Will't fee a man all, his own wealth,
His own phyfic, his own health?
A man whose fober foul can tell
How to wear her garments well?
Her garments that upon her fit,
As garments fhould do close and fit?
A well cloth'd foul; that's not oppreft,
Nor choakt with what the fould be dreft?
A foul fheath'd in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features fhine?
As when a piece of wanton lawn,
A thin aerial veil is drawn

O'er beauty's face, feening to hide

More fweetly shows the blushing bride.
A foul whofe intellectual beams
No mifts do mask, no lazy fteams?
A happy foul that all the way,

To heav'n rides in a fummer's day?

Would'it fee a man whofe well warm'd blood,
Bathes him in a genuine flood,

A man whose tuned humours be,
A fet of rareft harmony;

Would'ft fee blithe looks, fresh checks beguile
Age; would'ft fee December smile?
Would'nt fee nefts of new roles grow
In a bed of reverend snow?
Warm thoughts free fpirits, flattering.
Winters felf into a fpring?

In fome, would'ft fee a man that can
Live to be old and still a mán?

Whofe latest and most leaden hours,

#Fall with foft wings, fluck with foft flowers;
And when life's fweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends.
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay,
A kifs, a figh, and fo away;

This rare-one reader, would'st thou fee
Hark hither; and thyfelf be he.

The Beginning of Heliodorus.

THE Smiling morn had newly wak'd the day,
And tipt the mountains with a tender ray:1
When on a hill (whofe high imperious brow
Looks down, and fees the humble Nile below
Lick his proud feet, and haste into the feas feules)
Through the great mouth that's nam'd from Her-
A band of men, rough as the arms they wore
Look'd round, first to the fea, then to the shore.
The fhore that showed them what the fea deny'd,
Hope of a prey. There to the main land ty'ď
A fhip they faw, no men fhe had; yet prest
Appear'd with other lading, for her breat
Deep in the groaning waters wallowed
Up to the third ring; o'er the fhore was spread
Death's purple triumph, on the blushing ground
Life's late forfaken houses all lay drown'd
In their own bloods dear deluge, fome new dead,
Some panting in their yet warm ruins bled:
While their affrighted fouls, now wing'd for flight,
Lent them the last flash of her glimmering light.
Those yet fresh ftreams which crawled every where
Show'd that ftern war had newly bath'd him there.
Nor did the face of this difafter show
Marks of a fight alone, but feafing too,
A miferable and a monstrous feast,
Where hungry war had made himself a guest :

And coming late had eat up guests and all, Who prov'd the feast to their own funeral, &c. Out of the Greek.-Cupid's Crier.

Love is loft, nor can his mother

Her little fugitive difcover :

She feeks, the fighs, but no where fpies him; Love is loft: and thus fhe cries him.

O yes! if any happy eye, This roving wanton fhall defcry; Let the finder furely know Mine is the wag; 'tis that owe The winged wand'rer; and that none May think his labour vainly gone, The glad deferier fhall not mifs, To taste the Nectar of a kiss From Venus' lips; but as for him That brings him to me, he fhall fwim In riper joys more shall be his (Venus affures him) than a kifs. But left your eye difcerning fide, Thefe marks may be your judgment's guide; His skin as with a fiery blushing High-colour'd is; his eyes ftill fufhing With nimble flames, and though his mind Be ne'er fo curft, his tongue is kind: For never were his words in ought Found the pure iffue of his thought. The working bees foft melting gold, That which their waxen mines enfold, Flow not fo fweet as do the tones Of his tun'd accents; but if once His anger kindle, prefently

It boils out into cruelty,

And fraud: He makes poor mortals hurts
The objects of his cruel fports.
With dainty curls his froward face
Is crown'd about; but ! what place,
What fartheft nook of lowest hell
Feels not the ftrength, the reaching spell
Of his fall hand? Yet not fo fmall
As 'tis powerful therewithall.
Though bare his skin, his mind he covers,
And like a faucy bird he hovers
With wanton wing, now here, now there,
'Bout men and women, nor will spare
Till at length he perching reft,
In the clofet of their breast.
His weapon is a little bow,

Yet fuch a one as (Jove) knows how,
Ne'er fuffer'd, yet his little arrow,
Of heavens high'ft arches to fall narrow.
The gold that on his quiver fimiles,
Deceives mens fears with flattering wiles.
But O! (too well my wounds can tell)
With bitter fhaft's 'tis fauc'd too well.
He is all cruel, cruel all;

His torch imperious though but small
Makes the fun (of flames the fire)
Worfe then fun-burnt in his fire.
Wherefoe'er you chance to find hím
Seize him, bring him, (but first bind him);
Pity not him, but fear thyself
Though thou fee the crafty elf,
Tell down his filver-drops unto thee,
They're counterfeit, and will undo thee.

