan; Yes, yes, thoud'st make a Stallion rare, To earne thy Master Clod some groat's a mare, Then for thy motions Rhe, ho, but will do, The Aldermans Thiller thy name-sake too. And then all day to have thy Tutor sing, Lash thee and whistle, (then rogue) fresh grasse i'th' spring; Yes and i'th' winter-time to have a maw, To feed on hawme of pease and barley-straw; Then draw up hill, and when the cart goes dead, To be well-pun'd with whips i'th' slanck or head, And then thy Mastet when thou'st spent thy force, To clap thy buttocks with Gra-mercie-horse. But prethy, Tom, tell what the reason is, Thou'rt harness't in this met amorphosis? They say that thou wert mad, horne-mad, and now Thou wear'st a kinde of Bondgrace like a Cow. Heaven blesse thee, my best chicken, I dare say Thou wer't unkindly us'd, who will say nay? For troth I know thy heart and temper well, 'Tis plain and easie for the world to spell; Open and free, and lodg'd within a breast, Wherein no swelling envious serpents neast; It alwayes in a grateful posture lies Thy loving friends most ready sacrifice; And from thy bosome should he it command, Thy bosome straight lies open to his hand: I know thee well, I've read thee o're and o're; Thou only want'st two or three faces more; One for thy publike use, t' Hippocritize, A Chappel-mask, a garb and Sunday-eyes. But let that falshood passe, thou know • st I know The men o'th' world are riddles, so let them go, My civil charity doth speak it sinne, To rifle others closets or look in; Yet if their hearts were hell, I'd never doubt To venture in, to fetch the devil out; For some have thought the worst they can of you, Who dare I'm sure no worse then they dare do; But I'le not preach in verse, left some of those Should envie me, who can't do't well in prose; No, Tom, at present thou my theam shalt be, And as men name a text, so I'le name thee; As they do little or nought to th' purpose say, So I'le but name thee just, and then away; And rather then thou still shalt nothing be, But Entelechia and haecceitie; I'le name thee Cambridge-Tom, and of thee vaunt, As they of Munster-Iack, and Iohn of Gaunt; Thomas Thomasius thou shalt be, Or Thompson of the Danish progenie; Or Thom ap Thomas like that Welch device. And link of names, ap Owen, ap Hugh, ap Rice; Or else with them I'le borrow from the Iewes, Name thee as they the sonnes of Rabbi's use, Rabbi-ben-Majim, who Majims loines came from, So will I name thee Rabbi Tom-ben-Tom.

An ELEGIE on the death of Mr. Frear Fellow of Trin. Coll. in Cambridge, who died of a Consumption. AT length upon the wing, haste to possesse Th' eternal mansions of true happinesse; To Saints and Angels go, and Fellow be Amongst those Doctors of Divinity; Long were't admitted, and now sit it were Thou take thy journey to continue there; Pitty thy soul should be no otherwise Employ'd, then to hold open dying eyes, And yet how loath she sled, as if sh'had rather Stay'd here to keep thy skin and bones together. Some few dayes longer hadst thou drawn thy breath, Thy frighted friends had taken thee for death; For which thy meagre shape as well might passe, As that which holds the spade and houre-glasse; Thou look'st as if thou'dst past through Chir'rgions hall A live Anatomie, the Belfree wall Doth nothing ne'er so grim a shape present: So thy kinde soule, till all its oile was spent, Glimmer'd i'th' socket, as if when 't went out Thy friends should be i'th' dark, and all about The scritchowls of the sable-winged night, Hither in errors clouds would make their slight; Thus whil'st thou seems to be Iohs living story, Thy death's head was our best Memento mori. Alas poor thread-bare, worne out Skeleton, With one short rag of flesh scarce cloath'd upon, More bare then in the wombe, unto thy Urne How truly naked did thy Corps return? What stranger who had seen thy shriv'led skin, Thy thin, pale, gastly face, would not have been Conceited he had seen a ghost i'th' bed New risen from the grave, not lately dead! Those things in vaults, whose gently touched shrine Falls into dust, look fresher farre then thine. Which was so dry, as if thy carcase were For many yeares embalm'd and buri'd there; Who e're had argu'd that thou ne'er would'st die, Would have disputed very probably: At least he might have made this topick good. Thou wert immortal, 'cause not flesh and blood. But we who know thou spak'st so many tongues, Will cease to wonder at thy wasted lungs; And from thy losse of flesh, it was not fit, We will conclude the wormes should feed on it. 'Twas pity such a piece to th' grave was hurl'd, For th' curious volume of thy lesser world An Enoch-like Translation fitter were, Then Critick death for an Interpreter: Thy learning was so rich, that I would dare [Were it hereditary, I thy heire] To spend with wealthie Caesars, and out-vie Europes most learned living library; Clad all in sackcloth if I were to mourn In dust and ashes [like a soul forlorn] Could these externals make me more divine, Or adde to Piety, I'd call for thine. 'Tis pitie nature did but lend thee us, Give, and then take away her jewel thus; Alas! when she perceiv'd how suddenly, Dull counterfeits would all in fashion be, And gems that are the right at nought be set, She lock't thee up within her cabinet. Sowe were losers all. But mark his end, How like a traveller to's loving friend, He just at's farewel takes a parting cup, Biddeth us all adieu, and drinks it up; Reader, 'twas to thy health, and though in beer Yet prethy kindly pledge him in a tear.

An ELEGY on the death of Mr. Crane, Apothecary in Cambridge. AShes to ashes! who! our AEsculape! Our Cambridge-Chiron! can't such skill escape? Such Peons die! strange! dust to dust! who is't! What noble Crane, that golden Alchymist? Is't he! then proud Dame Vesta certainly Will vaunt those atomes to eternitie. Swell, boast, look big, and in her womb 'Teem him an everlasting, growing tomb; Embalme him Reader in thy memorie, Shroud him with silver-blossom'd rosemarie; With pennie-royal, marigold-flowers, And yellow saffron, embleme out what powers Of Sol and Luna in his coffers lie, Forc't in by his great Art and Industrie: 'Tis fit this great Preservative of formes Should never want a med'cine 'gainst the wormes: Tir'd with dull elements, he's gone from hence T'extract and clothe his soul with quintessence; There is no all-heal, but a funeral; All things before are mix't with wormwood, gall, And vineger; Now he is gone from us; Tis benedictus without carduus; No sulphur tinctures, tartar, no disease; 'Tis lignum vitae, and no aloes. His house and shop since death hath overcome, Is furnished with Caput mortuum, Let your Alembicks freely crystallize, Fill gallipots with catarrhs from your eyes, Or rather wipe them, let them not be mistie, He's gone for Manna or for manus Christi.

On the immature death of his hopeful friend, Mr. Alexander Rookesby. 1. MOst cruel death! be so precise? Take no excuse! Could not thy nature, nor Thy well promising youth apologize! 2. This fit of sicknesse should have been, The smallest stop, Only a comma to thy health. A short deliquium, then life agen. 3. What so unskilful in Orthographie? Illiterate fate? To put a period thus, Where but a colon at the most shonld be! 4. Was't not unmannerly in death Before his tale Were told, or he had spoke His better sentence out, to stop his breath! 5. O'th' dawning of his life I look, As on a short Brief preface, or a kinde salute To th'gentle Reader, but w' have lost the book. 6. 'Tis fit each Scholar o're his Herse, Weep Elegies, Nature was scanning him, As though she meant to make a golden verse. 7. But death instead of long Hexameters, Making Adonicks, Served a warrant in Which fate had writ in short-hand characters, 8. So left the learn'd Hippocrates, (Giving a dash Rude Ignoramus like) To make a guesse and spell out the disease. 9. Himself read only his Contents, The Chapter must Be read at's grave, while down His coffin ives drill watrie monuments. 10. Farewel, farewel, dear heart, Is't thine, my friend? I bid this longest farewel to, Or rather is't my own with which I part? 11. Alas! good soul, thou'rt gone; And were it not That I should with my death, I'd wish 'twere time to follow on. 12. Nor would I any other knell To drive away Bad spirits from my grave, Only the Eccho of thy passing bell.

An Epithalantium sacred to the Nuptials of the truly Religious Lady, the Lady A. H. and the Valiant and Worthy Sir W. W. Knight. JOy, most victorious, Madam; pardon me, If I recal a past solemnity; 'Tis a review of joy, which is a dish Not like some strange, out-landish fowle or fish, Or some new-fangled sauce, some bo-peep meat, Which th' Antipodes, and we by turnes do eat, Some sullen cates which out of season flie, To tempt the Ladies with their raritie; But like your Conserves, with more choice delight. Feeds all the humours of the appetite, Playes with a curious palate, and from thence. Leaps to the eye, then to another sense, So doth enrich the soul, till it surmize, The body an Elizian Paradise: This wealthie joy, which at the marriage-tide Sparkles i'th' Bridegrooms eyes, perfumes the Bride With her own cheerful spirits, till they dart Laughter into her spouses ticklish heart; This balsame joy, great Lady, I present In a reunction, to renew its sent, And call its quickning vertues out, which lie Not dead, but dormant in their treasurie; I do but rub the herbe, and wake from thence Such fragrant savours, as may feast the sense, Tell you what flowers in your posie are, Repeat some notes in short-hand character. Then pardon, Madam though I come so late, Ioy's never out of season, still in date, Where love is fresh, joy never can decay, Though yeares be spent, 'tis still the wedding day. Then, great triumphant Madam, once again, Ioy to your second Conquest, you have ta'ne Two noble Warriours Captives in your breast, Nature hath ransom'd one, the other's prest To succeed pris'ner; oh blest captive he That's pris'ner in so chaste a Nunnerie! 'Twas pity since your first was forc't to yield, Your second stay'd so long, as if the field Were voted by some pious bosome-law, For so long time Sir Simons Golgotha; Good wife! whose body for some years must be Her first Deare's charnel house, his Calvarie. But now that cloud of Funeral Obsequies Hath spent it self in teares, and in your eyes Mirth gins to startle and resume its seat; Fresh blushes vault in triumph, smiles curveat: All speak your Conquest of the Conquerour, What a commanding Amazon you are; Unto whose service Champions are drawn forth, Upon the Altar of whose glorious worth, Great Hymen bids me offer sacrifice, And th' god of warre hath done devotion twice, Stately Bellona courts your Ladiship, And am'rous Mars fights duels at your lip: You take your Spouse in pris'ner by your charmes, Sir William takes you in by force of armes, And then such volley shots of kisses flie, Would tempe and ravish sworn Virginity. Now may those chaster lips so closely meet, At each salute as if your soules did greet, And since Sir William here hath taken quarter, 'Tis for his honour to be Knight o'th' garter: Nor will I leave him there; no from above The Heavens greet you with new joyes of love; Ioyes which must alwayes needs be fresh to you, Where Christ to both is Bride and Bridegroom too; Within whose heart the lilie o'th' valley growes, That cluster'd Camphire, that sweet Sharon-rose, That bundle of myrrhe, he whom the Virgins love, Whose scarlet lips drop honey as they move. Oh may your Dear Beloved, kisse is Vine With kisses of his mouth, more sweet then wine; So shall you spread your fruitful branch, and see Your children like the plants o'th' Olive-tree. These are my hearty wishes, and you know Although I am no great Divine, Not only rich but poor mens coine will go, So may these prayers of mine.

