I could say more of such, but that I flie
To speake my selfe out too ambitiously,
And showing so weake an act to vulgar eyes,
Put conscience and my right to comprimise.
Let those that meerely talke, and never thinke,
That live in the wild anarchie of drinke,
Subject to quarrell only; or else such

As make it their proficiencie, how much

They 'ave glutted in, and letcher'd out that weeke,
That never yet did friend, or friendship seeke
But for a sealing: let these men protest.
Or th' other on their borders, that will jest
On all soules that are absent; even the dead,
Like flies, or wormes, which man's corrupt parts fed:
That to speake well, thinke it above all sinne,
Of any companie but that they are in,
Call every night to supper in these fitts,
And are receiv'd for the covey of witts;
That censure all the towne, and all th' affaires,
And know whose ignorance is more then theirs ;
Let these men have their wayes, and take their times
To vent their libels, and to issue rimes,

I have no portion in them, nor their deale
Of newes they get, to strew out the long meale;
I studie other friendships, and more one,
Then these can ever be; or else wish none.
What is 't to me, whether the French designe
Be, or be not, to get the Val-telline?.

Or the state's ships sent forth belike to meet
Some hopes of Spaine in their West-Indian fleet?
Whether the dispensation yet be sent,

Or that the match from Spaine was ever meant?
I wish all well, and pray high Heaven conspire
My prince's safetie, and my king's desire;
But if for honour we must draw the sword,
And force back that, which will not be restor❜d,
I have a body yet, that spirit drawes
To live, or fall, a carkasse in the cause.
So farre without inquirie what the states,
Brunsfield, and Mansfield doe this yeare, my fates
Shall carry me at call; and I'le be well,
Though I doe neither heare these newes, nor tell
Of Spaine or France; or were not prick'd downe one
Of the late mysterie of reception,
Although my fame, to his, not under-heares,
That guides the motions, and directs the beares.
But that's a blow, by which in time I may
Lose all my credit with my Christmas clay,
And animated porc'lane of the court,
I, and for this neglect, the courser sort
Of earthen jarres there may molest me too:
Well, with mine owne fraile pitcher what to doe
I have decreed; keepe it from waves, and presse;
Lest it be justled, crack'd, made nought, or lesse :
Live to that point I will, for which I am man,
And dwell as in my center as I can,
Still looking to, and ever loving Heaven;
With reverence using all the gifts thence given.
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent
Such as are square, wel-tagde, and permanent,
Not built with canvasse, paper, and false lights,
As are the glorious scenes at the great sights;
And that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds,
Oylie expansions, or shrunke durtie folds,
But all so cleare, and led by reason's flame,
As but to stumble in her sight were shame.
These I will honour, love, embrace, and serve:
And free it from all question to preserve.
So short you read my character, and theirs
I would call mine, to which not many staires

Are asked to climbe. First give me faith, who know My selfe a little. I will take you so,

As you have writ your selfe. Now stand, and then Sir, you are sealed of the tribe of Ben.

THE DEDICATION

OF THE KING'S NEW CELLAR.

TO BACCHUS.

SINCE, Bacchus, thou art father
Of wines, to thee the rather
We dedicate this cellar,

Where new, thou art made dweller;
And seale thee thy commission:
But 't is with a condition,
That thou remaine here taster
Of all to the great master.
And looke unto their faces,
Their qualities, and races,
That both their odour take him,
And relish merry make him.

For, Bacchus, thou art freer
Of cares, and over-seer
Of feast, and merry meeting,
And still begin'st the greeting:
See then thou dost attend him,
Lyæus, and defend him,
By all the arts of gladnesse,
From any thought like sadnesse.

So mayst thou still be younger
Then Phoebus; and much stronger
To give mankind their eases,
And cure the world's diseases:

So may the Muses follow
Thee still, and leave Apollo
And thinke thy streame more quicker
Then Hippocrenes liquor:
And thou make many a poet,
Before his braine doe know it;
So may there never quarrell
Have issue from the barrell;
But Venus and the Graces
Pursue thee in all places,
And not a song be other
Then Cupid, and his mother.

