AVRORATA. BY THOMAS …

AVRORATA. BY THOMAS PRVIE AN, Student of Gonvile and Caius Colledge in Cambridge.

Carmen amant Musae, carmen Apollo beat.
Nec decrit musae Coelia pulchra me a.
Ad Patrem suum charissinium
Franciscum Prujean Med. Drem,
Officium dicat snums cum hoc T. P.
Numina carmen habent. Tu praestas, ni mihi fallor
Dicatur libro hoc carmen & Officium.

LONDON, Printed for Hugh Perry neere Ivy Bridge in the Strand, 1644.

TO THAT FAVOVRER OF ARTS, The Right Honourable, the Countesse of Dorset, Gover­nesse to our most Illustrious Kings Children, &c.

THO. PRU. tenders with his hum­blest service these few endeavours.

To the true Patterne of Beauty and Ver­tue, the quintessences of all Perfection, my most honoured Cousins • Mistris Margaret St. George, , • Mistris Mary St. George, , and • Mistris Katherine St. George,  Of Hatley St. George, Health and Peace.

Honoured Cousins,

IT is the nature of a Marygold to open its leaves to none but the Sun, despising all other lights; And he, pleased with so true a servant, (though poore in all things else) shines more graci­ously upon it then any other. The poorenesse of my merit may well parallel me to this flower: And the rich portion of your favours (whose beames ex­cell that radiant Monarchs of the skie) you to him. My willingnesse to serve you, your commands shall never de­ny to be equall to my Presidents devotion to its Deity. These endeavours you have been pleased to stile worthy a welcome at your faire hands, when they were tendered to kisse them. Doing so now, you will adde to the engage­ments of him who is

Your cousin and servant Thomas Prujean.

POEMS.

To the memorie of Sir Philip Sidney.

SInce that the world, owing so much to thee,
Has paid so little, and thy memory
Shines not with Rayes fit for it, Justice may
Call us ungratefull; but blest Sidney stay,
Thou playd'st the subtill thief, and with thy wit
Hast stolne the rich'st gems of Phoeb's Cabinet.
Wee court Minerva, and the nine Maids too,
But they all bid us unto Sidney goe,
Helicon is drunke up, Elixars spring
Has now no Jove, but Sidney for its King.
When we thinke for to wash in Thespia,
It bids retreat, and to thee make our way.
How can we deck thee with a verse that will
Make thy fame be more glorious, sound more shrill?
'Twere a presumption, for to hope to be
So great an artist in sweet Poetry.
Can an earths Genius, as thou didst, command
The governours of blest Elizium's Land?
If not, then Iet our Fancies humbly sing
Of Tamarisk's, not the onely Sylvian King.
All I desire is but to be a statre,
That may be in thy rule, though n'ere so farre:
Let loftier minds, a higher pitch to be,
Coope all their fancies in cares miserie.
Whil'st, thinking to make their formes so divine,
They suddenly to chaos may decline.
Yet this I will, which my ability
Affords, admire, adore thy vuit and thee.
And this I cannot doe, unlesse thy light
Makes me for to adore, admire thee, right.
Rest let thy foule, pardoning what my muse
May in thy vast Elysium pick and chuse:
For what strickt doome thou for't maist please to give
Mee, will not scape those, who best Poets live.

To the Right Honourable, the Coun­tesse of Dorset, Governesse to our most Illustrious Kings Children, on the opening of the New-yeare.

THe new yeare's come, and wisht for Sol appeares
Claspt in Aurora's arms: His radiant Spheares
Want nothing (Madam) for to make them give
Their perfect lustre, but your saying live.
If you but frowne, it is enough to bring
Deformed Chaos to be natures King.
And for that cause 'tis not resolv'd on yet,
Whether a night or day shall finish it.
The fate is in your pow'r. I feare 'twill bee
Our sable Monarch, gets the victory:
Since th' other in its very infant rise
Does offer here so poore a sacrifice.
What can be rich, if that it wants your eye
To guide it to so blest a treasurie?
Where lyes a Poets fame, but in the hearse,
Whilst (Madam) you be pleas'd to read his verse,
And smile upon't? 'tis you can onely raise
The tender sprigge, and make't a flourishing baise.
Then let your beames shoot forth. Let sullen night
Presume no more upon your happy light.
Breake through all clouds, and in my being blest
Sol in his or be enjoyes a happy rest.

To Coelia a Rapture.

1.
Smile Coelia,
And give the world a Robe of light, that day
may glide away,
And crave of night to let her have a cloud
To be her shroud;
Blushing in envy for to bee
excel'd by thee.
2.
Make the Sun's Priest
Forsake his beames, and turne to where thou beest.
Force him to nest
Himselfe within a shade, to which his love
A Foe did prove.
That then the heavens may take't and place
It where he was.
3.
Make Atlas feare
The Burthen is on earth, that hee should beare,
When you appeare.
Make all the Gods descend to court your shrine
VVith that one shine;
And when they're come, say this is my
Felicitie.

To my Booke going to Coelia.

GOe Booke, enjoy thy happinesse,
'Tis Coelia's hand, that thou must kisse:
'Tis Coelia's eye, that now will shine
Upon thee; what is more divine?
Some Momus, or some envious brat
May say thy master is a chat,
And not a Poet; tell'em then
That Coelia likes my Rugged Pen;
And who dares shew a rigid Front,
When cheerfully she lookes upon't?
Her eare perhaps may let thy verse
Into it, then my love rehearse.
Whisper my sighs, whisper my teares,
Which guide the minutes in their sphears.
Whisper my wounds, and tell her how
Much in her sending Balme shee's slow:
Yet whisper not her cruell, shee
May answer that my destiny
Equalls not hers; and so I am
Not worthy of her servants name.
Tell her, divinenesse strives to bee
Companion with blest Pietie;
And if true vowes will make me prove
So, shee shall have them in my love.
Say to her, Cynthia will give
Rayes to base earth; why should I live
Like to a hated shade? say shee
Lets, all that freedome have but mee;
Though, like the Marygold, I bend
My heart to where shee beams doe send.
But tell her if I chance to dye,
Shee loses love, though't liv'd in mee.

On the spring to Caelia.

TIs thee (faire Caelia) on whom nature has
Bestow'd that deity, which Flora's was.
Her little young ones haste out of her wombe
To take the blessings, which from thee may come.
The morne and her lov'd Phoebus dare no more
Send them their radiant kisses when the store
Of thy high Lustre comes, nor the lov'd sweet
Of Zephyr fall upon them, when a fleet
Thou sendest from thy breath, their mother dares
Scarce say shee gave them being: so appeares
Thy greatnesse in perfection. Glance t'will bee
More, then these lights can give if't come from thee.
Let one of thy Gales bee sent (Caelia)
Th' perfuming winde for shame will steale away.
Yet my desire is, that thou wouldst not bee
Lavish to any in such gifts but mee.
Let it suffice, that the bright sun and morne
Shines' ore them, teach them not the south to scorne.
But let mee have't twill make me immortall grow,
Thy light, thy sweets, if thou canst stoope so low.

To Doctor Gill on calling mee his friend

Tis to thee Gill, I send, and though my verse
Has not a Gemme fit for Gustavus hearse:
Yet I can deck a Phillis; and it is
That sure which made mee gaine the happinesse
Of thy rich Friend-ship. Mars did daigne to stile
Each light a blisse that came from Venus smile.
Nor can I read that hee thought Lemniack Arms
More worthy of him, then the Paphian Charmes.
Let it not then beget a blush in thee,
That this thy warlike fancie chose out mee.
Thou ador'st Mars, and I the Queene of love.
To imitate him, thou my Friend shouldst prove.

A Pastorall Poem.

SHine (faire Clorinda) let thy Silvius see
No more Eclipses, but of miserie.
Shoote forth thy beams, that the proud boasting day
May then confesse her every borrowed ray.
Let not the Easterne King forsake thy sight;
For he will (surely) yield thou gavest him light.
Why should that face bee subject to a cloud.
Which beauty ever yet hath made its shroud?
Did nature take such paines? was all this done
To bee a prey to base oblivion?
Here is my verse; and though it treats of thee,
The onely erectresse of this war in mee,
Yet, rather then it should have such a doome,
My fancie, and my selfe should have a tombe.
An Architect has never a desire
To see his worke, as soone as done, expire.
Shee is the chiefest, and thy selfe doth prove
How much she is with a blest fame in love.
Thou once could'st wound, and canst thou not again
Appeare as glorious, as th' appear'dst then?
Thou first do'est captive, but the second time
Thou'lt mount my fate unto its wisht for clime
That is when th' holy Rhetoricke of thine eye
(Fathom'd) showes thou wilt my Clorinda be.

