did stay,

In freehold, not as an inmate,
And when the flesh here shut up day,
Fame's heat

upon

the

grave
And hourly brooding o'er the same,
Keeps warm the spice of her good name,
Until the ashes turned be
Into a Phenix

WHICH IS SIE.

Ο Ζευς κατείδε χρόνιος εις τας διφθέρας. 'Tis a record in heaven. You that were Her children and grandchildren, read it here; Transmit it to your nephews, friends, allies, Tenants, and servants: have they hearts and

cyes To view the truth and own it? Do but look With pause upon it: make this page your

book! Your book? Your volume! Nay, the state

and story! Code, Digests, Pandects of all female glory!

Diphthera Jovis.

For this did Katherine Lady Ogle die
To gain the crown of immortality;
Eternity's Great Charter; which became
Her right, by gift and purchase of the Lamb.
Sealed and delivered to her, in the sight
Of Angels, and all witnesses of light,
Both saints and martyrs, by her loved Lord,
And this a copy is of the Record.

a

a

EPITAPH ON THE LADY JANE. 54 I could begin with that grand form Here lies (And bid thee, reader, bring thy weeping eyes To see who 'tis —-) a noble countess, great In blood, in birth, by match and by her state, Religious, wise, chaste, loving, gracious, good, And number attributes unto a flood ; But every table in this church can say A list of epithets and praise this way ; No stone in any wall here but can tell Such things of everybody, and as well — Nay, they will render one's descent to hit And Christian name too with a herald's wit. But I would have thee to know something new, Not usual in a lady, and yet true, At least so great a lady she was wife But of one husband, and since he left life, But Sorrow she desired no other friend, And her she made her inmate to the end. To call on sickness still to be her guest, Whom she with sorrow first did lodge, then feast, Then entertain, and as death's harbinger, So woo'd at last that he was won to her Importune wish, and by her loved lord's side To lay her here, inclosed, his second bride; Where, spite of death, next life, for her love's sake This second marriage will eternal make.

AN EPIGRAM TO MY JOVIAL GOOD FRIEND, MR.

ROBERT DOVER, ON HIS GREAT INSTAURATION OF HIS HUNTING AND DANCING AT COTS

WOLD.55

I cannot bring my muse to drop vies 56
'Twixt Cotswold and the Olympic exercise,
But I can tell thee, Dover, how thy games
Renew the glories of our blessed James :
How they do keep alive his memory
With the glad country and posterity;
How they advance true love and neighborhood,
And do both church and commonwealth the good
In spite of hypocrites, who are the worst
Of subjects. Let such envy till they burst.

ANSWER TO WITHER'S LINES,

“SHALL I, WASTING IN DESPAIR.”
Shall I my affections slack
'Cause I see a woman's black,
Or myself with care cast down
'Cause I see a woman's brown ?
Be she blacker than the night
Or the blackest jet in sight,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how black she be ?

Shall my foolish heart be burst
'Cause I see a woman's curst,
Or a thwarting, haggish nature
Joined in as bad a feature ?
Be she curst or fiercer than
Brutish beast or savage man,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how curst she be ?

Shall a woman's vices make
Me her vices quite forsake,
Or her faults to me made known
Make me think that I have none ?
Be she of the most accurst,
And deserve the name of worst;
If she be not so to me,
What care I how bad she be?

'Cause her fortunes seem too low,
Shall I therefore let her go ?
He that bears an ample mind
And with riches can be kind,
Think what with them he would do
That without them dares to woo ?
And unless that mind I see,
What care I how great she be?

Great, or proud, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair,
If she love me, then believe
I will die ere she shall grieve:

If she slight me when I woo,
I can slight and bid her

go.
If she be not fit for me,
What care I for whom she be ?

TO MY DETRACTOR.57 My verses were commended thou dars't say, And they were very good ; yet thou think'st nay; For thou objectest (as thou hast been toll) The envied returns of forty pound in gold. Fool! do not rate my rhymes. I've found thy vice Is to make cheap the lord, the lines, the price. But howl thou on, I pity thee, poor cur,

Ι Till thou hast lost thy noise, thy foam, thy stir, To be known what thou art, a blatant beast, By barking against me. Thou look'st at least I now would writeon thee! No, wretch ; thy name Shall not work out unto it such a fame. Thou art not worth it. Who will care to know If such a tyke as thou e'er wert or no? A mongrel cur, thou shouldst stink forth and die Nameless and noisome as thy infamy ! No man will tarry by thee, as he goes, To ask thy name if he have half his nose, But fly thee like the Pest. Walk not the street Out in the dog-days, lest the killer meet Thy noddle with his club, and lashing forth Thy dirty brains, men smell thy want of worth.

5 This poem should be read in connection with the Epigram, page 284, where see note.