That when king James above here
Shall feast it, thou maist love there
The causes and the guests too,
And have thy tales and jests too,
Thy circuits, and thy rounds free,
As shall the feast's faire grounds be.
Be it he hold communion
In great saint George's union;
Or gratulates the passage
Of some wel-wrought embassage:
Whereby he may knit sure up
The wished peace of Europe:
Or else a health advances,
To put his court in dances,
And set us all on skipping,
When with his roy all shipping
The narrow seas are shadie,
And Charles brings home the ladie.

Accessit fervor capiti, numerusque lucernis.

AN EPIGRAM

ON THE COURT-PUCELL.

Does the Court-Pucell then so censure me,
And thinkes I dare not her? let the world see.
What though her chamber be the very pit
Where fight the prime cocks of the game, for wit?
And that as any are strooke, her breath creates
New in their stead, out of the candidates?
What though with tribade lust she force a Muse,
And in an epicone fury can write newes
Equall with that, which for the best newes goes,
As aërie light, and as like wit as those?
What though she talke, and can at once with them,
Make state, religion, bawdrie, all a theame.
And, as lip-thirstie, in each word's expense,
Doth labour with the phrase more then the sense?
What though she ride two mile on holy-dayes
To church, as others doe to feasts and playes,
To shew their tires? to view, and to be view'd?
What though she be with velvet gownes indu'd,
And spangled petticotes brought forth to eye,
As new rewards of her old secrecie!

What though she hath won on trust, as many doe,
And that her truster feares her? must I too?
I never stood for any place: my wit
Thinkes it selfe nought, though she should valew it.
I am no states-man, and much lesse divine
For bawdry, 't is her language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the idolatrie

To stuffes and laces, those my man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In contract twice; what can she perjure more?
Indeed, her dressing some man might delight,
Her face there 's none can like by candle light.
Not he, that should the body have, for case
To his poore instrument, now out of grace.
Shall I advise thee, Pucell? steale away [day;
From court, while yet thy fame hath some small
The wits will leave you, if they once perceive
You cling to lords; and lords, if them you leave
For sermoneeres; of which now one, now other,
They say, you weekly invite with fits o' th' mother,
And practise for a miracle; take heed
This age would lend no faith to Dorrel's deed;
Or if it would, the court is the worst place,
Both for the mothers, and the babes of grace,
For there the wicked in the chaire of scorne,
Will call 't a bastard, when a prophet's borne.

And though all praise bring nothing to your name,
Who (herein studying conscience, and not fame)
Are in your selfe rewarded; yet 't will be
A cheerefull worke to all good eyes, to see
Among the daily ruines that fall foule
Of state, of fame, of body, and of soule,
So great a vertue stand upright to view,
As makes Penelope's old fable true,
Whilst your Ulisses hath ta'ne leave to goe,
Countries and climes, manners and men to know.
Only your time you better entertaine,
Then the great Homer's wit for her could faine;
For you admit no companie but good,
And when you want those friends, or neere in blood,
Or your allies, you make your bookes your friends,
And studie them unto the noblest ends,
Searching for knowledge, and to keepe your mind
The same it was inspir'd, rich, and refin'd.
These graces, when the rest of ladyes view
Not boasted in your life, but practis'd true,
As they are hard for them to make their owne,
So are they profitable to be knowne :
For when they find so many meet in one,
It will be shame for them if they have none.

LORD BACON'S BIRTH-DAY.

HALLE happie Genius of this antient pile!
How comes it all things so about the smile?
The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst
Thou stand'st as if some mysterie thou did'st!
Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day
For whose returnes, and many, all these pray:
And so doe I. This is the sixtieth yeare
Since Bacon, and thy lord was born, and here;
Sonne to the grave wise keeper of the seale,
Fame and foundation of the English weale.
What then his father was, that since is he,
Now with a title more to the degree;
England's high chancellor: the destin'd heire
In his soft cradle to his father's chaire,
Whose even thred the Fates spinne round and full,
Out of their choysest, and their whitest wooll.

'T is a brave cause of joy, let it be knowne, For 't were a narrow gladnesse, kept thine owne. Give me a deep-crown'd-bowle, that I may sing In raysing him the wisdome of my king.