To Coelia on tendring her trosses.

THe ordour of these is beneath
That which comes from your heavenly breath;
Then not as adders, take and prize,
But as to your breath a sacrifice.

To my worthy Master Mr. Webbe Master in Musicke and the Kings servant, &c.

Sir,
THough my iuyce runs not within a lake
Which from an Orphens may some blessings take;
Though my reed has had the hard fate to play
Dissonant to you; yet my Coelias Ray
Has made mee so much happy, as to bee
A harbourer of you in my Poetry.
All, I entreat, is that you would but please
To give these warbles of their blushes ease.
My pipe is yet a virgin, and the feare
Of a presumption makes the redds appeare:
So much within its notes: say you tis well,
And thats enough the crimson to expell.

On my doubting Coelia had bin dead.

YEt I'le not say death has her; lest that day
Crave an entombing with her, and night sway
The scepter in Elysiums floare; then would
Th'earth-nourishing eye a darker empire hold.
Death would proclaime it only that he might
Graspe in his earthly armes dame natures light.
But if 't be so, give the birds leave to have
The happinesse of chirping her to grave,
And not the dull note of one* bell: let then
The flowers that liv'd by her, so dye, that when
They yield their sweets and colours, all may know
They give her hearse but what they to her ow.
I have a debt to pay her for a flame
Which from her eyes unto my poore brest came.
Yet tis not so: would heav'n give leave to death
In such a one to make his dart a sheath?
Would they let such a one bee vermins foode,
Whose beauty, sweetnes and whose all o're good
They kept so for their palace? if 't bee so,
Some gentle fame give mee the blisse to know.
I come (my Coelia) death being blest with thee
Where can I have, but there felicitie?

On the death of that beauteous virgin Mistris Eliz: Farmerie, daughter to the right Worshipfull my most honoured friend John Farmerie Dr. in Law, Chancellour of Lincolne, &c.

TIs not enough to weepe. for if it were
Nature would bee dissolved into a teare:
Fancy would glory, if that it could bring
Pure Helicon to bee a briny spring.
Perhaps, deare beauty, thou didst only come
To teach how we should know Elysium.
Tis our parts then to ioy, not weep, that we
Had the blest sight of such felicitie.
Heaven will not be lesse glorious, and, to grieve
For thy departure hence, a cause may give
Of kindling wrath in it, because we goe
(For thy being theirs) the Pilgrimage of woe.
We saw the Sun, the moone, the Stats, when life
Was pleasd to name thy divine selfe it's wife.
We saw thy eyes, too, in whose every glance
A greater lustre, then theirs, seemd to dance:
Beauty wee see, which once Apelles drew,
But never such as did appeare in you.
We smelt Arabia, yet far beneath
Was it, in our thoughts, thy celestiall breath.
Wee perus'd vertues actions, but by thee
Wee thought her exceld in divinity.
In brightnes, beauty, sweetnesse, vertue, all
Might thee their only great example call.
Is it prophane to sorrow for thee? How
Will that sin fill the world, when as they know
That thou art gone? though wee joy for their blisse,
Wee must needs sigh, when wee knew what it is
That is fled from us. Ti's the sweetest faire,
Death gave heaven light, while we here darkned are.
And then my candle went out.

On the death of my most honoured vncle William Prujean Doctor in Phisicke, &c.

THus does our blisse decline; thus does deaths shade
Mufle the lustre of each Thespian maide;
Thus does Apollo lose his radiant dresse,
Thus Aesculapii loose their happinesse.
In thy blest ash what does not buryed ly,
That may give gods and men felicity?
Why are you tardy, when you should appeare
And teach mee how to bleede a worthy teare?
Or make sweete Ovid burst out of his cell
To bring your griefe to fame? me thinks they tell
Mee that thou art not dead; proud destiny
Has but thy shroude of flesh, not memorie;
T'is only wee that lose-thee, now th'art gone
From us, the glory comes to them alone.
But since thy merits so celestiall were,
They might have made thy nature a blest Starre:
For what thou had'st was counted so divine,
That it could nee're in too much glory shine.
Yet, while my verse has life, nothing shall bee,
That's thine, a slave to more obscurity.

On my hearing that Coelia was dead.

VVHat is shee dead? 1'st not enough to bee
A slave to love, but must such misery
Claime my tears too? helpe me yee Nymphs to make
My taske an end; If your cleere crystall lake
Meets but my streame, I may perhaps compose
A sacrifice most fitting for my woes.
But durst fate seise upon thee? could he tell
Thy heavenly body from thy soule so well?
Did it excell earths guilder? did it keepe
(As my blest Coelia did) that light a sleepe,
The while it durst appeare? As did his eye
When a poore taper would his viewer be?
Did it excell the richest sacrifice,
Which upon Venus alter ever lyes?
If so, yet more I can report of her,
That goddesse did not such bright beauty weare.
'Tis shee, her priests did court, they would have had
Venus no more, but (o') this divine maide.
When shee's a making ready for to goe
To earths rugg'd lodge, this sweet nymphs for mee doe,
Dresse not her hearse with lillies, let no flower
Boast it e're was in my faire Coelias bower.
But make your blushes serve, and for the white
Your glance though sorrowes will give more delight:
Shee has perfume enough still left be hind
(Though thus) to give unto each mournful wind:
Sing in her dirge, that she both lov'd, and is
(Of him, that lov'd her) the best gemm of blisse.

On my stealing a kisse from Coelia asleepe.
Arapture

NO more let vaine Prometheus boasting cry
Hee stole the fire, which made man perfect bee,
For had he but enjoyed such a blisse,
Hee would have sworne that heat in Coela's lyes.
Still let sweet sleepe embrace thee, whilst, thus, I
Create my selfe a second deity.
How they doe erre, who say a clouded light
Presages nothing but a dismall night!
For that, which on my Coelia's lust're lay,
Guided mee to the only truest day.
A day, which, if I alwaies might possesse,
Would yeeld mee more, then earthly happinesse.

On my Coelia being sicke.

CAnst thou bee sicke? dares pallidnesse proclaime
Him King, and make the roses lose their name?
Calls he not th' lilly queene? and dares hee take
Possession of what shee her throne does make?
How hast thou lost thy beauty, which of late
The gods were pleas'd to stile their only kate?
Thou never wast a wanton unto Iove,
Nor didst desire to bee Adonis love:
That the two jealous minions might revenge
Thy wicked deede with such a sodaine change.
Neither can they report that thou didst steale
Celestiall fire to make perfection well.
Nor didst thou borrow glory. If there be
Ought to be payd, it is by them to thee.
Let mee goe cavill with the destinie
That durst stirr up heavens powers to this decree:
Did not her lustre helpe the radiant Sun,
Still shining bright when as his course was done,
Did not your Cynthia robe her lesser lights,
And her selfe too with her stolne smiles by nights?
But (ah!) I see the cause. Iuno did feare
That Iove had got another lo heare.
Loves mother, hearing of thy worth, was in
A iealous fit, least Cupid should agen
Court Psyche in thee: And for this they made
Pandora give thy beauty such a shade.
Poore plotters! thinke yee, that while you do shine?
Light will not sacrifice to such a shrine?
Can there be flowers, and not a Flora live?
Or can your heaven without her Zephyr give?
What is divine, what good, will strive to bee
In the same urne where Coelias ashes ly.

To Coelia in saying she would not love.

VVIlt thou not love? O! can there be
In such a heaven lodg'd tyranny?
Will Venus, when shee burnes; not give
Her young Adonis leave to live?
But let his flame consume him? will
Shee, what shee only loves, goe kill?
'Tis not thy hearts command. In thee
I finde a happier destinie.
Perhaps thou faine would'st bed with Jove,
Or have a Phoebus court thy love:
Celestiall powers may onely stile
Them worthy of faire Coelia's smile.
Can no way make this earth become
A second blest Elysium?
And man divine? thy selfe's enough
The first of these two for to prove.
Can Coelia live, and the sweet place
Which keepes her be deny'd its grace?
Holinesse makes a God. Can I
Be tearm'd prophane that thinke of thee?
Why did that wanton then above,
Consecrate thoughts to Io's love?
Why did Apollo hunt about
To finde the chast Diana out?
Did not rigid warres God please,
When he thought on the Paphian ease?
This was amongst them all so free,
That 'twas at th'last call'd pietie.
In it I will them equall. My
Thoughts onely shall on Coelia be.
Now thou maist render love for love,
For I, by this, divine shall prove.

Coelia Lucens, or beauty's glory.

