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And laugh, and measure thighes, then squeake, spring, itch,

Doe all the tricks of a saut lady bitch;
For t' other pound of sweet-meats, he shall feele
That payes, or what he will. The dame is steele:
For these with her young companie she'll enter,
Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter,
And comes by these degrees, the stile t' inherit
Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit:
Nor is the title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folke, these are allow'd:
Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,
They're growne commoditie upon exchange;
He that will follow but another's wife,
Is lov'd, though he let out his owne for life:
The husband now's call'd churlish, or a poore
Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore;
Or use all arts, or haunt all companies
That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
The brother trades a sister; and the friend
Lives to the lord, but to the ladie's end.
Lesse must not be thought on then mistresse: or
If it be thought, kild like her embrions; for,
Whom no great mistresse hath as yet infam'd,
A fellow of course letcherie is nam'd,
The servant of the serving-woman in scorne,
Ne're came to taste the plenteous mariage-horne.
Thus they doe talke. And are these objects fit
For man to spend his money on? his wit?
His time? health? soule? will he for these goe throw
Those thousands on his back, shall after blow
His body to the Counters, or the Fleete?

Is it for these that fine man meets the street
Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each suit, he has the ready way
From Hide-Parke to the stage, where at the last
His deare and borrow'd bravery he must cast?
When not his combes, his curling-irons, his glasse,
Sweet bags, sweet powders, nor sweet words will passe
For lesse securitie? O for these
Is it that man pulls on himselfe disease?
Surfet? and quarrell? drinkes the tother health?
Or by damnation voids it or by stealth?
What farie of late is crept into our feasts?
What honour given to the drunkennest guests?
What reputation to beare one glasse more?
When oft the bearer is borne out of dore?
This hath our ill-us'd freedome, and soft peace
Brought on us, and will every houre increase;
Our vices, doe not tarry in a place,
But being in motion still (or rather in race)
Tilt one upon another, and now beare
This way, now that, as if their number were
More then themselves, or then our lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.

I'le bid thee looke no more, but flee, flee friend,
This precipice, and rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens ruine. The whole day
Is not enough now, but the nights to play:
And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we

waste;

Goe make our selves the usurers at a cast.

He that no more for age, cramps, palsies, can
Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man
To take the box up for him; and pursues
The dice with glassem eyes, to the glad views
Of what he throwes: like letchers growne content
To be beholders, when their powers are spent.
Can we not leave this wome? or will we not?
Is that the truer excuse? or have we got

In this, and like, an itch of vanitie,
That scratching now's our best felicitie?
Well, let it goe. Yet this is better, then
To lose the formes, and dignities of men,
To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowle
Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soule:
Although perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will be
When I am hoarse, with praising his each cast,
Give me but that againe, that I must wast
In sugar candide, or in butter'd beere,
For the recovery of my voyce? No, there
Pardon his lordship. Flattry's growne so cheape
With him, for he is followed with that heape
That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud,
As a poore single flatterer, without baud

Is nothing, such scarce meat and drinke he'le give,
But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,
And be belov'd, while the whores last. O times!
Friend, flie from hence; and let these kindled rimes
Light thee from Hell on Earth: where flatterers,
spies,

Informers, masters both of arts and lies,

Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers, that let blood
The life, and fame-vaynes (yet not understood
Of the poore sufferers) where the envious, proud,
Ambitious, factious, superstitious, lowd
Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more
Prevaricators swarme: of which the store,
(Because th' are every where amongst man-kind
Spread through the world) is easier farre to fiud,
Then once to number, or bring forth to hand,
Though thou wert muster-master of the land.

Goe quit 'hem all. And take along with thee,
Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be,
That thine be just, and honest, that thy deeds
Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds;
That thou dost all things more for truth, then glory,
And never but for doing wrong be sory;
That by commanding first thy selfe, thou mak'st
Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st;
That fortune never make thee to complaine,
But what she gives, thou dar'st give her againe ;
That whatsoever face thy fate puts on,
Thou shrinke or start not, but be alwayes one;
That thou thinke nothing great, but what is good,
And from that thought strive to be understood.
So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame
Still pretious, with the odour of thy name.
And last, blasphemé not; we did never heare
Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst sweare,
No more, then we should thinke a lord had had
More honour in him, 'cause we'ave knowne him mad:
These take, and now goe seeke thy peace in warre,
Who falls for love of God, shall rise a starre.

AN

EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY.

