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And in some yeare, all these together heap'd,
For which there must more sea, and land be leap'd,
If but to be beleev'd you have the hap, -
Than can a flea at twice skip i' the map. [drunk,
Give your young states men, (that first make you
And then lye with you closer, than a punque,
For newes) your Ville-royes, and Silleries,
lanins, your Nuncios, and your Tuilleries,
Your arch-dukes' agents, and your Beringhams,
That are your words of credit. Keepe your names
Of Hannow, Sieter-huissen, Popenheim,
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim,
For your next neale; this you are sure of.
Will you part with them, here unthriftily?
Nay, now you puffe, tuske, and draw up your chin,
Twirle the poore chaine you run a feasting in.
Come, be not angrie, you are hungry; eat;
Doe what you come for, captaine, there's your meat,
TO TRUE SOULDIERS.
STRENGTH of my countrey, whilst I bring to view
Such as are misse-call'd captaines, and wrong you;
And your high names: I doe desire, that thence
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.
I sweare by your true friend, my Muse, I love
Your great profession; which I once did prove:
And did not shame it with my actions then,
No more than I dare now doe with my pen.
He that not trusts me, having vow'd thus much,
But's angry for the captaine still, is such.
TO SIR HENRY NEVIL.
WHO now calls on thee, Nevil, is a Muse,
That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth chuse
Where vertue makes them both, and that's in thee:
Where all is faire, beside thy pedigree.
Thou art not one seek'st miseries with hope,
Wrestlest with dignities, or fain'st a scope
Of service to the publique, when the end
Is private gaine, which hath long guilt to friend.
Thou rather striv'st the matter to possesse,
And elements of honour, than the dresse ;
To make they lent life good against the fates:
And first to know thine owne state, then the state's.
To be the same in root thou art in height;
And that thy soule should give thy flesh her weight.
Goe on, and doubt not, what posteritie,
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.
Thy deeds unto thy name will prove new wombes,
Whil'st others toyle for titles to their tombes.
TO CLEMENT EDMONDS,
ON HIS CÆSAR'S COMMENTARIES OBSERVED, AND TRANSLATED.
NOT Cæsar's deeds, nor all his honours wonne,
In these west-parts, nor when that warre was done,
The name of Pompey for an enemie,
Cato's to boot, Rome, and her libertie,
All yeelding to his fortune, nor the while,
To have engrav'd these acts, with his owne stile,
And that so strong and deepe, as 't might be thought,
He wrote with the same spirit that he fought,
Nor that his work liv'd in the hands of foes,
Un-argued then, and yet hath fame from those;
Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put too,
Can so speake Cæsar, as thy labours doe.
For, where his person liv'd scarce one just age,
And that, midst envie, and parts; then fell by rage:
His deeds too dying, but in bookes (whose good
How few have read! how fewer understood?)
Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art
(As by a new creation) part by part,
In every counsell, stratageme, designe,
Action, or engine, worth a note of thine,
T" all future time, not onely doth restore
His life, but makes, that he can die no more.
TO THE SAME, ON THE SAME.
WHO, Edmonds, reades thy book and doth not see
What th' antique souldiers were, the moderne be?
Wherein thou shew'st how much the latter are
And that in action there is nothing new,
Beholding to this master of the war;
More than to vary what our elders knew:
Which all, but ignorant captaines, will confesse:
Nor to give Cæsar this, makes ours the lesse.
Yet thou, perhaps, shall meet some tongues will
That to the world thou should'st reveale so much,
And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those
Cæsar stands up, as from his urne late rose,
By thy great helpe: and doth proclaime by me,
They murder him againe that envy thee.
TO A WEAKE GAMSTER IN POETRY.
WITH thy small stock, why art thou ventring still
At this so subtile sport; and play'st so ill?
Think'st thou it is meere fortune that can win ?
Or thy rank sitting? that thou darʼst put in
Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,
Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too?
I cannot for the stage a drama lay,
Tragick, or comick; but thou writ'st the play.
An epick poeme; thou hast the same end,
I leave thee there, and giving way, intend
Next morne, an ode: thou mak'st a song ere night.
I modestly quit that, and think to write,
passe to elegies; thou meet'st me there:
To satyres; and thou dost pursue me. Where,
Where shall I scape thee? in an epigramme ?
O, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game.