'TWas at that time (when night no Cynthia had,
But of my Coelia's light her spangles made,
And nam'd her governesse of all that sphere,
When to Elysium we both swimming were,
Our oares embraces, thoughts the boate, our love
The Charon to our sweet desires did prove;
When care was lul'd) that in a rapture I
Fancy'd my goddesse in this majestie?
Amidst a troope of Angels was a throne
Plac'd, which, as I suppos'd, she sate upon;
A robe she wore stuck all with virgins smiles,
Given, when they hop'd to leave Diana's stiles.
A crowne that did all naturall gemmes despise,
Deckt with the brightnesse of true lovers eyes.
Ador'd by all. Cupid at last came in,
And for to crave her blessing did begin.
Then did he thinke her straight the lovely shee,
To whom he once did yeeld his deitie.
Shee who the wounder wounded, and againe
Felt revell every where another paine:
With that he askt her if shee would forgive,
And she Possestesse of his power should live.
His bowe he left, and quiver with her, hee
Forsooke the place, and then the fancy me,
Shee thought to cousen me, and shot a dart,
(As if another wounded) at my heart.
But then I cry'd, what's this? A pin? thy eye
My Coelia onely can my wounder bee.
Then did we kisse, and in this dalliance lay,
Whilst once more night had almost o'rerun day.*

A Riddleon Coelia.

OF earth I am, yet have a light
Brighter then's shot from Cynthia's sight.
Dame Nature fram'd me, yet I have
As great report as Fame Gods gave
VVhen once my favours shine, it is
Tearm'd equall with th'AEthereall blisse
For to receive their beame, I give
VVith smiles felicitie, to live
In which diviner powers would be
Earths tenants and pilgrims to me:
All this I am, all this I doe,
And they that know me will say so.

An Acrosticke on my most respected Consin, Mistris MARGARET St. GEORGE.

Mirrours delight! Darling to what may be
Astemme in vertue! beauty's treasurie!
Rich too in Lawrell, and that sacred fame
Grafts envie in the Sisters at your name.
Affraid they be, lest the world for your muse
Romes pride should damne, and you their Primate choose.
Envious at your best fate! it is a shee,
That with her fame bedecks your Lawrell tree.
See holy Maides, be proud, your lustre's bright,
As if by fame you never had a night.
Injoy your gemme of happinesse, and let
No more base envy o're you triumph get:
The glory is sole yours. And you! Shee,
Grac'd with true beauty, and Phoebean glee,
Ever shine as you doe: And since I did
O'recome all richer fancies, with my speed;
Rehearsing of your too long darkened worth;
Grant me your smiles to deck my verse, and I
Entitl'c dare the best of Poetrie.

A Rapture on Coelia.

O! can the gods claime thankes for th'light
They gave us mortalls, when the bright
Splendour of Coelia does bestow
Its sparkes upon their deities? No,
[...]
[...]
Their light does only nature guild,
VVith hers, both it and they are fil'd.

To Her.

AVrora's blush with n▪ envie staine
Thy purer Soule, because they faine
It all's example, did they view
Thy cheekes, they'd sweare they never knew
The lines they writ. Then Fame would say,
Thy earth is an Arcadia.

An Acrosticke on my honoured cousin Mistris MARY St. GEORGE.

Mixtures (whose meeting makes Dame natures paine
A greater palme, then that of heavens gaine)
Rest in this beauteous mould. All vertues have
Inricht them in her so, that they might crave
Each one a title, being equall to
Such as the gods doe give their actions now.
A one she is, whom wonder cannot make
Its seat too much. Such things doe harbour take
Nested within her forme and minde: He is
Tearm'd above happy, whom her favours blisse.
Grac'd she is so, that for to be her slave
Each higher powre would their palace leave.
O! had loves god once view'd her, he would be
Richer in that then in his deitie.
Give her a looke, and thou wilt say all this
Encompasseth not what her merit is.

Another on my Cousin KATHERINE.

Know (Reader) she, whom I sing, hath
A beauty, would beget a faith,
That with its charme would make the Gods
Her Courtiers, and with no small ods
Each to be first would strive; Nay give
Rich immortalitie to live
In her high favour, whilst a day
Nights triumph might become: the ray
Even of Phoebus ne're does shine
So glorious, as this theame of mine
At his loves sight, such glory ne're
In Io did Jove see appeare.
Not Venus, though she may be said
The beauty of heaven. She has a shade
Gain'd by her lust, which covers that
Entitled hers; Mine such doe hate.
On her chast brest no thought does lye
Rul'd by a foe to pietie:
Grac't is my Poem that has its frame
Enricht with her c [...]elestiall name.

To my most honoured Cousin Mistris Katherine St. George.

DId nature when she fram'd you make a scorne.
Of reasons counsell? that thus to adorne
You she hath thought it fit, or when your shrine
Had got a being, did not she incline
Somewhat to pride? and therefore let you bee
VVith all her glory? giving n'ere ashee
Ought but her necessaries: she did buy
Her pride at such a rate, as 'twas too high
For her to give. All whom your glorious light
Shoots its first splendour to, are at the sight
Become their smile's whom soules doe leave,
Till from a second they themselves receive.
VVhen Io was kept from her wantons wife,
And made with brutes al wayes to spend her life,
Sure Nature stole the beauty which she had,
VVhen as she honoured the little Maid:
VVith taking it upon her, to bestow
It on the sex of women: but I know
Not what unlesse 'twas pride which made her give
It all to you▪ hoping for to outlive
The gods in fame. And sure what she hath done,
Has from them the great palme of glory won.

To a proud ugly girle.

TEmpt not opinions blasts for she will blow
No courtiers phrases, but the world shall know
The naked truth. And thy fine si [...]ian face
Shall have displayed all its merited grace.
Then shall the taylors being brib'd appeare,
The barbors ivery, which for teeth you weare.
The painted image which you have to maske
Your count'nance with shall then be cald to taske.
Nothing will scape her trumpet, which to make
Keepe silence, tis best you your pride forsake.
Entertaine vertue and in that excell
Or thy fame wilbe worse then hers in hell.

On my most honoured cousin Mrs. Katherine St George.

Foole that I am! to thinke the poets faine
The phenix. when I see her alwayes raigne!
Sprung from the ashes of that glorious dame
Whose dechs the bloods of Greece and Troy became.
Or from the holy reliques in the vrine,
Where all perfection once was sayd to burne!
He that can frame a fictions and expresse
In't the true manner of a beauteous dresse,
Enioyes have, for his reward a crowne of bay
And is intitled darling of Phoebes nay
What merit I then that can vow a verse
To him, and in it, for faign'd, truth reherse?
Had but Narcissus, that self-loving boy,
Viewed her, hee would have blusht at his fond ioy,
Confessing that in her celestiall face
Hee is exceld in a poore atoms place.
Or had the lovely Venus seene this blisse,
Shee would have loathed at her wantonesse;
For did this once shine by her, she would seeme
So much deformed, in her owne esteeme,
As she would thinke her goddesse-hood was given,
But for a mocke to her from th'voyce of heaven;
And that Adonis coopt her in his armes
To make her proud of that, she had not, charmes.
Rest here heyre to perfection. May thy fire
Never take being: But, when't does, expire.

To Coelia.

LEt not my verse (deare Coelia) passe thy glance,
For feare it should bee catcht by Ignorance:
T'is not enough to crave the Muses aide,
Nor to mask under great Apolloes shade,
Nor, if my Coelia shine not, can I put
Confidence in Minerva; though sh' unshut
Her Cabinet of favours, and permit
That I enioy the brightest gemmes of it.
'Tis by my Coelia, that I only sing;
'Tis from my Coelias smiles my fancies spring.
Tis in my Coelia for to make my muse
[...]um, or as sweete a voyce as any use.
T'is in my Coelia for to Sidney mee
Ti's in her for to make me Gardner bee.
Thy lovely light does all that's good, then let
Mee be so happy, as it for to get.
Zephaniah. 32.

Shee obeyed not the voyce, shee received not correction: she trusted not in the Lord, she drew not neere unto her God.