A POEME

SENT ME BY SIR WILLIAM BURLASE.

THE PAINTER TO THE POET.

To paint thy worth, if rightly I did know it,
And were but painter halfe like thee a poët,
Ben, I would show it:

But in this skill, m' unskilfull pen will tire,
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found farre higher;
And I a lier.

Then, what a painter's here? or what an eater Of great attempts! when as his skill's no greater, And he a cheater?

Then what a poet's here! whom, by confession Of all with me, to paint without digression There's no expression.

MY ANSWER.

THE POET TO THE PAINTER.

WHY? though I seeme of a prodigious wast,
I am not so voluminous and vast,

But there are lines wherewith I might b' embrac'd.

'Tis true, as my wombe swells, so my backe stoupes, And the whole lumpe growes round, deform'd, and droupes,

But yet the tun at Heidelberg had houpes.

You were not tied by any painter's law
To square my circle, I confesse; but draw
My superficies: that was all you saw.

Which if in compasse of no art it came
To be described by a monogram,

With one great blot yo' had form'd me as I am.

But whilst you curious were to have it be
An archetipe for all the world to see,
You made it a brave piece, but not like me.

O, had I now your manner, maistry, might,
Your power of handling, shadow, ayre, and spright,
How I would draw, and take hold and delight.

But, you are he can paint; I can but write:
A poet hath no more but black and white,
Ne knowes he flatt'ring colours, or false light.

Yet when of friendship I would draw the face, A letter'd mind, and a large heart would place To all posteritie; I will write Burlase..

EPISTLE

TO MR. ARTHUR SQUIE.

I AM to dine, friend, where I must be weigh'd
For a just wager, and that wager paid
If I doe lose it: and, without a tale,

A merchant's wife is regent of the scale.

Who when she heard the match, concluded streight,
An ill commoditie! 't must make good weight.
So that upon the point my corporall feare
Is, she will play dame justice too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
Within the ballance, and not want a mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
Full twentie stone, of which I lack two pound:
That's six in silver; now within the socket
Stinketh my credit, if into the pocket

It doe not come: one piece I have in store,
Lend me, deare Arthur, for a weeke five more,
And you shall make me good, in weight, and fashion,
And then to be return'd; or protestation
To goe out after-till when take this letter
For your securitie. I can no better.

TO MR. JOHN BURGES.

WOULD God, my Burges, I could thinke
Thoughts worthy of thy gift, this inke,
Then would I promise here to give
Verse that should thee and me out-live.
But since the wine hath steep'd my braine
I only can the paper staine;
Yet with a dye that feares no moth,
But scarlet-like out-lasts the cloth.

AN EPIGRAM

TO WILLIAM, EARLE OF NEWCASTLE.

WHEN first, my lord, I saw you backe your horse,
Provoke his mettail, and command his force
To all the uses of the field and race,
Me thought I read the ancient art of Thrace,
And saw a centaure, past those tales of Greece,
So seem'd your horse and you both of a peece!
You show'd like Perseus upon Pegasus;
Or Castor mounted on his Cyilarus:
Or what we heare our home-borne legend tell
Of bold sir Bevis and his Arundell:
Nay, so your seate his beauties did endorse,
As I began to wish my selfe a horse;
And surely, had I but your stable seene
Before, I thinke my wish absolv'd had beene.
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,
Nor any of their houshold halfe so well.

So well! as when I saw, the floore and roome,
I look'd for Hercules to be the groome:.
And cri'd, away with the Cæsarian bread,
At these immortall mangers Virgil fed.

You won not verses, madam, you won me,
When you would play so nobly, and so free.
A booke to a few lynes: but it was fit
You won them too, your oddes did merit it:
So have you gain'd a servant, and a Muse:
The first of which I feare you will refuse;
And you may justly, being a tardie, cold,
Unprofitable chattell, fat and old,

Laden with bellie, and doth hardly approach
His friends, but to breake chaires, or cracke a coach.
His weight is twenty stone within two pound;
And that's made up as doth the purse abound.
Marrie, the Muse is one can tread the aire,
And stroke the water, nimble, chast, and faire,
Sleepe in a virgin's bosome without feare,
Run all the rounds in a soft ladye's eare,
Widow or wife, without the jealousie
Of either suitor, or a servant by.
Such (if her manners like you) I doe send,
And can for other graces her commend,
To make you merry on the dressing stoole
A mornings, and at afternoones to foole
Away ill company, and helpe in rime,
Your Joane to passe her melancholie time.

