Musarum deliciæ: or, The Muses recreation. Conteining severall select pieces of sportive vvit. / By Sr J.M. and Ja:S.

Musarum deliciæ: or, The Muses recreation. Conteining severall select pieces of sportive vvit. / By Sr J.M. and Ja:S.

Table of contents

Title page

THE STATIONER TO THE Ingenious READER.

MUSARUM DELICIAE: OR, The Muses Recreation.

To Parson WEEKS. An Invitation to London.

To a friend upon a journey to Epsam Well.

To a friend upon his Marriage.

In answer to certaine Letters, which he received from London, whilst he was engaged to follow the Camp.

In answer to this last, or some such like Letter.

Description of three Beauties.

A journey into France.

Hankins Heigh-hoa.

Some Gentlemen shut out of their seats in Pauls, while they went to drinke.

Ʋpon a lame tired Horse.

Ʋpon a Surfeit caught by drinking evill Sack, at the George Tavern in Southwark.

The Lowse's Peregrination.

King Oberon's Apparell.

A Poets farewell to his thred bare Cloak.

Ʋpon a Fart unluckily let.

A young Man courting an old Widow.

Ʋpon Chesse. play. To Dr. Budden.

The loose Wooer.

Ʋpon the biting of Fleas.

Ʋpon Madam Chevereuze swimming over the Thames,

Ʋpon Aglaura in Folio.

Ʋpon Lute-scrings Cate-aten.

To a Lady vex'd with a Jealous Husband.

Invitation to dalliance.

The Countrey mans Song in the Spanish Curate.

Ʋpon the sight of an old decay'd patch'd Bed, with a Pillow having T. R. as a marke on it.

A Letter to Sir John Mennis, when the Parliament denied the King Money to pay the Army, unlesse a Priest, whom the King had reprieved, might be executed. Sir John at that time wanting the Money for provisions for his troop, desired me by his Letter to goe to the Priest, and to perswade him to dye for the good of the Army; saying, What is't for him to hang an houre, To give an Army strength and power? The Reply.

The Fart censured in the Parliament House.

Partus Chaucheri Posthumus Gulielmi Nelson.

Ʋpon the same.

Imitatio Chauceri altera, In eundem.

The Nightingale.

Epitaph on Mistrisse Mary Prideaux.

Ʋpon drinking in the Crown of a Hat.

An Epitaph upon Doctor Prideaux's Son.

On his Mistrisse having the Green-sicknesse.

Ʋpon the naked Bedlams, and spotted Beasts, we see in Covent Garden.

To Sir John Mennis, on a rich prize which he took on the Seas.

A Defiance to K. A. and his round Table. Incipit J. A.

§

§

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Musarum Deliciae: OR, THE MUSES RECREATION.

Conteining severall select Pieces of sportive VVit.

By Sr J. M. and Ja: S.

[figure]

LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman, and are to be sold at his Shop, at the Signe of the Anchor in the New Exchange, 1655.

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[...]

THE STATIONER TO THE Ingenious READER.

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PLain Poetry is now disesteem'd, it must be Drollery or it will not please: I have therefore, [Page] to regal the curious Pallats of these Times, made a Collection of Sir John Mennis, and Doctor Smiths Drolish Intercourses; which as they need no recommendation to your acceptance, the world being well acquainted with the ingenuity both of those persons, and their preductions; so neither can you suspect them adulterate, [Page] since they are inimitable by any but themselves.

Read, Laugh and enjoy.

H. H.

MUSARUM DELICIAE: OR, The Muses Recreation.

[Page]

[Page]

To Parson WEEKS. An Invitation to London.

HOw now, my John, what, is't the care

Of thy small Flock, that keeps thee there?

Or hath the Bishop, in a rage,

Forbid thy comming on our Stage?

Or want'st thou Coyn? or want'st thou Steed?

These are impediments indeed:

But, for thy Flock, thy Sexton may

In due time ring, and let them pray.

A Bishop, with an Offering,

May be brought unto any thing.

For want of Steed, I oft see Vic

Trudge up to Town with hazle stick;

For Coyn, two Sermons by the way,

Will Host, Hostesse; and Tapster pay.

[Page] A willing minde pawns Wedding-ring,

Wife, Gown, Books, Children, any thing.

No way neglected, nought too deare

To see such friends, as thou hast here.

I met a Parson on the way,

Came in a Wagon t'other day,

Who told me, that he ventur'd forth

With one Tythe Pig, of little worth;

With which, and saying grace at food,

And praying for Lord Carryers good:

He had arriv'd at's Journeyes end,

Without a penny, or a friend.

And what great businesse doe you think?

Onely to see a friend, and drink.

One friend? why thou hast thousands here

Will strive to make thee better chear.

Ships lately from the Islands came

With Wines, thou never heardst their name.

Montefiasco, Frontiniac,

Viatico, and that old Sack

Yong Herric took to entertaine

The Muses in a sprightly vein.

Come then, and from thy muddy Ale,

(Which serves but for an old wifes Tale:

Or, now and then, to break a jest,

At some poor silly neighbours Feast)

Rouze up, and use the meanes, to see

Those friends, expect thy wit, and thee.

And though you cannot come in state,

On Camels back, like Coryat:

[Page] Imagine that a pack-horse be

The Camell, in his book you see.

I know you have a fancy, can

Conceive your guide a Caravan.

Rather then faile, speak Treason there,

And come on charges of the Shire;

A London Goal, with friends and drink,

Is worth your Vicaridge, I think.

But if besotted with that one

Thou hast, of ten, stay there alone;

And, all too late lament and cry,

Th'hast lost thy friends, among them, I.

To a friend upon a journey to Epsam Well.

SIR, though our flight deserves no care

Of your enquiry, where we are;

Yet, for to put you out of doubt,

Read but these Lines, you'l smell us out.

We having at the Mazard din'd,

Where Veal and Mutton open chin'd,

Hang on the Shambles; thence we pace

To Putney's Ferry, Coomes old Chase

We next pass'd o're, then to the Town

Which name of King doth much renowne;

Where having supp'd, we went to bed,

Our selves and Cattell wearied.

[Page] Next morning e're the Sun appear'd,

Our Horses and our selves well chear'd;

To Epsam Well we ask'd the way,

Of young and old, of poor and gay:

Where, after five or six mistakes,

We found the Spring, neer hid with brakes.

These waters cleer, two Hermits keep,

Who alwaies either wake, or sleep;

And by alternate courses, wait

On Man or Beast, if here you bait.

'Tis here the people farre and neer

Bring their Diseases, and go clear.

Some drink of it, and in an houre,

Their Stomach, Guts, and Kidneyes scower:

Others doe Bathe, and Ulcers cure,

Dry Itch, and Leprosie impure;

And what in Lords you call the Gout,

In poor the Pox, this drives all out.

Close by the Well, you may discerne

Small shrubs of Eglantin and Fern,

Which shew the businesse of the place;

For here old Ops her upper face

Is yellow, not with heat of Summer,

But safroniz'd with mortall scumber.

But then the pity to behold

Those antient Authors, which of old

Wrote down for us, Philosophy,

Physick, Musick, and Poetry,

Now to no other purpose tend,

But to defend the fingers end.

[Page] Here lyes Romes Naso torn and rent,

New reeking from the Fundament:

Galens old rules could not suffice,

Nor yet Hippocrates the wise.

Not teaching, how to clense, can doe,

Themselves must come and wipe it too.

Here did lye Virgil, there lay Horace,

Which newly had wip'd his, or her Arse,

Anacreon reeled too and fro,

Vex'd, that they us'd his papers so.

And Tully with his Offices,

Was forc'd to doe such works as these.

Here lies the Letter of a Lover,

Which piece-meale did the thing discover.

Sonnets halfe written would not stay,

But must necessity obey.

This made us for a while to think,

The Muses here did seldome drink:

But hap what would, we light from stirrup,

And streight descend to drink the syrrup.

The good old Father takes a cup,

When five times wash'd, he fills it up

With this priz'd Liquor, then doth tell

The strange effects of this new Well.

Quoth he, my friends, though▪ I be plaine,

I have seen here many a goodly train

Of Lords and Ladies, richly clad,

With Aches more then ere I had:

These having drunk a week, or so,

Away with health most jocund go:

[Page] Mean while the Father thus did prate,

We still were drinking as we sat;

Till Gut by rumbling, us beseeches,

My boyes, beware, you'l wrong your Breeches.

Ah, doth it worke? the old man cryes,

Yonder are brakes to hide your thighes.

Where, though 'twere neer we hardly came,

Ere one of us had been too blame.

Here no Olympick games they use,

No wrestling here, Limbs to abuse,

But he that gaines the glory here

Must scumber furthest, shite most clear.

And, for to make us emulate,

The good old Father doth relate

The vigour of our Ancestors,

Whose shiting far exceeded ours.

Quoth he, doe you see that below?

I doe, quoth I, his head's now low,

But here have I seen old John Jones,

From this hill, shite to yonder stones.

But him Heaven rest, the ma [...]s dead,

This speech of his me netled;

With that my head I straightway put

Between my knees, and mounting scut,

At chiefest randome, forty five,

With Lyons face, dung forth I drive,

The ayre's divided, and it flyes,

Like Draco volans through the skies.

Or who had seen a Conduit break,

And at the hole with fury reak:

[Page] Had he but hither took the paine

To come, had seen it once againe.

Here Colon play'd his part indeed,

And over-shit the stones a reed.

Whereat the Father, all amaz'd,

Limps to the place, where having gaz'd

With heav'd up hands, and fixed eyes,

Quoth he, dear, let me kisse those thighes

That prop the taile will carry hence

Our glory and magnificence.

His suit being granted, home he walkes,

And to himselfe of wonders talkes;

From whence he brings a painted stake,

High to be seen, above the Brake:

And having ask'd my name, he writ

In yellow Letters, who 'twas shit,

Which still stands as a Monument

Call'd Long-taile, from the Man of Kent.

This being all the first day did,

We home retir'd, where we lay hid

In Alehouse, till another day

Shall prompt my Muse; then more I'le say.

'Till when, take this, to make an end,

I rest your servant, and your friend.

To a friend upon his Marriage.

SInce last I writ, I heare deare honey,

Thou hast committed Matrimony;

[Page] And soberly both Morn and Even,

Dost take up smock, in fear of Heaven.

Alas poor Soul, thy Marriage vow

Is as the Rites, unhallowed now;

Sleighted by Man, ordain'd by Bishop,

Not one, whom zeal hath scar'd from his shop.

The Ring prophane, and Surplice foule,

No better then a Friers Cowl,

With Poesie vile, and at thy Table

Fidlers, that were abhominable,

Who sung, perhaps, a song to Hymen,

And not a Psalm to edifie men.

It is th'opinion of this place,

Thou canst not get a Babe of Grace.

This story is sad; to make amends,

I'le tell thee news, to tell thy friends.

You heard of late, what Chevaliers

(Who durst not tarry for their eares)

Prescribed were, for such a plot

As might have ruin'd Heaven knows what:

Suspected for the same's Will D'avenant,

Whether he have been in't, or have not,

He is committed, and, like Sloven,

Lolls on his Bed, in garden Coven.

He had been rack'd, as I am told,

But that his body would not hold.

Soon as in Kent they saw the Bard,

(As to say truth, it is not hard,

For Will has in his face, the flawes

Of wounds receiv'd in Countreys cause:)

[Page] They flew on him, like Lions passant,

And tore his Nose, as much as was on't:

They call'd him Superstitious Groom,

And Popish Dog, and Curre of Rome;

But this I'm sure, was the first time,

That Wills Religion was a crime.

What ere he is in's outward part,

He is sure a Poet in his heart.

But 'tis enough, he is thy friend,

And so am I, and there's an end.

From London, where we sit and muse,

And pay Debts when we cannot chuse;

The day that Bishops, Deans and Prebends,

And all their friends, wear mourning Ribbands;

If this day smile, they'l ride in Coaches,

And, if it frown, then Bonas Noches.

In answer to certaine Letters, which he received from London, whilst he was engaged to follow the Camp.