The Meditation

SEe where thy love is soule: does it of thee
As well, as faire Ierusalem prophecy?
Is Chaos turn'd so beauteous? canst thou come
By Stygian worship to Elysium?
If not, then pause a while; thinke what it is
To study how thou may'st despise thy blisse.
Will thy Iehovah court thee to be bright,
When thou so often mak'st a lul of night?
The bruite, thou seest is sometimes nam'd a dove
Sometimes a lambe▪ but thou doest never prove
Ought but a leopard▪ wolfe, Embracing strife
How to destroy the sweetnes of thy life.
Be not so vaine a Palinurus; wake,
Wake from thy drousy sleepe, and doe not make
Fate laugh at thee, let not thy costly ship,
By snorting so, and selfe to ruin leap.
Give not so much saile to this blustring winde,
But let the sweete south guide thee who is kind,
Harke how it whistles for to have thee come,
Harke how it faine would make it's port thy ho'me.
And give an audience to thy love, the hee
Whom thou desir'st to make thy deitie.
Harke how they all, who are his servants cry
Wishing them out of his felicity.
Do'st thou not heare thy very lodge complaine
Of being for thy sake slave to so much paine?
Dungeond from heavens lovd life, and for the same,
Which with Elixar should set forth my name,
Furys I have that in their memorys put
My blacker deeds, which time will never rot.
Hear'st thou gods voyce? and is it not obeyd?
And does not hee let thy reward bee payd?
Is not the lord thought worthy of thy trust
Who tooke thy faith, when thou wert almost lost!
And payd thy debt, whenas the sergeant came
A life, A life for thy great sins to claime?
Is he nor worthy of thy heart, nor eye?
Dost thou so recompence his army?
Is majestie to have no more esteeme,
Then this neglect never to looke on him?
Stay giddy tenant: turne, O turne this way,
Behold light once, and then thou'lt wish for day.
Heare and obey, draw neere, trust in thy God,
In whom blisse onely does enjoy abode
Take not the subtle Grecians promis'd joy,
'Tis but a plot to ruine thy sweet Troy:
Aeneas yet its feeble walls hath blest,
Hectors exceller joyes in it to rest,
Crave helpe of these neere wanting destinies
To save thee from the future miseries.
Shake off all Hellens, and let Priams dye:
Let thy sword flesh it on impietie.
Fly out like lightning when thou dost espy
A Menelaus offer'd injury.
VVhen wilt thou wake, my soule? when wilt thou give
Night banishment, and under Phoebus live?
O balme thy selfe with reason, let not sleepe
Make thee fall headlong into th'Stygian deepe:
Obey, beleeve, draw neere unto thy Lord.
VVho with heavens blisse thy actions will reward.

The worlds Pilgrimage to himselfe.

ARt thou not weary yet? doest thou not see
How much inglorious the worlds glories bee
VVhen once thine eye
Entertaines for an object his
VVho owes heavens blisse?
For to admire his sacred deity
Is of more worth, then this to know,
To which thou seem'st thy only zeale to vow.
2.
Is nature avove him, who gave her birth?
Is the world compos'd of ought else but earth?
For shame no more,
Hadst thou but once a holy heart
Thou wouldst not part
VVith it for all earths Paradises store.
Fades not beauty every day?
Vertues reward will ever with thee stay.
3.
This gone, all joy dyes with it that's exprest
By being its landlord: thy heart makes thee blest.
Jehovah please.
Stay Traveller, make not such hast,
See where is plac'd
The onely stocke of truest happinesse.
'Tis here, 'tis here, enrich thy heart;
Embrace Gods word, and from it never part.

The Penitent.

HOw shall I say, I've sinn'd? will not a sigh
Or a true teare a fit expresser bee
For (ah!) poore mee?
How can I speake when justice stands so nigh?
When conscience my accuser is,
And tells me of sinnes horridnesse?
What have I sinn'd? dare I presume to goe
Tell God I am his friend, and prove his foe?
Soule doe not so.
God sees my heart, and I will write
In it, I onely love his light.
My heart, my secrets cabinet I'le show:
My heart? what secret deeds have I kept in
It, but my sinne?
The darkest night can shew a beame,
VVhat shall I doe with one poore gemme?
VVhat light can the Sun give, when in a cloud▪
Hee's muffled up? then what's by this allow'd?
Yet doe not feare,
Gemmes are not hurt, because they foule appeare.
The Sun's the brighter at's returne,
Then when he did in's glory burne.
Forsake thy sinne, and hold sweet vertue deare.
Take off that muddy vaile, and thou shalt see
How gratefully he will receiv't of thee.
O God, my Lord!
How happy are they that obey thy VVord!
O let me range no more, but see
How to know thee.
I doe confesse, repent, and to thee cry
For pardon Lord. O let me never dye,
But live with thee
Eternally.

Amen.

The Cambridge Mouse.

MY Cat once catcht a Mouse, a wondrous one,
That readily could speake the English tongue.
Be mercifull, good mistris Gibbe, said shee,
Henceforth I nevermore will trouble yee.
Her life and freedome straight was granted her;
Yet once more with her braine she would conferre,
Seeing no Friday nights would blesse her plot,
She secretly unto my study got.
Viewing a booke which I in poetry
Had made, straight witty she desir'd to be.
Gibbe all this while did watch her, she began
To stile me non-sences companion.
Then she had found out something that did make
Mee of Dame-follies brood. Thus she did take
A course to spend an houre. 'Faith at the last
My Pus had got her in her clutches fast.
Then cry'd she, um-what? is my prey become
You my fine gossip? you would faine goe home
And lose your fame for these your witty jeares
Given to my master; who now th' foole appeares?
You sayd my master was a non-sence growne.
But you, I feare, will call lesse sence your owne.
VVas't not enough, that many a six-pence meale
I suffer'd thee my morsels for to steale;
But must I heare thee blurre my masters fame?
Is this the recompence that I'm to claime?
Thus will I thanke thee; and with that she toare
The Mouse in peeces, which with patience boare
The punishment. Take heed who haunts my house.
For at the last my Cat will catch the Mouse.

SONNETS.

A Sonnet against women by an unknowne Author.

COme away, doe not pursue
A shadow that will follow you.
Women lighter then a feather,
Got and lost, and altogether.
Such a creature may be thought
To have no soule, a thing of nought.
2.
Come away, let not thine eyes
Gaze upon their fopperies,
Nor thy better Genius dwell
Vpon a Subject known so well.
For whose folly, at the first,
Man and beast became accurst.
3.
Come away, thou canst not finde
One of all that's faire and kind,
Brighter be shee then the day,
Sweeter then a morne in May;
Yet her heart and tongue agrees,
As we and the Antipodes.
4.
Come away, or if thou must
Stay a while; yet do not trust
Nor her sighes, nor what she sweares.
Say she weepes, suspect her teares.
Though shee seems to melt with passion,
Tis old deceipt; but in new fashion.
5.
Come away, admit there bee
A naturall necessitie.
Do not make thy selfe a slave
For that, which shee desires to have.
What shee will, or doe, or say
Is meant the cleane contrary way.
6.
Come away, or if to part
Soone from her, afflicts thy heart;
Follow on thy sports a while.
Laugh and kisse, and play, and smile.
Yet, as thou lov'st me, trust her not,
Lest thou becomest a—I know what.

An Answer to it.

STay, o stay, and still pursue
Bad not such happines adue.
Knowest thou what a woman is?
An Image of celestiall blisse.
Such a one is thought to bee
The nearest true divinitie.
2
Stay o Stay. How can thine eye
Feede on more felicitie?
Or thy better Genius dwell
On Subiects that doe this excell?
Had it not beene for her, at first,
Man and beast had liv'd accurst.
3.
Stay, o stay, has there not beene
Of beauty and of love a queene?
Does not sweetnes tearme a she
Worthy tis only shrine to bee [...]
And where will vertue choose to ly,
If not in such a treasury?
4.
Stay, o stay, where vertue hath
A lodge, sure there must harbour faith.
Have not womens teares and sights
Strucke pity into de [...]ties?
Hard-harted shepheard in her passion
How can deceit become a fashion?
5.
Stay o stay; wouldst thou live free?
Then seek a nuptiall destiny:
'Tis not natures blisse alone,
(Shee gives) but heav'ns, and that in one.
What shee shall, or doe, or say,
Never from truth shall go astray.
6.
Stay, o stay, let not thy heart
Afflicted bee; unlesse to part
Soone from her. Sport, kisse, and play
Whilst no hours enrich the day.
And if thou doest a cuckold prove,
Impute it to thy want of love.

To Coelia a Sonnet.

MVst hee enjoy loves divine happinesse, whose foe hee is?
Who ne're could entertaine within's desire
A single fire?
On whose pale heart a flame receives
That, burning, straight its beeing leaves?
2.
Loves favorites take heat that will indure
Constant and pure▪
'Twill make their ashes, lying in the urne,
To fire returne,
And when they're in Elysium,
It in their soules will have a roome.
3.
Thy eyes (faire Coelia) sent to mee a heate, shall ne're retreate,
But (whilst I live) when most it doth expire,
It shall burne higher.
And such a charge I'll to it give,
That though I dye, it still shall live.

A Sonnet.

