LIV.

ON CHEV'RIL.

CHEY'RIL cryes out, my verses libells are;
And threatens the starre-chamber, and the barre.
What are thy petulant pleadings, Chev'ril, then,
That quit'st the cause so oft, and rayl'st at men?

LV.

TO FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

How I doe love thee, Beaumont, and thy Muse,
That unto me dost such religion use !
How I doe feare my selfe, that am not worth
The least indulgent thought thy pen drops forth!
At once thou mak'st me happie, and unmak'st;
And giving largely to me, more thou tak'st.
What fate is mine, that so it selfe bereaves?
What art is thine, that so thy friend deceives?
When even there, where most thou praisest me,
For writing better, I must envie thee.

LVI.

ON POET-APE.

POORE Poet-ape, that would be thought our chiefe,
Whose works are eene the frippery of wit,
From brocage is become so bold a theefe,

As we, the rob'd, leave rage, and pitie it.
At first he made low shifts, would pick and gleane,
Buy the reversion of old playes; now growne
To 'a little wealth, and credit in the scene,

He takes up all, makes each man's wit his owne. And, told of this, he slights it. Tut, such crimes The sluggish gaping auditor devoures;

He markes not whose 't was first: and after-times
May judge it to be his, as well as ours.
Foole, as if halfe eyes will not know a fleece
From locks of wooll, or shreds from the whole peece?

LVII.

ON BAUDES, AND USURERS.

Ir, as their ends, their fruits were so the same, Baudry and usury were one kind of game.

LVIII.

TO GROOME IDEOT.

IDEOT, last night, I pray'd thee but forbeare
To reade my verses; now I must to heare:
For offring, with thy smiles, my wit to grace,
Thy ignorance still laughs in the wrong place.
And so my sharpenesse thou no lesse dis-joynts,
Than thou did'st late my sense, loosing my points.
So have I seene at Christ-masse sports, one lost,
And, hood-wink'd, for a man, embrace a post.

LIX. ON SPIES.

SPIES, you are lights in state, but of base stuffe, Who, when you've burnt your selves downe to the snuffe,

Stinke, and are throwne away. End faire enough.

LX.

TO WILLIAM LORD MOUNTEAGLE.

LOE, what my countrey should have done (have
An obeliske, or columne to thy name, [rais'd
Or, if she would but modestly have prais'd
Thy fact, in brasse or marble writ the same)
I, that am glad of thy great chance, here doe!
And proud, my worke shall out-last common
deeds,

Durst thinke it great, and worthy wonder too,
But thine, for which I doo't, so much exceeds!
My countrie's parents I have many knowne;
But saver of my countrey thee alone.

TO ROBERT EARLE OF SALISBURIE. WHO can consider thy right courses run, With what thy vertue on the times hath won, And not thy fortune; who can clearely see, The judgement of the king so shine in thee; And that thou seek'st reward of thy each act, Not from the publick voyce, but private fact? Who can behold all envie so declin'd By constant suffring of thy equall mind; And can to these be silent, Salisburie, Without his, thine, and all times injurie? Curst be his Muse, that could lye dumbe, or hid To so true worth, though thou thy selfe forbid.

LXIV.

TO THE SAMÉ.

UPON THE ACCESSION OF THE TREASURERSHIP TO HIM.

Nor glad, like those that have new hopes, or suites,
With thy new place, bring I these early fruits
Of love, and what the golden age did hold
A treasure, art: condemn'd in th' age of gold.

Nor glad as those, that old dependents be,
To see thy father's rites new laid on thee.
Nor glad for fashion. Nor to show a fit
Of flattery to thy titles. Nor of wit.
But I am glad to see that time survive,
Where merit is not sepulcher'd alive.
Where good men's vertues them to honours bring,
And not to dangers. When so wise a king
Contends t' have worth enjoy, from his regard,
As her owne conscience, still, the same reward.
These (noblest Cecil) labour'd in my thought,
Wherein what wonder see thy name hath brought?
That whil'st I meant but thine to gratulate,
I've sung the greater fortunes of our state.

