Dear for the fight of your declining wit:

'Tis known it is not fit

That a fale-poet, just contempt once thrown,
Should cry up thus your own.
I wonder by what dower,
Or patent, you had power

From all to rape a judgment. Let 't fuffice,
Had you been modeft, you'd been granted wife.

'Tis known you can do well,
And that you do excel

As a translator; but when things require
A genius, and a fire

Not kindled heretofore by others pains,
As oft you've wanted brains,
And art to strike the white,
As you have levell'd right;

Yet if men vouch not things apocryphal,
You bellow, rave, and spatter round your gall.

Tug, Pierce, Peek, Fly*, and all
Your jefts fo nominal,

Are things fo far beneath an able brain;
As they do throw a ftain

Through all th' unlucky plot, and do displease
As deep as Pericles.

Where yet, there is not laid
Before a chamber-maid

Difcourfe fo weigh'd †, as might have ferv'd of old
For schools, when they of love and valour told.

Why rage then? when the fhow
Should judgment be, and know-

Ledge, there are plufh who fcorn to drudge
For ftages, yet can judge

Not only poets loofer lines, but wits,
And all their perquifites;
A gift as rich as high,

Is noble poefy:

Yet though in fport it be for kings a play, Tis next mechanics when it works for pay.

Alcaus' lute had none;
Nor loofe Anacreon

E'er taught fo bold affuming of the bays,
When they deferv'd no praise.

To rail men into approbation,
Is new to your's alone;

And profpers not: for know,
Fame is as coy, as you

Can be difdainful; and who dares to prove
A rape on her, shall gather scorn, not love.

Leave then this humour vain,
And this more humorous ftrain,
Where felf-conceit, and choler of the blood,
Eclipfe what elfe is good:

Then, if you please thofe raptures high to touch,
Whereof you boast fo much;

And but forbear your crown,
Till the world puts it on.

No doubt, from all you may amazement draw,
Since braver theme no Phoebus ever faw.

* The names of feveral of Jonson's Dramatis Perfona. † New Inn, LA 111, Scene 2.—A&t IV, Scene 4.

An Anfwer to Mr. Ben Jonfon's Ode, to perfuade lia not to leave the Stage. By Thomas Randolph ".

BEN, do not leave the stage,
'Caufe 'tis a lothfome age;

For pride and impudence will grow too bold,
When they fhall hear it told

They frighted thee: ftand high as is thy cause, Their hifs is thy applause:

More just were thy difdain,

Had they approv'd thy vein :

So thou for them, and they for thee were burn! They to incenfe, and thou as much to scorn.

Wilt thou engross thy flore

Of wheat, and pour no more,

Because their bacon-brains have such a taste,
As more delight in matt:

No fet them forth a board of dainties, full
As thy best muse can cull;

Whilft they the while do pine
And thirst, midst all their wine.
What greater plague can hell itself devife,
Than to be willing thus to tantalize?

Thou canst not find them stuff,
That will be bad enough
To please their palates : let em refufe
She is too fair an hoftefs; 'twere a fin
For fome pye-corner mufe;

For them to like thine Inn :
'Twas made to entertain
Guefls of a nobler strain ;

Yet if they will have any of thy ftore,
Give them fome fcraps, and fend them from the

And let thofe things in plush,

Till they be taught to blush,

Like what they will, and more contented be
With what Broome + fwept from thee,

I know thy worth, and that thy lofty strains
Write not to clothes, but brains :
But thy great fpleen doth rise,
'Caufe moles will have no eyes:

This only in my Ben I faulty find,
He's angry they'll not fee him that are blind.

Why should the scene be mute,
'Cause thou canst touch thy lute,
And firing thy Horace : let each mufe of nine
Claim thee, and say, thou'rt mine.

1

Fragment of a Satire on Jenfon's Magnetic Lady. By
Alexander Gill of St. Paul's School.