WHat, Letters two, on New-years-day?

'Tis signe, thy Muse hath leave to play,

And swelling grape distills his Liquor,

Which makes thy Pulse and muse flow quicker.

Alas poor Soules! in Mud we travell,

And each day vex'd with Martch and Gravel,

And when at night, we come to quarter,

Drink, what thou wouldst not give to Porter.

[Page] From Northern soyl, I lately came,

With Horses two of mine, one Lame;

But when I came to house of state,

Where quondam fled his Grace in Plate:

Expecting after journey scurvey,

Solace, I found all topsie turvy.

New Orders bid me thence away,

The people grumble, they want pay;

And now, like wandring Knights we wend

Without a penny, or a friend:

Our score growes great, from whence we goe,

And every Alehouse turn'd a foe.

These give their friends intelligence

That we are coming, without pence;

And those we feare, will shut the door

At wandring Prince, when known so poor.

However, we march on to morrow,

And here, and there, small summes we borrow.

Judge, if thy Muse could soar so high,

When pinion's clip'd, what Bird can fly?

No, no, good Wine and ease I'm barr'd of,

Which makes my Muse to come so hard off;

And hearing fellowes nine in London,

Get cash, carouse, while I am undon:

While not one Captaine here will tarry

But John, with Horse of Commissary;

And here he spends his time and pence,

Without a hope of recompence,

And scarce sees friends, but such as grutch him,

If he have coyn, they none, they catch him

[Page] With that old beaten, trodden way,

Jack, canst thou lend, till next pay day?

Till now, at length my pocket's grown

Like Nest defil'd, when Bird is flown.

Judge, from such stories, if you can

Expect a Muse from any man.

Yet have I still respects from them,

Who weekly think upon. J. M.

To noble Kenelm, say, I drink,

And unto Lord of Downe, I thinke

The day, when Janus, with face double,

Looks on the pass'd, and coming trouble.

The first day ever rich or poor,

Wrote forty yeares, and one before.

The House, the Talbot, Corney Host,

My liquor now, but Ale and Tost.

In answer to this last, or some such like Letter.

WHy seeks my friend so vain excuse,

For the long silence of his Muse;

As if her faculty were worse,

Because joyn'd with an empty purse?

Lines may accrew, although the pence

That use to purchase Influence

From constellation of Corney,

Be fewer, then will fee Attorney.

[Page] Thou knowst that Vacuus cantabit,

(Ther's Latin for thee, though but a bit)

Sing then, and lets be free from blame,

Thy Verse is fat, though horse be lame.

Seest thou not, Ovid, Homer, Virgil,

With Muse more needy, John, then your Gill;

Indite things high, and rest the Ivie,

From wealthy Tacitus and Livie:

From Cicero, (that wrote in Prose)

So call'd, from Rouncival on's Nose.

For, though 'twas hid, till now of late,

Yet 'tis a truth, as firme as fate,

That Poets, when their Money scants,

Are oft inspired by their wants.

Want makes them rage, and rage Poetick

Makes Muse, and Muse makes work for Critick.

As for thy pocket, which thou say'st

Is like to a defiled Nest,

A Nest, that is of all bereft,

Save what the Cat in Maulthouse left;

There is a Proverb to thy comfort,

Known, as the ready way to Rumford,

That, when the pot ore fire you heat,

A Lowse is better then no meat;

So, in your Pocket by your favour,

Something, you know, will have some savour.

But soft, the word is now come forth,

We all must pack into the North;

When minde of Man was set to play,

And riding Boot lay out of th'way;

[Page] We were commanded in a Minute,

To journey base, the Devil's in it;

For now I have no more minde to't,

Then is an Apple like a Nut:

Yet look I must for riding tackle,

In corners of my Tabernacle;

And look, as men for slanders heark,

Or one that gropes in privy darke,

So must I search with fear of minde,

And seek for what I would not finde.

Had I two faces, like to Janus,

(A Month that now hath overtane us.)

With one of them I'le smile in Town,

While tother 'mong my foes did frown.

But wishes help not, nor can with▪

Hold, from embracing thee, James Smith.

Long Aker, from the Angel Tavern,

Two hundred miles from head of Severn.

Where, for my shillings twain, I dine,

With Tongue of Neat, far worse then mine:

The tenth of January day durty.

One thousand, hundreds six, and forty.

Description of three Beauties.

PHiloclea and Pamela sweet,

By chance in one great house did meet,

[Page] And meeting did so joyne in heart,

That t'one from t'other could not part.

And who, indeed, not made of Stones,

Would separate such lovely ones?

The one is beautifull, and faire,

As Lillies and white Roses are;

And sweet, as after gentle showers,

The breath is of ten thousand flowers.

From due proportion, a sweet aire

Circles the other, not so faire;

Which so her Brown doth beautifie,

That it inchants the wisest eye.

Have you not seen, on some bright day,

Two goodly Horses, White, and Baye,

Which were so beauteous in their pride,

You knew not which to chuse, or ride?

Such are these two, you scarce can tell,

Which is the daintier Bonny bell:

And they are such, as, by my troth,

I had been dead in love with both,

And might have sadly said, goodnight

Discretion, and good fortune quite,

But that God Cupid, my old Master,

Presented me a Soveraigne plaister:

Mopsa, even Mopsa, prety Mouse,

Best piece of Wainscot in the House;

Whose Saffron Teeth, and Lips of Leeks,

Whose Corall Nose, and Parchment Cheeks;

Whose Past-board forehead, eyes of Ferret,

Breast of brown Paper, Neck of Caret;

[Page] And other parts, not evident,

For which dame nature should be shent,

Are Spells and Charms of great renown,

Concupiscence to conjure downe.

How oft have I been reft of sence,

By gazing on their excellence,

Till meeting Mopsa in my way,

And looking on her face of Clay,

I soon was cur'd and made as sound,

As though I never had a wound.

And when, in Tables of my heart,

Love with such things as bred my smart;

My Mopsa, with her face of Clout,

Would in an instant wipe them out:

And when their faces made me sick▪

Mopsa would come with hers of Brick,

A little heated by the fire,

And break the neck of my desire.

Now from their face I turne mine eyes,

But (cruel Panthers) they surprize

Me with their breath, that incense sweet,

Which onely for the Gods is meet;

And jointly from them doth respire

Like both the Indies set on fire,

Which so orecomes mans ravish'd sence,

That Soules to follow it, fly hence.

Nor such like smell you, as you range

By th'Stocks, or Old, or New Exchange.

Then stood I still as any Stock,

Till Mopsa with her puddle Dock.

[Page] Her Compound or Electuary,

Made of old Ling, or Caviary,

Bloat Herring, Cheese, or voided Physick,

(Being sometimes troubled with the Tysick)

Did Cough, and fetch a figh so deep,

As did her very bottom sweep;

Whereby to all she did impart,

How Love lay rankling at her heart;

Which when I smelt, desire was slaine,

And they breathe forth perfumes in vaine.

Their Angels voice surpriz'd me now,

But Mopsa's shrill; To whit to whoo

Descending through her hollow Nose,

Did that distemper soon compose.

And therefore Oh thou vertuous Owle,

The wise Minerva's onely fowle:

What at thy shrine shall I devise

To offer up for Sacrifice?

Hang Aesculapius, and Apollo,

Hang Ovid with his precepts shallow:

With patience who will now indure

Your slow and most uncertaine cure,

Seeing Mopsa's found, for Man and Beast,

To be the sure Probatum est?

Oh thou, Loves chiefest Medicine,

True water to Dame Venus wine,

Best Cordiall, soundest Antidote,

To conquer Love, and cut his throat;

Be but my second, and stand by,

And I their beauties both defie,

[Page] And all else of those Faery races

That wear infection in their faces;

For I'le come safe out of the Field

With this thy face, Medusa's shield.

A journey into France.

I Went from England into France,

Neither to learn to sing, nor dance,

To ride, nor yet to Fence:

Nor did I goe like one of those

That doe returne with halfe the nose

They carried from hence.

But I to Paris rid along

Much like Iohn Dory in the song,

Upon a holy Tide:

I on an ambling Nag did get,

I thinke he is not paid for yet,

And spurr'd him on each side.

And to S. Denis first we came,

To see the sights at Nostredame,

The man that shewes them snuffles;

Where who is apt for to believe,

May see our Ladies right arme sleeve,

And eke her old Pantofle.

[Page]

Her Breasts, her Milk, her very Gown,

Which she did weare in Bethlem Town,

When in the Inne she lay;

Yet all the world knowes, that's a fable,

For so good Cloaths ne'r lay in stable,

Upon a lock of Hay.

No Carpenter could by his Trade

Gaine so much Coyn, as to have made

A Gown of so rich Stuffe;

Yet they (poor fools) thinke for their credit,

They must believe old Joseph did it,

Cause she deserv'd enough.

There is one of the Crosses Nailes,

Which who so sees, his Bonnet vailes;

And, if he will, may kneel:

Some say, 'tis false, 'twas never so,

Yet, feeling it, thus much I know,

It is as true as Steel.

There is a Lanthorne which the Jewes,

When Judas led them forth did use;

It weighed my weight down right:

But to believe it, you must think

The Jewes did put a Candle in't,

And then 'twas wondrous light.

[Page]

There's one Saint there hath lost his Nose,

Another's head, but not his Toes,

His Elbow, and his Thumb;

But when w'had seen the holy rags,

We went to th'Inne, and took our Nags,

And so away did come.

We came to Paris, on the Seyn,

'Tis wondrous faire, but nothing clean,

'Tis Europes greatest Town;

How strong it is, I need not tell it,

For any man may easily smell it,

That walkes it up and down.

There many strange things you may see,

The Palace, the great Gallery,

Place royall doth excell:

The New Bridge, and the Statue's there,

At Nostredame, Saint Christopher,

The Steeple beares the Bell.

For Learning, th'University,

And for old Clothes, the Frippery,

The house the Queen did build.

Saint Innocents, whose earth devoures

Dead Corps, in foure and twenty houres,

And there the * King was kill'd.

[Page]

The Bastile and St. Denis street,

The Chastelet, just like London Fleet,

The Arsenal, no Toy;

But if you'l see the prettiest thing,

Goe to the Court, and view the King,

Oh 'tis a hopefull Boy.

Of all his Nobles, Dukes and Peers,

He's reverenc'd for his wit and years,

Nor must you thinke it much:

For he with little switch can play,

And can make fine Dirt pies of Clay,

Oh never King made such.

A Bird that doth but kill a Flye,

Or prates, doth please his Majesty,

'Tis known to every one;

The Duke of Guise gave him a Parret,

And he had twenty Cannons for it,

For his new Galleon.

Oh that I e're might have the hap

To get the Bird, that, in the Map,

Is call'd the Indian Ruck;

I'le give it him, and hope to be

As great as Guise or Luyne,

Or else I had ill luck.

[Page]

Birds round about his Table stand,

And he them feeds with his owne hand,

'Tis his humility;

And if they doe want any thing,

They need but chirp for their kind King,

And he comes presently.

And now, for those rare parts he must

Entituled be, Lewis the Just,

Great Henries lawfull heire;

When to his style, to adde more words,

Th'ad better call him King of Birds,

Then King of lost Navarre.

He hath besides a pretty firk,

Taught him by nature how to worke

In Iron, with much ease;

Sometimes into the Forge he goes,

And there he knocks, & there he blows,

And makes both Locks and Keyes.

Which moves a doubt in every one

Whether he's Mars or Vulcans Son,

Some few believe his Mother;

But let them all say what they will,

I am resolv'd and doe think still,

As much the one as th'other.

[Page]

The people doe dislike the youth,

Alledging reason, for, in truth,

Mothers should honour'd be;

Yet others say, he loves her rather,

As well as ere she lov'd his Father;

That's a notorious lye.

His Queen's a little pretty Wench,

Was born in Spain, speaks little French,

Not like to be a Mother:

For her incestuous House would not

Have any Children, but begot

By Unkle, or by Brother.

Now why should Lewis, being so just,

Content himselfe to take his Lust

With his lascivious Mate,

And suffer his little pretty Queen,

From all her race, that e're hath been.