With baited fmiles if he display

His fawning cheeks, look not that way?
If he offer fugar'd kiffes,

Start, and fay, The ferpent hiffes.
Draw him, drag him, though he pray,
Woo, entreat, and crying fay,
Prithee, fweet, now let me go,
Here's my quiver, fhafts, and bow;
Pll give thee ail; take all, take heed
Left his kindnefs make thee bleed,

Whate'er it be Love offers, ftill prefume [fume.
That though it fhines, 'tis fire and will con-
On Nanus Mounted upon an Ant.

HIGH mounted on an Ant Nanus the tall,
Was thrown, alas and got a deadly fall,
Under th' unruly beaft's proud feet he lies
All torn with much ado yet e'er he dies,

He ftrains thefe words: Bafe Envy, do laugh on.
Thus did I fall, and thus fell Phaeton

Upon Venus putting on Mars's Arms. WHAT Mars's fword? fair Cytherea say, Why art thou arm'd fo defperately to day? Mars thou haft beagen naked; and, O then What need'st thou put on arms against poor men? Upon the Same.

PALLAS faw Venus arm'd, and ftraight the cry'd, Come if thou dar'st, thus, thus let us be try'd. Why fool! fays Venus, thus provok'st thou me,

Both will be good friends together. The air does woo thee,

Might a word once fly from out thee,
Winds cling to thee;

Storm and thunder
Would fit under,

thee?

Upon Bishop Andrews's Picture, before bis Sermons.

This reverend shadow cast that setting fun,
Whofe glorious course through our horizon run,
Left the dim face of this dull hemifphere,
All one great eye, all drown'd in one great tear.
Whofe fair illuftrious foul, led his free thought
Through learning's univerfe, and (vainly) fought
Room for her fpacious felf, until at length

She found the way home, with an holy ftrength
Snatch'd herself hence to heaven: fill'd a bright

place;

'Mongst thofe immortal fires, and on the face
Of her great Maker fixt her flaming eye,
There ftill to read true pure divinity.

And now that grave afpect hath deign'd to fhrink
Into this lefs appearance; if you think,
'Tis but a dead face, art doth here bequeath:
Look on the following leaves, and see him breath.
Out of Martial

FOUR teeth thou had'st that, rank'd in goodly state,
Kept thy mouth's gate.
The first blaft of thy cough left two alone,
The second, none.

This laft cough Ælia, cought out all thy fear,
Thou'ft left the third cough now no business here.

Out of the italian.-A Song.

To thy lover,

Dear, difcover

Or reprive me,
And to many deaths renew me.
Out of the Italian.
Love now no fire hath left him,

We two betwixt us have divided it.
Your eyes the light hath reft him,

The heat commanding in thy heart doth fit.
O that poor Love be not forever spoiled,
Let my heat to your light be reconciled.
So fhall these flames, whofe worth

Now all obfcured lies,
(Dreft in those beams) start forth
And dance before your eyes.
Or elfe partake my flames,

(I care not whither)

And fo in mutual names

Of love, burn both together.

Another.

WOULD any one the true caufe find

How Love came nak'd, a boy, and blind?
'Tis this; lift'ning one day too long,
To th' fyrens in my mistress fong,
The ecstacy of a delight

So much o'er maft'ring all his might,
To that one fenfe, made all elfe thrall,

And fo he loft his clothes, eyes, heart and all.
On the Frontispices of Ifaacfon's Chronology explained.
Ir with diftinctive eye, and mind, you look
Upon the front, you fee more than one book.
Creation is God's book, wherein he writ
Each creature, as a letter filling it.
Hiftory is creation's brok, which shows
To what effects the fries of it goes.
Chronology's the book of hiftory, and bears
The juft account of days, months, and years.
But refurrection, in a later prefs,
And new edition, is the fum of these.
The language of these books had all been one,
Had not th' afpiring tower of Babylon
Confus'd the tongues, and in a distance hurl'd
As far the fpeech, as men o'th' new fill'd world.
Set then your eyes in method, and behold
Time's emblem. Saturn; who, when flore of gold
Coin'd the first age, devour'd that birth, he fear'd;
Till Hiftory, Time's eldeft child appear'd,
And Phoenix like, in fpight of Saturn's rage,
Forc'd from her afhes, heirs in every age.
From th' rifing fun, obtaining by just suit,
A fpring's engender, and an autumn's fruit.
Who in thofe volumes at her motion pend,
Unto creation' Alpha doth extend.
Again afcend, and view chronology,
By optic fkill pulling, far history
Nearer; whole hand the piercing eagle's eye
Strengthens, to bring remoteft objects nigh.
Under whofe feet, you see the setting fun,
From the dark gnomon, o'er her volumes run,
Drown'd in eternal night, never to rife,
Till refurrection show it to the eyes

Of earth-worn men and her fhrill trumpet's found
Affright the bones of mortals from the ground.
The columns both are crown'd with either sphere
To fhow chronology and hiftory bare,
No other Culmen than the double art,
Aftronomy, geography, impart.
Or Thus.