BUT to advise you, Ben, in this strict age,
A brick-kill's better for thee than a stage;
Thou better know't a groundfil for to lay,
Than lay the plot or ground-work of a play;
And better canft direct to cap a chimney,
Than to converfe with Clio or Polyhimay.
Fall then to work in thy old age agen;
Take up thy trug and trowel gentle Ben;
Let plays alone; or if thou needs will write,
And thruft thy feeble muse into the light,
Let Lowen cease, and Faylor feorn to touch
The lothed ftage, for thou haft made it fuch.
The Anfwer.

SHALL the profperity of a pardon ftill
Secure thy railing rhymes, infamous Gill,
At libelling? Shall no ftar-chamber peers,
Piilory, nor whip, nor want of ears,
All which thou haft incurr'd deservedly,
Nor degradation from the ministry,
To be the Denis of thy father's school,
Keep in thy bawling wit, thou bawling fool?
Thinking to ftir me, thou haft lost thy end,
I'll laugh at thee, poor wretched tike: go fend
Thy blotant mufe abroad, and teach it rather
A tune to drown the ballads of thy father:
For thou haft nought in thee, to cure his fame,
But tune and noife, the echo of his fhame.
A rogue by itatute, cenfur'd to be whipt,
Cropt, branded, fit, neck-flockt; go, you are ftript

To my dear Son, and right learned Friend, Mafter Jofeph
Rutter. Prefixed to the Shepherd's Holiday," a
Paftoral Tragi-Comedy. 1635.

You look, my Jofeph, I fhould fomething fay
Unto the world, in praise of your first play :
And truly, fo I would, could I be heard.
You know, I never was of truth afcard,
And lefs atham'd; not when I told the crowd
How well I lov'd truth: I was fearce allow'd
By thofe deep-grounded, underflanding men,
That fit to cenfure plays, yet know not when,
Or why to like; they found, it all was new,
And newer, then [r. than] could pleafe them, by-

caufe true.

YOL. 1Y.

Such men I met withal, and fo have you.
Now, for mine own part, and it is but due
(You have deferv'd it from me), I have read,
And weigh'd your play: untwisted ev'ry thread,
And know the woofe, and warp thereof; can tell
Where it ruas round, and even where fo well,
So foft, and smooth it handles, the whole piece,
As it were spun by nature, off the fleece:
This is my cenfure. Now there is a new
Office of wit, a mint, and (this is true)
Cry'd up of late: Whereto there must be first
A malter-worker call'd, th' old standard burft
Of wit, and a new made: a warden then,
And a comptroller, two mott rigid men
For order, and for governing the pixe,
A fay-master, hath studied all the tricks
Of fineness, and alloy : follow his hint,
You've all the myfteries of wit's new mint.
The valuations, mixtures, and the fame
Concluded from a carract to a dramme.

To my chofen Friend, the learned Tranflator of Luean,
Thomas May, Efq.

WHEN, Rome, I read thee in thy mighty pair,
And fee both climbing up the flippery stair
Of fortune's wheel, by Lucan driv'n about,
And the world in it, I begin to doubt,
At every line fome pin there of fhould flack,
At least, if not the general engine crack.
But when again I view the parts fo piz'd,
And thofe in number fo, and measure rais'd,
As neither Pompey's popularity,
Cæfar's ambition, Cato's liberty,
Calin Brutus tenor ftart, but all along
Keep due proportion in the ample fong,
It makes me ravish'd with just wonder, cry
What mule, or rather god of harmony,
Taught Lucan thefe true moodes? replies my fenfe,
What gods, but thofe of arts, and eloquence?
Pacbus, and Hermes? They whofe tongue, or pen,
Are ftill th' interpreters 'twixt God and men!
But who hath them interpreted, and brought
Lucan's whole frame unto us, and fo wrought,
As not the finaleft joint, or gentlest word
In the great mafs, or machine there is stirr'd?
The felf fame genius! fo the work will fay.
The fun tranflated, or the fon of May.

Hymn to Diana, In Cynthia's Revels.
QUEEN and huntref:, chalte and fair,
Now the fun is laid to fletp;
Seated in thy filver car,

State in wonted manner keep.
Helperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

Earth, let not thy envious fhade.
Dare itself to interpofe;
Cynthia's fhining orb was made
Heaven to clear, when day did clofe;
Blefs us then with wifhed fight,
Goddess excellently bright.