Once to degenerate?

'Twere Charity for to be known

Love others Children, as his owne,

And why? it is no shame:

Unlesse that he would greater be

Then was his Father Henery,

Who (men thought) did the same.

[Page]

Hankins Heigh-hoa.

NOrth Britain loved Sculler of our times,

That twy-beat'st this way, that way going Thames;

Divine Aquarius of all fluent rimes,

Such as describe Lepanto's bloudy streames.

Lend me thy Scull, full of Pyerian sweat

My sorrowes to repeat,

And in each Pye, Ile bake up every she,

Big as thy Boat for thee.

Thrice had all New-years Guests their yewl guts fill'd

With embalm'd Veal, buried in Christmas Past,

Thrice had they Ivy herby wreath, well pill'd;

Crane slept at Totnam first, at Chelsey last;

Since first my heart was broach'd on Cupids spit,

Roasting bit after bit,

In her loves flames, who casts it now behinde,

And blow'st away with winde.

[Page]

When I had built with practick Architecture

Newcastle Mine, refin'd to such a frame

Proportionable, as might deserve a Lecture,

And that the Mast staid onely for a flame;

Her love alone, without or Match or Tinder,

New styl'd this new built Cinder,

And so an Embleme of our Love we beeted,

The word black, but love lighted.

Oft have I perboyl'd been with blubbering grief,

Season'd & sows'd with brine of bitter tears,

With Sallads slic'd, and Lettuc'd up with Beef,

With Vineger and Sugar, hopes and feares,

Undone like Oysters, pepper'd with despair,

All for this Laundres fair,

Who now she thinkes, a bitter bit hath got

To furnish her flesh-pot.

My Kitchin dore, like Pluto's gates still ope,

Down coms this beauteous Queen, like Proserpin,

I smear'd with soot, and she with suds of Sope,

Was ever match more necessary seen?

And faith we swore, I by my Oven and Peel,

She by her Starch and Steel;

Which sacred Oath I kept, but she hers broke,

And turn'd it into smoak.

[Page]

Hartford, now Hatesford, which my Heartsford

Be ever ruinous, as thou art this day;

Because thou bredst this well wash'd Laundry Lass, was▪

Let Ware beguile thee of thy rich road way;

And may thy Craifish River fall from thee

As she forsaketh me:

But he that hath her I doe wish no worse,

Then a true Sedgely curse.

You Chargers from my hands that lustre drew,

To brighten you to Starres, but spotlesse faire;

You twinkling Sawcers, Constellations new,

And glazing Platters, which like Comets are,

Be ever dark, let neither Chalk nor Sand,

Nor the Oily circling hand

For evermore re-kindle you againe,

But mourn you for my pain.

Draw me the bravest Spit that e're was bent

With massy Member of laborious beast;

Drill me from Mouth to Taile incontinent,

Dresse me and dish me at the Nuptiall Feast,

Thus for her Love and losse, poor Hankin dyes,

His amorous Soule down flies

To th'bottome of the Cellar, there to dwell;

Susan, farewell, farewell.

[Page]

Some Gentlemen shut out of their seats in Pauls, while they went to drinke.

NOwnes, Gentlemen, how now? shut out?

Must we, mix'd with the zealous rout,

Stand hoofeing on the vulgar stone,

To hear the Cheuri-illeson?

First, Let the Organs, one by one,

Treble their Lamentation;

And the Quyries sing, till they

For want of moisture fall to play,

Ere it shall be said, that I

Let my choice devotions fly

Up from hence, in th'foul-mouth'd peal

Of Prentice Orisons, where my zeal

Shall stand cheap-rated, faith, for why?

The best seat's shut, and we put by.

We did but step aside awhile

With juyce of Grapes our Lamps to oyl;

Where staying long, we came too late,

And shar'd the foolish Virgins fate.

Yet saw I two or three within,

Faire Virgins, such as had no sin:

Or if they had, their worths high rate

Might it soon transubstantiate

Into a Vertue, whose least share,

A branch of holy Saints might wear.

[Page] Should great Saint Peter me deny

Passage, t'enjoy such company,

We should fall foule, unlesse that he

Put me to them, or them to me.

Ʋpon a lame tired Horse.

ABout the time———

Aurora in her Mantle wrapp'd the clime,

When the bright Day, and thirsty Sun had quaft

A thousand Flagons, for his mornings draught,

Brim full with Pearly dew; I got me up,

And tasted freely of a liberall cup;

Pursu'd my journey, on a Horse as poor

As is a sterved Beggar at the door,

Or Pharaoh's leanest Cow; there was as much

Flesh on his back, as on an old Mans Crutch.

Now men observing, that I was so fat,

And durst ride on a Horse so lean as that,

Did scoff and jeer me, as I pass'd the way,

And, as I thought did one to th'other say,

The horse has strip'd his flesh, and on his back

Does carry it, as Pedlars doe a Pack.

For I have often seen upon my troth,

Poor ragged Pedlars carry packs of Cloth.

Another swore, that I was some Saint Paul,

Because my Horse was so spirituall.

[Page] A Clown unto his fellowes cryes, Gods soes,

I thinke this Horse has Corns upon his Toes.

Another swore, that I no more did ride,

Then Children, that a Hobby-horse bestride;

Another said, my horse did sure intend,

To tell each step unto his journeyes end.

But, e're I got out of a Lane to th'Heath,

I'le take my oath, they jeer'd my Horse to death.

Ʋpon a Surfeit caught by drinking evill Sack, at the George Tavern in Southwark.

WHo thought that such a storm, Ned, when our Souls,

From the Calme Harbour of Domestick Bowles,

Would needs abord the George, t'embark our brain,

To the Cantabrian Calenture of Spain?

Oh hadst thou seen, (and happy are thy eyes

That did not see) that Fridayes Crudities,

Such Hecatombs of indigested Sack

Retreated up my throat, oh what a wrack

'Twas, to a thick-brain'd paper-Boat of wit,

In a Canary voyage to be split?

We drank old Lees, & gave our heads a fraught,

Of that Don Pedro left in Eighty Eight:

A bawdy house would scorne it, 'twas too poor,

For those that play at Noddy on the score.

[Page] Felt-makers had refus'd it; Nay, I think

The Deuill would abhorre such posset-drink.

Bacchus, I'm sure detests it, 'tis too bad

For Hereticks, a Friar would be mad

To blesse such vile unconsecrable stuffe,

And Brownists would conclude it good enough

For such a Sacrifice: I'ld wish no worse

A draught unto the Ignorant, nor curse

My foes beyond it. Not a Beads-man sure▪

At a Town Funerall would it endure;

Much lesse a Man of sence; 'twere an affront,

To put an understanding Fur upon't,

Or Burgo Mistris: It is such a thing

Would dam a Vintner at a Christening.

Yet we must quaff these dregs, and be constrain'd

To what the L [...]ety, seven years since disdain'd▪

Oh would I might turne Poet for an houre,

To Satyrize with a vindictive power

Against the Drawer! or I could desire

Old Iohnsons head had scalded in this fire▪

How would he rage, and bring Apollo down

To scold with Bacchus, and depose the Clown,

For his ill government, and so confute

Our Poet Apes, that doe so much impute

Unto the grapes inspirement! Let them sit,

And from the winepresse, squeeze a bastard wit

But I, while Sever [...], and old Avon can

Afford a draught; while there's a Cider-Man,

Or a Metheglenist, while there's a Cup

Of Beer or Ale, I doe forswear to sup

[Page] Of wicked Sack: Thus Solemn I come from it,

No dog would e're return to such a vomit.

The Lowse's Peregrination.

DIscoveries of late have been made by adventure,

Where many a pa [...]e hath been set on the Tenter,

And many a Tale hath been told more then true is,

How Whales have been serv'd whole, to Saylors in Brewis.

But here's a poor lowse, by these presents desies

The Catalogue of old Mandevils Lyes:

And this I report of a certaine.

My Father and Mother, when first they joyn'd paunches,

Begot me betwen an old Pedlers haunches;

Where grown to a Creeper, I know how a pox I

Got to suck by chance of the bloud of his doxie.

Where finding the sweetnesse of this my new pasture,

I left the bones of my pockified Master,

And there I struck in for a fortune.

[Page]

A Lord of this Land that lov'd a Bum well,

Did lie-with this Mort one night in the Strummel,

I cling'd me fast to him, and left my companions,

I scorn'd to converse more with Tatterdemalians;

But sued to Sir Giles, to promise in a Patent,

That my Heires might enjoy clean Linnen and Sattin;

But the Parliament cross'd my Intention.

This Lord that I follow'd delighted in Tennis,

He sweat out my fat with going to Venice,

Where with a brave Donna, in single Duello,

He left me behinde him within the Burdello;

Where leacherous passages I did discover,

Betwixt Bonna Roba, and Diego her Lover,

Youl'd wonder to heare the discourse of't.

The use of the Dildo they had without measure,

Behind and before, they have it at pleasure;

All Aretines wayes, they practice with labour,

An Eunuch they hate like Bethlem Gabor;

Counting the English man but as a Stallion,

Leaving the Goat unto the Italian:

And this is the truth that I tell you.

Thus living with wonder, escaping the talent,

Of Citizen, Clown, Whore, Lawyer, and Gallant,

At last came a Soldier, I nimbly did ferk him,

Up the greazy skirts of [...]s robustuous Buff Jerkin;

Where finding companions, without any harm I

Was brought before Breda, to Spinola's Army:

And there I remaine of a certain.

[Page]

King Oberon's Apparell.

WHen the Monthly horned Queen

Grew jealous, that the Stars had seen

Her rising from Endymions armes,

In rage, she throws her misty charmes

Into the bosome of the night,

To dim their curious prying light.

Then did the dwarfish Faery Elves

(Having first attir'd themselves)

Prepare to dresse their Oberon King

In highest robes, for revelling.

In a Cobweb shirt, more thin

Then ever Spider since could spin,

Bleach'd by the whitenesse of the Snow,

As the stormy windes did blow

It in the vast and freezing aire;

No shirt halfe so fine, so faire.

A rich Wastcoat they did bring

Made of the Trout flies gilded wing,

At that his Elveship, gan to fret,

Swearing it would make him sweat,

Even with its weight, and needs would wear

His Wastcoat wove of downy haire,

New shaven from an Eunuch's chin;

That pleas'd him well, 'twas wondrous thin.

[Page]

The out-side of his Doublet was

Made of the four-leav'd true-love grasse,

On which was set so fine a glosse,

By the oyle of crispy mosse;

That through a mist, and starry light,

It made a Rainbow every night.

On every Seam, there was a Lace

Drawn by the unctuous Snailes slow trace;

To it, the purest Silver thread

Compar'd, did look like dull pale Lead.

Each Button was a sparkling eye

T'ane from the speckled Adders Frye,

Which in a gloomy night, and dark,

Twinckled like a fiery spark:

And, for coolnesse, next his skin,

'Twas with white Poppy lin'd within.

His Breeches of that Fleece were wrought,

Which from Colchos Jason brought;

Spun into so fine a Yarne,

That mortals might it not discerne;

Wove by Arachne, in her Loom,

Just before she had her doom;

Dy'd crimson with a Maidens blush,

And lyn'd with Dandely on Plush.

A rich mantle he did wear

Made of Tinsel Gossamer,

Bestarred over with a few

Dyamond drops of morning dew.

His Cap was all of Ladies love,

So passing light, that it did move,

[Page] If any humming Gnat or Fly

But buzz'd the ayre, in passing by;

About it was a wreath of Pearle,

Drop'd from the eyes of some poor girle

Pinch'd, because she had forgot

To leave faire water in the pot.

And for Feather, he did weare

Old Nisus fatall purple haire.

The sword they girded on his Thigh,

Was smallest blade of finest Rye.

A paire of Buskins they did bring

Of the Cow Ladyes Corall wing;

Powder'd o're with spots of Jet,

And lin'd with purple-Violet.

His Belt was made of mirtle leaves,

Plaited in small curious threaves,

Beset with Amber Cowslip studds,

And fring'd about with Daizy Budds.