Troth, if it be, I pitty thy ill lucke;
That both for wit and sense so oft dost plucke,
And never art encounter'd, I confesse:
Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is lesse.
Pr'y thee, yet save the rest; give ore in time:
There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.
TO SIR THOMAS OVERBURY.
So Phœbus make me worthy of his bayes, As but to speake thee, Overbury, is praise:
So where thou liv'st thou mak'st life understood ! Where, what makes others great, doth keep thee good!
I think, the fate of court thy comming crav'd,
That the wit there, and manners might be sav'd:
For since, what ignorance, what pride is fled!
And letters, and humanity in the stead!
Repent thee not of thy faire precedent,
Could make such men, and such a place repent:
Nor may 'any feare, to lose of their degree,
Who 'in such ambition can but follow thee.
TO MRS. PHILIP SYDNEY.
I MUST beleeve some miracles still be,
When Sydnye's name I heare, or face I see:
For Cupid, who (at first) took vaine delight
In meere out-formes, untill he lost his sight,
Hath chang'd his soule, and made his object you:
Where finding so much beauty met with vertue,
He hath not only gain'd himselfe his eyes,
But in your love made all his servants wise.
ON THE TOWNE'S HONEST MAN.
You wonder, who this is! and why I name
Him not aloud, that boasts so good a fame:
Naming so many, too! but, this is one,
Suffers no name, but a description:
Being no vitious person, but the vice
About the town; and known too, at that price.
A subtile thing, that doth affections win
By speaking well o' the company 'it's in.
Talkes loud, and baudy, has a gather'd deale
news, and noyse, to sow out a long meale.
Can come from Tripoly, leape stooles, and wink,
Do all, that 'longs to the anarchy of drink,
Except the duell. Can sing songs and catches;
Give every one his dose of mirth: and watches
Whose name's un-welcome to the present eare,
And him it layes on; if it be not there.
Tells of him all the tales it selfe then makes;
But, if it shall be question'd, under-takes,
It will deny all; and forsweare it too:
Not that it feares, but will not have to do
With such a one. And therein keeps it's word,
"Twill see it's sister naked, ere a sword.
At every meale, where it doth dine, or sup,
The cloth's no sooner gone, but it gets up,
And shifting of its faces, doth play more
Parts than the Italian could do, with his door.
Acts old iniquity, and in the fit
Of miming, gets th' opinion of a wit.
Executes men in picture. By defect,
From friendship, is its own fame's architect.
An inginer, in slanders, of all fashions,
That seeming prayses are yet accusations.
Describ'd it's thus: defin'd would you it have?
Then, the town's honest man's her errant'st knave.
TO SIR WILLIAM JEPHSON.
LEPHSON, thou man of men, to whose lov'd name All gentry, yet, owe part of their best flame!
So did thy vertue 'nforme, thy wit sustaine
That age, when thou stood'st up the master-braine:
Thou wert the first, mad'st merit know her strength,
And those that lack'd it, to suspect at length,
'Twas not entayl'd on title. That some word
Might be found out as good, and not my lord:
That nature no such difference had imprest
In men, but every bravest was the best:
That blood not minds, but minds did blood adorne:
And to live great was better than great borne.
These were thy knowing arts: which who doth now
Vertuously practise, must at least allow
Them in, if not from thee; or must commit
A desperate solecisme in truth and wit.
GROYNE, Come of age, his state sold out of hand For 'his whore: Groyne doth still occupy his land,
GUT eates all day, and lechers all the night,
So all his meat he tasteth over, twice:
And, striving so to double his delight,
He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice. Thus, in his belly, can he change a sin, Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.
TO SIR RALPH SHELTON.
NoT he that flies the court for want of clothes,
At hunting railes, having no gift in othes,
Cries out 'gainst cocking, since he cannot bet,
Shuns prease, for two maine causes, poxe, and debt,
With me can merit more, than that good man,
Whose dice not doing well, to a pulpit ran.
No, Shelton, give me thee, canst want all these,
But dost it out of judgement, not disease;
Dar'st breathe in any ayre; and with safe skill,
Till thou canst find the best, choose the least ill.
That to the vulgar canst thy selfe apply,
Treading a better path, not contrary;
And, in their errours' maze, thine own way know;
Which is to live to conscience, not to show.
He that, but living halfe his age, dyes such;
Makes the whole longer, than 'twas given him, much.