To Mr. Iohn Mors, Merchant in King Lynne, on the death of Ms. A. Mors his wife. Mors in a Mors Christi. ALas, good Gentleman, hath that sweetest love That spouse of yours made out her last remove Hath death that great Knight-Errent, who doth play And dodge in's motions, here, there, every way, Checkmated you in taking of your Queen, Or is't a Sthale? No 'ts more, then be'nt o're seen, For now she's taken as your pawn, and when Your time is come, 'twill be check-mate agen; But i'th' mean while you're loser in a word, It is but setting another Queen o'th' board; Yet must you not begin the game anew, Till th' loser pay what for the l • st was due; Then 〈◊〉 Sir, for this six or seven yeares You must be daily paying summes of teares, And all your friends like faithful Clerks stand by T' help tell, lest for a tear you tell an eye. With you good S •• thrists common 'tis to mourn And weep at th'unconsiderable losse of worne, Old, decay'd b •• ks, whose Stoage is nothing mo • Then Haberdeen, poor Iohn, or Indigo; For which such streames th' prodigal humour sheds, That with your ships your eyes sink in your heads; Then, Sir, at what expence ought you to be, Your great misfortune will discover t'e; The best of all your vessels buldg'd and lost, To be recover'd by no charge or cost, Yonr family-rudder broke, and all your store Of spice and amber, your perfumes and ore, Thrown to the deep; for she was more to you, More then all these, your India, your Peru; If womens souls be Planets in the aire, And rule like potent Constellations there, Surely the Merchants wives will there reside, Darting kinde beams their husbands ships to guide; Then in your voyage if a storme arise, Lost in the clouds, look for her brighter eyes, And if a conduct Cynosure you see, Fall down, do homage and strike saile, 'tis she. She who whil'st living was more then your Star, Your heav'n on earth, a blessing greater farre: She that did make all beasts, fowle fish and men, As though she'd work th' Creation o're agen, Who wrought the starres into a Canopie, And in her Samplers taught Astrologie, Where th' Heavens face she made so bright appear, That Tycho might have read new 〈◊〉 there, Birds feather'd with her •• ik you'd swear did slie, Camels have past too through her needles eye; Saw you how the hath wrought Eves n •• ed thighs, You'd think, your self with her in Para life: Sh' hath made the Muses, Venus and her elfe, And faire Diana, too look like her selfe; Then the three Graces all so sweet and neat, That would •• ame Nature make a piece compleat, To •• vish and surprize the worlds eye, Hence she must take the patern to work it by: Then Io, Dan •• e, such pretty things, You'd swear they're made for gods, and not for Kings. In shadows she would vaile a physnomie, Then work a candle and light, to see it by; 'Tis true most women good at night-work be, But few or none so good, so neat as she. Admired fancies! Oh they are so good. That could she but have wrought in flesh and blood, And made those beauties speak, and something do, Surely she might have made my Mistris too; Nay she hath wrought a face, so much to th'life, I fear you'l court it for your second wife. Troth, Sir, who e're she be shall tempt your blood, See how she's like your first, so farre she's good; You'l make your self and all your friends rejoyce, To draw her picture in your second choice; And as i'th' Indias when you walk about, To finde some precious mineral out, Some richer rocks of gold, you search and trie, By signes and tokens where the veine doth lie: Be as exact in choosing your new Bride, Let your last wifes Idea be your guide; Let her faire visage teach your rambling eye To know the cloisters of a treasurie; If any like her be, know she's divine, And fall to work, for she's a wealthie mine, A pearle fit to be worne on Merchants necks, Like her the choicest Sampler of her sex, Oh could you finde but such a Matron out, So loving, chaste, prudent, discreet, devout; So constant a Colleague, so faire as she, Who is there that would not your Factor be? What Coward is't would not make out for her, Hoist sailes, and be a Merchant-venturer? All Courtship stormes, tempests and tides defie, Waving the flashes of her lightning eye; And though she threatned shipwrack, think it sport To split, and so swim naked to the Port. Then, Sir, be charie in your second choice, And let the pleasant musick of her voice Speak your first Consort, let your second be Your first wifes Monument, her Elegie; Fairly recruit, be the most blest of men, And in your second choose your first agen: So let your vertuous spouse survive in this, That you are wedded to her Emphasis.

On the Anniversarie of the fifth of Novem. to the Fellowes of Trin. Coll. 'TWere no absurdity if I should wish; You had dark lanthornes for a second dish, Sculls and deaths heads will not be out of season, To put you all in minde of Vaux his treason, Yet least poor Scholars should have nought to pick But bones, pray let your feast be Catholick And superstitious too, so you'l afford Some holy reliques, for Prince Arthurs board, Let your mirth this day, and your joyes be mickle, Had the powder gone off w'had been in a pickle, And which invention were most damnable, Pope or sal Peter had been disputable. But the plot was found, so by accident Wicked Pope Urban was Pope Innocent.

An ELEGY on the death of Dr. MEDCALFE, late Vice-Master of Trin. Col. in Cambr. MOst sacred Reliques, at whose Obsequies Devotion bids us weep not teares but eyes; 'Tis but weak sorrow which commands we must Sprinkle some water only to lay thy dust, And huddle up th' Atomes at so poor expence, As if we meant to sweep thy ashes hence; We'l rather spend our springs, and when we're dry Weep for more teares, another Elegie, Old Ennius shall preach no Funeral here, Nor makec, (without a sigh, a sob, or teare) Expose thee with a Diogenes staffe, Which serv'd the Cynick for an Epitaph; No we'l command the Muses to thy Herse; And make Apollo weep in golden verse. Parnassus cloth'd in mourning weeds to grace Thy Corps, shall stoop to give thee burying place: And so it for a Golgotha we'l have, And weep a Helicon into thy grave; Nay, it is fit when such great Doctors die, Parnassus should appear Mount-Calvarie. Then shed your grief and labour to out-vie The grave-stone sweating in its Agonie, With crystal jems, which from your eyes distil, In stead of dust the Sextons shovel fill, Speak and weep volumes at his sepulchre, As if in learned Medcalfs Coffin were The ruines of a famous Librarie, A Chronicle, a three-ages registrie; And since w' have lost this jewel-house, — This treasury, 'Tis fit each Scholar ware — A watrie pearl in's eye.

In obitum Revereudi Senis Doctoris R. METCALFI. Carmen Lapidarium. HEus! heus! morare qui sepulchra obambulas Siste paulisper gradum, Vbi semper aliquando sistes, Moraberis aeternùm semél. C •• cunque jam spei incumbis & invigilas somnio Hic nonnunquam recubandum & obdermiendum est tibi; Incertissimum est & quando tu me & quomodo Quàm quod sequêris tandem nibil certius, Imò incertum est hinc quò veneris An abeas denuò & te vivum abstuleris: At priusquam transeas Palabunde mortalis Sacra haec in monumenta saltem oculos fige Lacrymisque duri marmoris immisce sletus, Hîc intus urna est in quâ cineres suos Custodiendos misit venerandus senex Robertus Metcalfus Theologiae Doctor, communis Index & Interpres Theologicus. S. S. & Individuae Trinitatis Collegii, Sagax Vice-praesul & Cardinalis Presbyter Qui crebris curavit Eleemosynis Refocillandos pauperes: Qui juventutis indigentioris Et promovendis usque & usque alendis studiis Maecenatem se ostendit, sedulò munisicum & munificè sedulum Sermonis Hebraei radix & Professor longè emeritus Linguarum Orientalium phosphorus occidit: Oh quàm optavit Mater Academia Ad eruenda sacra artium mysteria Ejusdem ut aetatis & annis pares forent Metcalfus & Methusalem Sic quam optimus fuisset labentis ad Academiae Catastrophen Scientiarum & doctrinae Epilogus: Agesis viator vale. Video te festinare hinc quò festinant omnia; Vale ut festines lentè.

An ELEGIE on the death of Dr. Cumber, late Deane of Carlisle, and sometimes Master of Trin. Coll. in Camb. WHat gone to sleep? hush't Reader, let him lie, And with an easie funeral-lullabie, Weep o're his Cradle, which (poor Sextons fee) At the next Earth-quake may be rock't for thee, For w' are all sleepie, and fore-morning light May from our friends receive our last good night; Nay, 'ts odds if thou or I shall watch so long, As this good father did to's even-song, Who wanting but just one yeare of fourescore, I'th' Colledge of the Trinitie once more, Under the Worlds Tutor is gone to be 〈◊◊◊〉 to Eternity; Would 〈◊◊◊〉 bosome-pupil were, Oh but they 're 〈◊〉 Fellowes, all Masters there, And with the glorious Founder of the place, Still richly feasting, yet still saying grace. Now, Royal soul, you shall enjoy your due, Heaven's mansion-lodge, more sit for you, There the great King of Kings shall set you down, And for your Dividend give y'a princely crown, And that white precious stone of mysterie, Which none except thy self can reade to thee. Those five great Princes, seen by thy dying eye, Were five of Heavens Kings of Herauldrie, Sent thence of be thy Conducts on the way, Thy souls safe convoy from its bed-rid clay; And those sweet youths which thou 'fore death didst see, Were Cherubims with crownes to wait on thee; Farewel, brave Prelate, go and shine with them, Sainted with a celestial diadem; Go and be ravish't on Gods holy hill With melting Ecchoes, which double and double still Sweet Hallelujahs with ten thousand charmes By Angels which lie couchant in thy armes, Farewel, good soul, thou'st bravely done thy task, Acted thy part, and left us in a mask. Tire'd out with our first Scene of Tragedie And mischief, thou'dst no more Spectator be, To see Mountebank-worldly goblins play, The devil jugling the juglers souls away; No, thou could'st weare no visard, nor pretend, And be a changeling for some worldly end; But thy firme conscience which had search't and tri'd For truth, sat up its standard, fought and di'd: I must not call thee Martyr, go and be Whatever thy Religion made of thee. Blessing on thee, Reader, and God grant we may 'Wake as he did, and 'waking watch to pray. —

In obitum Reverendi senis Doctoris THOMAE CVMBER. Carmen Lapidarium. AUdi, audi, fragile & caducum corpus, Hodierna Ephemeris, Histrio, Qui nullo potes gemitu, nullis artibus, Homicidae mortis consilia frangere; Etiam hic stando fracessis utique, Nulla sunt curarum fomenta Praeterquam cineres atque haec coemeteria Frigida hominum dormitoria Et tenacia ligurientium vermium coenacula: At en! Quis hic lassus in hypogaeo jacet? Gloriosus olim, grandaevus & elegans senex Reverendissimus Theologiae Doctor Cumberus undeoctogenarius Carleoli nuper Decanus Colendissimus S. S. & Individuae Trinitatis Collegii Cantabrigiae Aliquando praefectus apex Sanctissimus Ecclesiasticus Pater Mirificé; integri & Halcyonci pectoris, Heliotropium monarchicum & calendula Regia Literarum centimanus Briareus, & hecatonchiros glossographus Linguarum gazophylacium & multifaria janua Nempe graecissaverat in Grajugenam, Samarita, Chaldaeus, Arabs, AEthiops, Copticus Qui immutabilis epanadiplosi conscientiae Mundana fudit, sprevit, neglexit omnia; Academiarum funditus ruentium calamitatis Prisca ominosa praesaga calamitas. Coelestis jam demum Cathedrae Catholicus Metropolitanus factus, & Archiepiscopus. Hîc verò tritos reposuit centones, Horsum scilicet nonnunquam omnia: Nescis viator, nescis revera brevi, Qui te it a perdite amas & colis adeò Vermes etiam necnè coenaturiant tui, Campana saepiús inopinatò vocat Maximeque dubium est an Calvaster sepulchrum adeas Abi, abi, ad A podyterium tuum Et disce carnem exuere.