In which his Bugle horne was hung,

Made of the babbling Eccho's tongue;

Which set unto his Moon-burn'd lip,

He windes, and then his Faeries skip:

At that, the lazy dawn'gan sound,

And each did trip a Faery round.

[Page]

A Poets farewell to his thred bare Cloak.

CLoak (if I so may call thee) though thou art

My old acquaintance, prithee now let's part;

Thou wer't my equall friend in thirty one,

But now thou look'st like a meer hanger on,

And art so uselesse to me, I scarce know

Sometimes whether I have thee on or no.

But this I needs must say, when thou go'st from me,

These ten years thou hast been no burden to me:

Yet that's thy accusation; for if I

Divorce thee from me, 'tis for Levity.

Thou hast abus'd my Bed, that is, thou hast

Not kept me warme, when thou wer't over-cast.

Transparent garment, proof against all weather,

Men wonder by what art thou hang'st together;

Nor can the eyes of the best reason pry

Into this new Occult Geometry.

A fellow t'other day but cast his eye on,

And swore I was mantled in Dent de lion.

Another ask't me (who was somewhat bolder)

Whether I wore a Love-bagge on my shoulder?

I feare a fire, as faire maids the small poxe,

And dare not look towards a Tinder-boxe,

[Page] Nor him that sells'em up and downe; I know,

If he comes neer me, 'tis but touch and goe.

A red-fac'd fellow frights me, though some fear

That wch makes his nose red, makes my cloak bare.

They say my thick Back, and thin Cloak appear,

Very like powder'd Beef, and Vinegar.

An other vow'd (whose tongue had no restriction)

It was no garment, but the Poets fiction.

Did ever man discover such a knack,

To walk in Querpo with a Cloak on's back!

A very zealous brother did begin

To jeer and say, Sir, your Original sinne

Is not wash'd off (pray do not take it ill)

I see, you weare your Fathers Fig-leaves still.

A Scholar (in an elevated thought)

Protested, 'Twas the Webbe Arachne wrought

When she contended with Minerva: but

Another Raschal had his finger cut,

And begg'd a piece to wrap about it. Thus

You see (kind Cobwebs) how they laugh at us.

Good Cambrick Lawn, depart; let me not be

For ever fetter'd thus in Tiffany.

Although I never yet did merit praise,

I'de rather have my shoulders crown'd with Bays

Than hung with Cypresse. If this fortune be

Alwayes dependant on poore Poetry,

I would my kinder destiny would call

Me to be one o'th'Clerks of Blackwell-hall;

For though their easie studies are more dull,

Yet what they want in wit, they have in wool.

[Page] Once more farewell, these are no times for thee,

Thick Cloaks are onely fit for knavery.

The onely Cloaks that now are most in fashion

Are Liberty, Religion, Reformation:

All these are fac'd with zeal, and button'd down

With Jewels dropt from an imperiall Crowne.

He that would Cloak it in the new Translation,

Must have his Taylor cut it Pulpit-fashion.

Doe not appear within the City; there

They minde not what men are, but what they weave.

The habit speaks the Man. How canst thou thrive

When a good Cloak's a Representative?

The Females will not wear thee, they put on

Such Cloaks as doe obscure the rising Sunne.

How can'st thou hope for entertainment, when

Women make Cloaks ev'n of Committee men?

Farewell good Cover-wit, upon the bryer

I'le hang thee up; if any doe enquire

Where his braines were that let his Cloak thus swing,

Tell him, his wits are gone a wool-gathering.

Ʋpon a Fart unluckily let.

WEll Madam, wel, the Fart you put upon me

Hath in this Kingdome almost quite un-

Many a boystrous storm, & bitter gust

Have I endur'd, by Sea, and more I must: done me.

But of all storms by Land, to me 'tis true,

This is the foulest blast that ever blew.

[Page] Not that it can so much impaire my credit,

But that I dare pronounce, 'twas I, that did it.

For when I thought to please you with a song,

'Twas but a straine too low that did me wrong;

Yet winged Fame will yet divulge it so,

That I shall heare of't where soe're I goe,

To see my friends, I now no longer dare,

Because my Fart will be before me there.

Nay more, which is to me my hardest doom,

I long to see you most, but dare not come;

For if by chance or hap, we meet together,

You taunt me with, what winde, Sir, blew you hither?

If I deny to tell, you will not sayle,

I thought your voice, Sir, would have drown'd your Tale;

Thus am I hamper'd wheresoe're you meet me,

And thus, instead of better termes you greet me.

I never held it such a heinous crime,

A Fart was lucky held, in former time;

A Foxe of old, being destitute of food,

Farted, and said, this newes must needs be good,

I shall have food, I know, without delay,

Mine Arse doth sing so merrily to day;

And so they say he had. But yet you see

The Foxes blessing proves a curse to me.

How much I wronged am, the case is cleare,

As I shall plainly make it to appear.

As thus, of all men let me be forsaken,

If of a Fart can any hold be taken:

[Page] For 'tis a Blast, and we Recorded finde,

King Aeolus alone commands the winde.

Why should I then usurp, and undertake

The Subject of a Royall Prince to make

My Prisoner? No, but as my duty bindes,

Leave that command unto the King of windes.

So, when I found him strugling to depart,

I freely gave him leave with all my heart.

Then judge you, gentle Ladyes, of my wrong,

Am I not well requited for my Song?

All the revenge that I require is this,

That you may Fart as oft as e're you pisse;

So may you chance, the next time that we meet,

To vie the Ruffe, and I not dare to see't.

In the meane time, on knees devoutly bended,

My Tongue craves pardon, if my Taile offended.

A young Man courting an old Widow.

DAme Hecuba, fye, be not coy, that look

How it drew up your wrinkles, like a Book

Of Vellam, at a fire? glazen your eyes

And view this face, these limbs, here vertue lies

Restorative, will make you smooth and straight,

As you were in the sixth of Henry th'eighth.

Come, let us kisse, that solitary Tusk,

As Garlick strong, but wholsomer then Musk,

Invites me neerer yet; the hottest fires

Ne're scorch'd, as doe your ashes my desires.

[Page] Time was, I've heard my Grandfather report

When those eyes drew more company to Court

Then hope of Honour; they have vertue still,

And work upon my breast, for as they dril

That humour down your yawning cheeks, my blood

Grows dull, congeals, & thickens with your Mud.

Somewhat youl'd say now! I perceive your gums

Are labouring for't, as when we brace our Drums,

To make them sound the better: oh take heed,

A little winde shivers a cracking reed.

One syllable will fetch your lungs up; stay

And make but signes, I'le guesse what you would say.

Good Granam, doe but nod your tottering head,

And shake your bunch of keys, you'l raise the

Why may not you and I be one? there be

In one world, severall tempers, Harmony dead.

Is made up thus, and Contraries preserve

That subject, where they doe each other serve.

Nor are we therefore over neer akin,

Because your Granchilds Niece hath marryed bin

To my great Unkle; 'Twas a lovely paire,

They say, who knew them then, equally faire

In yeares and Fortune: this a Priest may doe,

Spight of sterne Natures Laws, 'twixt me & you.

He can take you as y'are, me in my prime,

And tye up in one knot both ends of Time;

'Mongst all your Coffers and your bags of Gold,

A cunning Goldsmith ever likes the old.

The new may prove as currant, and may passe

From hand to hand, as fast as a young Lasse.

[Page] But you'r more grave and stay'd, come, pray consent,

And blaze but one good snuff, e're you be spent.

Touch-wood should take fire soonest, as it falls,

Fresh joy clings fully close to aged walls.

So let us joyn thus in one volume bound,

A Chronicle and Corant may be found.

Ʋpon Chesse. play. To Dr. Budden.

TO thee Laws Oracle, who hadst the power

To wage my pens imployment for an houre,

I send no Frogs, nor Mice, Pigmees nor Cranes,

Giants nor Gods, which trouble so the braines

Of feigbning Poets; nor my leisure sings

The Counterbuffs of the foure painted Kings:

Those worthy Combatants have had their times,

And Battells sung in thousand curious rimes.

I sing the fierce Alarme, and direfull stroke

Of passing timbred men, all heart of Oake;

Men that scorne Armes defensive, nor, in heat

Of bloudy broiles, complaine of dust or sweat.

Men that doe thinke, no victory is fit

That's not compacted by the reach of wit.

Men that an Ambuscado know to lay,

T'entrap the Foe in his retiring way;

Plot Stratagems, and teach their braines t'indite

What place is fittest to employ their might.

Dull down-right blowes, are fit for rustick wits,

Within the compasse of whose scalp there sits

[Page] A homebred sense, weak apprehension,

That strike the first they cast their eye upon;

Those are the Chaff of Soldiers, but this Corn

Of choicest men, at highest rate is born.

Here life is precious, where the meanest man

Is guarded by the Noblest, who doe scan,

(Not what a poor man is, but) what may prove,

If bravely to the Armies head he move;

Such may his valour be, he may of right

Be an Executor to Rook or Knight,

Whose Lands fall to the King (their Master dead)

With which this Pawn lives to be honoured,

And doe his Prince good service. Tell me then,

Thou that dost distribute Justice to men,

Must Honours ever follow blood? or should

Vertue be grac'd, though in the meanest Mould?

Tell me, thou Man of Peace, are not these Wars

Lawfull and commendable, where the scars

Are for Command, where either Enemy

Seeks to himselfe a fifth great Monarchy?

Where neither knows his confines, but each foot

Is his, where he or his, can take firme root?

Pity with me, the fortunes of those Kings,

Whose battell such an untaught Poet sings.

Know, that great Alexander could not have

An Homer; and remember, in wars brave,

Each deeds a Poem, and he writes it best

Who doth engrave it on a conquered Crest.

If I offend, part of the blame is thine,

Thou gav'st the Theam, I did but frame the Line.

[Page] Two angry Kings weary of lingring peace,

Challenge the field, all Concord now must cease;

So do their stomacks with fir'd anger burn,

Nothing but wounds, bloud, death, must serve the turne.

They pitch'd their field in a faire chequer'd square,

Each form two Squadrons, in the former are

The common Soldiers, whose courageous scope

Is venturing their lives, like Fortune, Hope.

These stil march on, & dare not break their rank,

But for to kill a Foe, then 'tis their prank

To make the ground good 'gainst the Enemy,

Till by a greater force subdu'd, they dye.

The Kings for safety, in mid battell stand,

And Marshal all their Nobles on each hand.

Next either King, an Amazonian Queen,

Like our sixt Henryes Margaret is seen,

Ready to scoure the Field, corner, or square,

She succours, where the Troops distressed are.

Next stand two Mytred Bishops which in War

Forget their Calling, vent'ring many a scar

In Princes cause, yet must no Bishop stray,

But leave the broad, and keep the narrow way.

Next are two ventrous Knights, whose nimble feet

Leap o're mens heads, scorning to think it meet

They should stand Centinells, while the poor Pawnes,

With danger of their lives do scour the Lawnes.

[Page]

The Battells out-spread wings, two Rooks doe guard,

These flanke the field so well, that there is barr'd

All side assaults; these, for their valours grace,

(The King in danger) with him change their place.

But Majesty must keep a setled pace,

Rides not in post, moves to the nearest place,

That's to his Standart; If there be report

Of the Kings danger, all troops may resort.

But now they sound Alarme, each heart doth swell

With wrath, strikes in the name of Christabel,

Strike, strike, be not agast, Soldiers are bound

To fear no death, much lesse to dread a wound.

Now without mercy dies the common Troop,

A Rook, a Bishop, and a Knight doth droop;

Yet neither boasts of Conquest, though each hope

To win the field, which now is halfe laid ope

By Soldiers death; now dares a martial Queen

Check her Foe King, when streight there steps between

A vent'rous Soldier, or a Noble man

Who cares not for his life, so be he can

From danger keep his King; he fears not death,

In Princes cause, that gives each Subject breath.

But this Virago dyes, being left alone,

When straight a nimble Soldier steppeth on,

And through the thickest Troops hews out his way

And till he come to th'head doth never stay.