Yeares he numbred scarce thirteene, When Fates turn'd cruell,
Yet three fill'd zodiackes had he been
The stage's jewell;
And did act (what now we moane)
Old men so duely,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one, He plai'd so truely.
So, by errour, to his fate
They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late) They have repented;
And have sought (to give new birth)
In bathes to steep him; But being so much too good for Earth, Heaven vowes to keepe him.
EPITAPH ON ELIZABETH L. H. WOULD'ST thou heare, what man can say In a little? reader, stay. Under-neath this stone doth lye As much beauty, as could dye: Which in life did harbour give To more vertue, than doth live. If, at all, she had a fault, Leave it buried in this vault.
One name was Elizabeth,
Th'other let it sleep with death:
Fitter, where it dyed, to tell,
Than that it liv'd at all. Farewell.
TO SIR WILLIAM UVEDALE. UV'DALE, thou piece of the first times, a man Made for what nature could, or vertue cau; Both whose dimensions, lost, the world might find Restored in thy body, and thy mind! Who sees a soule, in such a body set, Might love the treasure for the cabinet. But I, no child, no foole, respect the kinde, The full, the flowing graces there enshrin'd) Which (would the world not mis-call't, flattery) I could adore, almost t' idolatry.
TO ESME LORD AUBIGNY.
If I should faile, in gratitude, to thee Is there a hope, that man would thankfull be, To whom I am so bound, lov'd Aubigny? No, I do, therefore, call posterity Into the debt; and reckon on her head, How full of want, how swallow'd up, how dead I, and this Muse had been, if thou hadst not Lent timely succours, and new life begot: So, all reward, or name, that growes to me By her attempt, shall still be owing thee. And than this same, I know no abler way To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.
ROE, (and my joy to name) th' art now to go,
Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,
T'extract, and choose the best of all these knowne,
And those to turne to blood, and make thine owne.
May winds, as soft as breath of kissing friends,
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,
As the beginnings here, prove purely sweet,
And perfect in a circle always meet.
So, when we, blest with thy returne, shall see
Thy selfe, with thy first thoughts, brought home
We each to other may this voyce enspire;
"This is that good Æneas, past through fire, [for Hell,
Through seas, stormes, tempests: and imbarqu'd
Came back untouch'd. This man hath travail'd well."
TO EDWARD FILMER,
ON HIS MUSICALL WORK DEDICATED TO THE QUEEN. ANNO 1629.
WHAT charming peales are these,
That, while they bind the senses, doe so please?
They are the marriage-rites
Of two, the choicest paire of man's delights,
Musique and Poesie:
French aire, and English verse, here wedded lie.
Who did this knot compose,
Againe hath brought the lilly to the rose;
And, with their chained dance,
Recelebrates the joyfull match with France.
They are a school to win
The faire French daughter to learne English in ;
And, graced with her song,
To make the language sweet upon her tongue.
THAT not a paire of friends each other see, But the first question is, When one saw thee? That there's no journey set, or thought upon, To Braynford, Hackney, Bow, but thou mak'st one; That scarce the towne designeth any feast To which thou'rt not a weeke bespoke a guest; That still thou'rt made the supper's flagge, the drum, The very call, to make all others come: Think'st thou, Mime, this is great? or, that they [strive Whose noise shall keepe thy miming most alive, Whil'st thou doth raise some player from the grave, Out-dance the Babion, or out-boast the brave; Or (mounted on a stoole) thy face doth hit On some new gesture, that's imputed wit? O, runne not proud of this. Yet, take thy due. Thou dost out-zany Cokely, Pod; nay, Gue: And thine owne Coriat too. But (would'st thou see) Men love thee not for this: they laugh at thee.
TO ALPHONSO FERRABOSCO,
ON HIS BOOKE.
To urge, my lov'd Alphonso, that bold fame,
Of building townes, and making wild beasts tame,
Which Musick had; or speak her knowne effects,
That she removeth cares, sadnesse ejects,
Declineth anger, perswades clemencie,
Doth sweeten mirth, and heighten pietie,
And is t'a body, often, ill inclin'd,
No lesse a sov'raigne cure, than to the mind;
Talledge, that greatest men were not asham'd,
Of old, even by her practice to be fram'd;
To say, indeed, she were the soule of Heaven,
That the eighth spheare, no lesse, than planets seven,
Mov'd by her order, and the ninth more high,
Including all, where thence call'd harmonie:
I, yet, had utter'd nothing on thy part,
When these were but the praises of the art.