By this, although you fancie not the man,
Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can,
How many verses, madam, are your due?
I can lose none in tendring these to you.
J gaine, in having leave to keepe my day,
And should grow rich, had I much more to pay.

TO MASTER JOHN BURGES.

FATHER, John Burges,
Necessitie urges
My wofull crie,
To sir Robert Pie:

And that he will venter
To send my debentur.
Tell him his Ben
Knew the time, when
He lov'd the Muses;
Though now he refuses,
To take apprehension
Of a yeare's pension,
And more is behind:
Put him in mind
Christmas is neere;
And neither good cheare,
Mirth, fooling, nor wit,
Nor any least fit

Of gambol, or sport,
Will come at the court;
If there be no money,
No plover, or coney
Will come to the table,
Or wine to enable
The Muse, or the poet,
The parish will know it.

Nor any quick-warming-pan helpe him to bed,
If the chequer be emptie, so will be his head.

EPIGRAM

TO MY BOOK-SELLER.

Taou, friend, wilt heare all censures, unto thee
All mouthes are open, and all stomacks free:
Be thou my booke's intelligencer, note
What each man sayes of it, and of what coat
His judgement is; if he be wise, and praise,
Thanke him: if other, he can give no bayes.
If his wit reach no higher, but to spring
Thy wife a fit of laugher, a cramp-ring
Will be reward enough, to weare like those,
That hang their richest jewells i' their nose;
Like a rung beare, or swine, grunting out wit
As if that part lay for a [ ] most fit!
If they goe on, and that thou lov'st a-life

To hit in angles, and to clash with time: As all defence, or offence were a chime!

I hate such measur'd, give me mettall'd fire,
That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts

higher!

A quick, and dazeling motion! when a paire
Of bodies meet like rarified ayre!

Their weapons shot out with that flame and force,
As they out-did the lightning in the course;
This were a spectacle! a sight to draw
Wonder to valour! No, it is the law
Of daring not to doe a wrong; 'tis true
Valour to sleight it, being done to you!
To know the heads of danger! where 't is fit
To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it!
All this (my lord) is valour! this is yours!
And was your father's! all your ancestours'!
Who durst live great, 'mongst all the colds, and
heates

Of humane life! as all the frosts, and sweates
Of fortune! when, or death appear'd, or bands!
And valiant were, with or without their hands.

ΑΝ ΕΡΙΤΑΡΗ

ON HENRY LORD LA-WARE.

TO THE PASSER-BY.

Ir, passenger, thou canst but reade,
Stay, drop a teare for him that 's dead:
Henry, the brave young lord La-ware,
Minerva's and the Muses' care!

What could their care doe 'gainst the spight
Of a disease, that lov'd no light

Of honour, nor no ayre of good;
But crept like darknesse through his blood,
Offended with the dazeling flame

Of vertue, got above his name?
No noble furniture of parts,
No love of action, and high arts,
No aime at glorie, or in warre,
Ambition to become a starre,
Could stop the malice of this ill,
That spread his body o're, to kill:
And only his great soule envy'd,
Because it durst have noblier dy'd.

AN EPIGRAM.

THAT you have seene the pride, beheld the sport, And all the games of fortune plaid at court; View'd there the mercat, read the wretched rate At which there are would sell the prince and state, That scarce you heare a publike voyce alive,

AN EPIGRAM

TO WILLIAM EARLE OF NEWCASTLE.

THEY talk of fencing, and the use of armes, The art of urging, and avoyding harmes, The noble science, and the maistring skill Of making just approaches how to kill:

Yet are got off thence with cleare mind and hands To lift to Heaven: who is 't not understands Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,

To see you set apart thus from the rest,

T' obtaine of God what all the land should aske?
A nation's sinne got pardon'd! 't were a taske
Fit for a bishop's knees! O bow them oft,

My lord, till felt griefe make our stone hearts soft,
And we doe weepe to water for our sinne,
He, that in such a flood as we are in

Of riot and consumption, knowes the way To teach the people how to fast, and pray, And doe their penance to avert God's rod, He is the man, and favorite of God.