This brave attempt deserves the honouring;

The Queens colours are his, given by the King▪

[Page] Who knows that valour should not want reward,

And vent'rous spirits, best keep a Princes guard.

Now is the War in heat, bloudy the Field,

Mercy is banish'd, none hath thought to yeild,

Basely to beg his breath; the fame now ran,

That they must fight it out, to the last man.

All Soldiers dye, but one, who to his King,

Griev'd with his great losse, doth this comfort bring,

That their great Foe, whose Troops are all now dead,

Must to their swords, yeild up his conquer'd head.

Then with their Check, and Check on either hand,

The poor disheartned King doth mated stand.

Though thus to dye it be the Princes fate,

Who dares pronounce he had a whisking mate;

Who, rather then mumping forgoe the Field,

Joyes in the place he stands, his breath to yeild?

But now the conquering couple want their breath,

Their festered wounds doe rankle, & grim death

Creeps through the gashes, down the Victors fall,

And then one generall Herse entombs them all.

[Page]

The loose Wooer.

THou dost deny me, cause thou art a Wife,

Know, she that's Marryed lives a single life

That loves but one; abhor that Nuptiall curse,

Ty'd thee to him, for better and for worse.

Variety delights the active blood,

And Women the more common, the more good,

As all goods are; there's no Adultery,

And Marriage is the worst Monopoly.

The Learned Roman Clergy admits none

Of theirs to Marry; they love all, not one:

And every Nun can teach you 'tis as meet,

To change your Bedfellow, as smock or sheet.

Say, would you be content onely to eate

Mutton or Beef, and tast no other meat?

It would grow to loathsom to you, and I know

You have two palats, and the best below.

[Page]

Ʋpon the biting of Fleas.

SUmmon up all the terrifying paines

That ever were invented by the braines

Of earthly Tyrants; Then descend to Hell,

And count the horrid tortures that doe dwell

In the darke Dungeon, where the horrid stone

Makes Sisiphus his panting entrailes groane.

Where Tantalus (in th'midst of plenty curst)

Is doom'd to famine, and eternall thirst;

Where the pale Ghosts are lash'd with whips of steel,

Yet these are gentle, to the paines I feel.

Vex'd with a Thousand Pigmy friends, and such

As dare not stand the onset of a touch.

Strange kind of Combatants, where Conquest lies

In nimbly skipping from their Enemies,

While they, with eager fiercenesse lay about

To catch the thing they faine would be without.

These sable furies bravely venture on,

But when I'gin t'oppose them, whip, th'are gone.

Doubtlesse I think each is a Magick Dauncer,

Bred up by some infernall Necromancer,

But that I doe believe, none ere searce knew

('Mong all their Spirits) such a damned crew.

Some, when they would expresse the gentle sting

Of a slight paine, call it a Flea-biting.

[Page] But were they in my place, they soon would finde

A cause sufficient for to change their minde▪

Some, telling how they vex'd another, say

I sent him with a Flea in's eare away,

Onely to shew what trouble hath possest

Him, whom this little creature doth molest.

It is reported, that a Mouse can daunt

The courage of the mighty Elephant.

Compare my bignesse, and the Fleas to theirs,

And I have smaller reason for my feares,

And yet I tremble when I feel them bite;

Oh how they sting my flesh? was black-brow'd night,

And the whist stilnesse of it, made by Fate,

To make man happy or unfortunate?

If there be any happinesse or rest

In pangs of torture, I am fully blest.

All my five sences are combin'd in one,

For, but my sence of feeling, I have none,

And that is left me, to increase my smart;

Bloud-sucking Tyrants, will you nere depart?

Why doe you hang in Clusters on my skin?

Come one to one, and try what you can win.

You Coward Aethiop Vermine! Oh you Gods,

You are unjust, to load me with such odds.

If Jove-born Hercules can't deale with two,

Then what can I against a Legion doe?

Their number frights me, not their strength; I'le dare

The Lion, Panther, Tigar, or the Beare

To an encounter, to be freed from these

Relentlesse demy-Devills, cursed Fleas.

[Page]

Ʋpon Madam Chevereuze swimming over the Thames,

'TWas calm, and yet the Thames touch'd heaven to day,

The water did find out the Milky way,

When Madam Chevereuze by swimming down,

Did the faire Thames the Qu [...] of Rivers crown.

The humble Willows on the shore grew proud

To see her in their shade her body shroud;

And meeting her the Swan (wont to presume)

Bow'd to her whiter neck his sullyed Plume.

Was not great Jove that Swan? so shap'd, he came

To Leda's sight; but Gods and Courtiers shame

Twice to appeare alike; I rather dream

Iove was not here, the Swan might be the stream,

And took far greater pleasure to be cool'd

In silver drops, then in his showre of gold.

And now let Aristotle's Schollers tread

Their Masters timeless footsteps to the dead,

In searching out the deepest secret, which

Or earth or water may be thought most rich.

Venus by Proxie from the floud ascends,

Bright Chevereuze the whole difference ends,

Adding so great a treasure to the waves,

As the whole earth seemes useless, but for graves.

[Page] Water above the Earth by nature lyes,

But she hath plac'd it now above the skies.

The flame she took, a spirit of water drew,

Fram'd opall Raine, out of extracted Dew.

But her chast breast, cold as the Cloyster'd Nun,

Whose Frost to Chrystal might congeal the Sun,

So glaz'd the stream, that Pylots then afloat,

Thought they might safely land without a Boat.

Iuly had seen the Thames in Ice involv'd,

Had it not been by her own beames dissolv'd:

But yet she left it Cordiall, 'twas no more

Thaw'd to so weake a water as before,

Else how could it have born all beauties fraight?

Of force it must have sunke so great a weight.

Have sunk her? where? how vainly doe I erre?

Who know all depths are shallow unto her.

She dreads not in a River to be drown'd,

Who, then the Sea it selfe, is more profound.

Small Vessells shake, the great Ship safely rides,

And, like her Royall builder, awes the Tydes.

Above their fome, or rage, we see her float,

In her bright scorn, and, Madam, here's my Vote:

So may all troubled waves beneath you shrink;

So may you swim for ever, your foes sinke.

[Page]

Ʋpon Aglaura in Folio.

BY this large Margent did the Poet meane

To have a Comment writ upon the Scene?

Or is it that the Ladyes (who ne [...]re look

In any, but a Poem or Play-book)

May in each Page, have space to scribble down

When such a Lord or Fashion came to town?

As Swaines in Almanacks accompt doe keep

When their Cow calv'd, and when they bought their Sheep?

Ink is the life of Paper, 'tis meet then

That this, wch scap'd the Press, should feel the Pen.

A Room with one side furnish'd, or a Face,

Painted half way is but a foule disgrace.

This great Voluminous Pamphlet may be said

To be like one that hath more haire then head,

More excrement than body▪ Trees that sprout

With broadest leaves, have still the smallest fruit.

When I saw so much white, I did begin

To think Aglaara either did lye in,

Or else did Penance, never did I see

(Unlesse in Bills dash'd in the Chancery)

So little in so much, as if the feet

Of Poetry, like Law, were sold by th'sheet.

If this new fashion doe but last one year,

Poets, as Clerks, would make our Paper deare.

[Page] Doth not that Artist erre, and blast his fame,

Who sets out pictures lesser than the frame?

Was ever Chamberlain so mad, to dare,

To lodge a child in the great bed at Ware?

Aglaura would please better, did she lie

In th' narrow bounds of an Epitome;

Pieces that are weaved of the finest twist,

As Silk and Plush, have still more stuff than list.

She that in Persian habits, made great brags,

Degenerates in this excesse of rags,

Who by her Gyant bulk, this onely gaines,

Perchance in Libraries to hang in chains.

'Tis not in Books, as Cloath; we never say,

Make London measure, when we buy a Play;

But rather have them par'd; those leaves be fair

To the judicious, which much spotted are.

Give me the sociable pocket books,

These empty Folio's onely please the looks.

Ʋpon Lute-scrings Cate-aten.

ARe these the strings that Poets feigne,

Have clear'd the Air, & calm'd the Maine?

Charm'd Wolves, and from the Mountain crests

Made Forrests dance, with all their Beasts?

Could these neglected shreds you see,

Inspire a Lute of Ivorie,

And make it speak? oh then think what

Hath been committed by my Cat,

[Page] Who in the silence of this night,

Hath gnawn these cords, and marr'd them quite,

Leaving such relicts as may be

For frets, not for my Lute, but me.

Pusse, I will curse thee, maist thou dwell

With some dry Hermit in a Cel,

Where Rat ne're peep'd, where Mouse ne're fed,

And Flies go supperlesse to bed:

Or with some close-par'd Brother, where

Thoul't fast each Sabbath in the yeare,

Or else, profane, be hang'd on Monday,

For butchering a Mouse on Sunday.

Or maist thou tumble from some tower,

And misse to light upon all foure,

Taking a fall that may unty

Eight of nine lives and let them fly.

Or may the midnight embers sindge

Thy dainty coat, or Iane beswinge

Thy hyde, when she shall take thee biting

Her Cheeseclouts, or her house be—

What, was there ne're a Rat nor Mouse,

Nor Butry ope? nought in the house

But harmlesse Lutestrings, could suffice

Thy paunch, and draw thy glaring eyes?

Did not thy conscious stomach finde

Nature profan'd, that kind with kind

Should staunch his hunger? think on that,

Thou Caniball and Cyclops Cat.

For know, thou wretch, that every string

Is a cats gut, which Art doth bring

[Page] Into a thread; and now suppose

Dunstan, that snuff'd the Devills nose,

Should bid these strings revive, as once

He did the Calfe, from naked bones;

Or I to plague thee for thy sin,

Should draw a Circle, and begin

To Conjure, for I am, look to't,

An Oxford Scholer, and can doe't.

Then with three sets of Mops and Mowes,

Seaven of odd words, and Motley showes,

A thousand tricks, that may be taken

From Faustus, Lambe, or Frier-Bacon;

I should begin to call my strings

My Cattlings, and my Minikins;

And they re-catted, streight should fall

To mew, to purre, to Caterwawle;

From Pusses belly, sure as death,

Pusse should be an Engastrumeth.

Pusse should be sent for to the King,

For a strange Bird or some rare thing.

Pusse should be sought to farre and neer,

As she some cunning woman were.

Pusse should be carried up and downe,

From Shire to Shire, from Town to Towne,

Like to the Cammell, leane as Hag,

The Elephant or Apish Nag,

For a strange sight; Pusse should be sung

In Lowsie Ballads, midst the throng,

At Markets, with as good a grace

As Agincourt, or Chevy Chace;

[Page] The Troy▪ sprung Britain would forgoe

His Pedigree, he chanteth so,

And sing that Merlin (long deceast)

Return'd is in a nine liv'd beast.

Thus Pusse thou seest, what might betide thee,

But I forbear to hurt or chide thee.

For't may be Pusse was Melancholy,

And so to make her blythe and Jolly,

Finding these strings, shel'd have a fit

Of Mirth; nay, Pusse, if that were it;

Thus I revenge me, that as thou

Hast plaid on them, I on thee now;

And as thy touch was nothing fine,

So I've but scratch'd these notes of mine.

To a Lady vex'd with a Jealous Husband.

WHen you sit musing, Lady, all alone

Casting up all your cares with private moan,

When your heart bleeds with griefe, you are no more▪

Neer unto comfort, than you were before.

You cannot mend your state with sighes or tears,

Sorrow's no Balsome for distrustfull feares.

Have you a Foe you hate, wish him no worse

A Plague or Torment, then the Pillowes curse.

[Page] Observe your Lord with ne're so strict an eye,

You cannot go to piss without a spy.

If but a Mouse doth stir about his bed,

He starts, and sweares he is dishonoured,

And when a jealous dream doth craze his pate,

Straight he resolves he will be separate.

Tell me, right worthy Cuckolds, if you can,

What good this folly doth reflect on man?

Are women made more loyall? hath it power

To guard the Tree, that none can pluck the Flower?

Is it within the power of jealous heads,

To banish lust from Court, or Country beds?