But when I have said, the proofes of all these be
Shed in thy songs; 'tis true: but short of thee.
TO THE SAME.
WHEN We doe give, Alphonso, to the light,
A work of ours, we part with our owne right;
For then, all mouths will judge, and their owne way:
The learn'd have no more priviledge, than the lay.
And though we could all men, all censures heare,
We ought not give them taste, we had an eare.
For, if the hum'rous world will talke at large,
They should be fooles, for me, at their own charge.
Say, this, or that man they to thee preferre;
Even those for whom they doe this, know they erre:
And would (being ask'd the truth) ashamed say,
They were not to be nam'd on the same day.
Then stand unto thy selfe, nor seeke without [out.
For fame, with breath soone kindled, soone blownę
TO MR. JOSUAH SYLVESTER.
If to admire were to commend, my praise
Might then both thee, thy work and merit raise:
But, as it is, (the child of ignorance,
And utter stranger to all ayre of France)
How can I speak of thy great paines, but erre ?
Since they can onely judge, that can conferre.
Behold! the reverend shade of Bartas stands
Bartas doth wish thy English now were his.
my thought, and (in thy right) commands
That to the world I publish, for him, this;
So well in that are his inventions wrought,
As his will now be the translation thought,
Thine the originall; and France shall boast,
No more, those mayden glories she hath lost.
ON THE FAMOUS VOYAGE.
No more let Greece her bolder fables tell
Of Hercules, or Theseus going to Hell.
Orpheus, Ulysses: or the Latine Muse,
With tales of Troye's just knight, our faiths abuse,
We have a Shelton, and a Heyden got,
Had power to act, what they to faine had not,
All, that they boast of Styx, of Acheron,
Cocytus, Phlegeton, ours have prov'd in one;
The filth, stench, noise: save only what was there
Subtly distinguish'd, was confused here.
Their wherry had no saile, too; ours had none;
And in it, two more horride knaves, than Charon.
Arses were heard to croake, in stead of frogs;
And for one Cerberus, the whole coast was dogs.
Furies there wanted not: each scold was ten.
And, for the cries of ghosts, women, and men,
Laden with plague-sores, and their sinnes, were heard,
Lash'd by their consciences, to dye affeard.
Then let the former age, with this content her,
She brought the poets forth, but ours th' adventer.
Back, cry'd their brace of Charons: they cry'd, no,
No going back; on still, you rogues and row.
How hight the place? a voyce was heard, Cocytus.
Row close then, slaves. Alas, they will beshite us.
No matter, stinkards, row. What croaking sound
Is this we heare? of frogs? no guts wind-bound,
Over your heads: well, row. At this a loud
Crack did report it selfe, as if a cloud
Had burst with storme,and downe fell, ab excelsis
Poore Mercury, crying out ou Paracelsus,
And all his followers, that had so abus'd him &
And, in so shitten sort, so long had us'd him:
For (where he was the god of eloquence,
And subtiltie of metalls) they dispense
His spirits, now in pils, and eeke in potions,
Suppositories, cataplasmes and lotions.
But many moones there shall not wane (quoth he)
(In the meane time, let 'hem imprison me)
But I will speake (and know I shall be heard)
Touching this cause, where they will be affeard
To answer me. And sure it was th' intent
Of the grave fart, late let in parliament,
Had it been seconded, and not in fume
Vanish'd away, as you must all presume
Their Mercury did now. By this, the stemme
Of the hulke touch'd, and as by Polypheme
The sly Ulysses stole in a sheeps-skin,
The well-greas'd wherry now had got between,
And bade her fare-well sough unto the lurden:
Never did bottom more betray her burden;
The meat-boat of Beares-colledge, Paris-garden,
Stunk not so ill nor, when she kist Kate Arden.
Yet, one day in the yeare, for sweet 't is voyc't
Thou hast seene Hell (some say) and know'st all And that is when it is the lord maior's foist.
By this time had they reach'd the Stygian poole,
By which the masters sweare, when on the stoole
Of worship, they their nodding chinnes do hit
Against their breasts. Here, sev'rall ghosts did flit
About the shore, of farts, but late departed,
White, black, blew, greene, and in more formes out-
Than all those Atomi ridiculous,
Whereof old Democrite, and Hill Nicholas,
One said, the other swore, the world consists.