READER stay,

And if I had no more to say,

But here doth lie till the last day, All that is left of Philip Gray. It might thy patience richly pay: For, if such men as he could die, What suretie of life have thou, and I.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

THEY are not, sir, worst owers, that doe pay Debts when they can: good men may breake their day;

And yet the noble nature never grudge,
'Tis then a crime, when the usurer is judge:
And he is not in friendship. Nothing there
Is done for gaine: if 't be, 't is not sincere.
Nor should I at this time protested be,
But that some greater names have broke with me,
And their words too, where I but breake my band:
I adde that (but) because I understand
That as the lesser breach: for he that takes
Simply my band, his trust in me forsakes,
And lookes unto the forfeit. If you be
Now so much friend, as you would trust in me,
Venter a longer time, and willingly:
All is not barren land, doth fallow lie.
Some grounds are made the richer, for the rest;
And I will bring a crop, if not the best.

AN ELEGIE.

(

CAN beautie, that did prompt me first to write,
Now threaten, with those meanes she did invite:/
Did her perfections call me on to gaze!
Then like, then love; and now would they amaze!
Or was she gracious a-farre off? but neere
A terrour? or is all this but my feare?
That as the water makes things, put in 't, streight,
Crooked appeare; so that doth my conceipt:
I can helpe that with boldnesse; and love sware,
And fortune once, t' assist the spirits that dare.
But which shall lead nie on? both these are blind:
Such guides men use not, who their way would find,
Except the way be errour to those ends:
And then the best are still, the blindest friends!
Oh how a lover may mistake! to thinke,
Or love, or fortune blind, when they but winke
To see men feare: or else for truth, and state,
Because they would free justice imitate,
Vaile their owne eyes, and would impartially
Be brought by us to meet our destinie.
If it be thus; come love, and fortune goe,
I'le lead you on; or if my fate will so,
That I must send one first, my choyce assignes,
Love to my heart, and fortune to my lines.

You blush, but doe not: friends are either none,
(Though they may number bodyes) or but one.
I'le therefore aske no more, but bid you love;
And so, that either may example prove
Unto the other; and live patternes, how
Others, in time, may love, as we doe now.
Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,
I know no beautie, nor no youth that will.
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
You have a husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
As would make shift, to make himselfe alone
That which we can; who both in you, his wife,
His issue, and all circumstance of life

As in his place, because he would not varie,
Is constant to be extraordinarie.

A SATYRICALL SHRUB.

A WOMAN's friendship! God, whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty yeares, almost, to value it,

That ne're was knowne to last above a fit,
Or have the least of good, but what it must
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust:
Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd,
That their whole life was wickednesse, though weav'd
Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots,
But their whole inside full of ends, and knots ?
Were such as I will now relate, or worse.
Knew 1, that all their dialogues, and discourse,

[Here, something is wanting.]

Knew I this woman? yes; and you doe see,
How penitent I am, or I should be.
Doe not you aske to know her, she is worse
Then all ingredients made into one curse,
And that pour'd out upon man-kind, can be!
Thinke but the sin of all her sex, 't is she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore!
Perjur'd! and painted! if she were no more,
But she is such, as she might, yet forestall
The Devill; and be the damning of us all.

AN ELEGIE.

By those bright eyes, at whose immortall fires
Love lights his torches to inflame desires;
By that faire stand, your forehead, whence he bends
His double bow, and round his arrowes sends;
By that tall grove, your haire, whose globy rings
He flying curles, and crispeth with his wings;
By those pure bathes your either cheeke discloses,
Where he doth steepe himselfe in milke and roses;
And lastly by your lips, the banke of kisses,
Where men at once may plant, and gather blisses:
Tell me (my lov'd friend) doe you love or no?
So well, as I may tell in verse 't is so?

LITTLE SHRUB GROWING BY,

ASKE not to know this man. If Fame should speake
Two letters were enough the plague to teare
His name in any mettall, it would breake.
Out of his grave, and poyson every eare.
A parcell of court-durt, a heape, and masse
Of all vice hurld together, there he was,
Proud, false, and trecherous, vindictive, all
That thought can adde, unthankfull, the lay-stall
Of putrid flesh alive! of blood, the sinke!
And so I leave to stirre him, lest he stinke.

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As it is too just a cause;
Let this thought quicken thee,
Minds that are great and free,
Should not on fortune pause,

'Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause.

What though the greedie frie

Be taken with false baytes
Of worded balladrie,

And thinke it poësie?

They die with their conceits,

And only pitious scorne upon their folly waites.

Then take in hand thy lyre,
Strike in thy proper straine,
With Japhet's lyne, aspire
Sol's chariot for new fire,

To give the world againe:

Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's braine.

And since our daintie age Cannot indure reproofe, Make not thy selfe a page, To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloofe,

[boofe.

Safe from the wolve's black jaw, and the dull ass's

THE

MIND OF THE FRONTISPICE TO A BOOKE.

FROM death, and darke oblivion, near the same,
The mistresse of man's life, grave historie,
Raising the world to good and evill fame,
Doth vindicate it to eternitie.