AN EPIGRAM

TO KING CHARLES FOR ONE HUNDRED POUNDS HE SENT ME IN MY SICKNESSE.

GREAT Charles, among the holy gifts of grace
Annexed to thy person, and thy place,
"T is not enough (thy pietie is such)
To cure the call'd king's evill with thy touch;
But thou wilt yet a kinglier mastrie trie,
To cure the poet's evill, povertie :

And, in these cures, do'st so thy selfe enlarge,
As thou dost cure our evill, at thy charge.
Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more
One poet, then of other folke ten score.
O pietie! so to weigh the poores' estates!
Q bountie! so to difference the rates!
What can the poet wish his king may doe,
But that he cure the people's evill too?

ΤΟ

KING CHARLES, AND QUEENE MARY.

FOR THE LOSSE OF THEIR FIRST-BORN,

AN EPIGRAM CONSOLATORIE.

WHO dares denie that all first fruits are due
To God, denies the god-head to be true:
Who doubts those fruits God can with gaine restore,
Doth by his doubt distrust his promise more.
He can, he will, and with large int'rest pay,
What (at his liking) he will take away.
Then royall Charles, and Mary, doe not grutch
That the Almightie's will to you is such:
But thanke his greatnesse, and his goodnesse too;
And thinke all still the best that he will doe.
That thought shall make, he will this losse supply
With a long, large, and blest posteritie!
For God, whose essence is so infinite,
Cannot but heape that grace he will requite.

AN EPIGRAM

TO OUR GREAT AND GOOD KING CHARLES ON HIS ANNI-
VERSARY DAY.

How happy were the subject! if he knew,
Most pious king, but his owne good in you!
How many times, Live long, Charles, would he say,
If he but weigh'd the blessings of this day?
And as it turnes our joyfull yeare about,
For safetie of such majestie cry out?
Indeed, when had great Brittaine greater cause
Then now, to love the soveraigne and the lawes?
When you that raigne are her example growne,
And what are bounds to her, you make your owne?
When your assidious practise doth secure
That faith which she professeth to be pure?

When all your life's a president of dayes,
And murmure cannot quarrell at your wayes?
How is she barren growne of love! or broke!
That nothing can her gratitude provoke !
O times! O manners! surfet bred of ease,
The truly epidemicall disease!

'T is not alone the merchant, but the clowne
Is banke-rupt turn'd! the cassock, cloake, and gowne,
Are lost upon accompt! and none will know
How much to Heaven for thee, great Charles, they
owe!

AN EPIGRAM

ON THE PRINCE'S BIRTH.

AND art thou borne, brave babe? blest be thy birth!
That so hath crown'd our hopes, our spring, and
The bed of the chast lilly, and the rose! [earth,
What month then May, was fitter to disclose
This prince of flowers? soone shoot thou up, and grow
The same that thou art promis'd, but be slow
And long in changing. Let our nephewes see
Thee quickly [come] the garden's eye to be,
And there to stand so. Haste, now envious Moone,
And interpose thy selfe, ('care not how soone.)
And threat' the great eclipse. Two houres but runne,
Sol will re-shine. If not, Charles hath a sonne.

Non displicuisse meretur Festinat Caesar qui placuisse tibi.

AN EPIGRAM

1630.

TO THE QUEENE, THEN LYING IN.
HAILE, Mary, full of grace, it once was said,
And by an angell, to the blessed'st maid
The mother of our Lord: why may not I
(Without prophanenesse) yet, a poet, cry
Haile, Mary, full of honours, to my queene,
The mother of our prince? when was there seene
(Except the joy that the first Mary brought,
Whereby the safetie of man-kind was wrought)
So generall a gladnesse to an isle!

To make the hearts of a whole nation smile,
As in this prince? let it be lawfull, so
To compare small with great, as still we owe
Glorie to God. Then, haile to Mary! spring
Of so much safetie to the realme, and king.