I never knew, that base and foul mistrust

Made any chast, that had a mind to lust.

It cannot make her honest, that by kind,

To loose and wild affections is inclin'd.

Debar her Lord, she, to supply his room,

Will have a Horse boy, or a Stable-groom.

Keep her from youth of lower rank and place,

She'l kiss his Scullion, and with Knaves embrace:

Suspect her faith withall, and all mistrust,

She'l buy a Monkey to supply her lust:

Lock her from Man and Beast, and all content,

She'l make thee Cuckold with an instrument:

For women are like angry Mastives Chain'd,

They bite at all, when they are all restrain'd.

We may set locks & guards to watch their fires,

But have no meanes to quench their hot desires.

Man may as well, by cunning, go about,

To stop the Sun in motion, as by doubt,

[Page] To keep a nettled woman, if that she

Strongly disposed be to Venery.

How many thousand women that were Saints,

Are now made sinfull by unjust restraints?

How many do commit, for very spight,

That take small pleasure in that sweet delight?

Some are for malice, some for mirth unjust,

Some kisse for love, and some do act for lust.

But if the fates intend to make me blest,

And Hymen bind me to a female breast,

(As yet, I thank my starres, I am not ty'd

In servile bonds to any wanton Bride)

Let Cinthia be my Crest, and let me wear

The Cuckolds badge, if I distrust, or fear.

'Tis told me oft, a smooth and gentle hand

Keeps women more in aw of due command,

Than if we set a Ganneril on their Docks,

Ride them with Bits, or on their geer set Locks.

For then, like furious Colts, they'l frisk & fling,

Grow wild and mad, and will do any thing.

But if we slack our reyns, to please their will,

Kindnesse will keep them from committing ill.

You blessed creatures, hold your female rights,

Conquer by day, as you o'recome by nights,

And tell the jealous world thus much from me,

Bondage may make them bad, whose mindes are free.

Had Collatin been jealous (say this more)

Without a rape, Lucrece had dy'd a whore.

[Page]

Invitation to dalliance.

BE not thou so foolish nice,

As to be intreated twice;

What should Women more incite,

Then their own sweet appetite?

Shall savage things more freedom have

Than nature unto Women gave?

The Swan, the Turtle, and the Sparrow

Bill a while, then take the marrow.

They Bill, they Kisse, what else they doe

Come Bill, and Kisse, and I'le shew you.

The Countrey mans Song in the Spanish Curate.

LEt the Bells ring, and the Boyes sing,

The young Lasses trip and play,

Let the Cups goe round, till round goes the ground,

Our learned Vicar wee'le stay.

Let the Pig turn merrily hey,

And let the fat Goose swim,

For verily, verily, hey,

Our Vicar this day shall be trim.

[Page]

The stew'd Cock shall Crow, Cockadoodle doe,

Aloud Cockadoodle shall Crow;

The Duck and the Drake that swim in the Lake

Of Onions and Clarret below.

Our Wives shall be neat, to bring in our meat,

To thee, our Noble Adviser,

Our paines shall be great, and our pottles shall sweat,

And we our selves will be wiser.

Wee'l labour & swink, wee'l kisse and wee'l drink,

And Tythes shall come thicker and thicker;

Wee'l fall to the Plough, and get children enow,

And thou shalt be learned, Oh Vicar!

Ʋpon the sight of an old decay'd patch'd Bed, with a Pillow having T. R. as a marke on it.

Prologue,

MErvail not (Reader) though the Sun shine bright

About you, if I bid you all good night,

I'le tell how't may properly be sed,

Though you are up, yet I am going to bed.

Poetaster,

My slumbring Muse upon thy drowsie bed,

Rest once againe thine unattired head

[Page] Where, for thy great Mecenas so commands,

Thy best assayes with saporiferous bands.

While darknesse did thine outward senses blind,

Tell me what fancies did usurp thy minde.

Muse.

What think you Sir, while sleep enthral'd my head,

What subject could I have, except my bed?

Poetaster.

A bed no subject to be written on,

But lain, yea by the Muses tread upon.

Muse.

The pillow from the bed I think's not farre,

And yet on that were written T. and R.

But to be lien on, right I like it well,

For why in lying, Poets bear the Bell,

And to be trod upon, tis not unmeet,

The Muses scand their subjects with their feet.

Poetaster.

The R. O muse thou there saw'st (to be brief)

Was nothing but a Rogue, the T. a Thief:

In the next verse, but two, I blush to tell,

Thou first broughtst forth a Lie, & then a Bell.

Take heed of Libels Muse, thy Poet feares,

If thy feet stumble, he may lose his eares.

To sever Theives and Poets I am loath,

Because I know Mercurius was both.

[Page]Muse.

Within thy verses as Birds of a feather,

Liars, rogues, thieves, and Muses flock together,

By whom I'm softly to my subject led,

For flocks and feathers do fill up the bed.

Bacchus his merry boules may humour breed,

But divine raptures from the bed proceed.

Let the Pot Poets in their fury try,

With dipping their Malignant pens to dry

The Muses fountain, my inventions streams

Can nevr faile, while beds procure me dreams.

If we one Science justly may admire,

What shall we here where all the Seven conspire?

The letters on the pillow witnesse may

That on this bed some Grammer lately lay;

In Logick also it must needs be able,

For 'twas a Cord would make a pretty Cable:

That beds have Rhetorick we need not fear,

While to his pillow each man lends his eare:

Who number all the feathers in it can,

Must be a good Arithmetitian.

The joynts cry creek when on them any lie,

As if the stocks hung by Geometry.

Its musick sure is pleasant which can keep

In spight of snorting eyes and eares asleep.

The bed I take for deep Astronomy,

Which alwaies studies to eclipse the eye.

If you seek Planets, this is Vulcans gin,

That Mars and Venus were so fetter'd in.

[Page] Astrologie in this doth also dwell,

For men by Dreames may future things foretell:

To read strong lines, if any minde be bent,

Herein the bed can also give content.

Not sage Apollo, nor the sacred Nine

Can then this Bed-cord shew a stronger line.

Methinkes l'me very sleepy still, and loath

To rise, but that I've on me ne're a cloath.

'Twas T. and R. as sure's I live, 'twas they

That stole the Coverlet and Sheets away.

Out! a Roap choak you both, y'are arrant knaves,

I'de knock you soundly, had I but Bed-staves.

Epilogue.

IF ought obscure you in my Verses, marke,

Poets use not their Beds but in the darke.

If false or foolish any thing you deem,

Sith't came from Bed, account it for a Dream.

If in my Verses boldly any catches,

The Bed, my subject, was as full of patches:

The blurs and blots I make, let none disdaine,

The Bed in one place had an ugly staine.

If my unpollish't lines being dull and dry,

Doe make you heavy, I will tell you why.

Some sudjects make men laugh, some make them weep

But the Bed-post is to bring all asleep.

[Page]

A Letter to Sir John Mennis, when the Parliament denied the King Money to pay the Army, unlesse a Priest, whom the King had reprieved, might be executed. Sir John at that time wanting the Money for provisions for his troop, desired me by his Letter to goe to the Priest, and to perswade him to dye for the good of the Army; saying,

What is't for him to hang an houre,

To give an Army strength and power?

The Reply.

BY my last Letter Iohn thou see'st

What I have done to soften Priest;

Yet could not with all I could say,

Perswade him hang to get thee pay.

Thou Swad, quoth he, I plainly see,

The Army wants no food by thee,

Fast oftner, friend, or if you'l eate

Use Oaten straw, or straw of Wheat;

They'l serve to moderate thy jelly,

And (which it needs) take up thy belly.

As one that in a Taverne breaks

A Glasse, steales by the Barre, and sneaks:

At this rebuke, with no lesse haste, I

Trudg'd from the Priest, and Prison nasty:

The truth is, he gave little credit

To'th' Armies wants, because I said it.

[Page] And, if you'l presse it further, Iohn,

'Tis fit you send a leaner man.

For thou with ease can'st friends expose

For thy behoof to fortunes blows.

Suppose we being found together

Had pass'd for Birds of the same feather?

I had perchance been shrewdly shent,

And maul'd too, by the Parliament.

Have you beheld th'unlucky Ape

For roasted Chesnuts mump and gape,

And off'ring at them with his pawes,

But loath he is to scorch his clawes;

When viewing on the Hearth asleep

A Puppy, gives him cause to weep:

To spare his owne, he takes his help,

And rakes out Nuts with foot of whelp.

Which done, (as if 'twere all but play)

Your Name-sake looks another way.

The Cur awakes, and findes his thumbs

In paine, but knows not whence it comes,

He takes it first to be some Cramp,

And now he spreads, now licks his vamp;

Both are in vaine, no ease appeares,

What should he doe? he shakes his eares,

And hobling on three legs he goes,

Whining away with aking toes.

Not in much better case perhaps,

I might have been to serve thy chaps,

And have beshrew'd my fingers end,

For groping so in cause of friend;

[Page] While thou wouldst munch like horse in Manger,

And reach at Nuts with others danger:

Yet have I ventur'd farre to serve

My friend that sayes he's like to sterve.

The Fart censured in the Parliament House.

PUffing down coms grave antient Sir Io. Crook,

And reads his message promptly without book.

Very well, quoth Sir William Morris, so;

But Harry Ludlows foysting Arse cry'd no.

Then starts up one fuller of devotion

Then eloquence, and sayes, An ill motion.

Nay, by my Faith, quoth Sir Henry Ienkin,

The motion were good, wer't not for stinking.

Quoth Sir Henry Pool, 'Tis an audacious trick,

To Fart in the Face of the body Politick.

Now without doubt, quoth Sir Edward Grevil,

I must confesse, it was very uncivill.

Thank God, quoth Sir Edward Hungerford,

That this Fart prov'd not a Turd.

Indeed, quoth Sir Iohn Trevor, it gave a foule knock,

As it launch'd forth from his stinking Dock.

I, quoth another it once so chanced,

That a great Man Farted, as he daunced.

Quoth Sir Richard Haughton, no Justice of Quorum,

But would take it in snuffe, t'have a fart let before'um.

[Page] Such a fart as this ne're before was seen,

Quoth the most learned Councel of the Queen.

Quoth Mr. Daniel, this young man's too bold,

This priviledge belongs to us that are old.

Then wo the time, quoth Sir Laurence Hyde,

That these our priviledges are deny'd.

Quoth Mr. Recorder a word for the City,

To cut off the Aldermans right, were great pity.

Well, quoth Kit Brook, wee'l give you a reason,

Though he had right by descent, he had not livery and seisin.

Yet, quoth M. Peak, I have a president in store,

His father farted last Sessions before.

Then said Mr. Noy, this may very well be done,

A fart may be entail'd from the father to the son.

Saith Mr. Moore, let us this motion repeale,

What's good for the private, is ill for the Common weal.

A goodyear on this Fart, quoth gentle Sir Harry.

He hath caus'd such an Earth-quake, that my Coal-pits miscarry.

It is hard to recall a Fart when tis out,

Quoth Sir William Lower with a loud shout.

Yes, quoth Sir Laurence Hide, that we may come by it,

Wee'l make a proviso, time it and tye it.

Qd. Sir Harry the hardy, look well to each clause,

Aswell for Englands Liberty as Lawes.

Now then the knightly Doctor protests,

This Fart shall be brought into th'Court of Requests.

[Page] Nay rather, sayes Sir Edwin, I'le make a digression,

And fart him a project, shall last him a Session.

Then Sir Edward Hoby alleadg'd with the spigot,

If you fart at the Union, remember Kit Pigot.

Swooks quoth Sir Iohn Lee, is your Arse in dotage?

Could you not have kept this breath to cool your pottage?

Grave Senat quoth Mr. Duncomb, upon my salvation

This Fart had need of great Reformation.

Quoth the Countrey Courtier upon my Conscience,

It might have been reformed with Frankinsence.

We must have this Fart by Parliament enacted,

Said another, before this businesse be transacted.

And so we shall have (oh do not abhor it!)

A Fart from Scotland reciprocall for it.