Lay thy bow of pearl apart, And thy crystal thining quiver Q ૧

"Give me a look, give me a fase,
That makes fimplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such fweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They ftrike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Song. In the Devil is an Afs.

Do but look on her eyes! they do light-
All that love's world comprifeth!
Do but look on her hair! it is bright
As love's ftar when it rifeth!
Do but mark, her forehead's smoother
Than words that footh her!"
And from her arched brows, fuch a grace
Sheds itself through the face;

As alone, there triumphs to the life,

All the gain, all the good, of the elements ftrife.

Have you seen but a bright lily grow,

Before rude hands have touch'd it?
Have you mark'd but the fall of the fnow,
Before the foil hath fmutch'd it?
Have you felt the wool of the beaver?
Or fwan's down ever?

Or have smelt o' the bud o' the brier?
Or the nard i' the fire?

Or have tafted the bag of the bee?

O, fo white! O, fo foft: O, fo fweet is the!

Song. In the Sad Shepherd.

THOUGH I Am Young and cannot tell
Either what Death or Love is well,
Yet I have heard they both bear darts,
And both do aim at human hearts;
And then again, I have been told,

Love wounds with heat, as Death with cold;
So that I fear they do but bring
Extremes to touch, and mean one thing.

As in a ruin we it call,

One thing to be blown up, or fall;
Or to our end, like way may have,
By a flash of lightning or a wave :
So Love's inflamed fhaft or brand,
May kill as foon as Death's cold hand;
Except Love's fires the virtues have
To fright the frost out of the grave.

Hue and Cry after Cupid. In the Mafque en Lerd
Haddington's Marriage.

BEAUTIES, have ye feen this toy,
Call'd Love, a little boy,
Almost naked, wanton, blind;
Cruel now, and then as kind?
If he be amongst ye, fay;

He is Venus' runaway.

He hath of marks about him plenty :
You fhall know him among twenty.
All his body is a fire,

And his breath a flame entire,
That being shot, like lightning in,
Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

at his fight, the fun hath turned,

Neptune in the waters burned;
Hell hath felt a greater heat:
Jove himself forfook his feat:
From the centre to the sky,
Are his trophies reared high.

Wings he hath, which though ye clip,
He will leap from lip to lip,
Over liver, lights, and heart,
But not stay in any part;
And, if chance his arrow miffes,
He will shoot himself, in kiffes.

He doth bear a golden bow,
And a quiver hanging low,
Full of arrows that outbrave
Dian's fhafts: where, if he have
Any head more fharp than other,
With that first he strikes his mother.

Still the faireft are his fuel,

When his days are to be cruel,
Lovers hearts are all his food;
And his baths their warmest blood:
Nought but wounds his hand doth season.
And he hates none like to Reason.

Traft him not: his words, though fweet,
Seldom with his heart do meet.
All his practice is deceit;

Every gift it is a bait ;

Not a kifs but poison bears;

And most treafon in his tears.

Ile minutes are his reign;

Then the ftraggler makes his gain,
By prefenting maids with toys,
And would have ye think 'em joys:
'Tis th' ambition of the elf,
To have all childish as himself.

If by thefe ye please to know him,
Beauties, be not nice, but fhow him.
Though ye had a will to hide him,
Now, we hope, ye'll not abide him.
Since you hear his falfer play,
And that he's Venus' runaway.

Epithalamion. In the fame.

Up youths and virgins, up, and praise
The god whole nights outfhine his days;
Hymen, whofe hallowed rites

Could never boaft of brighter lights;

Whose bands pass liberty.

Two of your troop, that with the morn were free,

Are now wag'd to his war.

And what they are,

If you'll perfection fee,
Yourselves must be.

Shine Hefperus, fhine forth, thou wished star.

What joy or honours can compare
With holy nuptials, when they are
Made out of equal parts

Of years, of ftates, of hands, of hearts?
When in the happy choice,

The fpouse and spoused have the foremost voice!
Such, glad Hymen's war,
Live what they are,

And long perfection fee:
And fuch ours be.