VVOund not so deepe; unlesse you will
Send mee a balme to cure the ill:
Or breath your scorne▪ that I may dy
And rid mee of my misery.
Tis better to endure that,
Then live for nought, but shooting at.
2.
I'll not repeate your being faire;
The envy of Cynthia shewes you are;
Nor can my heart proclaime you lesse,
If bleeding wounds, the truth expresse;
Yet think I doe not Gods would let
Nature the greater honour get.
3.
The soul's the purer of the two;
Then how pure must it bee in you?
To keepe it so, sin not 'twill bee
Held then in th' inferioritie.
[...]st not a sin to tyrannize?
Then doe not use it, and bee wise.
4.
That blush will weare, because 'tis given
By earths grand artist, not by heaven.
Nor is that gracefull stampe of white
Of more endurance. Your delight
Nature stiles equall to ours, then
(Since you are lov'd) faith love again.

An Application of a French Sonnet.

THe prety birds chirpt in a wood
Whose savage notes to heare, I stood.
O how I did admire the spring,
That such felicitie did bring▪
2.
My very soule is charm'd to see
How blest they live, who shepheards bee.
True love here alwayes harbour hath,
Diana's chastnesse treads this path.
3.
O that I had a flocke! it nere
Gives an encrease to griefe or carae.
Happily doe they live who keepe
Such innocents, as silly sheepe.
4.
All Flora's Darlings deck each gowne,
That Ceres has in every Downe.
False womens smoothed perjurie
Brings never here a miserie.

To my selfe on Coelia a Sonnet.

1.
BAcke fond lover! court againe!
And doe not staine
Divinenesse so, saying it can be
Blacke cruelty.
Though the same may cloude his sight,
Must his flower despaire of light?
2.
Once more let her see thy heart,
And never part,
Vntill the doome of life or death
Falls from her breath.
Fatally shee may begin:
Boreas ushers Zephyr in.
3.
Say shee frownes, bid her frowne still,
They never kill.
'Tis policie, that makes her prove
To night a love.
The brightest starres presage a frost,
Thinke her Eclips inspires hope most.
4.
The Phoenix ne're did basely burne,
That from her urne,
Should an ignobler spring: then boast
Shee loves thee most.
Since that Urania gives all blisse,
Thou shalt from Coelia have no lesse.

A Sonnet on Coelia.

SToope Phoebus! here's one her right claimes,
Which is the place, wherein thy beames
Stemme themselves. Shee gives mans sight
Object with a diviner light.
2.
The Marygold, that hath made thee
Heretofore her deity,
When shee viewes th'lustre of my love,
Will onely to her votresse prove.
3.
To Venus beauty all its pure
Essence did sacrifice; but sure
Some want onnesse hath made heaven chase
Her out, and set Coelia in her place.

Another.

A Starre descended from above
Vpon a sudden towards my love,
And (at her sight amaz'd) it was
In feare it had forgot its place.
For which, lest shee should angry be,
It left its flame and straight did dye.

A Sonnet.

O Give me leave to gaze a while
Vpon that life-redeeming smile,
Which in my love appeares!
Base griefe, I now defie thy charmes,
Tending to nought but lovers harmes
By causing jealous feares.
2.
Did not great Cupids, seeing his dart
Keepe such possession in my heart,
(Thinking to pitty mee)
Cause by his powre this? hope to give
That I shall ne're hereafter live
In lesse felicitie?
3.
Bring that to passe, and then I will
With daily sacrifices fill
Thy lappe. O how they erre.
Who tell the world pitty doth flye
Thee as an utter enemy,
And crueltie's thy sphere!

To my selfe on her Sonnet.

1.
VIew both the Lilly and the Rose;
View both the blushing Pinke, and those
Which Flora holds most deare, yet see
Thy Coelia in her cheekes more bee.
2.
View all the beauty, that the love
Of Phoebus calls hers, and 'twill prove
But meane, where Coelia does appeare,
Who will not say shee heaven does beare?
3.
View Venus, whose pure red and white
The Gods doe make their sole delight▪
View all that's in th'Elysium fields▪
All this and more thy Coelia yeilds.
4.
And will not this beget a flame
Within thy brest? will not this tame
Thy cruell thoughts of women? fie
Sh' has wounded thee, wil't scorne, and dye?
5.
No I no more will entertaine
Such foes to blisses whose every staine
Makes my soule perish: I'll goe and say
I am thy Captive Coelia.

A Sonnet in the praise of Musicke.

BLesse
See the 9. Poem.
Buvetia, blesse the ayre,
Breath but once, and 'tis enough
For to recreate us here,
Making us diviner prove.
2.
Breath my death; For (in thy doome
Though so sterne a fate may lye)
Who would not goe seeke a tombe
If thy voyce pronounces dye?
3.
Yet divinenesse gives the best,
And thou art no other sure:
O then send me happy rest,
Ending what I now endure.
4.
Knewst thou what it is to bee
Harb' rour of so deepe a wound
As I have receiv'd from thee,
Then how sweetly love would sound?
5.
Deare, let mee that sweetnesse have,
Name but love, and it will breed
Such a charme, 'twill make thee leave
Naming love, and love indeed.

EPIGRAMMES.

To Dr. Gill.
Thou seest my booke, but thou wilt finde the wit
To bee as hard, as good men are, to get.
To Caelia.
Thou sayst thou lik'st my verse, and I like thee;
Give me but that, thou shalt have poetry.
On Momus
Momus can call another foole, but hee
Could never make his braine and wit agree.
On Zoilus.
Zoilus would faine carpe, but that hee feears,
'Twill jeer himselfe, because hee's carpt by trh'eares
Woman.
If whence this name had birth, you faine would know
God made the man, but 'twas it, made the woe.
Beauty.
Beauty decayes, they say, when age does comes;
But I say no, while paint may have a roome.
Omnia fert aetas.
Omnia fert aetas? no, it cannot bring
Mun Salter, but hee will with th' cuckooe sing
To Erasmus.
That thou'rt a man, each of thy learn'd works shows.
But yet thy name tells us thou wast a mouse.
To Cornutus.
Such a one is thy wife, thou'rt very kinde
To have her for thy selfe, thy foe, or friend.
To one who sayd shee lov'd a souldier best of all men.
I like thy choyce; for 'tis not to be feard
But when thou hast him, he'll stand to his guard.
To Catiline.
Valiant thou wert, witnesse thy death they give;
But I had rather without valour live.
To a beauteous maide being none of the wisest, that disdained a Scholar because hee was not handsome.
You both want something; thou want'st wit, and hee
Is none of th' fairest; beauty and wit agree.
To Besse Broughton.
Ben Ionson wisht thy pox at Vulcans court:
No doubt but 'tis, or something better for't.
To a rich man dead.
Living none lov'd thee worse; now thou art in
Thy grave, none love thee better then thy kin.
Of Poets.
Fame gives a poet's very pretty. Then
Why never lov'd? for poets are all men.
A Caveat.
'Tis true, I never u'sd to ly, but yet
They call mee poet, then there's feare of it,
The Proverbe.
Never late to repent, the people say;
Yet Wat is hang'd; though he repents, to day,
Coelius.
Coelius say's that there's no high power; but I
By Besses voyce will prove he tells a ly.
Quinta.
Quinta was whipt for having of a cracke;
And yet the Iudges daughter broke her back.
The Mounsier.
The Mounsier swears that he must yet be higher.
Take heed, above's the element of fire.
Of Ben Iohnsons death.
Here lyes the Fox, then what neede wee
Fear't, in a glasse of sacke? be free;
Drink't off. By Iesus Ben does sweare
Vulpona ne're shall hurt us here.
On Shanks.
Shanks sweares, he fasts; and alwaies cries for beefe.
O how he fasts! that's how fast eates the thiefe!
A phrase in Poetry.
Fairer then that word faire, why so she must,
Or be as blacke as Timothies toasted crust.
Of Ponticus.
Ponticus questions me who is a Whore:
I bid him looke about, and hee'll say more.
My antagonist in love.
ONe that was my Antagonest in love
Vnto my Mrs. did the favorit prove.
His cloathes, his Haire, although it was his fate
To bribe the hangman for that robe on's pate,
Was still commended, which did make mee goe
Suite my selfe like him, bribe the hangman too:
All would not doe, still he was in her eye,
Still like him did I ever strive to bee.
At last he got the pox. Nay then cry'd I,
Farewell, even take her. And send thee much joy.
To Captaine Timerous learning to daunce.
Captain, thou needst no teaching to be swift
In th' foote, for as I heare, 'tis natures gift.
A Cobler.
A fellow askt a Cobler if hee had
The art of making soules good that were bad?
No, answered hee, but if your soulebee dry
In Hell, I'll liquer't if you'll bring't to mee.
To Mons: Lafoole learning to sing.
The note of prickesong is Lasoull, but thou
Wilt make it with thy wit Lafoole I know.
On Cottus.
Cottus e're lying in his bed forsweares.
And why? it has been sould this sixteene yeares.
On Battus.
Battus sweares that hee'll neere be drunk, and still
The pot shall never bee from's head by's will.
To Mons: Vertiger.
Hee that does carpe at others, 'tis because
Hee (has no wit) then come thou, into this clause.
To I. Day the scrivener.
My verse is like an old house, 't cannot stand
With credit till it bee helpt by thy hand.
Thou mak'st it weare out times large running, I
Am bound to thee, and not my poetry.
To Dr. Gill.
To thee great Gill, my fearfull muse does fly
To get a guard for her fam'd Poetry:
When thou but once commendest, not a looke
Of envious William will behold my booke.

