PEMBROOKES PASSE FROM Oxford to his Grave.
HEnce Mountebancke of honour, hence away,
And seeke some Caverne, where the chearefull day
Nere made enquiry, where continued night
May not expose thee to the shame of light;
Th' Owle from the Birds chidings shall be free,
When seene by all men, thou reproach't shall be;
Base property of State, time serving thing,
Thy Servants Slave, yet Rebell to thy King.
Thou Puppet, who canst neither speake nor move,
If Say or Oldisworth teach not, or approve,
For which Records to after times will shew
Thee an ingratefull Foole in Folio.
O! how would Pembrooke thy brave Brother grieve
To see his Heire to play the under-Shreeve,
And force the Dwellings of the Muses Sons
To give the Unletter'd their Possessions:
And with a borrowed dresse of Power sit
To cry up Ignorance, and banish VVit,
In which thine Honour, as thy Soule, is tainted,
Compard with thee Manchester may be Sainted;
Had Martin don't, or Mildmay, who in evill
Are listed Iourney-workers to the Devill.
Or had thy sacrilegious Tutor, Say,
Or Cromwell made the finde an Holy-day,
By such an Act as must his Realme advance,
And perish this by growth of Ignorance,
It might be borne: nor should we couzen'd be
From such impostors, when such arts we see,
But that good Pembrooke, who in no mans hearing,
VVas e're condemn'd but for the switch and spurring.
One who (we know) had ne're been dipt in Treason,
Had he been left unto his proper reason,
A meere concurring Rebell, that doth cry
Like a halfe enter'd whelp for company:
For the great Doctors of so great a Schoole
To be confuted by so great a Foole,
There lies the wonder, which thus solv'd must be,
This Age produceth nought but Prodigie;
A hundred Horse his Lord ship had to booteâ–ª
He knew his owne wit never else could do't:
Armes are a powerfull Ergo, and make Schisme
And Folly good, Maugre a Sillogisme;
Hadst thou but sence of wit, thou wouldst be slaine
VVith the just Rymes compos'd in thy disdaine;
And to each angry Muse an Object stand
Till Rym'd to death, like Rats in Ireland.
But we will bridle Fancy, nor let loose
Too much brave fury on so tame a Goose:
No, thou shalt feele the chastening Rod,
First of the abused King, next of thy God;
And when just Heaven shall due vengeance take,
And to ingrate thee an Example make;
Apolloes Sons shall in a Chorus laugh,
And fixe upon thy Tombe this Epitaph.
The Epitaph.
PEmbrooke here lies under-lay'd,
Who his God and King betray'd:
To which sins, he joyn'd this other,
To commit Rape upon his Mother.
Who so unto this Grave-stone goes,
And reads, is prai'd to stop his nose:
His very name thus blasted, must
Be more nautious then his dust.