LET hoary time's vaft bowels be the grave
To what his bowels birth and being gave;
Let nature die, (phoenix-like) from death
Revived nature takes a fecond breath;
If on Time's right hand, fit fair History.
If, from the feed of empty ruin, fhe
Can raife fo fair au harveft, let her be
Ne'er so far distant, yet Chronology
(Sharp-fighted as the eagle's eye, that can
Out ftare the broad-beam'd day's meridian)
Will have a perfpicil to find her out,
And, through the right of error and dark doubt,
Difcern the dawn of truth's eternal ray,
As when the rofy morn buds into day.

Now that time's empire might be amply fill'd, Babel's bold artists strive (below) to build

Ruin a temple; on whofe fruitful fall
Hiftory rears her pyramids more tall
Than were th' Egyptian, (by the life thefe give,
Th' Egyptian pyramids themselves must live:)
On thefe fhe lifts the world; and on their base
Shows the two terms and limits of time's race:
That the creation is; the judgment this;
That the world's morning, this her midnight is.

An Epitaph upon Mr. Afkton, a conformable Citizèn:
THE modeft front of this fmall flour,

Believe me, reader, can fay more
Than many a braver marble can,
Here lies a truly honeft man
One whose conscience was a thing,
That troubled neither church nor king,
One of thofe few that in this town,
Honour all preachers, hear their own.
Sermons he heard, yet not fo many
As left no time to practise any.
He heard them reverendly, and then
His practice preach'd them o'er again.
His parlour-fermons rather were
Those to the eye, then to the ear.
His prayers took their price and strength,
Not from the lewdnefs, nor the length.
He was a Proteftant at home,

Not only in defpight of Rome.
He lov'd his father; yet his zeal
Tore not off his mother's veil.
To th' church he did allow her dress,
True beauty, to true holiness.
Peace, which he lov'd in life, did lend
Her hand to bring him to his end.
When age and death call'd for the score,
No furfeits were to reckon for.
Death tore not, (therefore) but fans strife
Gently untwin'd his thread of life.
What remains then, but that thou
Write these lines, reader, in thy brow;
And by his fair example's light,
Burn in thy imitation bright.
So, while thefe lines can but bequeath
A life perhaps unto his death,
His be ter epitaph fhall be,
His life ftill kept alive in thee.
Out of Catullus.
COME and let us live my dear,
Let us love and never fear,
What the fourest fathers say:
Brightest Sol that dies to day
Lives again a blithe to morrow;
But if we, dark fons of forrow,
Set, O then, how long a night
Shuts the eyes of our fhort light?
Then let amorous kiffes dwell
On our lips, begin and tell
A thousand, and a hundred score,
An hundred, and a thousand more;
Till another thousand smother
That, and that wipe of another.
Thus, at laft, when we have number'd
Many a thousand, many a hundred,
We'll confound the reckoning quite,
And lose ourselves in wild delight:

6

Idæa, take a fhrine

Of crystal flesh, through which to shine;
Meet you her my wishes,
Befpeak her to my bliffes,

And be ye call'd my absent kisses.
I wish her beauty,

That owes not all his duty

To gaudy tire, or glift'ring shooty.
Something more than
Taffata or tiffue can,

Or rampant feather, or rich fan.
More than the spoil

Of fhop, or filk-worms toil,

Or a bought bluth, or a fet fmile.

A face that's best,

By its own beauty dreft,

And can alone command the reft.

Eyes that beftow

Full quivers on love's bow;
Yet pay lefs arrows than they owe.
Smiles that can warm

The blood, yet teach a charm,
That chastity shall take no harm.
Bluthes that bin

The burnish of no fin,

Nor flames of ought too hot within.

Joys that confefs

Virtue their mistress,

And have no other head to drefs.
Fears, fond and flight,.
As the coy brides, when night
First does the longing lover right.

Tears quickly fled,

And vain, as those are shed
For a dying maidenhead.
Days that need borrow,

No part of their good morrow,
From a fore fpent night of forrow.
Days that in fpight

Of darknefs, by the light

Of a clear mind are day all night.
Nights fweet as they,

Made fhort by lovers play,

Yet long by th' abfence of the day.

Life that dares fend

A challenge to his end,

And when it comes, fay, Welcome friend, Sydnæan fhowers

Of sweet difcourfe, whofe

powers

Can crown old winter's head with flowers.

Soft filken hours,

Open fun's fhady bowers;

'Bove all, nothing within that lours. What ere delight

Can make day's forehead bright,

Or give down to the wings of night.

In her whole frame,

Have nature all the name,

Art and ornament the shame.

Her Battery,

Picture and poefy,

Her counfel her own virtue be.

I wish her ftore

Of worth may leave her poor

Of wishes, and I with no more.

Now if time knows,

That her whofe radiant brows Weave them a garland of my vowe!

Her whofe juft bays,

My future hopes can raise,
A trophy to her present praise.
Her that dares be,

What thefe lines wish to fee f

1 feek no further, it is fhe,