LXV.

TO MY MUSE.

AWAY, and leave me, thou thing most abhord,
That hast betray'd me to a worthlesse lord;
Made me commit most fierce idolatrie
To a great image through thy luxurie.
Be thy next master's more unluckie Muse,
And, as thou hast mine, his houres, and youth abuse.
Get him the times' long grudge, the court's ill will;
And reconcil'd, keepe him suspected still.
Make him lose all his friends; and, which is worse,
Almost all wayes, to any better course.
With me thou leav'st an happier Muse than thee,
And which thou brought'st me, welcome povertie,
She shall instruct my after-thoughts to write
Things manly, and not smelling parasite.
But I repent me: stay. Who e're is rais'd,
For worth he has not, he is tax'd, not prais'd.

LXVI.

TO SIR HENRY CARY.

THAT neither fame, nor love might wanting be
To greatnesse, Cary, I sing that, and thee.
Whose house, if it no other honour had,
In onely thee, might be both great, and glad.
Who, to upbraid the sloth of this our time,
Durst valour make, almost, but not a crime.
Which deed I know not, whether were more high,
Or thou more happie, it to justifie

Against thy fortune: when no foe, that day,
Could conquer thee, but chance, who did betray.
Love thy great losse, which a renowne hath wonne,
To live when Broeck not stands, nor Roor doth
runne1.

Love honours, which of best example be,"
When they cost dearest, and are done most free.
Though every fortitude deserves applause,
It may be much, or little, in the cause.
He's valiant'st, that dares fight, and not for pay;
That vertuous is, when the reward's away.

That sound, and that authority with her name,
As, to be rais'd by her, is onely fame.
Stand high, then, Howard, high in eyes of men,
High in thy blood, thy place, but highest then,
When, in men's wishes, so thy vertues wrought,
As all thy honours were by them first sought:
And thou design'd to be the same thou art,
Before thou wert it, in each good man's heart.
Which, by no lesse confirm'd, than thy king's choice,
Proves, that is God's, which was the people's voice.

LXVIII.

ON PLAY-WRIGHT.

PLAY-WRIGHT Convict of publick wrongs to men,
Takes private beatings, and begins againe.
Two kinds of valour he doth show at ones;
Active in 's braine, and passive in his bones.

LXIX.

TO PERTINAX COB.

Cos, thon nor souldier, theefe, nor fencer art,
Yet by thy weapon liv'st! th' hast one good part.

LXX.

TO WILLIAM ROE.

WHEN Nature bids us leave to live, 't is late
Then to begin, my Roe. He makes a state
In life, that can employ it; and takes hold
On the true causes, ere they grow too old.
Delay is bad, doubt worse, depending worst;
Each best day of our life escapes us, first.
Then, since we (more than many) these truths know:
Though life be short, let us not make it so.

LXXI.

ON COURT-PARRAT.

To pluck downe mine, Poll sets up new wits still, Still, 't is his luck to praise me 'gainst his will.

LXXII.

TO COURT-LING.

I GRIEVE not, Court-ling, thou art started up
A chamber-critick, and dost dine, and sup
At madame's table, where thou mak'st all wit
Goe high, or low, as thou wilt value it.
'T is not thy judgement breeds the prejudice,
Thy person only, Courtling, is the vice.

Item, a tale or two, some fortnight after;
That yet maintaines you, and your house in laughter.
Item, the Babylonian song you sing;
Item, a faire Greeke poesie for a ring:
With which a learned madame you belye.
Item, a charme surrounding fearefully,
Your partie-per-pale picture, one halfe drawne
In solemne cypres, the other cob-web-lawne.
Item, a gulling imprese for you, at tilt.
Item, your mistris' anagram, i' your hilt.
Item, your owne, sew'd in your mistris' smock.
Item, an epitaph on my lord's cock,

In most vile verses, and cost me more paine,
Than had I made 'hem good, to fit your vaine.
Fortie things more, deare Grand, which you know
true,

For which, or pay me quickly, or I'le pay you.