A very good jest it is by this light.

Quoth spruce Mr. Iames of the Isle of Wight.

Quoth Sir Robert Iohnson, if you'l not laugh

I'le measure this Fart with my Iacobs staffe.

Now by my troth, quoth sage Mr. Bennet,

We must have a selected Committee to pen it.

Philip Gawdy stroak'd the old stubble of his face,

Said, the Fart was well penn'd, so sat downe in his place.

Then modest Sir Iohn Hollis said, on his word,

It was but a Shoo that creak'd on a board.

[Page] Not so, quoth Sir Iohn Ackland, that cannot be,

The place underneath is matted you see.

Before God, said Mr. Brooke, to tell you no lye,

This Fart, by our Law, is of the Post-nati.

Fye, quoth M. Fotherby, I like not this Embassage,

A Fart Interlocutory in the midst of a Message.

In all your Eloquence then, quoth Mr. Martin,

You cannot finde out this figure of Farting.

Nay, quoth Dr. Crompton, can any man draw

This Fart within compasse of the Civill Law?

Then Sir William Pady, I dare assure'm,

Though't be Contra modestiam, 'tis not Contra naturam.

Up starts Ned Weymark the Pasquil of Powls,

And said, this Fart would have fitted the Master of the Rolls.

Said Oxenbridge, there is great suspition,

That this Fart savours of Popish Superstition.

Nay, said Mr. Good, and also some other,

This Fart came from som reformed Brother.

Then up start Sir Iohn Yong, and swore by Gods nailes,

Was nere such a Fart let in the Borders of Wales.

Sir Walter Cope said, this Fart as 'twas let,

Might well have broke ope his privy Cabinet.

Sir Ierome in Folio, swore by the Masse,

This Fart was enough to have broke all the Glasse.

[Page] And Sir Ierome the lesse said, such an abuse,

Was never committed in Poland or Pruce.

In compasse of a thousand miles about,

Sir Roger Owen said, such a Fart came not out.

Quoth Sir Iohn Parker, I sweare by my Rapier,

This Bombard was stuff [...]d with very foul Paper.

Now quoth Mr. Lewknor, we have found such a thing

As no Tale-bearer dares carry to the King.

Quoth Sir Lewis his Brother, if it come of Embassage,

The Master of the Ceremonies must give it passage.

I, quoth Sir Robert Drury, that were your part,

If so it had been a forrein Fart.

Nay, said Sir Richard Love lace, to end the difference,

It were fit with the Lords to have a conference.

Hark, quoth Sir Iohn Townsend, this Fart had the might,

To deny his owne Master to be dubbed Knight,

For had it ambition, or orationis pars,

Your Son could have told him, quid est Ars.

Quoth Sir Thomas Lake, if this house be not able

To censure this Fart, I'le have it to the Councel Table.

It were no great grievance, qd, M. Hare,

If the Surveyour herein had his share.

Be patient Gentlemen, quoth Sir Francis Bacon,

There's none of us all but may be thus mistaken.

[Page] Silence, quoth Bond, though words be but wind,

Yet I doe mislike these Motions behinde.

Then, quoth Mr. Price, it stinks the more you stir it,

Naturam expellas furca, recurrit.

Then gan sage Mounson silence to break,

And said, this Fart would make an Image speak.

Up rises the Speaker, that noble Ephestion,

And sayes, Gentlemen, I'le put you a question:

The question propounded the eares did lose,

For the Major part went there with the nose.

Sir Robert Cotton, well read in old stories,

(Having conferred his notes with Mr. Pories,

I can well witnesse that these are no fables)

Said, 'twas hard to put the Fart in his Tables.

If 'twould bear an Action, saith Sir Tho: Holcrost,

I'ld make of this Fart a Bolt or a shaft.

Quoth Sir Roger Ashton, 'twould mend well the matter,

If 'twere shay'd and well wash'd in rose water:

Why, quoth Sir Roger Acton, how should I tell it,

A Fart by hearsay, & neither hear it nor smell it?

Quoth Sir Thomas Knevet, I fear here doth lurk

In this Hallow Vault, some more powder work.

Then precisely rose Sir Anthony Cope,

And pray'd to God, 'twere no Bull from the Pope.

Quoth Sir Tho: Chaloner, I'le demonstrat this fart

To b'a voice of the Belly, and not of the heart.

Then by my Faith saith Sir Edwin Sandyes,

He playes not by th'line, this Gentleman bandies.

Then said Sir George More, in his wonted order,

I mean but to speak against the houses disorder.

[Page] The Fart which we favour far more then is fit,

I wish to the Sergeant you would commit.

The Sergeant refus'd it, humbly on's knees,

For Farts break Prison, and never pay Fees;

Wherefore this motion without reason stands

To charg me with what I can't hold in my hands.

Then quoth the Clerk, I now plainly see

That a private Act is some gaine for me.

All which was admitted by Sir Thomas Freak,

This Gentleman saith, his Shoo did but creak.

Then said Sir Richard Gargrave by and by,

This Gentleman speaketh as well as I.

But all at last said, it was most fit,

The Fart as a Traitor, to the Tower to commit:

Where as they say, it remaines to this houre,

Yet not close prisoner, but at large in the Tower.

Partus Chaucheri Posthumus Gulielmi Nelson.

LIsten you Lordlings to a noble game,

Which I shall tell you, by thilk Lord S. Iame,

Of a lewd Clerk, and of his haviour bold,

He was, I trow, some threescore winters old.

Of Cambridge was this Clerk, not Oxenford,

Well known at Stilton, Stewkey, and Stamford.

He haunted fenny Staunton, and Saint Ives,

And fair could gloze among the Country Wives.

[Page] A lusty Runnyon ware he in his hose,

Lowd could he speak, and crackle in the Nose.

For Schollarship him car'd him light or nought,

To serve his turn, he English Postills bought.

He us'd no colour, nor no Rhetorick,

But yet he couth some termes of art Logick,

He was full rude and hot in disputation,

And wondrous frequent in his predication.

Full gravely couth he spit, fore he gan speak,

And in his mouth some Sugar-Candy break,

But yet his preaching was to small effect,

Though lowd he roar'd, inth' Northern Dialect.

He ware a Cassock deep, but of small cost,

His state was spent in Nutmeg, Ale and Toast.

A gauld back'd spittle Jade for travelling

He kept in summer, but the wintering

Too costly was, rode he early or later,

Nought was his provender but grass and water,

Well liquor'd were his Boots, & wondrous wide,

Ne Sword, ne Rapyer ware he by his side,

A long vast Cloak-bag was his Caryage

Ther nis the like from Hull unto Carthage.

But, sooth to say, he was for ay formall,

And ware a thred bare Cloak Canonicall.

He had a Deanship and a Parsonage,

Yet was in debt and danger all his age,

His greater summe he payes by borrowing,

And lesser scores, by often punishing.

If that a Problem, or a common place

Comes to his share, he is in jolly case;

[Page] Then to a Nape of Ling he would invite

Some Rascall Tapster, hardly worth a Mite.

Well was he known in every Village Town,

The good Wives clep'd him Gossip up & down;

Oft was he Maudlin drunk, then would he weep,

Not for his sinnes, of them he took small keep:

It was the humour fell down from his eyn,

Distill'd from Ale, he drank but little wine;

And being asked why those teares did fall,

Soothly he preached at a Funerall.

And when with drinking he was some deal mellow,

His Motto was, Faith Lad, I's halfe good fellow.

Thus preach'd he often on an Ale-house Bench,

And, when the Spirit mov'd, cough'd for his Wench,

And Bastards got, which, if God send them grace,

They may succeed him in his Seniors place.

He was an idle Senior for the nonce,

Foul may befall his body, and his bones.

Ʋpon the same.

TWice twenty Sermons, & twice five, I ween,

(And yet not one of them in print is seen)

He preach'd, God and St. Mary's witnesseth,

Where loud he roar'd, yet had but little pith.

[Page]

Imitatio Chauceri altera, In eundem.

LEave, Ieffrey Chaucer, to describen a Man

In thine old phrason, so well as I can.

[...]ken no glozing, for my wit is rude,

Nath'lesse I'le limb out his similitude.

Fierce was his look, 'twas danger him to meet,

He passed like a Tempest through the street.

Narrow his eyn, his Nose was Chamised,

Sawfleum his Face, forked his Beard and head.

Pardie I wot not what men doe him call,

Dan Thomas. ne Dan Richard, n'of what Hall

He is, [...] Colledge; but, by th'holy Mattin,

He was a frequent guest at Iohn Port Lattin;

And eke at all other dayes festivall,

He had a liquorous tooth over all;

Ne was there any Wight in all this Town,

That tasted better a Pasty of Venisoun,

Ybaked with Gravy Gods plenty,

It relished better then Austin's works or Gregory,

Yet politick he was, and worldly wise,

And purchac'd hath, a double Benefice.

Small was his Wage, and little was his hire,

He let his sheep accumber in the mire;

And solac'd at St. Iohns, or at St. Pauls,

That was a Sanctuary for his Soules.

[Page] Sir Iohn of them, must alwaies taken keep,

A shitten Sheepherd cannot make clean sheep.

Ne God Mercurius, ne Melpomene,

E're look'd upon him at's Nativity:

Or if they look'd, they looked all ascaunce,

So was he made a Priest by foule mischance.

Pardie he was of the worst clay y'maked,

That e're Dame Nature in her Furnace baked.

For in his youth he was a Serving-man,

And busily on his Masters errand ran;

And fairely fore a Cloak-bag couth he ride,

Algates a rusty whinyard by his side;

And he that whilom could not change a groat,

Hath changed, for a Cassock, his blew Coat.

One cannot see the Body, nor the Bulke,

That whilom did attend on aged Fulk;

A larger Gown hath all y'covered,

And a square Cap doth pent-house his swynes head.

Yet notes he got, when his Master disputed,

And when the learned Papists he confuted.

The Borel men sayn, he preach well ynough,

But others known, that he stoln all his stuffe.

Lustfull he was, at Forty needs must wed,

Old Ianuary will have May in Bed,

And live in glee, for, as wise men have sayn,

Old Fish, and young Flesh, would I have fayn,

And thus he swinketh; but, to end my story,

Men sayn, he needs no other Purgatory.

[Page]

The Nightingale.

MY Limbs were weary, and my head opprest

With drowsiness, and yet I could not rest.

My Bed was such, as Down nor Feather can Swan;

Make one more soft, though Iove againe turn

No fear-distracted thoughts, my slumbers broke,

I heard no Screech Owl shreek, nor Raven croak;

Sleep's foe, the Flea, that proud insulting Elfe,

Is now at truce, and is asleep it selfe.

But 'twas nights darling, and the worlds chief Jewell,

The Nightingale, that was so sweetly cruell.

It woo'd my eares to rob my eyes of sleep,

That whilst she sung of Tereus, they might weep;

And yet rejoyce the Tyrant did her wrong,

Her cause of woe, was burthen of her song.

Which while I listened to, and strove to heare,

'Twas such, I could have wish'd my selfe all eare.

'Tis false that Poets feign of Orpheus, he

Could neither move a beast, a stone, or tree

To follow him, but wheresoe're she flyes,

The Grovy Satyr, and the Faery hyes

Afore her Perch, to dance their Roundelayes,

For she sings Distichs to them, while Pan playes.

[Page] Yet she sung better now, as if in me

She meant with sleep to try the Mastery.

But while she chaunted thus, the Cock for spight,

Dayes hoarcer Herald, chid away the night,

Thus rob'd of sleep, my eye-lids nightly guest,

Methought I lay content, though not at rest.

Epitaph on Mistrisse Mary Prideaux.

HAppy Grave thou dost enshrine

That which makes thee a rich Myne,

Yet remember, 'tis but loane,

And we look for back our owne.