To the Examples of all beauty, my honoured Cousins, Mistris • Margaret , • Mary , and • Katherine  St. George.
Continuance of what they have wisheth, T. P.

Honoured Cousins,

THe Mariner so layes his Stody, that when his Ship hath got into Neptunes gentle embraces, it may not goe out againe: Before, I sent a worke which you liked, and with a gentle looke was pleas'd to peruse it, with a faire acceptance gave it welcome. Should I trust to another fate it might bee dangerous. There­fore since my former have sped so well, I have presum'd to honour with your Names this Dedication. If you but send faire weather this time, J shall ever bee

Your devoted Shipman, Tho. Prujean.
LOVES LOOKING-GLASSE …

LOVES LOOKING-GLASSE DIVINE AND HUMANE. The Divine one in Christs Birth and Passion faithful­ly showne: The Humane one in foure Epistles of

  • Iuliets,
  • Romeos,
  • Lisanders,
  • Calistas.

By Tho. Prujean, Student of Caius and Gonvile Colledge in Cambridge.

LONDON, Printed for Hugh Perry, neere Ivy Bridge in the Strand, 1644.

LOVES LOOKING-GLASSE.

CHRISTS BIRTH.

A King of Kings, framer and governour
Of all in all, the all titles meriter;
Who reines the stormy fiend, who calmes the blasts
Of Aeols sons, who roughs and smooths like glasse
The Iustie Ocean, when wantoning
With Boreas, shee oft makes fate to sing
A victory over Nature: Hee who can
Create, and chaos heaven, earth, sea and man,
All with a breath. A Triple unity
Beeing one, yet three; three, yet a single hee:
Who gives a birth to winter, hee whose power
Causes the virgins blush, and every flower
To breath so sweetely. By whom Cynthia's light
Casts such a glorious obiect to our sight:
Who gives to Ceres all her beauteous glory,
The Muses deity, and of all the story.
Had Virgil sung, for his Aeneas fame,
This Mighties praise, truth had shin'd in his name;
For all the titles, he could e're have faign'd,
Would not have beene with falsety once stain'd.
Who gave both name, beeing, and place to nature,
Hee tooke a shrine; and once became a creature,
Trod earths poore paths, who could in heaven sit,
Or in a glory for his worth more sit.
Now must wee thinke what pomping should have beene,
When such a one to grace earth does begin.
A Kings saluting of the world gives all
Glories attendance exercise. Here call
The towers loud voyces men to joy, and here
We see a house burnt for a bonefire.
Now doe the terren Phoebuses begin
To strive who first should verse his welcome in.
What does exceed endeavour? Here they dresse
A chamber with arts chiefest comlinesse
To entertaine the mother, with a bed
Worth more, then all the stocke that Croesus had.
Besides all this, we here enioy the noyse
Of Wills and Richards balling out Rejoyce,
And only that, if nothing else, one ring
Like to a Star) the babe to it's fate does bring.
Of such a one deserves in th' memory
Of all to bee imprinted with such ioy,
Thinke how much more does his commander, maker,
Merit in hearts: what ioy should each partaker
Of such a knowledge have, as doth containe
His leaving of the wombe, who brought to paine
A period, and so much felicitie,
As, not enioying of it, who's the hee
That can describe it? they, who have this blisse
Can say no more, then as it shalbe, it is?
Now for a roome, now for a downy bed
Neately arted, where the mother must be layd;
Now for the pledges of each ioyfull heart.
[...], but where is it? where is this desert
[...]ayd? not in Bethelem: the costly roome
Is a base ugly stable now become,
The glorious, bed turn'd to an oxes stall,
The ioy to plots how to bring him to thrall.
This is the entertainment, that they gave
To him, who brought a Corrosine to save
[...]s from hell's poyson. Nor was't any such
[...]ime dated glory, that hee valewd much.
[...]et him but have, for this most sumptuous roome.
[...], heart deckt rich with vertue. It will come
More welcome to him. And for all the rest
One that will say in thee I'm onely blest.

LOVES LOOKINGGLASSE.
CHRISTS PASSION.

MAns only friend by man is doomd to bee
An underling to worthlesse destiny.
Hee, who even now an endlesse life could give,
Must now be faine to say, he must not live:
Must not? alas! hee will not, and all is
To gaine his enemy immortall blisse.
Shew mee a Gordian Priest so holy bent,
As to submit to such a punishment.
Shew mee a man too, that would choose to dye
Rather then's brother should thus punish't bee.
Shew me a child, would consecrate his breath
(Rather then's father should be hurt) to death.
Shew mee a father that would take this doome,
Rather then's progeny should have a toombe.
Shew mee a Subject that is term'd a hee,
Devoted so much unto piety,
That, rather then his king should suffer this,
He would forgoe all lifes sweet happinesse.
Shew me a mother that would doe so much
For her owne babe, and all without a grutch.
And is't not worth a wonder, here, that one
Should suffer for's foe such affliction?
It does command thy admiration, man;
For it was caus'd by thy greate Ocean—
Excelling sins; thy king, thy God must doe
All this to make thee to forsake thy woe;
To leave thy hunger, and to take thy foode;
To make thee only to accept thy good.
And is this all too little? wilt thou still
Take hunger and leave foode, fly good, love ill?
The Pelican can doe no more, but leave
Her life, the pretty young ones for to save;
And if they will run from her, how can she
Become their helper in that misery?
The hen but guards, and if the chicke will stray
From under her, it must be the kites prey.
Yet stay fond man; thou hast a better guide,
One, that will call thee, when thou goest aside.
One, that will rather thy entreater bee,
Then have thee banisht heavens felicitie.
Hee dyes for us, we sin; yet his desire
Pursues us that wee to his grace aspire.
The Argument of Ro­meos and Juliets.

ROmeo and Iuliet, issues of two eni­mies, Mountegue and Capulet Citi­zens of Verona, fell in love one with the other: hee going to give her a visit meetes Tybalt her kinsman, who urging a fight was slaine by him: for this Romeo was banished and resided at Mantua, where be received an Epistle from Iuliet.

LOVES LOOKING-GLASSE.

Iuliet to Romeo.