In Praelia Navalia inter Anglos & Belgas. ANglia Belgiacae nimiùm suspecta sorori, Construit adversas, vix inimica, rates; Ultraque se Francos secit Gens, aemula utrinque, Alterutra ad sluctus naumachiámque parat. Concurrere rates, pugnâ miscentur in unâ • gnis, aquae, venti, tela trisulca, tridens. Angli • entorum pugnant obstantibus alis, Pugnat & adjutus milite Belga notho; Puppium inaequalis numero non sufficit hostis, AEolum ia auxilium Belga fretúmque manet Sic contra coelos cum coelo Belga, nec audet Praelia, ni totus pugnet & Oceanus; Nostra ratis primà fracta est, sed & illa procellis, Et non Belgarum classe, repulsa fuit; Scilicet • Belgis de • ictos mergier Anglos, Est tantum fluctus naufragiúmque pati. Ultima testatur Vantrumpi infamia, quantus Quot Trumpis major Blaqueus unus erat; Belgarum ostentat numerosa • adavera littus, Ostentat lacera undique Arena rutes; Nempe homines contra quosvis venisse Britannos Et venisse pares, usque triumphus erat: Heu Piscatorum caveas Gen ebria, vestra Piscinas nobis ni faciat Regio; Vestra cave ne nos donemus corpora scombris, Scilicet ad Rhombum haec ultima pugna fuit: Gallum ità Delphina voces, nam vester inundis Trux Leo nec pugnat, nec benè Belga natat.

In Amboynae homicidia Belgica. BArbara quae semper bellis & sanguine gaudet, Quàm bene tota fuit Belgia dicta Leo? Saeviit Amboynae quae tàm crudelis in Anglos Non Leo, cum catulis saeva Leaena fuis: Belgia jejunam superat feritate Leaenam, Nempe magìs saeva est, sedgenerosa minús.

Venerabili Viro, Dno. R. B. S.R. W. A. Et P. suo semper observando. Dii majorum umbris tenuem & sine pondere terram, Spirantésque crocos, & in urnâ perpetuum ver. Qui praeceptorem sancti voluêre parentis, Esse loco. — INfoelix poterit campus tibi Granta videri, Foecundus magìs est Oxoniensis ager. Filius indè alter locuples accurrit Homero, Et tibi Chaldaeus filius alter adest; Abba ego, nil nisi cunarum pueriliter Abba, Inter labra foret seu mihi mamma loquor; Mi Pater ignoscas balbo, titubantia linguae Festinans cerebrum & pectora plena notat; Mi Pater indulge veniam; balbutit inepta Lingua, nec affatur laxior ore Patrem; At cui filiolo non balbutire necesse est Cui dicenda Patris cura, Parentis amor? Quin indigna tuo tantò haec sunt nomine quantò His majora tuos & meliora doces.

Scholam Regiam Westmonasteriensem Scholarum omnium Reginam alloquuntur vicissim Cantabrigiae & Oxonii Genii. Cantab. SAlve Pieridúmque & Apollinis incrementum, Florere in aeternum te pia Granta jubet. Oxon. Quin à filiolis tibi Musarum decus ingens, Quos habet Oxonium mittitur alma salus. Cant. Te juga Parnassi nutantia fronte gemello, Iam penè insipidis devenerantur aquis. Oxon. Et tibi post casum monumenta resigere molem, Ipsaque te montis stareruina jubet. Cant. A te si moriar claudi gaudebit ocellus, Ultimus inque tuos spiritus ire sinus. Oxon. Same animam fletúsque meo • , nam me pereunte Lachryma Musarum multa bibenda tibi. Cant. At ne divellar, fatis ne perdar iniquis, Adde, precor, votis, & tua vota meis. Oxon. Atque ego ne manibus malèfiam praeda scelestis, Et precibus nostris tu precor adde preces. Resp Schola, Stabit & invitis fatis Granta Oxoniúmque: Ox.—Optima promutis. (Cant.) Quae bene digna fide. Sed tua, Te Proles, nunquam, nunquamn • videbit Nos pater? (Ox.) Et viset matrem aliquando suam. Cant ad Ox Te nè priùs viset? priùs es visenda fatemur Non quia sis senior, sed quia mater eras. Illius es (soror) & nutrix, & mater, & uno hoc (Quò tantum est majus) cedimus Oxonio.

Carmen Lapidarium in obitum Machaonis Cantabrigiensis Johan. CRANE Magistri in Artibus. 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 SIste, Siste paululùm Viator Si non valerudinarie, mortalis tamen Hem! vagule, Blandule Properasne? quò properes equidem nescio, Id certum ex me & id unum est certum tibi Properarc celeri fatum te versus pede Libitina pultabit aliquando importuna, inevitabilis, Ageris quocunque pragmaticus Atque in haec scias non lentè festinas loca. Mors etenim tenebrio, plagas & tendiculas omnibus, Quis huc tetendit & quo tendis attende itaque, Fige osculum mihi, frigidè licet rogo, fige; Peritissimi venerare cineres medici Apothecarii Odorifera inter thura, aromata & diapasmata Sublimatus elanguit Mercurius Dextra contabuit AEsculapii manus. Cujus memoriae eadem debentur sacra. [Quae divo Coronidis filio Epidaurii] Ludi quinquennales, gallus febricitans capra Illustrior hic gentis Poeoniae gloria & ipse Apollo occidit, Pharmacopola, olim nobilis Panacaea & Alexicacon Humanum Cranium calcinatum magìs, Defaecata Paracelsi Alembrot Magister Artium & Magisterii Metempsychosin denuo Passa est Hippocratis vel Galeni animula; Imminent is qui toties mortis secuerat ungues, Et fatorum castigaverat praecipitantiam, Tibi nunc prodromus, & praecidaneus factus: Meditare hospes & legendo haec facilè te intelliges, In exoranda nempe fatorum numina Qui morbis ferunt medicinam & remedium omnibus Simile praescribet recipe & ana simile tibi. VALE. Vale viator quantum potes. Vale At tùm demùm valebis cum huc redib • s. Vale. A medico etiam mortuo Vale.

Elogium seu Sciographica descriptio S. S. & Individuae Trin. Coll. Cantab. EN tibi diligentiae & industriae domum, Scientiarum fertilem redundantiâ & Artium plethorâ! Collegiorum erat inter Collegia nobilissima, Aliquando Alpha, prae quo caetera Abecedaria nonnunquam & Alphabetica, Inter florentissima elegantior omninô slosculus, Britanniae aculissimi oculi Cantabrigiae Pupilla acies & oculus Reique publicae & Academiae matris cerebrum & pia Mater Faciésque caput, & Capitolium, Quod Regem habuit non Fundatorem mode Sed & Discipulum & Incolam: Nec antiquae virtutis manet Hodiernum solummodò adagium Sed Artium earundem gremium & tenax sinus Familiares habet cum Mercurio & Pallade Socios, Viros totidem Naturae apophthegmata, Ad controversias cataphactos milites, Veritatis athleticos pugiles, Hareseon omnium Antagonistas & antidota, Gratiarum delicias & Adonides, Reique publicae literariae Totidem Optimates Dictatores, Consules, Piet atis praeterea nardo redolet Theologiae Myrothecium, Archipraesulis reclusum manu. Pastorum spiritualium, Scaturigo, fons & seminarium Fundatorum Regum & Reginarum impendiis Opulentum ad invidiam temporum Academiae adjecta non Paragoge modò Sed & Epenthesis etiam & Prothesis Quid Architectonicen & lapidum aggeres loquar! Quid spaliosam & patentem aream, Augustissimum quasi Palatium, Musarum amoenissimam Regiam & Basilicam Vacerris palisque distinctam & divisam ornatiùs! Quae umbilici loco Sublimem Aquae ductum exomphalum habet Cujus è mastis & canalibus saliunt, Amatrices nymphae & perennes latices Tripudiantia a • statis refrigeria Musisque gaudet alludere Prae foribus Thetis Amabilis; Ad ostia tranatur perstuitque rivulus Et amphibolae ebulliunt nymphae, Quae abnatantes tacitè obmurmurant Lapillul • sque amicè remoris Suaviter insusurrant quàm nolentes defluant, Quid Bibliothecam loquar! Quot sunt homines, tot non modò sententiae Sed Authentica capita & Authores Classici. Quid Aulae excelsa lacunaria, Epistilia & compactiles trabes. Crateres, Diotas, Phialas, & capacem illa Nevilis tinam! Quid coruscantia sacelli laquearia, Tòtque tutelares olim glabreones Angelos Opulentas sacerdotales vestes Phrygias A cupictum tapetem & vermiculata gausapa, Lances, patcras, & thuribula argeutea, Nobiliori pavimenta undique superba lapide, Cinctòsque peribolis amoenissimos hortulos! Columnis cubicula fornicatamarmoreis Tot Gratiarum tholamos & cubilia! Ostentent Collegia caetera Trinitatis quasi tantùm appendices Lateritios & diplinthios parietes Literarum planè gurgustia: Quotcunque structuram nostram spectatum veniunt, Ore omnes uno conclamant undique Praeter Oxonienses fratres grandiloquos Academiarum quas Europa venditat Omnium facil • Regina Cantabrigia Collegiorum quae antiquissima Cantabrigia arrogat. S. S. & Individuae Trinitatis Collegium primas obtinet.

In festum S. S. Trinitatis ad Socios ejusdem Coll. EPistomia Collegiensia omnia, Saliente murmurent mero, Dubiaeque dum perambulant mensas dapes, Pingui laborantes bove Spuent Aristippum Diotae argenteae, Generosa juvenum munera; Ad labra mittendus bibentum non nisi Ingentiori maschal • Ore aesluans Nevilis illegrandior Spumet falerno cantharus Fluctum in rates immanis ut coetus suo, Iaculatur è Siphunculo; Haurite calices, amphorásque nobiles Inebriato margin • , At ah! quid est! quid ad palatum provoco? Quid hortor ad cul • um gulae! Haec magna luoe rationis oculos conterens Est unicae fidei sacra, A Patre filius ex utrisque Spiritus Ambo coaeterni Patris, Personae in uná essen • ia • res, numina Non sunt tria, at Deus unicus. Noc Filius Pater est; nec est aut Filius, Aut Spiritus, dictus Pater. Et Spiritus nec est Pater nec Filius, Sed Unitas est; Trinitas Sic videram triplices lucernam pensilem Incorporare lampadas, Sic videram, videndo plus caecutio Oculique lippiunt magis Eloque • e verbum, Christe verbum terminos Hos Trinitatis explica Ipsum applica te menti, ut evadat mea Ratione doctior fides, Et doctior fide ratio.

Voluptates commendat rarior usus. Assiduis sordet Luculli mensa palatis Respuit & solitas nausea multa dapes, Mendicis modo jejunis sportella placebit, Et si rara magìs dulcior esset aqua; Omne volup volucre est, unde est desumpta voluptas; Deliciasque vocant, quae quasi deliteant. Displiceant ne quando, Jovi superisque bibuntur Ad Phoebi risus Nectar & Ambrosia Displiceat ne quando tibi mea, Lector, Amanda, Rarò, quàm mea sit dul • is Amanda, legas.