LXXVII

TO

ONE THAT DESIRED ME NOT TO NAME HIM.

Be safe, nor feare thy selfe so good a fame,
That, any way, my booke should speake thy name:
For, if thou shame, ranck'd with my friends, to goe,
I' am more asham'd to have thee thought my foe.

LXXVIII.

TO HORNET.

HORNET, thou hast thy wife drest for the stall, To draw thee custome: but her selfe gets all.

LXXIV.

TO THOMAS LORD CHANCELOR.

WHIL'ST thy weigh'd judgements, Egerton, I heare,
And know thee, then, a judge, not of one yeare;
Whil'st I behold thee live with purest hands;
That no affection in thy voyce commands;
That still th' art present to the better cause;
And no lesse wise, than skilfull in the lawes;
Whil'st thou art certaine to thy words, once gone,
As is thy conscience, which is alwayes one :
The virgin, long-since fled from Earth, I see,
T'our times return'd, hath made her Heaven in thee.

LXXIX.

TO ELIZABETH COUNTESSE OF RUTLAND.

That poets are farre rarer births than kings,
Your noblest father prov'd: like whom, before,
Or then, or since, about our Muses' springs,
Came not that soule exhausted so their store.
Hence was it, that the Destinies decreed

(Save that most masculine issue of his braine) No male unto him: who could so exceed

Nature, they thought, in all, that he would faine. At which, she happily displeas'd, made you: On whom, if he were living now, to look, He should those rare, and absolute numbers view, As he would burne, or better farre his book.

LXXV.

ON LIPPE, THE TEACHER.

I CANNOT think there 's that antipathy
"T wixt puritanes, and players, as some cry;
Though Lippe, at Paul's, ranne from his text away,
T'inveigh 'gainst playes: what did he then but play?

LXXVI.

ON LUCY COUNTESSE OF BEDFORD.

Tuts morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

I thought to forme unto my zealous Muse, What kinde of creature I could most desire, To honour, serve, and love; as poets use. I meant to make her faire, and free, and wise, Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great, I meant the day-starre should not brighter rise, Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet, Hating that solemne vice of greatnesse, pride; I meant each softest vertue there should meet, Fit in that softer bosome to reside. Only a learned, and a manly soule

I purpos'd her; that should, with even powers, The rock, the spindle, and the sheeres controule Of Destinie, and spin her owne free houres. Such when I meant to faine, and wish'd to see, My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she.

LXXX.

OF LIFE AND DEATH.

THE ports of death are sins; of life, good deeds:
Through which our merit leads us to our meeds.
How wilfull blind is he then, that should stray,
And hath it, in his power, to make his way!
This world death's region is, the other life's:
And here it should be one of our first strifes,
So to front death, as men might judge us past it.
For good men but see death, the wicked tast it,

LXXXI.

TO PROULE THE PLAGIARY.

FORBEARE to tempt me, Proule, I will not show
A line unto thee, till the world it know;
Or that I 'ave by two good sufficient men,
To be the wealthy witnesse of my pen:

For all thou hear'st, thou swear'st thy selfe didst doo.
Thy wit lives by it, Proule, and belly too.
Which, if thou leave not soone (though I am loth)
I must a libell make, and cozen both.

LXXXII.

ON CASHIERD CAPTAIN SURLY.

SURLY's old whore in her new silks doth swim: He cast, yet keeps her well! No, she keeps him.

LXXXIII.

TO A FRIEND.

To put out the word, whore, thou do'st me woo, Throughout my book. "Troth put out woman too.

LXXXIV.

TO LUCY COUNTESSE of bedford.

MADAME, I told you late, how I repented,

I ask'd a lord a buck, and he denied me; And, ere I could aske yon, I was prevented:

For your most noble offer had supply'd me. Straight went I home; and there, most like a poet, I fancied to my selfe, what wine, what wit [it, I would have spent: how every Muse should know And Phoebus-selfe should be at eating it. O madame, if your grant did thus transfer me, Make it your gift. See whither that will beare me.

LXXXVIII.

ON ENGLISH MOUNSIEUR.