FOr health and happinesse doth Iuliet pray
To come to Romeo, and his Mantua.
His Mantua! O in that title blest
Would my poore fame could have such happy rest.
Once it was so, once could this poore breast boast,
(Rich only then) of being Romeo's hoast.
No sooner doe sleepes charmes upon me cease,
But fancie straight disturbes me of my ease.
Her troopes she brings, in which me thinkes, I see
Most of the horrour call its subject thee.
First, here comes Tybalt, tho'onely cause of all,
That stiles our miserie originall.
Fir'd at thy sight, in's fury, now his breath
Has no issue saving what treats of thy death.
Then say I, what? dares man presume to give
Death that, which heaven hath only chose to live?
In thee, sweet Romeo, such perfection lyes
As would make up another Paradise!
What has Elysium that is not in thee?
A blisse that will weare out eternitie:
Where is that blisse, if not in Romeo's love?
Can Iuliet ought else happier then that prove?
When thou dost speake, a quire of Angels make
From all their notes thy voyce a being take.
Thy eye casts beames, that looke as if they were
Contain'd in one above a naturall sphare.
Thy breath is alwayes so delicious,
As if thou hadst command o're Zephyrus.
And 'fore my dreame was ended, powers had sent
Thee valour to inflict a punishment
Upon him for his boldnesse, which was done;
And then, me thought, I did begin to moane.
But then I 'gan to cry, why should these eyes
Pay to a griefe, unlawfull, sacrifice?
Why should I weepe? because my enemy
Became Fates slave, and Romeo from it free.
Is he a friend that would deny to give,
But rather take away by what I live?
My life, my dearest joy, my Romeo?
Yet are my roses overcome by woe.
From thee they had their name, and sure thy love
Their planter, nourisher, blossomer did prove.
From thy sweet lips (when thou didst first salute
Me at the Maske) my cheekes did steale this sute
Of crimson, and since thou didst kisse more free,
They got what made up their maturitie.
As that celestiall* gale its wonted course
Enjoy'd, it was their blossomers sweet nurse.
When I resolv'd the author of all this,
I straight bethought how many trespasses
I had committed, wasting so away
In griefe of his dire foe, so rich a May.
And yet, me thought I a parcaker had
In this my sorrow: pardon if I said
It was thy selfe. Then quickly thus cry'd I,
Romeo is one of my societie.
Fame growing big with envy, 'cause on mee
Are fixt the rayes of such a deitie.
My Romeo loves me and her snaky twines
Take from that noble wrath their wrinkled lines.
Shee bursts, and in each eare the poyson fly'es,
Carrying of Tibalt's death, the Prince espies
Some murmur for him: he soone questions why
The murmur is, who has this sad reply.
Search soone was made for thee whom in my armes
I catcht into my bed. These sudden harmes
Strugling to keepe from thee, and fearing lest
Thou shouldst be tooke, all sleepe was from me cast.
Then did I close'em, and cry'd prethee stay.
But thou wert gone, alas! to Mantua.
Could no high pow're inspire their wills into
Our great annoynted; That my Romeo
His Iuliets bed might still have blest: could none
Of thy divine parts plead? must thou be gone?
Is Mantua the onely place that must
Have of my Romeo the happy trust?
Mee thinkes I heare the pretty birds begin
To consecrate notes to thy welcome in.
The flowres begin to court thee, that they may
Have both a god and goddesse to obey.
But* gentle sweet tell them thy Juliet has
Worth that does all their goddesses surpasse.
Parts to be gain'd, that doe deserve a throne
Of happinesse, such as the gods sit on.
I will maintaine it, since I merited
To bee one worth thy love remembred.
Curst be that Tybalt, that young Phaeton,
Whom valour had bestow'd her reines, upon;
That he must needs strive thy world for to burne,
And find by thee preferment for the urne.
That Mantua and not these armes must have
The happinesse thy body to receive.
How long of Romeo must I dreame, and when
I thinke I have thee, catch the ayre againe?
Once thou vow'dst by thy selfe, which I did take
To be a greater then thou e're couldst make
By heaven its selfe, to that thy vow did tend,
As in it thou thy love didst then commend,
Yet keepe it as thou wilt, all Iuliets cry
Will be with Romeo to live and dye.

LOVES LOOKING-GLASSE.
Romeo to Iuliet.

THe greet thou sent'st no more belongs to mee.
Then when I am sweetly embrac't by thee,
Onely to that place is ascrib'd all blisse,
Where Romeo with his faire Iuliet is.
Mantua's nothing but a cage of woe
Where thou art not, all countryes will prove so.
Where is it that the world forgets not day,
When once it viewes my Iuliet is away?
The brighter Cynthia does enlarge her dresse,
That she might offer thee a sacrifice
Worthy thy faire acceptance. The infant lights
Forsake our clouds for to bedeck thy nights.
Thy memorie should before this complaine,
That it does one of such poore worth containe.
Justice should blame thy fancies, 'cause they bee
Drawne on no other object saving mee.
My riches are all dig'd from Sorrowes mine,
Onely some favours, that I keepe of thine.
There thou hast stockt me well, then why doe I
Make my selfe of so little valew bee?
One glance of thine is able to create
A man, an Angell, or of purer state.
How many crownes stemm'd with that influence
Had I the night before I went from thence?
I now give credit to thy words, which treat
Of my being in divinest parts so great.
But Iuliet, if in this esteeme I live,
How must thou shine, that did'st all to me give?
And yet thy love has made me raise my pride
So high, that all but thee I have deny'd.
There's none does merit, now thou'st shin'd on mee,
My giving love to her, but onely thee.
And since 'tis so, since thou hast made me prove
Above the merit of all but thy love,
Let it be thus my Iuliet, let me have
The blisse of being thy Romeo to my grave.
What is it to be banisht from my earth,
When Iuliet to my comfort gives a birth?
When Iuliet gives me an Ironick nay,
Blushing intreaties for to kisse and play?
Let Tibalt dye, and Romeo be sent
As a just doome) away to banishment.
What is it to observe so heavy a doome,
When I may call my Iuliet my home?
For Iuliet's smile, who would not undergoe
The clumsey looke of any Prince or moe?
Say Iuliet that she loves, all this distresse
Twill transmigrate into a happinesse.
Yet when I name thy cousin griefe does view
Some blood of thine in him, and that will sue
To have a tributary brine. The muse
That sings his death, may out of th' Laurel chuse
As faire a branch as any. It is thee
(When hee sings him) shall blesse his poetry.
The Destinies grew proud, when as they had
Got so much Iuliet within their shade.
And had he thought how much the world he blest,
His sword would have enjoy'd a happy rest.
Had he but harp'd of being thy kinsman borne,
This fire would ne're have giv'n his ash the urne.
Verona I must leave, law will not let
Me of my sweet enjoying Iuliet.
The blest infusion I did take from thee,
Makes all the birds strive which should welcome me
With the best notes, esteeming Romeo
The god they ought to sacrifice unto.
The flowers doe court me, thinking that I am
A priest, that from their Flora lately came,
To give them some rich nature. Here the Rose
Bids the winde kisse her leaves, & straight she strowe [...]
Them for my foot-step, th' Lilly offers up
The richest of her beauty in a cup.
All this I had by th' pledge of thy deare love,
Which for to gaine a second time, I'll prove
A desperate Leauder: Breake through Seas,
So with my Hero I may take my ease.
Let Neptune rage, and throw his curles about,
Dart ruine at me, yet I will get out.
And when I am at Hero's Sestian rowre.
Laugh at the poorenesse of the Sea-gods powre.
Let the poore Spider envy lay her snare.
All is too weake if Iuliets love bids teare,
I'le prove the Swallow, and undoe againe,
What to make perfect, cost her so much paine.
And fly into thy lap, my wisht-for nest,
If thou'lt give leave that in it I may rest.
Did the devouring gulphs betwixt us lye,
Them would I venture Iuliet for to see.
Let Death gape for to catch me as I come;
Yet I'll not turne before I see thy home.
And let not feare wither that rosie bed
Upon thy checkes, nor make the Lilly dead.
Know I am Romeo still, know I am he.
VVho vow'd what never shall be broke to thee.
My selfe shall be my self; who dutes, who will
Forsake life for to runne to deadly ill?
VVhen I name Iuliet, and voyce shee is mine,
[...] make a boast I equall powres divine.
[...]'m banisht faire Verona, and will be
Banisht life, yet never untrue to thee.
The Argument of Li­sanders and Calistas.

LIsander in a fight was so wounded, that hee could not hold his sword, and so let it fall: Cleander (Calistas husband Li­sanders Mrs.) was killd with it, which made him to bee tainted with the murther. Berontus Cleanders brother, knowing of the love betweene these two, layd Calista in prison as a cause thereof, but Lisander was out of the way. In this distresse, shee writes to him, fearing his having done it, and desiring to know the certainty.

Loves LOOKING GLASSE.

Calista to Lisander.