To the Fellows of Trin. Coll. at a Feast. WHen ever you good Fellows please to feast, We under-graduates, dogrels at the best, Poor wits to help you laugh away the time, Must think't our duty to hold forth in rithme; Would you allow us coats in honest prose, Like Sturbridge-puddings in their antick hose. In stead of halting verse, we'd dance on egges, Make faces, and shew owles between our legges; 'Twould never vex us to afford you sport, Were but our appetite contented for't; Whimsies and kick-shaw fancies I confesse, Are better then a feast of lazinesse; Yet I had rather be an idle guest, Then call the Muses up, and get them drest All nine for three-pence, bonnie Cleio sweares Te'nt worth the lacing of their stomachers. If verses 'gin to grow so cheap with us, Smithfield shall dock and rate my Pegasus, I'le water Hackneys in Pyrene's streams, Make Helicon as common as the Thames, Parnassus to the Levellers I'le sell, Morgage that Tempe and its sacred Well To that new sinner Doctor Chamberlin, To buck and runce his Lady dabchicks in, Himself shall dipper be, and Baptist too, I'le make my bargain he naught else may do.

To a spurious Poet. BEtwixt the hawke and buzzard, bastard-kite, How durst thou try to make an Eagles flight, And with thy blear eyes in so high a place, To look my great Apollo in the face? Sirrah, 'twas mercy he was wrapt about With clouds, else had thy eyes bin quite burnt out, Then to thy fancie thou would'st seem to be An English Homer, as stark blinde as he, The Ballad-singers should thy dogrels sell, Thou call • d the Poet with the dog and bell; Then rithme i'th' streets, and on a wad of hay Kneel, and in verse the learned begger play Amongst the scaldheads under White-hall wall, If it be ne'er so little amongst you all, For the Muses sake before you go yet Pray remember the poor blinde cripple Poet; Then roguish waggish boyes as they passe by, Chuck farthings in the hollow of thine eye, Or else spit charity in thy greasie hat, Blow oisters in't, There, Poet, take thee that. Then play the Higins for the regiment Of lowsie tag-raggs till thy lungs be spent, And on the Sabbath with thy wooden dish Beg pottage for them, their best Sunday-wish; And then astride thy raw-bon'd Pegasus, Like a beggar on horse-back, rant it thus. Mistrisse, I can make Psalmes for you, One Cup of beer I pray On this good holy-day For I very dry am, Hopkins and Sternhold too, Were Poets both as I am. Thou Salewit, were this sentence past on thee, 'Twere a just judgement for thy heresie; Impostor! thou a Poet so we call A Broker, one of Merchant-Taylors hall: So Crispins boyes, who scarce can mend a shoe, Will be no Coblers but Translators too: Thus the dull scrapers, who for six pence play At wakes and help-ales a whole night and day: Those lewd squeakers, who have no other shake, But of their palsie-heads, say you mistake To call them Fidlers, as they needs must be Musicians, the name of Poet's due to thee: So old wives study Physick, who can make A Poultis for a felon'd thumb to break And ripen it, thou good at Poetrie! Annise seed-Robbin skill'd in Chymistrie: So Pettifoggers and Atturneys Clerks, Innes of Court-gallants, those Ram-alley sparks, Who with a dash have learn't to write their names, And say vous-aves to the City-dames, Teach them what fee-simple and fee-tail implies, Would be thought cunning Lawyers, and advise In cases which they ken as knowingly, As thou the mysteries of Poetrie; So Academians call their Sophisters, That steal positions good Philosophers; Pin-makers are as good Goldsmiths, if they That deal in varnish, whose rude fancie may By licence wrong the creatures, in their noses, Mouths and eyes, painting for Lions, roses; Chimera's in red-oaker, naggs like hogs, And hares which hunts-men cannot know from dogges; If these rude land-skip-drawers, limners be, Then as a Poet we shall honour thee. But know thou didst that sacred name abuse, When thou mad'st market of thy cotquean Muse, Going about from door to door with her, Not like the Poet but the Stationer; Nay few o'th' Poems in thy book, 'tis known, Except some non-sense dull ones are thy own; Thou hast been simpling in a ditch, and got I'th' fields some Lady-smocks or Melilot, Blue-bottles or the like, and thou must needs Like girles make posies of those stinking weeds, Mingling some sweeter and more fragrant flowers Of better wits to sent and set off yours; And yet 'tis fear'd both are condemn'd to die, For thou wert forc't to vent thy Poetrie; As haggs for sizings on a Scholars head, A Tuttie for a loaf of Colledge-bread. Thou higler, who dost make a hackney Jade Of Pegasus, and witt a rithming trade, Thy book a kinde of Collect is a brief, At first directed to the heads, and chief O'th' parish whom it may concern, and then To all other well-affected Gentlemen; As many Patrons to't as Authors are, Made like a reck'ning where each clubs his share; Only thou pay'st the drawer, and would'st get Credit for spending of anothers wit: Huckster, forbear this cheating beggerie, Or vent thy own, and better Poetrie. Climbing too high upon Parnassus hill, Thy squeamish fancie straight grew sick and ill, There thou didst cast and spew, the Muses faine Would have thee lick thy vomit up again.

On the Rout of the disloyal Partie of Scots at Dunbarre. Is Iockie routed? Charon, rig thy boat If worth thy labour, with fresh rushes strow't; Waftage enough feare not, but yet prepare A strong rough stretcher, if thy naul, thy fare They dare deny thee, break their crags mon, do, Else scarce wil't have one ha'penny for two. If thou art wise get a blue bonnet on, They'l pay thee better 'cause their Country-mon. See here they come mon, what a Scottish drove Crouds in full flocks unto th' Elysian grove! Foure thousand at the least! Heark! what a shrill Sad noise, the mazes of my eares doth fill! And on their tender parchments beat from thence Like drum-sticks an Alarum to my sense! What strange confused Ecchos do I hear, Howlings for losse of Bernes, of gudes and geer! Oh prethy see, see how along they gang With kettles at their gurdles! o're their shoulders hang Course oat-meal bags, as though they'd beg a boon Of Pluto, still to feed on Pattaloon; Ah Charon, lanch into the deep, there make Conditions e're they board thee, do not take A mon into thy skiffe till thou art paid; See what a totter'd Regiment, how dismaid, Trembling with palsies they make toward thee! Look, look, what a rude multitude they be! What gibbrish is't they mutter? how they call, With de'il take boat, the Ferrie-mon and all! How they run hastily as if they knew Some death, some second Cromwel did pursue! Alas old gray-beard, now thy whirrie breaks Heark, what a crack it gives! See, see, it leaks, Go hire a thousand Watermen to play Next Oares, next Sculler, 'tis a safer way, Get cock-boats, barges, lighters, has there bin No Navie sunk of late to put them in? But no great matter, let them stay on shore, Drop into Styx, like Soland-geese swim o're. Cowards! Mars such a bastard brood disdains, Who whil'st their blood congealed in their veins, Like Ague-shaken Myrmidons did fight, Till suddenly they thaw'd into a flight; And brooking not the lightning which did flie From the steel'd courage of our souldiery, Like to chill snow in a hot Sun-shine day, These Northern Isickles did melt away: But are they vanquish't, routed horse and mon? Must treacherous Iockie visit Phlegeton? Let wilde-sires then cut capers on the ropes, Appear and vanish like their empty hopes; Mount rockets to the second region, higher Then their ambition soar'd, dart balls of fire; Let powder-devils, squibs and crackers flie, And dance us Scottish gigs, to testifie How our triumphant hearts, our arteries Leap in us, and how mirth smiles in our eyes. Farewel, poor Scot, thou need'st no more to come For coine, our States have sent a new-coin'd summe, Troopers on horseback, pieces that weigh down Put in the balance, more then half a crown; Though Magazines of Nobles (doits to us) Make the scales even as an over-plus. These new-coin'd pieces which we send to you, Augment their worth by name of Sterling too. Ye noxious windes, into some caverns flie: Vanish, Kirk-mill-dews, ignes fatui: Farewell, ne'er more, ye fogs of errour, dare Taint with your breath our wholesom English aire: Think you to blast (with your Presbyterie) This fine faire blossom of our libertie? No, your Geneva black Kirk-liveries, 'Gin to grow thread-bare in the peoples eyes; And if you ben't permitted to renew't, 'Twill but just last you for a mourning suit. Go haste to Chaul and Cochin, there to try If you can live on high-way charity; Go feed on graines the Banianes cates, As Catercousins with the Gusarates, Like beasts if any wounded, haste you all For salves unto Cambaia's hospital; March, wicked Iockie, towards Bengalen, With th' Indian Pagods Priests, (farre better men) To Ganges blessed streams, there cast thee in, With holy water purge thee of thy sinne; Or turn a superstitious traveller, Finde out the tombe-stone of Jack-Presbyter, (Like Turkish Pilgrims, who to Mechago, See th'iron coffin, then will see no moe.) Once having seen where th' holy relique lies, In zealous humour pluck our both thy eyes. Then if thou safe returnest, or if not, We'l honour thee with name of Hogie Scot. Men worse then Gours, whom malice can't defame, Cupec and Canzier is too clean a name; It is a sinne to let a Scot compound, Nay, should you choak and thrust them under ground, Know that you are no Authors of their death, The Coward-Scots ran themselves out of breath; Laugh, laugh to think on't, e're the fight begun, What preparations Jockie made to run; Laugh, laugh, to think in what a stormie night, Death kill'd their foot and light-horse in the flight; I know of old it hath a saying bin, A Scottish mist 〈◊〉 th' English to the skin; Whether that proverb's verifi'd or not, I'm sure such English showers kill a Scot.

In Fugatos Scotos. BEllica, vicisti trepidantes, Anglia, Scotos; In sua, contritus truditur, antra Aquilo Victor, quo fuerat victoria certior Anglus Scotia, quo minor est gloria, victa fuit. Anglia Mavortis tum demùm Filia pugnas, Ipsa tibi quando pugna triumphus erit Astutus, minimè pugnax tibi sternitur hostis, Nunquam bella Scotus, saepiùs arma gerit.

〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 . LAscivo, lascivus amor sedet hircus, in hirquo, Ortum habet • è solo lumine, Diva Paphi; Turpiter Antique Venerem dixère Aphroditen, Non est orta mari nempe, nec orta mero; Constituat Venerem si spuma, vocabitur indè Sordidior meretrix & lupa quaeque Venus Nobilis illa Venus, mea quam pupilla venustam, Novit & orta oculo est deliciosa meo. Prima, oculi, Veneris sunt incunabula, primas Ex oculi accendit luce Cupido, faces Hic Puer Idalius venantem Actaeona prendit Sen nova in hoc capitis fonte Diana foret; Interdum capto capietur ocellus ocello, Saepè videns capitur, saepè videndo capit; Rhetina reticulum, & venabula cornea amoris, Formarum duo sunt caustica vitra oculi Optica sila suis puer ales cornibus aptat Non alios nervos arcus amoris habet. Infantem & Catulum caecum qui dixit Amorem Fallitur, est oculus totus, & Argus. Amor.