Wise Providence would so; that nor the good
Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,
But both might know their wayes were understood,
When vice alike in time with vertue dur'd:
Which makes that (lighted by the beamie hand

Of truth that searcheth the most secret springs, And guided by experience, whose straite wand Doth mete, whose lyne doth sound the depth of

things :)

She chearfully supporteth what she reares,
Assisted by no strengths, but are her owne,
Some note of which each varied pillar beares,
By which, as proper titles, she is knowne,
Time's witnesse, herald of antiquitie,
The light of truth, and life of memorie.

AN

ODE TO IAMES EARLE OF DESMOND,

WRIT IN QUEENE ELIZABETH'S TIME, SINCE LOST,

AND RECOVERED.

WHERE art thou, Genius? I should use Thy present aide: arise, Invention, Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's Muse, To towre with my intention

High, as his mind, that doth advance Her upright head, above the reach of chance,

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Of eyes more true,

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Who would with judgement search, searching con- True valour doth her owne renowne command

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In one full action; nor have you now more
To doe, then be a husband of that store.
Thinke but how deare you bought,
This same which you have caught,

Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth: 'Tis wisdome, and that high,

For men to use their fortune reverently,
Even in youth.

AN ODE.

HELLEN, did Homer never see
Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?
Did Sappho, on her seven-tongu'd lute,
So speake (as yet it is not mute)
Of Phaon's forme? or doth the boy,
In whom Anacreon once did joy,
Lie drawne to life, in his soft verse,
As he whom Maro did rehearse ?
Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catullus?
Or Delia's graces by Tibullus?
Doth Cynthia, in Propertius' song
Shine more, then she the stars among>
Is Horace his each love so high
Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
With bright Lycoris, Gallus' choice,
Whose fame hath an eternall voice.
Or hath Corynna, by the name
Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
Of Cæsar's daughter, and the line
Which all the world then styl'd devine ?
Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd
Equall with her? or Ronsart prais'd
His new Cassandra 'bove the old,
Which all the fate of Troy foretold?
Hath our great Sidney, Stella set,
Where never star shone brighter yet?
Or Constable's ambrosiack Muse
Made Dian not his notes refuse?
Have all these done (and yet I misse
The swan, that so relish'd Pancharis)
And shall not I my Celia bring,
Where men may see whom I doe sing,
Though I, in working of my song,
Come short of all this learned throng,
Yet sure my tunes will be the best,
So much my subject drownes the rest.

A SONNET,

TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WORTH,

I THAT have beene a lover, and could show it,
Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumbe,
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become
A better lover, and much better poët.
Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it

To those true numerous graces; whereof some,
But charme the senses, others over-come
"Both braines and hearts; and mine now best doe
For in your verse all Cupid's armorie, [know it:
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,
His very eyes are yours to overthrow.
But then his mother's sweets you so apply,

Her joyes, her smiles, her loves, as readers take For Venus' ceston every line you make.

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Scarce the hill againe doth flourish,
Scarce the world a wit doth nourish,
To restore

Phoebus to his crowne againe ;
And the Muses to their braine;
As before.

Vulgar languages that want
Words, and sweetnesse, and be scant
Of true measure,

Tyrant rime hath so abused,
That they long since have refused,
Other ceasure:

He that first invented thee,
May his joynts tormented bee,
Cramp'd for ever;
Still may syllabes jarre with time,
Still may reason warre with rime,
Resting never.

May his sense, when it would meet
The cold tumour in his feet,

Grow unsounder,

And his title be long foole,

That in rearing such a schoole Was the founder,

AN EPIGRAM'

ON

WILLIAM LORD BURLEIGH,

LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND.

If thou wouldst know the vertues of mankind
Read here in one, what thou in all canst find,
And goe no farther: let this circle be
Thy universe, though his epitome.

Cecill, the grave, the wise, the great, the good:
What is there more that can ennoble blood?
The orphan's pillar, the true subject's shield,
The poore's full store-house, and just servant's field,
The only faithfull watchman for the realme,
That in all tempests never quit the helme,
But stood unshaken in his deeds, and name,
And labour'd in the worke, not with the fame,
That still was good for goodnesse sake, nor thought
Upon reward, till the reward him sought.
Whose offices and honours did surprize,
Rather than meet him; and, before his eyes

Clos'd to their peace, he saw his branches shoot,

And in the noblest families tooke root

Of all the land, who now at such a rate,

Of divine blessing, would not serve a state?

AN EPIGRAM2

ΤΟ

THOMAS LORD ELSMERE,

THE LAST TERME HE SATE CHANCELLOR.

So, justest lord, may all your judgements be Lawes; and no change ere come to one decree:

1 Presented upon a plate of gold to his son Robert earl of Salisbury, when he was also tresurer, 2 For a poore man.

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