WOULD you beleeve, when you this mounsieur see,
That his whole body should speake French, not he
That so much skarfe of France, and hat, and fether,
And shooe, and tye, and garter should come bether,
And land on one, whose face durst never be
Toward the sea, farther than balfe-way tree?
That he, untravell'd, should be French so much,
As French-men in his company shonld seeme Dutch?
Or had his father, when he did him get,

The French disease, with which he labours yet?
Or hung some mounsieur's picture on the wall,
By which his damme conceiv'd him, clothes and all?
Or is it some French statue? No: 't doth move,
And stoope, and cringe. O then, it needs must prove
The new French-taylor's motion, monthly made,
Daily to turne in Paul's, and helpe the trade.

LXXXV.

TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE.

GOODYERE, I'm glad, and gratefull to report,
My selfe a witnesse of thy few dayes' sport:
Where I both learn'd, why wise-men hawking follow,
And why that bird was sacred to Apollo:
She doth instruct men by her gallant flight,
That they to knowledge so should toure upright,
And never stoope, but to strike ignorance:
Which if they misse, they yet should re-advance
To former height, and there in circle tarrie,
Till they be sure to make the foole their quarrie.
Now, in whose pleasures I have this discerned,
What would his serious actions me have learned?

LXXXIX.

TO EDWARD ALLEN.

IF Rome so great, and in her wisest age,
Fear'd not to boast the glories of her stage,
As skilfull Roscius, and grave Æsope, men,
Yet crown'd with honours, as with riches, then;
Who had no lesse a trumpet of their name,
Than Cicero, whose every breath was fame :
How can so great example dye in me,
That, Allen, I should pause to publish thee?
Who both their graces in thy selfe hast more
Out-stript, than they did all that went before:
And present worth in all dost so contract,
As others speak, but only thou dost act.
Weare this renowne. T is just, that who did give
So many poets life, by one should live.

LXXXVI.

TO THE SAME.

WHEN I would know thee, Goodyere, my thought looks
Upon thy well-made choise of friends, and books;
Then doe I love thee, and behold thy ends
In making thy friends books, and thy books friends:
Now, I must give thy life, and deed, the voyce
Attending such a studie, such a choyce.
Where, though 't be love, that to thy praise doth

move,

It was a knowledge, that begat that love.

LXXXVII.

ON CAPTAINE HAZARD THE CHEATER.

TOUCH'D with the sinne of false play, in his punque, Hazard a month forswore his; and grew drunke Each night, to drowne his cares: but when the gaine Of what she had wrought came in, and wak'd his braine,

Upon th' accompt, hers grew the quicker trade. Since when, he's sober againe, and all play's made.

XC.

ON MILL,

MY LADIE'S WOMAN.

WHEN Mill first came to court, the unprofiting foole,
Unworthy such a mistris, such a schoole,
Was dull, and long, ere she would go to man:
At last, ease, appetite, and example wan
The nicer thing to taste her ladie's page;
And, finding good security in his age,
Went on and proving him still, day by day,
Discern'd no difference of his yeares, or play.
Not though that haire grew browne, which once
was amber,
[ber,
And he growne youth, was call'd to his ladie's cham-
Still Mill continu'd: nay, his face growing worse,
And he remov'd to gent'man of the horse,
Mill was the same. Since, both his body and face
Blown up; and he (too unwieldy for that place)
Hath got the steward's chaire; he will not tarry
Longer a day, but with his Mill will marry.
And it is hop'd, that she, like Milo, wull
First bearing him a calfe, beare him a bull.

XCI.

TO SIR HORACE VERE.

WHICH of thy names I take, not only beares
A Romane sound, but Romane vertue weares,
Illustrous Vere, or Horace; fit to be
Sung by a Horace, or a Muse as free;
Which thou art to thy selfe: whose fame was won
In th' eye of Europe, where thy deeds were done,
When on thy trumpet she did sound a blast,
Whose rellish to eternity shall last.