A Mock-sonnet. 1. WHy so Faire? why so sweet? My Fairest sweet one, why so coy? Why so angry? why so fretting? That pretty face, didst thou but see't, How thy soft cheeks so smooth and faire, Like to those full fat buttocks are, Where Venus claps her plump-ars't boy, How they rise About thine eyes, And betwixt thy nose out-jetting; Would'st thou but wave thy modestie, And look from top to toe, Above, below, What daintie things there be, Thy milk-white, full-milch't breast, Upon whose swelling hills doth rest, Aminta's new wash t flock, Where the Graces make caresses, Like most am'rous shepherdesses, Surely thou canst not think I mock. 2. Lovely Faire, why so chaste? Why so peevish? so untoward? At what my Deare hast took distaste? Sweetest faire one, why so froward? Would'st thou but view impartially, The rolling gogles of thine eye, Thy unthatch't browes so neatly set With scales of scurf all o're, Thy hairelesse eye-lids alwayes wet And stiffe with gum good store Didst thou but see Upon thy nose how prettily I'th' pimpled pockholes all about Cupids play bopeep in and out, How thy snag-teeth stand orderly, Like stakes which strut by th' water-side, Stradling to beat off the tide, Till green and worn to th'stumps they be; Would'st thou but once, my Dearest-sweet, Look thy self o're from head to feet, Below, above, Thou canst not chuse but think I love. 3. Beautie, beautie, what doest mean Cupid sucks my heart-blood out, And well thou know'st I cannot wean The child, for thy sweet dugs do give him life When I would starve the rogue; then turn about, Busse me and say thou'lt be my wife, For troth when e're I see, Either what is below thy knee, Or if mine eyes I cast, On parts above thy waste; Where e're my sense doth move, I'm more and more in love. Still from thine eyes there passes, As from great burning-glasses, Lightning in such frequent flashes, That consume my heart to ashes; Nay, when thou blow'st thy snottie nose, The bellows of thy nostril blowes The fire of love into a flame, And th' oile of Arm-pits feeds the same, Thy legges, breast, lips and eyes inslave me, But if behinde thee once I come, Ond view the mountains of thy bum, Oh then I'm mad to have thee.

On his bed standing in his study. WHat are the Muses chambers made to be A lodge for sleep? their gard'ns his nurcerie? Must fancie's Hymen, must the god of light Dance with the dull, dark Bridegroom of the night? Did e're the sisters for a requiem go To fields, where slumbring sleepie poppies grow? Did ever bed-stead on Parnassus stand? Usurping Morpheus, didst thou e're command, And shake thy leaden scepter, in the Court Where watchful active Muses use to sport? Though'st thou to be, though not at all divine, A bed-fellow to any of the nine? Which sister is't hath lost her maiden-head? The strumpet now must needs be brought to bed; Which Muse must waiting-Gentlewoman be, Turne pisse-tail'd Chambermaid to tend on thee? What, must the noble spritely Pegasus Engender with the foggie night-mare thus: Making a stable of my Chamber-room, My bed the manger, and my self the Groom? Know crazie god of sleep, a Poet can Without a night-cap make a hymne to Pan; Take not thy drowsie blankets, ('tis a sinne) To tosse the Muses high-borne children in; Poets are ne're so dull to sacrifice, Watch-lights and tapers to nights Deities; Is there 'tween Lethe and Pyrene's streams, No diff'rence? are Enthusiasmes dreames? Shall Phoebus sonnes i'th' bed drive light away, And with Apollo's curtain blinde the day? Here lies a bedrid-Poet, I'd rather have A dormitorie without Epitaph, Then on my monument it should be sed, Euterpe's smother'd in a feather-bed: Me for no hydromantick novice take, Who cast my water for experience sake, I'm no young Paeon, that thus at my hand My Urine alwayes should so closely stand; At twelve o'th' clock it truly may be sed, To me you're come but newly from your bed. Somnus the Muses Closet must not be, A cabbin for thine Incubus and thee. Yet I love sleep, good Morpheus do not frown, I only wish my feather-bed were down.

De Meryone & Laide ex Auson. CAnus rogabat Laidis noctem Myron: Tulit repulsam protinus. Causámque sensit & caput fuligine Fucavit atrà candidum. Idémque vultu, crine non idem Myron, Orabat oratam priús. Sed illa formam cum capillo comparans, Similèmque non ipsum rata. Fortasse & ipsum sed volens ludo frui Sic est adorta callidum, Inepte quid me quod recusavi rogas? Patri negavi jam tuo. GRay-headed Myron ask't to lie one night With Lais, she in troth deni'd the wight, He knew the cause, (resolv'd to try once more) With soot and grease he black't his head all o're, Still Myron in his face, though not in's hair, To her he came, pray'd o're his former prayer; But she comparing with his haire his feature, Thought he was like, if not the self-same creature. Perhaps she knew in, but minded then to make Some sport, thus to the cunning knave she spake, Cox comb d'ask, why thou may not come o're me? I but e'en now deni'd thy father before thee.

Gynochimaera, Puella Abrodiaeta. EN formosam tibi, Amator, & delicatulam Helenam! Ab imis unguibus ad usque verticem, Pulchram, venustam blandulam, A prima luce mille petitam procis Sedulò petitam satrapis, Et aemuli indies Dominae accendunt pretium. Ubi? ubi? surrexit? dormit? hilares, anxii, lugubres, Audaces, desperantes, creduli, Percontantur, accersunt, rogant; Ientavit nondum meum Nectar, Ambrosia, Epulae, dapes, cupedia, jentaculum, prandium, coena? Precatur hoc mane Danäe mea? Deorum nefas! facinus! flagitium! seclus! Num tale quicquam superi audent sinere? Surge Titane, surgat centimanus Briareus. Adeste furiosi Gigantum manes, Encelade, Polybotes, Hippolyte, Mina, Ossam reimponite Pelio Illa num tenellos poplites molliagenua? Juro per ipsam illam Ursulam meam Totus Olympus ruet, Digna est cui preces Jupiter: Vultis ut caelo parcam Descendite superi Ne fracti elabantur orbes Submissi & humiles veniam petit • , Non introspiciendas ad fenestras Cubiculi Citò, citò, flectite & adorate meam, Benè habet numina, humilitatem laudo, Venerari autem meam & colere, Qua non est major, non est pulcbrior Dea Nec in ipsis Superis est Humilitas: At tu verò, quid ità prope? Quisnam es? Mars? imò Mavors est • Ni te auferas, seriam; Tu autem quis? Auden' retrorsum oculos 〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉〈 in non-Latin alphabet 〉 nebulo quin te ablegas? Eja, hem! è transennâ tandem accersor aedipol, Ha, nuuc ad amoris Tempe & coelum vado Quàm bellè detorquebo cervicem meam Ad dispensanda & carpenda suavial Quàm gloriosè & feliciter ego Triumphabo hodie in certamine thalami! Vah graveolentem & teterrimum spiritum! Quam sunt nivalia & hircosa oscula! Huccine res! haec illa bellula? Nil est monstrosum nil belluinum magis, Mulier Decumani capitis Crines habet scirpeos, Viperis immistas colubras; Subcineritiam, mazonomicam, paradoxam faciem Inhabitatam manibus; Frontem aeramentario Fusori utilem, Scutularum instar limes ab invicem oculi Spumâ cervisiae stagnant, Pro naso gobium gerit, Paradromides nares & matulas, Labra pastomide digna Sugillata, livida, Nigriora illinitis calcantho calceis, In ore fujcinas habet, A sese abhorrentium & aberrantium dentium Abecedarium Arabico-persicum; Ad commiscenda basia Congrediuntur nasus & mentum simùl, Et senio pensilis Ictum minatur oculo Supercilii materiaria incrustatio, Suòque semper gargarizat phlegmate: Et ecce grossos tortuosos digitos Quorum ungues pterigia obtegunt! Quò plus intueor hoc inhorresco magìs, Ah me! Grandebalas olidas, Ampullas, & lagunculas pectoris! Meretrix est opimae Hypocondriae Doliaris uteri & saginati abdominis, En & ventris cadum Panarium & libidinis bulgam Carnosam, obesam, pinguiusculam! Sub gremiali carbaso furnarium habet Putres cambucâ inguines Arcuatas coxendices & Pistoris ischia, Protuberantes condylos Quos nec pelvis tegat tonsoria Gradu quanquam incedit grallatorio Uncos & dispares si respicias pedes Scazon est & animal catalecticum: Corpus scopulosum scabie Psorá, ulceribus, pustulis (Siliquas corticesque cum deglubat unguibus) Purgando quotidie coenovectorium non est, Apage te scraptia, Creationis scoria, Pythecium, barathrum, naturae scandalum, Carnis & ossium Tumultuariò constricta sarcina, Difformitatum Gerontocomii epitome. Quam qui ducet habiturus est, Et paranymphum Daemonem & Proserpinam pronubam Sed tamen adesdum amabo meum suavium Ah labellorum delicias! Ah dulcedinem! Quàm bellè disputant gazae? Opulenta tua si cum dote veniat Placebit & amabitur Maga quaecunque vel anilis succuba.

Ad Academiae Matris Nerones & viperas. CAballinis Mercuri è fontibus Aqua fortis fluat stygia, Totis à Parnassi jugis Imbres aceti depluant, Adeste Deliani cacodaemones Scabiosi pastores ovium Ego vos perunctos & perlinitos dabo Oh si vestrorum cadaverum Nominúmque pollinctor Vel ambidexter corporum lictor forem! Mallem etenim ad eculeum & patibulum vosmet Quàm vestra ad íncudem dogmata: Quid Heliconiis vos in alveariis Literarum Cephenes & Bombylii Ecclesiae? Non ostracismis modo sed bannis digni, Relegandi non ad Anticyras sed Girgathum, Diaboli protomystae flamines, Tartarorum metropolitani & Pontifices stygis, Apolyonis Heresiarchae Archangeli Infernalis Mustaphae satellites Janizarii Concionatores tympanistae Beelzebub cacozeli apostoli Non genuini Almae Matris filii Sed meretricis Babylonicae spurii Jesuitarum non tibicines modò Sed & utriculares tibiae Tam nefaria capita Quid ni suapte lapides & tegulae involent? Quin excidant vindices trabes, Ustulet syderatio vel percellant fulgura? Dii boni! Musasque Parnassúmque evertere Literatos omnes & bonos viros pessundare, Orthodoxam Religionem conspuere Christum demutilare & destruere Ecclesiam Quibus ipsorum etiam phaselus in portu navigat, Rudentem & anchor am praecidere! Eundèmque cui innitantur, baculum frangere! Tam lusciosos Myopes Qui quicquid in buccam venit, Sacrilegi eructant & blasphemi effutiunt Quin aufer at Charon scaphiarius? At exitium est felix nimis, Et culpand • e charitatis votum, Quod vos feretro & sandapilariis voveat; Vivos videntésque comedat scabies, Pediculorum & vermium AEgyptia cohors Intestina sacrisicentur Proserpinae Et Diis inferis viscera. O Homines! Qui disseminare Evangelium novum, Abdicare Haeredem vineae Dehonestare majorum mores, Rescindere edicta Patrum Consuetudines, jura, ordines, Perturbare & confundere Abhorrere à veritatis lumine, Sancta & Religiosa templa violare, Ditis atri patefacere januam, Bonas animas perdere, Judaeos & Jesuitas agere Dissimulare mentiri & fallere, Munus & pensum ducitis: Quàm net amabilis Christi videtur sponsa, Cujus in facie vos inhaeretis turpiter Ignominiosae maculae! Literatorum illiterata & fa'culenta eluvies, Sordes & segisterium Populi; Quin Academiae has quisquilias, Extercorator publicus ca'novectorio efferat!