These be the cause of those thick frequent mists
Arising in that place, through which, who goes,
Must try th' un-used valour of a nose:
And that ours did. For yet, no nare was tainted,
Nor thumbe, nor finger to the stop acquainted,
But open and unarm'd encounter'd all :
Whether it languishing stuck upon the wall,
Or were precipitated down the jakes,
And after swom abroad in ample flakes,
Or that it lay, heap'd like an usurer's masse,
All was to them the same, they were to passe,
And so they did, from Styx to Acheron
The ever-boyling flood. Whose banks upon
Your Fleet-lane furies, and hot cooks do dwell,
That with still-scalding steems, make the place Hell.
The sinks ran grease, and haire of meazled hogs,
The heads, houghs, entrails, and the hides of dogs:
For to say truth, what scullion is so nasty,
To put the skins and offall in a pasty?
Cats there lay divers had been flead and rosted,
And after mouldy grown, again were tosted,
Then selling not, a dish was tane to mince 'hem.
But still, it seem'd, the rauknesse did convince 'hem.
For, here they were thrown in with th' melted pewter,
Yet drown'd they not. They had five lives in future.
But 'mong'st these Tiberts, who do you think there
Old Bankes the juggler, our Pythagoras,
THE VOYAGE IT SELFE.
I SING the brave adventure of two wights,
And pity 'tis, I cannot call 'hem knights:
One was; and he, for brawne, and braine, right able
To have been stiled of king Arthur's table.
The other was a squire, of faire degree;
But, in the action, greater man than he:
Who gave, to take at his returne from Hell,
His three for one. Now, lordlings, listen well.
It was the day, what time the powerfull Moone
Makes the poore Banck-side creature wet it' shoone,
In it' owne hall; when these (in worthy scorne
Of those, that put out moneyes, on returne
From Venice, Paris, or some in-land passage
Of six times to and fro, without embassage,
Or he that backward went to Berwick, or which
Did dance the famous morrisse, unto Norwich)
At Bread-street's Mermaid, having din'd, and merry,
Propos'd to goe to Hol'borne in a wherry:
A harder taske, than either his to Bristo',
Or his to Antwerpe. Therefore, once more, list,ho
A docke there is, that called is Avernus,
Of some Bride-well, and may, in time, concerne us
All, that are readers: but, me thinks 'tis od,
That all this while I have forgot some god,
Or goddesse to invoke, to stuffe my verse;
And with both bombard-stile, and phrase, rehearse
The many perills of this port, and how
Sans heipe of Sybil, or a golden bough,
Or magick sacrifice, they past along!
Alcides, be thou succouring to my song.
Canst tell me best, how every fury lookes there,
And art a god, if fame thee not abuses,
Alwayes at hand, to aid the merry Muses.
Great club-fist, though thy back, and bones be sore,
Still, with thy former labours; yet, once more,
Act a brave work, call it thy last adventry :
But hold my torch, while I describe the entry
To this dire passage. Say thou stop thy nose
'Tis but light paines: indeed this dock's no rose.
In the first jawes appear'd that ugly monster,
Yeleped mud, which, when their oares did once stirre,
Belch'd forth an ayre, as hot, as at the muster
Of all your night-tubs, when the carts doe cluster,
Who shall discharge first his merd-urinous load:
Thorow her wombe they make their famous road,
Betweene two walls; where, on one side, to scar men,
Were seene your ugly centaures, yee call car-men,
Gorgonian scolds, and harpyes: on the other
Hung stench, diseases, and old filth, their mother,
With famine, wants, and sorrowes many a dosen,
The least of which was to the plague a cosen.
But they unfrighted passe, though many a privie
Spake to them louder, than the oxe in Livie;
And many a sinke powr'd out her rage anenst'hem;
But still their valour, and their vertue fene't 'hem,
Aud, on they went, like Castor brave, and Pollux,
Plowing the mayne. When,see(the worst of all lucks)
They met the second prodigie, would feare a
Man, that had never heard of a Chimæra.
One said, it was bold Briareus, or the beadle,
(Who hath the hundred hands when he doth meddle)
The other thought it Hydra, or the rock
Made of the trull, that cut her father's lock:
But, comming neere, they found it but a liter, [her.
So huge, it seem'd, they could by no meanes quite