Imprisoned both in body, and in minde
Calista sends some comfort for to finde
Of thee Lisander, that with ioy shee may
Swan it out bravely at her dying day.
Would certainty informe thou wert not hee
Whose fatall hand enriched destiny
With my lov'd Lord Cleander: or would death,
When hee uncaves my soule, dip every breath
And memory, that has it, in his lake,
His sacrifice I here my selfe would make.
I honour sonnes to valour. Though it bee
But counterfeit, yet it showes well in thee.
From them, whose tongues would favour no report,
My eares have cane thy merit, all the court
Makes their sole eloquence Lisander's name,
Striving whose wit should blesse the wing of fame,
Worth never was ador'd with such a zeale,
As is Lisanders. All things learne to tell
Vs the glad tydings. Every silver Spring
Glories, when that Lisander it may bring
Vnto a happy shoare. Never a friend
Is there of mine, but does thy valour send
As if it were a Marses. Some did tast
(That were their enemies) of what thou hast;
When as the Sylvian gods had left them to *
Ruine, thou conquenedst that fiercer foe.
For strangers thou didst hazzard out the dye:
Then must Cleander know thy cruelty?
Must friendship have no recompence, but this?
What is in it, that can bee happines?
Each sonne to Aeol, when they waft away,
What thou hast done, will lose their dresse of day,
And bee turn'd, with its foule infection,
To cloudy vapors. Is Cleander gone?
And by Lisander has the frowne of fate
Lowr'd on him? O unhappy friendships [...]ate!
To what did all the sighs and teares of thine
Tend, when thou didst commend thy love in brine?
And sorrowes aire unto the woods, when each
Of th' harbingers thou how to mourne didst teach?
When as the mary gould desir'd no sun,
To shew shee thy unhappy sate did moane?
Didst thou e're hope for to enioy my love.
When treacherous to Cleander thou didst prove?
Thou didst not play the Politician right
Enough, to kill him in the dead of night.
A prepar'd field had better fitted this,
Since thou art tearm'd a Sonne to noblenesse,
One of her chiefest too: thy memorie
(Which fild the world) will by this ruin'd bee.
Thus does Lisander give reward (they'll say)
For his friends love, his friends life takes away.
'Tis false, Lisander did it not. Yee reeds.
That to each gole of winde doe bend your heads
Yee feathery waving fancies, yee that doe
The falsest alwayes give your credits to.
And thou base rumour that darst staine the worth
Of heavens darling! Thunder will breake forth.
And curb thy trumpetting. Though thou beest free
A while, the Powers will find their enemie.
Can hee, whom great Bellona favoured best,
Forsake her deity, and so staine his crest?
Perjur'd Berontus but Cl [...]rind [...] * more!
Dare yee wipe of Lisanders noble score?
Divinitie, should hee but goe astray,
Would turne into sins night its glorious day.
Hee surely is the mover of that sphere,
And where his soule directs, it must be there.
Bee bright Lisander, shew thy innocence,
Let that bright Sun display its influence;
That all may see thee morelesse, all may know
Thou nee're to such an Erinnys didst owe
Or any thought, or action. What's divine
That will not have some clouds before it shine?
Yet I'll disperse all these. And since 'tis done
Confesse to the world, the deede was mine alone,
'Twas mine Lisander. This my right hand did
That which so long and often I deni'd.
Yet blame mee not, young courtier, for 'twas thee
That wert the cause of this my cruelty.
Thou sud'st for love, and for to recompence
It with a grant, I attempted this offence,
A sword was found there bloody. All secure
I made when I had done the act: so pure
An essence of rich policy did give
Mee leave, that while its harborour to live.
Not for to rage, because I feare to dye;
(More would I undergoe sweete friend for thee,
Were I but sure thou would'st constant prove.
But how can murderers bee true in love?
Rage did not make mee doe this stir'd by that.
Feare? tis (alas) the only thing I hate.
Yet me thinks I should pare it with another.
But what thou ere hast, I here doe smother done.
Live still Lisander. And for all thy vowes
Thy signs, thy teares, take this, which love allowes.
If thou doest the most wretcht Calista see
Yeelding to death, as 'tis the lawes decree,
Say to thy selfe, Lisander, shee did dye
Not for Cleanders murder, but for thee.
The Judge shall yeeld thee guiltlesse, and for this
Let mee but have one teare my dust to blisse.* *

LOVES LOOKING-GLASSE.
Lisander to Calista.

KNowing, by th' superscription, whence these came
And that they had the faire Calista's name;
Heaven I invok't to make mee worthy to
Enrich my eyes with what the inside show.
How often I ador'd, how often kist
The paper where I thought thy hand not mist;
For to recount would puzzle any one,
Though he was an Arithmaticion
In loves sweete merchandise. Why, what can come
(Then say'd I) from Calista but a doome
To love her whilst I live? and where can blisse
Ly, if not in so great a happinesse?
Then I presum'd to read. But when I see
A conspiration for my miserie,
When I did view my friend Cleanders death,
And mee the fatall cause given by thy breath,
My ful blowne worth began to sade mee thought,
My eyes to dimnesse, as they read, was brought.
Thy letter did so gloriously appeare,
With thy stil'd justice, I durst not come neere,
For feare the rays should burne me: how dare I
Thinke my selfe cleere, when thou accusest mee?
My martiall hazzards did not freez my blood
So much, as when I saw thy nuntio's brood
Stuck with so many of thy angers darts.
Now does Lisander read, and now hee starts.
First with a pleasing calme my heart is blest,
Now comes a Boreas, and denyes mee rest.
His raging blasts he every where sends, and
Makes my poore soule subject to their command;
Whilst the flame is disperst through every pore,
Ready to cast mee unto Charons shore.
Some words I happily receive of love,
But thousands my ioys enemies doe prove.
Neptune, in's fury, ne're could give such shocks
Vnto a ship, as I have by these rocks.
Iove ne're had with the gyaganticke race
Such trouble, as I have in one lines space.
Their suppos'd truths I tremble to deny,
Because they faine themselves to come from thee.
Should I deny what is from heaven sent,
How could I looke for a lesse punishment,
Then it's hate to reward me? Sweeting speake,
My part is only no reply to make.
But will the powers no succour to me lend?
Can my poore innocence finde ne're a friend?
Must envy have her will, and justice dye?
Must vertue now be thought impietie?
I must conclude it so, for they confine
From libertie thee, th' onely stocke divine
Of all Elysiums governours. Has he
No pitty, whom we call our Deitie?
Love in its selfe being so just a thing,
So holy, should have such a God and King:
How have I been unto my vowes untrue
To merit, sweet Calista, this of you?
Or to Cleanders friendship how false have
I been that here my love must finde a grave?
Yet have you not the taint as well as I?
Enjoy I not Calista's destinie?
To tender arguments so 'gainst me is,
'Twould make me prisoner from my happines,
Else I could bring (ô that I nought could bring
But what would make me with Calista sing!)
My loyaltie to valour; who can I taint
Me there? Calista, that ne're erring Saint,
Yet cannot all these crimson gemmes, I weare,
Pleaders for their Lisander now appeare?
They can, but dare not, till Calista's face
Banishes frownes, and takes her candours grace.
My very sword, if that Calista say
It must, its trusty master will betray,
Rather then lose successe to its plot, 'twill runne
To my foe, and helpe there to eclips my Sunne.
Hot in disputing of a question, sent
Unto me, faint I grew. A banishment
From life I feare, which made me soone let goe
My nipping sophister, my sword, my woe.
Which, since I could not find. But (ah!) all this
Rather detracts, then addes to happinesse.
Why doe I blame my valour? 'cause it vail'd
To envies cloudy frownes? could I have sayl'd
Unto a better shoare with my wish? 'twas
'Cause I should take with faire Calista place.
Why doe I chide my wounds, because they hid
Themselves, and would not for their Master plead?
Why doe I rage, and question thee my sword,
'Cause thou didst run from me thy trusty Lord?
Some happy fate▪ that knew my friend should dye,
And she be doom'd the cause, instructed yee
How you should make me blest. I doe accept
What you in store so long have for me kept.
We shall have nothing when thou'rt gone but strife,
VVho shall with thee first sacrifice their life.
The Rose, the Lilly, Panciby, what's best
Of natures joy will seeke with thee to rest.
The meaner beauties will desire to stay
To gaine, when thou art gone, perfections bay.
Both will dye once, both will enjoy one death,
VVho will not with Calista lose his breath?

To my Selfe an Allegory.

ANchor within this port, thy ship has yet
The smiles of Neptune, and no tempests met.
Yet has no Doris rought her brow, nor given
Envious or angry lookes; All smooth and even
Gives thee a welcome yet. Yet Englands flood
Curles not her silver maine but for thy good.
Yet has Elysium's calmest breath appear'd,
No angry North yet, yet nothing to be fear'd.
The gods have to thy voyage prosperous been,
Trust not another fortune, here strike in.
O happy shoare! when I salute thy sand,
Me thinkes my mother has me at command.
VVhere can an infant thinke to fare the best,
If at her dugge it is deny'd to feast?
Thou stretchest forth thine arme to catch thy sonne
(Sweet Thamesis) with ruine halfe undone.
Ah! hold me fast, lest a dissembling wave
(VVith witching charmes) makes me thy true love leave.
For when Sh'has got me at her wisht-for state,
I must indure the rigid front of fate.
Keepe me close in thine armes, for if I finde
Thy friendly pledges, set none else be kinde.
The care is taken. Ah! blest mother, see
On thee depends my onely destiny.
Let envy bubble, if there's such a fiend
Against me. Thamesis but prove my friend.
Or let her Dogfish barke, I now am free,
VVhen once thy eye yeelds that I happy be.
Then goe no further, here unsaile thy ship.
Shee will not hurt, but save, if thou'lt be kept.
FINIS.

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