The Epistle of Rosamund to King HENRY the Second: Written by M. D. Esquire. Jf yet thine eyes great Henry may endure These tainted lines drawn with a hand impure, [Which faine would blush, but fear keeps blushing back, And therefore suited in despairing black.] Let me for loves sake their acceptance crave, But that sweet name (vile) I profained have; Punish my fault, or pity mine estate; Reade them for love, if not for love for hate. If with my shame, thine eyes thou faine would' st feed Here let them surfeit of my shame to reade, This scribled paper which I send to thee, If noted rightly doth resemble me: As this pure ground whereon these letters stand, So pure was I e're stained by thy hand; E're I was blotted by this foule offence, So clear and spotlesse was my innocence: Now like these marks which taints this hateful scrowl, Such the black sinnes which spot my leprous soul. What by this Conquest canst thou hope to win, Where thy best spoile is but the act of sinne? Why on my name this slander dost thou bring, To make my fault renowned by a King? "Fame never stoops to things but mean and poor; "The more our greatnesse, our fault is the more; "Lights on the ground themselves do lessen farre, "But in the aire, each small spark seems a starre: Why on my woman frailtie shouldst thou lay, So strong a plot mine honour to betray? Or thy unlawful pleasure should'st thou buy, Both with thine own shame and my infamie? 'Twas not my minde consented to this ill, Then had I been transported by my will; For what my body was inforc't to do, (Heaven knowes) my soule yet ne'er consented to For through mine eyes had she her liking seen, Such as my love, such had my lover been "True love is simple, like his mother truth, "Kindly affection, youth to love with youth. "No greater corsive to our blooming yeares, Then the cold badge of winter-blasted haires; "Thy kingly power makes to withstand thy foes, "But cannot keep back age, with time it growes, "Though honour our ambitious sexe doth please, "Yet in that honour age a sowle disease: "Nature hath her free course in all, and then "Age is alike in Kings and other men. Which all the world will to my shame impute, That I my self did basely prostitute, And say that gold was fewel to the fire, Gray haires in youth not kindling green desire. O no, that wicked woman wrought by thee, My tempter was to that forbideen tree: That subtile serpent, that seducing devil, Which bade me taste the fruit of good and evil; That Circe by whose magick I was charm'd, And to this monstrous shape am thus transform'd; That viprous Hag, that foe to her own kinde, That devillish spirit to damne the weaker minde; Our frailties plague our sexes only curse, Hells deep'st damnation, the worst evils worse. But Henry how canst thou affect me thus, T' whom thy remembrance now is odious? My haplesse name with Henry's name I found, Cut in the glasse with Henry's diamond: That glasse from thence fain would I take away, But then I feare the aire would me betray: Then do I strive to wash it out with teares, But then the same more evident appeares; Then do I cover it with my guilty hand, Which that names witnesse doth against me stand: Once did I sinne, which memory doth cherish, Once I offended, but I ever perish. "What grief can be, but time doth make it lesse? "But infamie time never can suppresse. Sometimes to passe the tedious irksom houres, I climbe the top of Woodstocks mounting towers; Where in a turret secretly I lie, To view from farre such as do travel by; Whither (me thinks) all cast their eyes at me, As through the stones my shame did make them see: And with such hate the harmlesse walls do view, As ev'n to death their eyes would me pursue. The married women curse my hateful life, Wronging a faire Queen, and a vertuous wife; The Maidens wish I buri'd quick may die, And from each place where my abode do flie; Well knew'st thou what a Monster I would be, When thou didst build this Labyrinth for me, Whose strange Meanders turning ev'ry way, Are like the course wherein my youth did stray Only a clue doth guide me out and in, But yet still walk I circular in sinne. As in the Gallerie this other day, I and my woman past the time away 'Mongst many pictures, which were hanging by, The sillie girle at length hap't to espie; Chaste Lucrece image, and desires to know What she should be, her self that murd'red so? Why Girle (quoth I) this is the Romane Dame; Not able then to tell the rest for shame, My tongue doth mine own guiltinesse betray; With that I sent the pratling wench away, Lest when my lisping guilty tongue should hault, My looks might prove the Index to my fault. As that life-blood which from the heart is sent, In beauties field pitching his crimson tent, In lovely sanguine sutes thy lilie cheeke, Whil'st it but for a resting place doth seek; And changing oftentimes with sweet delight, Converts the white to red, the red to white: The blush with palenesse, for the place doth strive, The palenesse thence the blush would gladly drive; Thus in my breast a thousand thoughts I carry, Which in my passion diversly do vary. When as the Sun hales toward the western shade, And the trees shadowes hath much taller made; Forth go I to a little current neer, Which like a wanton traile creeps here and there, Where with mine Angle casting in my bait, The little fishes (dreading the deceit) With fearful nibling flie rh' inticing gin, By nature taught what danger lies therein, Things reasonlesse thus warn'd by nature be, Yet I devour'd the bait was laid for me: Thinking thereon, and breaking into grones, The bubling spring which trips upon the stones Chides me away, lest sitting but too uigh, I should defile the native pnritie: Rose of the world, so doth import my name; Shame of the world, my life hath made the same; And to th' unchaste this name shall given be Of Rosamond, deriv'd from sinne and me. The Cliffords take from me that name of theirs, Which hath been famous for so many yeares; They blot my birth with hateful bastardie, That I sprung not from their Nobilitie; They my Alliance utterly refuse, Nor will a Strumpet shall their name abuse; Here in the garden wrought by curious hands, Naked Diana in the fountain stands, With all her Nymphs got round about to hide her, As when Actaeon had by chance espi'd her; This sacred image I no sooner view'd, But as that metamorphos'd man, pursu'd By his own hounds, so by my thoughts am I, Which chase me still which way so e're I flie; Touching the grasse, the honey dropping dew, Which falls in teares upon my limber shoe; Upon my foot consumes in weeping still, As it would say why went'st thou to this ill? Thus to no place in safety can I go, But every thing doth give me cause of woe. In that faire casket of such wondrous cost, Thou sent'st the night before mine honour lost, Amimone was wrought a harmlesse maid, By Neptune that adult'rous god betraid; She prostrate at his feet begging with prayers, Wringing her hands, her eyes swoln up with teares; This was not an intrapping bait from thee, But by thy vertue gently warning me, And to declare for what intent it came, Lest I therein should ever keep my shame; And in this casket (ill I see it now) That Ioves love Io turn'd into a Cow; Yet was she kept with Argus hundred eyes, So wakeful still be Iuno's jealousies: By this I well might have forewarned been, T' have cleer'd my self to thy suspecting Queen; Who with more hundred eyes attendeth me, Then had poor Argus single eyes to see. In this thou rightly imitatest Jove, Into a beast thou hast transform'd thy love: Nay, worser farre (beyond their beastly kinde,) A Monster both in body and in minde. The waxen taper which I burne by night, With the dull vaprie dimnesse mocks my sight, As though the damp which hinders the clear flame, Come from my breath in that night of my shame, When as it look't with a dark lowring eye, To see the losse of my Virginitie: And if a starre but by the glasse appear, I straight intreat it not to look in here; I am already hateful to the light, And will it too betray me to the night? Then sith my shame so much belongs to thee, Rid me of that by only murd'ring me, And let it justly to my charge be laid, That I thy person meant to have betray'd; Thou shalt not need by circumstance t'accuse me, If I deny it, let the Heavens refuse me; My life's a blemish which doth cloud thy name, Take it away, and clear shall shine thy fame: Yield to my suit, if ever pity mov'd thee, In this shew mercy, as I ever lov'd thee.