The very same, marke me, the same,

Thou shalt not cheat us with a Lame

Deformed Carcasse, this was faire,

Fresh as morning, soft as Ayre;

Purer then other flesh as farre

As other Soules their bodies are:

And that thou maist the better see

To finde her out, two starres there be

Eclipsed now; uncloud but those,

And they will point thee to the Rose

That dy'd each Cheek, now pale and wan,

But will be, when she wakes againe

Fresher then ever; and how ere

Her long sleep may alter her,

[Page] Her Soul will know her Body streight,

'Twas made so fit for't, no deceipt

Can suit another to it, none

Cloath it so neatly as its owne.

Ʋpon drinking in the Crown of a Hat.

WEll fare those three, that when there was a Dearth

Of Cups to drink in, yet could finde out mirth,

And spight of Fortune, make their want their store,

And nought to drinke in, caused drinking more.

No brittle glasse we used, nor did we thinke

'Twould help the taste, t'have windows to our drinke.

We scorn'd base Clay, wth tortur'd in the wheel,

Martyr'd at last, the force of fire doth feel.

Both these doe faile, we drinke not morally,

In such like Emblems of mortality.

The Cups that Brewers use, and long use may,

But us'd by women the contrary way,

Polluted not our Pallats; nor the horn,

Due to the forehead, by our lips was worne.

We did abhor these hell-bred, bloud bought Mettals,

Silver and gold; nor should that which makes Kettles

[Page] Serve us for cups; nor that which is the Newter

Betwixt these five, and is yeleped Pewter;

But twas as rare a thing, as often tryed,

As best of these, though seven times purifyed

A seven times scoured Felt, but turned never,

And pity tis, I cannot call it Bever.

The circumlated Crown, somewhat deprest,

And by degrees, toward the one side thrust,

That to our lips it might the better stoop,

Varyed a little th'figure of a Hoop;

From a just Circle drawing out an Angle,

And that we might not for our measure wrangle,

The Butlers self, whose Hat it was and Band,

Fill'd each his measure with an even hand.

Thus did we round it, and did never shrink,

Till we that wanted Cups, now wanted drink.

An Epitaph upon Doctor Prideaux's Son.

HEre lyes his Parents hopes and fears,

Once all their joyes, now all their tears,

He's now past sence, past fear of paine,

'Twere sin to wish him here againe.

Had it liv'd to have been a Man,

This Inch had grown but to a span;

And now he takes up the lesse room,

Rock'd from his Cradle to his Tomb.

[Page] 'Tis better dye a child, at four,

Then live and dye so at fourscore.

View but the way by which we come,

Thou'lt say, he's best, that's first at home.

On his Mistrisse having the Green-sicknesse.

WHite Innocence, that now lyes spread

Forsaken on thy widdow'd Bed,

Cold and alone; for fear, love, hate,

Or shame, recall thy crimson mate

From his dark Mazes, to reside

With thee, his chast and Maiden-bride:

And left he backward thence should flow,

Congeale him in thy Virgin-snow.

But if his owne heat, with thy paire

Of Neighbouring Suns, and flaming haire,

Thaw him into a new Divorce,

Lest to the heart he take his course:

O lodge me there where I'le defeat

A future hope of his retreat;

And force the fugitive to seek

A constant station in thy cheek.

So each shall have his proper place,

I in your heart, he in your face.

[Page]

Ʋpon the naked Bedlams, and spotted Beasts, we see in Covent Garden.

WHen Besse! she ne're was halfe so vainly clad,

Besse ne're was halfe so naked, halfe so mad.

Again, this raves with Lust, for Love Besse ranted,

Then Besses skin was tan'd, but this is painted,:

No, this is Madam Spots, 'tis she, I know her,

Her face is powdred Ermin, I'le speak to her;

How does your most enammel'd Ladyship?

Nay pardon me, I dare not touch your Lip.

What kisse a Leopard▪ he that Lips will close,

With such a Beast as you, may lose his Nose.

Why in such hast? before we part 'tis meet.

You should doe penance Madam in a Sheet:

'Tis time when Schism and Error so lowd cries.

To punish such notorious Sectaries.

I publickly appeare halfe Adamite,

In private practice you are one outright.

But Dapl'd Ladyes, if you needs must show

Your nakednesse, yet pray why spotted so?

Has beauty think you lustre from these spots?

Is Paper fairer when 'tis stain'd with blots?

What have you cut your Mask out into sippets,

Like wanton Girles, to make you Spots and Tippets;

[Page] As I have seen a Cook, that over-neat,

To garnish out a dish hath spoil'd good meat?

Pride is a Plague, why sure these are the soares,

I will write (Lord have mercy) on your doors,

Devills are black who doubt it, but some write

That there are likewise Devills that are white:

Well, I have found a third sort that are neither,

They are Py'de Devils, black and white together.

Come, tell me tru, for what these Spots are set,

Are they Decoyes to draw fools to your net?

Are they like Ribons in the Mane and Tayle,

Of an old wincing Mare that's set to sale?

You that use publick trade must hang out Signes,

Bushes you think will vent your naughty Wines.

I'le tell you (Ladyes) never give me trust,

If these baites move not more to scorn then Lust.

Perhaps they may a stomach tempt, that loves

A Gammon of Bacon that's stuft with Cloves;

Or White-broath with Pruines, but never hope,

That Love or Lust, to this patch't Lure should stoop,

Unlesse of such rude Ruffins, as nere blush,

To enter wherefoe're they see a bush.

Whose Breeches and whose Shirts make plain report,

That they as ready are as you for sport.

Take my advice to be secure from jeers,

Wash off your stinking Spots with bitter teares.

O you sweet Rurall beauties who were never

Infected with this ugly spotted Feaver.

[Page] Whose face is smoother then the Ivory plaine,

Need neither spots from France, nor paint from Spaine.

Whose snowie Mountaines never saw the light,

And yet the Sun never saw Snow so white;

Whose dresse the Emblem is of Modesty,

Whose looks secure you from attempts; whose Eye

Has made Iobs Vow, and kept it, and whose whose

Behaviour chast is, as your Virgin-soule:

Which to adorn, take up your choicest thoughts,

Not to get Pendants, Paintings, Ribonds, Spots:

Trust me (sweet Ladies) I that never thought

To love againe, do now extreamly dote;

Men that have Wit, Religion or Estates,

Will be ambitious to make you their Mates;

Whilst all those naked Bedlams, painted Babies,

Spottified Faces, and Frenchified Ladies,

With all their proud phantasticall disguises,

Will prove at last, but fooles and beggars prizes.

Dear Coz: the want of thy sweet company,

Puts me upon this idle Poetry:

May you returne with Olive in your hand,

Bring thy deare selfe to me, peace to the Land.

[Page]

To Sir John Mennis, on a rich prize which he took on the Seas.

WAlking last Friday morning in my Garden,

Where stands a house that I have grunted hard in:

And finding there sweet William by my Bower,

It made me thinke of Iohn for halfe an houre.

Thou art (I heare) where thou dost play Carnoggin

Thou broughtest from Wales, 'gainst flute of Hogan Mogan.

And where thou richly dost abound in Ghelt,

And ropes of Pearl now strip't off from thy Belt;

But now laid up in safety on the shelfe,

Pearl that's more orient, then the East it self;

A Bag of Diamonds too: and I Divine,

That long ere this, all the Hauns Townes are thine;

After thine own thou needst not call these Lands,

For they are ready Christned to thy hands,

Whiles thus in thy Seraglio thou dost bristle,

Poore Lady at New-castle may go whistle,

Or gnaw the sheets for anguish, no Iohn comes,

He weares out all he hath in forraine bums,

Hee's not at all concern'd in us (poor fouls)

His friends may hang and who's will carry coles.

[Page]

Nay never tosse your nose; I knew thee man

When thou wer't little better then poor Iohn:

The worlds well mended since the warre began,

Thou'rt now become the great Leviathan:

And as that monster when he hath got a prize

Now eats, then farts out Pilchards as he lies.

So thou devour'st at Sea, making no bones

Of smaller vessells, and their precious Stones.

We have no booties brought us in from Sea,

To furnish us for rates or monthly pay.

No Jewels, nor rich prizes, no such matter,

When Troopers come, we run & pawn a Platter,

That we can spare, for we have little meat,

If this world hold, we shall forget to eate.

We shall be free-born people then (Oh Hector)

When we have nothing left but a—

Hard-hearted Knight, how canst thou heare this tale

And not bepisse thy self with grief or Ale?

Hast thou no moisture, no relenting left?

Wilt thou sit alwayes brooding ore thy theft,

And part with never a penny to the Muses,

Nor to thy friends, nor yet to pious uses?

Wee'le draw thy picture (Churle) and thy shape both

Standing like Dives in the painted cloth.

One that nere thought upon his friends till then,

When he was in the Devills frying pan.

Then when it is too late thou wilt confesse,

Thou hast more sinn'd in Friendship then

I. S.

[Page]

A Defiance to K. A. and his round Table. Incipit J. A.

AS it befell on a Penticost day,

King Arthur at Camelot, kept his Court royall

With his faire Queen dame Guinever the gay,

And many Princes and Lords in Hall.

Heralds with Hukes, hearing full hie

Cryed largesse, largesse, Chevaliers tres hardy.

A doubty Dwarfe to the uppermost Deske,

Boldly gan wick kneeling on knee;

Cry'd, King Arthur God thee save and see.

Sir Rhines of Northgales greeteth well thee,

And bids that thy Beard anon thou him send,

Or else from thy jawes he will it off rend.

For his Roabe of State is a rich Scarlet Mantle,

With eleven Kings Beards bordered about,

And there is room left in a Cantell,

For thine to make it out.

This must be done be thou never so stout,

This must be done, I tell thee no Fable,

Maugre the teeth of all thy round Table.

When this doubty dwarfe his dismall message had said,

The King fun'd, Queen screek'd, Ladyes were agast,

[Page] Princes puff'd, Barons bluster'd, Lords began to lowre,

Knights and Squires storm'd, like Steeds in a flowre

Yeomen and Pages yelld out in hall,

With that came in Sir Guy the Seneschall.

Silence my Soveraigne, quoth this Courtious Knight,

And therewithall the stowre began to still.

The Dwarfes dinner was full dearly deight,

Of Wine and Wassell he had his will.

And when he had eaten and drunken his fill,

A hundred pieces of fine Coined Gold,

Was given the Dwarfe for his Message so bold.

But say to Sir Rhines thou Dwarfe quoth the King,

That for his bold Message, I him defie,

For shortly I meane with Basons him to ring

Out of Northgales where he and I

With Swords, and no Razors shall quickly try,

Which of us two is the best Barber.

And then withall he shook his good Sword.

Excutitur

Sic Explicit, I. A.

FINIS.

Notes

*

Hen the Great, by [...]vllias.

↵

Information about this book

Title statement

Musarum deliciæ: or, The Muses recreation. Conteining severall select pieces of sportive vvit. / By Sr J.M. and Ja:S.

Mennes, John, Sir, 1599-1671.

Edition statement

1655

Publication

Publisher

Text Creation Partnership,

Place of publication

Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) :

Date

2008-09 (EEBO-TCP Phase 1).

ID [DLPS]

A89049

ID [STC]

Wing M1710

ID [STC]

Thomason E1672_1

ID [STC]

ESTC R202916

ID [EEBO-CITATION]

99863045

ID [PROQUEST]

99863045

ID [VID]

115227

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Series

Early English books online.

Notes

(EEBO-TCP ; phase 1, no. A89049)

Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 115227)

Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 209:E1672[1])

Source

— Musarum deliciæ: or, The Muses recreation. Conteining severall select pieces of sportive vvit. / By Sr J.M. and Ja:S., Mennes, John, Sir, 1599-1671., Smith, James, 1605-1667., Herringman, Henry, d. 1704,, H. H..

Extent

[8], 72, 71-86, 73-87, [1] p.

Printed for Henry Herringman, and are to be sold at his shop, at the signe of the Anchor in the New Exchange,. London, :: 1655.. (Sr J.M. = Sir John Mennes; Ja: S. = James Smith.) (Preface signed: H.H. [i.e. Henry Herringman?].) (In verse.) (The first leaf is blank.) (Sixteen lines of text from the first p. 71 are repeated on the second page 71.) (Annotation on Thomason copy: "August 28.".) (Reproduction of the original in the British Library.)

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