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.
I 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.

THOU, 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.

AN EPITAPH

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 EAarle 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!
O 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 ANNIVERSARY 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.

[earth,

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!
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 Cæsar qui placuisse tibi.

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.

AN ODE, OR SONG,

BY ALL THE MUSES.

In celebration of her majestie's bIRTH-DAY. 1650,

Clio. Up, publike joy, remember

This sixteenth of November,
Some brave un-common way:
And though the parish-steeple
Be silent to the people,

Ring thou it holy-day.

And rather wish, in their expense of sack, So, the allowance from the king to use, As the old bard, should no Canary lack,

'T were better spare a butt, then spill his Muse. For in the genius of a poet's verse, The king's fame lives. Go now, denie his teirce.

EPIGRAM

TO A FRIEND, AND SONNE.

SONNE, and my friend, I had not call'd you so
To me, or beene the same to you, if show,
Profit, or chance had made us: but I know
What by that name we each to other owe,
Freedome, and truth; with love from those begot.
Wise-crafts on which the flatterer ventures not.
His is more safe commoditie, or none:
Nor dares he come in the comparison.
But as the wretched painter, who so ill
Painted a dog, that now his subtler skill
Was, t' have a boy stand with a club, and fright
All live dogs from the lane, and his shop's sight.
Till he had sold his piece, drawne so unlike :
So doth the flattrer, with farre cunning strike
At a friend's freedome, proves all circling meanes
To keepe him off; and how-so-e're he gleanes
Some of his formes, he lets him not come neere
Where he would fixe, for the distinction's feare.
For as at distance few have facultie

To judge, so all men comming neere can spie,
Though now of flattery, as of picture are
More subtle workes, and finer pieces farre,
Then knew the former ages: yet to life,
All is but web and painting; be the strife
Never so great to get them: and the ends,
Rather to boast rich hangings then rare friends,

TO THE IMMORTALL

MEMORIE AND FRIENDSHIP

OF THAT NOBLE PAIRE, SIR LUCIUS CARY, AND SIR H. MORISON.

THE TURNE.

BRAVE infant of Saguntum, cleare

Thy comming forth in that great yeare,
When the prodigious Hannibal did crowne
His rage, with razing your immortall towne.
Thou, looking then about,

E're thou wert halfe got out,

Wise child, did'st hastily returne,

And mad'st thy mother's wombe thine urne.

How summ'd a circle didst thou leave man-kind Of deepest lore, could we the center find!

THE COUNTER-TURNE.

Did wiser nature draw thee back,
From out the horrour of that sack,
Where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right
Lay trampled on; the deeds of death, and night
Urg'd, hurried forth, and horld
Upon th' affrighted world:

POORE wretched states, prest by extremities,
Are faine to seeke for succours, and supplies
Of princes' aides, or good men's charities.
Disease the enemie, and his engineeres,
Want, with the rest of his conceal'd compeeres,
Have cast a trench about me, now five yeares;
And made those strong approaches by false braies,
Reduicts, halfe-moones, horne-workes, and such
close wayes,

The Muse not peepes out, one of hundred dayes;
But lyes block'd up, and straightned, narrow'd in,
Fix'd to the bed, and boords, unlike to win
Health, or scarce breath, as she had never bin;
Unlesse some saving honour of the crowne,
Dare thinke it, to relieve, no lesse renowne,
A bed-rid wit, then a besieged towne.

TO THE KING

ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 19, 1632.

AN EPIGRAM ANNIVERSarie.

THIS is king Charles his day. Speake it thou Towre
Unto the ships, and they from tier to tier
Discharge it 'bout the iland, in an houre,

As lowd as thunder, and as swift as fire.
Let Ireland meet it out at sea halfe way,
Repeating all Great Brittain's joy, and more,
Adding her owne glad accents to this day,

Like Eccho playing from the other shore.
What drums, or trumpets, or great ord'nance can,
The poetrie of steeples, with the bells,
Three kingdomes' mirth, in light, and aërie man,
Made lighter with the wine. All noises else,
At bonefires, rockets, fire-workes, with the shoutes
That cry that gladnesse, which their hearts would
pray,

Had they but grace of thinking, at these routes,
On th' often comming of this holy-day:
And ever close the burden of the song,
Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long.
The wish is great; but where the prince is such,
What prayers (people) can you thinke too much!

Weston! that waking man! that eye of state!
Who seldome sleepes! whom bad men only hate!
Why doe I irritate, or stirre up thee,
Thou sluggish spawne, that canst, but wilt not see!
Feed on thy selfe for spight, and show thy kind:
To vertue, and true worth, be ever blind.
Dreame thou could'st hurt it, but before thou wake,
T' effect it; feele, thou 'ast made thine owne heart
ake.

TO THE RIGHT HON.

HIEROME, LORD WESTON,

AN ODE GRATULATORIE,

FOR HIS RETURNE FROM HIS EMBASSIE. 1632.

SUCH pleasure as the teeming Earth
Doth take an easie Nature's birth,

When she puts forth the life of ev'ry thing:
And in a dew of sweetest raine,
She lies deliver'd without paine,

Of the prime beautie of the yeare, the Spring.

The river in their shores doe run,

The clowdes rack cleare before the Sun,
The rudest winds obey the calmest ayre,
Rare plants from ev'ry banke doe rise,
And ev'ry plant the sense surprise,

Because the order of the whole is faire !
The very verdure of her nest,
Wherein she sits so richly drest,

As all the wealth of season there was spread;
Doth show the Graces and the Houres
Have multipli'd their arts and powers,

In making soft her aromatique bed.

Such joyes, such sweets doth your returne
Bring all your friends (faire lord) that burne
With love to heare your modestie relate,
The bus'nesse of your blooming wit,
With all the fruit shall follow it,

Both to the honour of the king and state.
O how will then our court be pleas'd,
To see great Charles of travaile eas'd,
When he beholds a graft of his owne hand,
Shoot up an olive fruitfull, faire,
To be a shadow to his heire,

And both a strength, and beautie to his land!

ON THE RIGHT HON. AND VERTUOUS

LORD WESTON,

LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND, UPON THE DAY HE WAS MADE EARLE OF PORTLAND, FEB. 17, 1632.

TO THE ENVIOUS.

LOOKE up, thou seed of envie, and still bring
Thy faint and narrow eyes to reade the king
In his great actions: view whom bis large hand,
Hath rais'd to be the port unto his land!

EPITHALAMION;

OR

A SONG,

CELEBRATING THE NUPTIALS OF THAT NOBLE GENTLEMAN, MR. HIEROME WESTON, SON AND HEIRE OF THE LORD WESTON, LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND, WITH THE LADY FRANCES STUART, daughter of Esme d. of LENOX DECEASED, and sister of the SURVIVING DUKE OF THE SAME NAME.

THOUGH thou hast past thy summer standing, stay A-while with us, bright Sun, and help our light; Thou can'st not meet more glory on the way, Between thy tropicks, to arrest thy sight,