Epistola Rosamundae ad HENRICVM secundum Latinis versibus reddita. HAEc mea si vestris oculis, Henrice, placebit, Adsit ut impurâ chartula scripta manu (Chartula quae voluit simel erubuisse sed exspes Pullatam jussit (proh dolor!) ire metus.) Accipias placido vultu, rogo nomine amoris; Sacrum aliquando fuit nam mihi nomen amor: Vel culpam plecte, aut nostri miserere doloris Perlege & ex odio si modò non quo Iames: Vis oculos scelerate meo satiare pudore? En meus impertit pabula lauta pudor. Est haec, quam mitto tibi sparsam, charta, lituris, Si benè perspicias, turpis imago mei Haec quam munda fuit, cum nondum scripta maneret Chartula, & ipsa semel tàm quoque munda fui; At manibus male tacta tuis, sum tota litura Facta, nec haec maculis tam nigra charta suis: Quid spolií potes ex illo sperare triumpho In quo vicisse est turpe patrâsse scelus? Dedecoris usaculà meà quid mihi nomina foedas, Nominibus crescit quid mea culpa tuis? Nobilis es? titulo scelus est illustrius illo, Nec solita est humiles visere fama lares; Elata ad coelos scintillula stella videtur, Stella sed in terris vix ea lumen habet. Quid mihi conaris charos ità perdere honores, Ut dicas tandem foemina victa tibi? Delicias emit illicitas (quam slebile lucrum!) Virginis intactae gloria, Regis honos! In tantas Venerem quae slammas ire coegit Non mea fax certè non meus ignis erat. Illa meo quondam quoe sunt in corpore facta Novit nusquam animae grata fuisse Deus, Libera si votis essem nec amator amorem Noster amatorem nec super âsset amor: Verus amor simplex, & matre potentior ipsá Pulchra sit ut juveni juncta puellá jubet: Virginibus teneris non est magìs anxia cura Quám sit brumalis cana pruina comae; Quid tua, quod saevos, fugat hostes, Regia virtus Interea & Regis terga senecta premit; Foemina conspicuos licet ambiat aemula honores, Non benè commendat Regia pompa senem. Cancellos minimè patitur natura, vagatur Undique conveniunt in sene Rex & homo. Ergo ego per gentes meretrix ingloria dicar Que me venalem Foemina avara dedi; Sordida regali dicar mercabilis aurò, Atque auro nostros incaluisse focos Squallida nam vetuli nec adurit barba puellas Nec senis accendit fax moritura saces; At mala, colligerem ve • itos ut ab arbore fructus, Causa fuit, jussu foemina missa tuo. Foemina dicebam? ser pens, subtilior anguis Compulit ìlla meas in glucupicra manus, Canidia illa, ferox Medea, venefica Circe, Quae magico succo pocula mista dedit; Quae monstri faciem dedit hanc monstrosior ipsa, Ipsa Hecate, generi trux inimica suo. Illa infernalis stygii cacodoemonis uxor, Faeminei sexus pestis & atra lues. Nostri animi morbus, fera vipera, avernus averni; Exitium, damnum, perniciísque stygis; Quid verò Henricus mihi tot prositetur amores Nomina cum mea sint nunc odiosa tibi. In vitro Henrici scriptum diademate, nostrum Turpe sub Henrici nomine, nomen erat. Tum tremulis manibus vitrum ablatura, verebar Ne pura impuram proderet aura manum; Nomina tum volui, lacrymosus ut • luat imber, Nomina sunt lacrymis conspicienda magìs Tum super impositâ dextrâ caelásse putabam. Cons • ia flagitii testis & illa fuit, Sic vagain a ternum peccati infamia durat Sons ego facta semel, sed rea semper agar; Quis dolor, aut luctus, qui nullo tempore languet? Dedecoris sanat stigmata nulla dies: Alta supervado interdum fastigia turris Vt quae longa nimis facta si • ho a brevis Ad summos apices, inhonest as scando latebras Unde viatores transeo luminibus: In me conjiciunt oculos puto, me quasi reddat, Conspicuámque daret saxa per ipsa pudor, Insontes feriunt inimico lumine muros, Nostram acies oculi quaeque minata necem: Nunc mihi, quod spreta est Regina & castior uxor, Optat just a magìs, conjugis ira crucem; Nunc ego ut in gelidum descendam viva sepulchrum, Casta Puellarum vota precésque petunt: Me monstrum fugiunt, benè nosti quale ego monstrum Hic mihi constructus cum Labyrinthus erat, Qui gradibus dubiis & flexibus undiqne curvus, Maeandro est similis quem meus error habet; Usque quidem filo circumferor intus & intus, Huc illuc vitii circulus usque rapit: Omnia cum nuper passim per claustra vagatae, Trivimus, ancilla me comitante, diem, Picturas inter multas & anaglypha multa, Quae doctà artificis sculpta fuere manu Tarquinii Collatini castissima conjux, Effigie forti nobilitata stetit Hanc ubi conspex it simplex ancillula, mortem, Quoe sibi conscivit, quae precor, inquit erat? Haec illa est, ego tum retuli matrona Quiritum, Haec illa, & vetuit plura referre pudor. Poenè fatebatur sontem me prodiga lingua Garrula quocirca missa puella foras Turpia per dentes ne praecipitantia verba Vultu significent indice turpe scelus. Scilicet ut sanguis vitalis corde reclusus, Coccinea in bello castra resi it agro, Et placidos vultus rubicunda veste colorat Miscetúrque genis, ut rosa liliolis Cum requiem quaerens commutat saepius albo Coccina liliolo, liliolúmque rosa; Contendunt de seds simul pallòrque, rubórque Certat pallorem pellere ab ore pudor; Sic mihi mille animi dubitantia pectora versant Dum mea se mutat mens nova & indè nova, Projectis ramorum umbris, ubi Phaebus Ibero, Poenè fatigatos, gurgite tingit equos; Vicinos propero ad latices, ubi rivulus undas Lascivo huc illuc syrmatis instar agit, Fallacem hic escam injicio praedantibus hamis, Subdola sed praedam terret arundo suam; Insidias fugiunt pisces, calamóque recedunt Edocti timido rodere dente cibos; Naturae normis animalia bruta monentur Ipsa ego stult a mihi mista aconita bibi; Haec ego dum memoro suspiria tristia ducens, Increpat, irato flumine, bulla frequens; Ingemo, & objurgat lapidosus marmore rivus, Ni vitientur aquae lacryma, abire jubet: Heu Rosamunda ego sum, Rosa mundi nomine dicor Factáque sum mundi, non Rosa munda, pudor. Nomine famoso posthaec Rosamunda vocetur, Improba quae Thais quae modo Lais erat. Infensi sua Cliffordi mihi nomina demunt, Nomina tàm multo nobilitata die, Et mea, seu natae populo, natalia delent, Nec clarâ illorum stirpe oriunda fui; Sim licet affinis, cognatio nostra negatur, Dedixëre sui nominis esse lupam: Hic, dextrae melioris opus spectabile, in horto Fonte stat in medio nuda Diana dea. Nympharum densâ circumstipata cohorte Ut cum Cadmi aderat fortè aliquando nepos Nec citiùs castae speculabar imaginis ora, Quin ego ut Actaeon mox variata steti; Ille molossorum rabie laniatus, idèmque Supplicium curis tradita praeda luo. Advolitant ubieanque vagor, dum gramina tango Fletur & in crepidas mellea gutta cadit; Gemmea se solvens luge • do lacryma, visa est Dicere quid scelus hoc? turpe quid ausa scelus Nulla mibi sedes superest, loca nulla quietis Me luctum, luctu singula plena, monent A te nocte illa, sceleri quae praevia nostro, Mirè opulenta mihi capsula missa fuit; Amimone virgo castissima pingitur intus, Quam tulit in medias Glaucus adulter aquas; Contorque • s digitos tumidos attollit ocellos El precibus supplex sternitur ante pedes; Nonfuit boc, magnidolus & fallacia Regis Praemonuit virt us me pictísque tua Dixit & expressit quo sit mihi nomine missa, Dedecoris nostri ne monumenta foret, In vaccam mutasse Jovis, Mephitida, amorem Heu nimiùm tandem capsula serò docet. Centenis oculis Jò custodiit Argus, Zelotipòque vigil lumine Juno Jovem; Hac ego Reginae poteram ratione fuisse Inculpata tuae criminibùsque carens. Custodi nostrae si quis jam comparet Argum Argus centeno lumine pauper erat: Hoc Jovis obscoenas imitare fideliter artes, Scilicet in pecudem degener avit amor. Nec non sordidior quàm qua vis bellua sordes? Totá ad prodigium carne animòque salax. Cerea, nocturni mult à fuligine Lychni Illudit teneros caeca lucerna oculos, Seu faculam interimens, illa sub nocte pudoris Atrior è nostro fluxerat ore vapor, Cùm vigil abducto prospexit lumine lampas, Cerneret ut rapta virginitatis opes: Et si per tenues lucebat stella fenestras, Huc noli inspicias stella precabar ego, Vis etiam lunae? sum dudum invisa diei, Stellula vis etiam prodere nocte scelus? Quare, ego cùm tanti tibi dicar causa pudoris, Hanc [citòme jugules] me jugulando necas, Insidias, narra, meretrix tibi persida struxi, Dic majestatem me violasse tuam; Non opus est multis ambagibus insimulare, Si modo diffitear tartara nigra petam; Dum vivo, tibi sum labes, tua nomina nubes Obtego, at excussa nube relucet honor, Fac precor excutias, si quid clementia possit, Si quid possit amor, fac precor excutias.

HENRY to ROSAMVND. WHen first the Post arrived at my Tent, And brought the letters Rosamond had sent, Think from his lips but what deare comfort came, When in mine eare he softly breath'd thy name, Straight I injoyn'd him of thy health to tell, Longing to heare my Rosamond did well, With new enquiries then I cut him short, When of the same he gladly would report, That with the earnest haste my tongue oft trips, Catching the words half spoke out of his lips; This told, yet more I urge him to reveal, To lose no time, whilest I unripp'd the seal. The more I reade, still do I erre the more, As thongh mistaking somewhat said before, Missing the point, the doubtful sense is broken, Speaking again what I before had spoken; Still in a swound my heart revives and faints, 'Twixt hopes, despaires, 'twixt smiles and deep complaints. As these sad accents sort in my desire. Smooth calmes, rough stormes, sharp frosts and raging fires, Put on with boldnesse, and put back with feares, For oft thy troubles do extort my teares; O, how my heart at that black line did tremble! That blotted paper should thy self resemble: O, were there paper but near half so white, The gods thereon their sacred lawes would write, With pens of Angels wings, and for their ink, That heavenly Nectar, their immortal drink. Majestick courage strives to have supprest This fearful passion stirr'd up in my breast. But still in vaine the same I go about, My heart must break within, or woes break out; Am I at home pursu'd with private hate, And warres comes raging to my Palace-gate? Is meagre envie stabbing at my throne, Treason attending when I walk alone? And am I branded with the curse of Rome, And stand condemned by a Councels doom? And by the pride of my rebellions sonne, Rich Normandie with Armies over-runne? Fatal my birth, unfortunate my life, Unkinde my children, most unkinde my wife. Grief, cares, old age, suspicion to torment me, Nothing on earth to quiet or content me; So many woes, so many plagues to finde, Sicknesse of body, discontent of minde, Hopes left, helps rest, life wrong'd, joy interdicted, Banish'd, distress'd, forsaken and afflicted. Of all relief hath fortune quite bereft me? Only my love yet to my comfort lest me: And is one beauty thought so great a thing, To mitigate the sorrowes of a King? Barr'd of that choice the vulgar often prove, Have we, then they, lesse priviledge in love? Is it a King the woful widow heares? Is it a King dries up the Orphants teares? Is it a King regards the Clients cry: Gives life to him by law condemn'd to die? Is it his care the Common-wealth that keeps, As doth the Nurse her Baby whilest it sleeps? And that poor King of all those hopes prevented, Unheard, unhelp'd, unpitti'd, unlamented? Yet ler me be with poverty opprest, Of earthly blessings robb'd and dispossest; Let me be scorn'd, rejected and revil'd, And from my Kingdom let me live exil'd, Let the worlds curse upon me still remain, And let the last bring on the first againe; All miseries that wretched man may wound, Leave for my comfort only ROSAMOND. For thee swift time his speedy course doth stay, At thy command the destinies obey; Pitie is dead, that comes not from thine eyes, And at thy feet even mercy prostrate lies. If I were feeble, rheumatick or cold, These were true signes that I were waxed old; But I can march all day in massie steel, Nor yet my armes unweildy weight do feel, Nor wak'd by night with bruise or bloody wound, The tent my bed, no pillow but the ground: For very age, had I laine bed-rid long, One smile of thine again could make me yonug. Were there in Art a power but so divine, As is in that sweet Angel-tongue of thine, That great Enchantresse which once took such pains To put young blood into old AEsons veines, And in groves, mountains, and the moorish fen, Sought out more herbs then had bin known to men, And in the pow'rful potion that she makes, Put blood of men, of birds, of beasts and snakes, Never had needed to have gone so farre, To seek the soiles where all those simples are; One accent from thy lips the blood more warmes, Then all her philters, exorcismes and charmes. Thy presence hath repaired in one day, What many yeares with sorrowes did decay, And made fresh beauty in her flower to spring, Out of the wrinkles of-times ruining. Ev'n as the hungry winter-starved earth, When she by nature labours towards her birth, Still as the day upon the dark world creeps, One blossome forth after another peeps, Till the small flower, whose root (at last) unbound, Gets from the frostie prison of the ground, Spreading the leaves unto the pow'rful noon, Deck'd in fresh colours smiles upon the Sunne. Never unquiet care lodg'd in their breast, Where but one thought of ROSAMOND did rest: Nor thirst, nor travel, which on warre attend, E're brought the long-day to desired end: Nor yet did pale feare, or lean famine live, Where hope of thee did any comfort give: Ah, what injustice then is this of thee, That thus the guiltlesse do • st condemn for me? When only she (by means of mine offence) Redeems thy pureness and thy innocence, When to our wills perforce obey they must, That's just in them, whater'e in us unjust, Or what we do, not them account we make, The fault craves pardon for th' offenders sake: And what to work a Princes will may merit, Hath deep'st impression in the gentlest spirit. If't be my name that doth thee so offend, No more my self shall be mine own names friend, If it be that which thou do'st only hate, That name in my name lastly hath his date, Say 'tis accurst, and fatal, and dispraise it, If written blot it, if engraven rase it: Say that of all names, 'tis a name of wo, Once a Kings name, but now it is not so: And when all this is done, I know 'twill grieve thee, And therfore (Sweet) why should I now believ thee? Nor should'st thou think those eyes with envie lowre, Which passing by thee gaze up to thy tower, But rather praise thine own which be so clear, Which from thy turret like two starres appear: Above the Sun doth shine, beneath thine eye, Mocking the Heaven to make another skie. The little stream which by thy tow'r doth glide, Where oft thou spend'st the weary ev'ning tide, To view thee well his course would gladly stay, As loth from thee to part so soon away, And with salutes thy self would gladly greet, And offer up some small drops at thy feet; But finding that the envious banks restrain it, T' excuse it self doth in this sort complain it, And therefore this sad bubling murmur keeps, And for thy want within the channel weep. And as thou do'st into the water look, The fish, which see thy shadow in the brook, Forget to feed, and all amazed lie, So daunted with the lustre of thine eye, And that sweet name which thou so much do'st wrong, In time shall be some famous Poets Song, And with the very sweetnesse of that name, Lions and Tigers men shall learne to tame. The careful mother at her pensive breast, With Rosamond shall bring her Babe to rest: The little birds (by mens continual sound) Shall learn to speak and prattle Rosamond; And when in April they begin to sing, With Rosamond shall welcome in the Spring;! And she in whom all rarities are found, Shall still be said to be a Rosamond. The little flowers dropping their honied dew, Which (as thou writ'st) do weep upon thy shoe, Not for thy fault (sweet Rosamund) do moane, Only lament that thou so soon art gone: For if thy foot touch hemlock as it goes, That hemlock's made more sweeter then the Rose. Of Jove or Neptune, how they did betray, Speak not of, lo, or Amimone; When she, for whom Jove once became a bull, Compar'd with thee had been a tawny Trull, He a white Bull, and she a whiter Cow; Yet he nor she ne're half so white as thou. Long since (thou know'st) my care provided for, To lodge thee safe from jealous Ellinor, The Labyrinths conveyance guides thee so, (Which only Vaughan, thou and I do know) If she do guard thee with an hundred eyes, I have an hundred subtile MERCURIES To watch that ARGUS which my love doth keep, Until eye after eye fall all to sleep. And those starres which look in, but look to see, (Wond'ring) what star here on the earth should be, As oft the Moon amidst the silent night, Hath come to joy us with her friendly light, And by the Curtains help'd mine eyes to see, What envious night and darknesse hid from me; When I have wish't that she might ever stay, And other worlds might still enjoy the day. What shall I say, words, teares and sighes be spent, And want of time doth further help prevent, My Camp resounds with fearful shocks of war, Yet in my breast more dang'rous Conflicts are, Yet is my Signal to the battles sound, The blessed name of beauteous ROSAMOND. Accursed be that heart, that tongue, that breath, Should think, should speak, or whisper of thy death: For in one smile or lowre from thy eye Consists my life, my hope, my victory. Sweet Woodstock where my ROSAMOND doth rest, Be blest in her, in whom thy King is blest. For though in France a while my body be, My heart remaines (Dear Paradise) in thee. THE END.