I leave thy acts, which should I prosequte
Throughout, might flatt'ry seeme; and to be mute
To any one, were envy: which would live
Against my grave, and time could not forgive.
I speake thy other graces, not lesse shown,
Nor lesse in practice; but lesse mark'd, lesse known:
Humanity, and piety, which are

As noble in great chiefes, as they are rare;
And best become the valiant man to weare,
Who more should seek men's reverence, than feare.

XCII. THE NEW CRY.

ERE cherries ripe, and straw-berries be gone,
Unto the cryes of London l'le adde one;
Ripe statesmen, ripe: they grow in every street;
At sixe and twenty, ripe. You shall 'hem meet,
And have 'hem yeeld no savour, but of state.
Ripe are their ruffes, their cuffes, their beards,
their gaite,

And grave as ripe, like mellow as their faces. They know the states of Christendome, not the places:

[lacks.

Yet have they seen the maps, and bought 'hem too, And understand 'hem, as most chapmen do. The counsels, projects, practises they know, And what each prince doth for intelligence owe, And unto whom they are the almanacks For twelves yeares yet to come, what each state They carry in their pockets Tacitus, And the Gazetti, or Gallo-Belgicus: And talke reserv'd, lock'd up, and full of feare, Nay, aske you, how the day goes, in your eare. Keep aStarre-chamber sentence close twelve dayes: And whisper what a proclamation sayes. They meet in sixes, and at every mart, Are sure to con the catalogue by heart; Or, every day, some one at Rimee's looks, Or Bil's, and there he buyes the names of books. They all get Porta, for the sundry wayes To write in cypher, and the severall keyes, To ope' the character. They have found the sleight With juyce of limons, onions, pisse, to write; To breake up seales, and close 'hem. And they If the states make peace, how it will go [know, With England. All forbidden books they get. And of the powder-plot, they will talke yet. At naming the French king, their heads they shake, And at the pope, and Spaine slight faces make. Or 'gainst the bishops, for the brethren, raile, Much like those brethren; thinking to prevaile With ignorance on us, as they have done On them: and therefore do not only shun Others more modest, but contemne us too, That know not so much state, wrong, as they do.

TO SIR JOHN RADCLIFFE.

How like a columne, Radcliffe, left alone
.For the great marke of vertue, those being gone
Who did, alike with thee, thy house up-beare,
Stand'st thou, to show the times what you all were?
Two bravely in the battaile fell, and dy'd,
Upbraiding rebell's armes, and barbarous pride1:
And two, that would have falne as great, as they,
The Belgick fever ravished away.

Thou, that art all their valour, all their spirit,
And thine own goodnesse to encrease thy merit,
Than whose I do not know a whiter soule,
Nor could I, had I seen all Nature's roll,
Thou yet remayn'st, un-hurt, in peace, or war,
Though not unprov'd: which shows, thy fortunes
Willing to expiate the fault in thee,
[are
Wherewith, against thy blood, they' offenders be.

Their un-avoided subject, fewest see:
Yet satyres, since the most of mankind be

But, when they heard it tax'd, took more offence.
For none ere tooke that pleasure in sin's sense,
They, then, that living where the matter is bred,
Dare for these poems, yet, both aske, and read,
And like them too; must needfully, though few,
Lucy, you brightnesse of our spheare, who are
Be of the best: and 'mongst those best are you;
The Muses' evening, as their morning-starre.

XCV.

TO SIR HENRY SAVILE.

If, my religion safe, I durst embrace
That stranger doctrine of Pythagoras,
I should beleeve, the soule of Tacitus
In thee, most weighty Savile, liv'd to us:
So hast thou rendred him in all his bounds,
And all his numbers, both of sense and sounds.
Where Nero falls, and Galba is ador'd,
But when I read that speciall piece, restor'd,

To thine owne proper I ascribe then more;
And gratulate the breach, I griev'd before:
Which Fate (it seemes) caus'd in the historie,
Only to boast thy merit in supply.

O, would'st thou adde like hand to all the rest! Or, better worke! were thy glad countrey blest, To have her storie woven in thy thred; Minervae's loome was never richer spred.

1 In Ireland.'