Shine, Hesperus, fhine forth, thou wished star.

The folemn ftate of this one night
Were fit to laft an age's light;

But there are rites behind

Have lefs of ftate, but more of kind :
Love's wealthy crop of kiffes,

And fruitful harveft of his mother's bliffes.
bound then to Hymen's war:
That what these are,

Who will perfection see,

May hafte to be.

Shine, Hesperus, fhine forth, thou wished star.

Love's commonwealth confifts of toys;
His council are thofe antique boys,
Games, laughter, fports, delights,
That triumph with him on thofe nights:
To whom we must give way,

For now their reign begins, and lafts till day.
They fweeten Hyinen's war,

And, in that jar.

Make all that married be,
Perfection fee.

Shine, Hesperus, fhine forth, thou wished star.

Why ftays the bridegroom to invade
Her, that would be a matron made?
Goodnight, whilft yet we may
Goodnight, to you a virgin, fay;
To-morrow rife the fame

Your mother is, and ufe a nobler name.
Speed well in Hymen's war,
That, what you are,

By your perfection, we

And all may fee.

Shine, Hefperus, thine forth, thou wished star.

To-night is Venus' vigil kept.

This night no bridegroom ever flept;
And if the fair bride do,

The married fay, 'tis his fault too.
Wake then, and let your lights

Wake too: for they'll tell nothing of your

3 CHARM.

The owl is bread, the bat, and the toad,
And fo is the cat a mountain,

The ant and the mole fit both in a hele,
And frog peeps out o' the fountain;

The dogs they do bay, and the timbrels play,
The spindle is now a torning;
The moon it is red, and the flats are fled,

But all the sky is a burning:

The ditch is made, and our nails the fpade,
With pi&ures full, of wax and of wool;
Their livers I stick, with needles quick;
There lacks but the blood, to make up the flood.
Quickly, dame, then bring your part in,
Spur, pur upon little Martin,
Merily, merrily, make him fail,

A worm in his mouth, and a thorn in's tail,
Fire above, and fire below,

With a whip i' your hand, to make him go.
O, now the's come!

Let all be dumb.

[At this the Dame entered to them, naked-armed, bargfooted, her fruck tucked, ber bair knotted, and folded with vipers; in ber band a torch made of a dead man's arm, lighted, girded with a fnake. To relow they all did reverence, and foe fpake, uttering, by wy of question, the end wherefore they fanie į

DAME, AGS.

Well done, my Hags. And come we fraught with fpite,

To overthrow the glory of this night?

Holds our great purpofe? Hag. Yes. Dem. But wants there none

Of our just number? Hegs. Call us one by one, And then our Dame fhall fee. Dam. First, then, advance

My drowly fervant, ftupid Ignorance,
Known by thy fcaly vefture and bring on
Thy fearful fifter, wild Sufpicion,
Whose eyes do never fleep; let her knit hand
With quick Credulity that next her stands,
Who hath but one ear, and that always ope;
Two-faced Falfchood follow in the rope;
And lead on Murmur, with the cheeks deep hung:
she, Malice, whetting of her forked tongue;
And Malice, Impudence, whofe forehead's lof;
1 et Impudence lead Stander on, to beat
Her oblique look; and to her subtle fide,
I hou, black-mouth'd Execrarion, fand apply'd;
Draw to thee Bitterne fs, whofe fweat gall;
pores
She, flame-ey'd Rage; Rage, Muchief. Hag. Here

we are all.

Dam. Join now our hearts, we faithful opposites To fame and glory. Let not thefe bright nights Of honour blaze, thus to offend our eyes; Show ourselves truly envious, and let rife Our wonted rages: do what may befeem Such names, and natures;

Hog. What our Dame bids us do, We arc ready for. Dam Then fail too, But first relate me, what you have fought, Where you have been, and what you have brought,

BAGS. I.

I have been all day looking after

A raven, feeding upon a quarter;
And, foon as the turn'd het beak to the south,
I fnatch'd this morfel out of her mouth.

2.