HENRICVS ROSAMVNDAE. Appulerat nostrasubi primum nuncius oras, Et mihi visa tuá est chartula scriptá manu, Oh mihi quàm gratus fuit ille su surrus in aure, Illáque quàm placuit vox Rosamunda tua! Quanta per attonisum ruperunt gaudia pectus, Inque tuo quantum nomine laetus eram! Illius à tremuli, captavi verba labellis, Verbáque nescio quae dimidiata tuli. Deque tua cupidè quaesivi multa salute Hoc ega quàm volu • tum Rosamunda valet. Quam voluit dixisse valet, corre • ta reliquit, Verba, ego quaer • bam dum nova & indè nova. Et raptim celeri rumpo dum pollice ceram, Ne mora sit lapso tempore, mille peto. Seu quod praecessit mendax malè verteret error Quo lectum magìs est, hee mage fallor ego Plus cupio quo plura lego, dubiùsque quid hoc est, Quodlibet, incertus quid sit, Iota lego. Hinc velut excusso fragili de corpore morbo, Sollicitum exultat pectus & inde tremit, Obruor hinc lacrymis, mox laetor distrahor indè Dum peragunt variat spésque metüsque vices Cor nimbis agitur, nostròque in pectore regnant, Cum ventis glacies, stamma, pruina gelu. Anxia saepé tui turbat mihi cura quietem, Et cadit in moestos lachrima multa sinus; Quàm tremebundus eram, quum charta simillima dicta, [Chartula litterulis improba facta] tibi! Quae si vel simili foelix splendore niteret Scriberet hic leges Jupiter ipse suas, Et sibi ab Angelicis pennam decerperet alis, Quae pro Atramento nectare tincta foret, Foemineum hunc trepido pulsasse à corde timorem Bellica (sed frustra) mens mea saepe velit Fortiùs inductae feriunt praecordia curae Ni rumpat dolor è pectore, rumpar ego Siccine privatis odiis crudeliter uror, Et pulsant nostras horrida bella fores? Invidiae tentatne manus mea sceptra ferire Soeva meámque petit vitam, ubi solus eo? Me, licet insontem, Synodi sententia damnat Et famoso urit stigmate Roma suo. Undique vexatur dives Normandia bello Agmen ubi infestum silius hostis agit Ingrati mibi natales, ingrat íque vita, Natus inhumanus, sponsa benigna minus Et curae & morbi cruciant mihi corpora, nullas Delicias, nullam terra ministrat opem, Gaudia diffugiunt, spes avolat unica cura Permanet, haec vitae non henè grata come, Fortuna, auxilium quòd erat, nimis aspera dempsit Solamen misero restat & unus amor. Forma adeóne valet Regis lenire dolores, Creditur antidoti forma quod una satì • ? Plebs quaecunque velit felicior eligit ora Libera num Regi vota negabit amor? Num viduae tristis capit auris Regia quaestus? Orborum siccat Regia cura genas? Num rapit à durâ trepidantiā colla securi, Et dat supplicibus dextera Regis opem? Servat ut infantem generosum sedula nutrix Rex sua regna etiam tuta manere facit? Cogitur ille tamen Rex desperare salutem Infoelix, spretus, perditus, exul, inops? At sim tam pauper quàm nec miserabilis Irus, Improba terrenas sors mihi demat opes. Exul ego longè peregrinas mittar ad oras Stigmaticus, diris undique onustus eam. Undique contemnar, me publica vota malignent Communésque legant in mea damna preces, Caeca tuis totus laedar fortuna sagittis Unica restabit si Rosamunda mihi: Pro te tardarunt fugientes tempora gressus Et parent jussis ardua fata tuis. Nata tuis si nata unquam clementia occllis, Quin amor ipse tuos sternitur ante pedes, Si vel Rheumanticus, gelidusve aut debilis essem Illa forent senii praescia signa mei, Sed cataphractus ego totis incedo diebus, Impositúmque humerus non grave sentit onus, Nec mihi sanguineum perturbant somnia vulnus, Saxea, promolli, sunt mihi castra toro; Nunc ego si centum vixissem Clinicus annos Verteret in juvenem me tua forma senem Tam modò divinum si numen in arte fuisset, Quale habet à linguâ vox Rosamunda tua. Erravit varios frustrá Medea per hortos Antrúque sollicitis vix adeunda viris, Ignotas ipsis medicis ut quaereret herbas, AEsoneum poterint quae reparare senem; Quid mixta humano pro • est medicina cruore Quid serpentino sanguine vel quid ave? Oscula chara tuis prosunt subrepta labellis, Plus tua quam magici pharmaca, philtra valent. Quantum Parca meis crescentibus addidit annis, Visû te, tantum detrahit una dies; Quáque suum ponit sulcum irreparabile tempus Inseruit blandis lilia mix ta rosis Sic nempe hyberno sterilescens tempore terra Naturae, ad partum, verè reposcit opem; Manè suburbanos dum sol prorepit in hortos Pullulatindè recens germen & indè recens, Mox exporrecto prorumpunt vertice slores Et stricti linquunt vincula dura soli; Tum fortes toto gaudent se exponere Phoebo, Ludit & in patulis blandior aura comis, Pectoribus nunquam dolor improbus haesit in illis, Vel dubitata quibus spes Rosamunda fuit. Fecere, ut cuperem noctes mutare diebus Nec via me, belli me nec anhelasitis Me, dum chara meo tu sis in pectore, belli Nec timor invasit, nec macilenta fames; Et tamen injusté de me sententia sertur, Insontem, miserè dum facis esse reum. Totus ego foedo maculatus crimine damnor, Tu tamen ex ipso hoc indice pura manes; Nempe vel invitos mihi cum submittere oportet Omnia justa illis quae mihi jus̄ta minìs Fas quòdcunque peto, stat pro ratione voluntas Et sons delictum vindicat ipse suum; Munificus sieri princeps quae cunque jubebit, Haec animo facili mens generosa capit; Si modò displiceant oculo mea nomina, dicas, Nominibúsque meis ipse inimicus ero. Nomina damnentur, damnentur ut impia facsis, Si, quoniam mea sint, sint odiosa tibi; Inclyta fac pereat titulorum gloria, nomen D • le, dic titulus Regius ille perit, Haec (fingas liceat) fuerint si facta dolebis Ergo tibi non est chara adhibenda sides, Invidia obductos nec credere oportet ocellos Qui turrim aspectant praetereundo tuam, Sed laudare tuos qui stellae a turre videntur, Sydere tam claro luminibúsque micant Sol supra est, tuus infra oculus, coelùmque minatur, AEthera deridens, velle creare novum Limpha tuam turrem quae flumine lambit amico Qua solita es fessos ludificare dies, Heu quam si pè, fugax, remorata est aemula • ivos In vultus jactans lumina sixa tuos Quàm cupit in teneros labi fluida unda lacertos! Amplectique tuos quàm velit illa pedes! Irata obstantes ripas culpare videtur, Et veniam, invito quod fugit amne, rogat; Obstrepero plangit fugientes murmure campos, In lacrymas abeunt flumina, tu quod abis, Dum nitidas oculis radiantibus inspicis, undas, Pisciculis, quibus es visa, nec esca placet; Non opus est hamis salientes ducere pisces, Pisciculos vultu luminibúsque capis; Et tua quae tantùm & toties mihi nomina damnas, Clara olim magni carmine vatis erunt; Mitescet quibus & rabidus leo, & aspera tigris, Sic potes Orphaeam vincere sola lyram; Nomine nempe tuo, non plura crepundia gestans, Lullabit prolem mater amica suam Et solitas hominum voces imitata, per hortos Garrula nil nisi te vere loquetur avis; Et posthac semper Rosamunda vocabitur illa, Que formá superat, quaeque de cora magìs: Mella super crepidas (scripsti) stillantur ab herbis, Et cadit in teneros lacryma fusa pedes; Non fletur, Rosamunda, tuas abstegere culpas, Flet plorátque brevem qua libet herba moram; Nempè tuo pede sit viridis modò tacta cicuta, Vertitur in blandam, saeva cicuta, rosam; Neptuni mihi nec raptu • , fraudisve Tonantis, Neve Isis sletus Amimonésve refer, Dummodo quam petiit nivei sub imagine tauri Si tecum certet corpore, foeda fuit; Sit bos hic niveus, sit & haec mage candida vacca, Sunt tamen AEthiopes, fuscus uterque tibi, Cura fuit (nòsti) vigilem deludere sponsam, Hinc tu Daedaleo carcere tuta mane • Et stexu vario Labyrinthi clauderis intus, (Quem novit Vaughan, tu quoque & unus ego) Quid quod centum oculis mea te custodiat uxor, Mercurios totidem dum meus addit amor. Novit & insomnes amor ille sopire dracones Tótque Argos, oculos quot vigil Argus habet Invida quaeque tuam perlustrat stellula turrim, Miratur quaenam pulcbrior indè nitet; Saepiùs inspexit mediâ nos nocte Diana, Induls • tque suas Cynthia amica faces; Sic tenuis cortina dedit spectare siguram, Quae priùs est oculis, nocte negata meis; Quàm volui semper noctem lunàmque manere, AEterno Antipodes sole, dieque frui! Quid dicam? pereunt lacrymae, suspiria, voces, Quod mihi restat opis saevior hor a negat; Bellica terribili resonan mea castra boatu Pejor at in toto pectore miles amor. Te Rosamunda tubae, te Classica nostra loquuntur, Pugnandi signum tu Rosamunda mihi, Illius intereant & vox & spiritus, audet Qui meditata tuâ de nece verba loqui, Nempe incerta tuo victoria ridet ocello Illinc est mihi spes, vita triumphus, hones; Tuque domus quá chara manet Rosamunda, beatus Quá tuus & Rex est, esto beata domus; Detineat corpus quanquam fera Gallia, tecum Cor manet, Elysium deliciaeque meae. FINIS.