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He would have a hand as soft

As the downe, and show it oft;
Skin as smooth as any rush,
And so thin to see a blush
Rising through it e're it came;
All his blood should be a flame
Quickly fir'd, as in beginners

In love's schoole, and yet no sinners.
'Twere too long to speake of all;
What we harmonie doe call
In a body should be there.

Well he should his clothes too weare,
Yet no taylor help to make him,
Drest, you still for man should take him ;
And not thinke h' had eat a stake,
Or were set up in a brake.

Valiant he should be as fire,
Showing danger more then ire.
Bounteous as the clouds to earth;
And as honest as his birth,
All his actions to be such,
As to doe nothing too much.
Nor o're-praise, nor yet condemne;
Nor out-valew, nor contemne;

Nor doe wrongs, nor wrongs receave;
Nor tie knots, nor knots unweave;
And from basenesse to be free,
As he durst love truth and me.

Such a man, with every part,
I could give my very heart;
But of one if short he came,
I can rest me where I am.

C. ANOTHER LADYE'S EXCEPTION, PRESENT AT

THE HEARING.

For his mind, I doe not care,
That's a toy, that I could spare:
Let his title be but great,

His clothes rich, and band sit neat,
Himselfe young, and face be good,
All I wish is understood:

What you please, you parts may call, 'Tis one good part I'd lie withall.

NEE.

What need of mee? doe you but sing,
Sleepe and the grave will wake,
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips doe make.

SHEE.

They say the angells marke each deed,
And exercise below,

And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.

HEE.

O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall againe, at such a feast,
Mistaking Earth for Heaven.

SHEE.

Nay, rather both our soules bee strayn'd
To meet their high desire;

So they in state of grace retain'd,
May wish us of their quire.

A SONG.

OH, doe not wanton with those eyes,
Lest I be sick with seeing;

Nor cast them downe, but let them rise,
Lest shame destroy their being.

O, be not angry with those fires,
For then their threats will kill me ;
Nor looke too kinde on my desires,
For then my hopes will spill me.

O, do not steepe them in thy teares,
For so will sorrow slay me;

Nor spread them as distract with feares,
Mine owne enough betray me.

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ANOTHER.

IN DEFENCE OF THEIR INCONSTANCIE.

A SONG.

HANG up those dull and envious fooles That talke abroad of woman's change, We were not bred to sit on stooles,

Our proper vertue is to range: Take that away, you take our lives, We are no women then, but wives.

Such as in valour would excell

Doe change, though man, and often fight, Which we in love must doe as well,

If ever we will love aright.
The frequent varying of the deed,
Is that which doth perfection breed.

Nor is't inconstancie to change

For what is better, or to make

(By searching) what before was strange,
Familiar, for the use's sake;
The good, from bad, is not descride,
But as 'tis often vext and tri'd.

And this profession of a store

In love, doth not alone help forth Our pleasure; but preserves us more

From being forsaken, then doth worth: For were the worthiest woman curst To love one man, hee'd leave her first.

A NYMPH'S PASSION.

I LOVE, and he loves me againe,
Yet dare I not tell who;

For if the nymphs should know my swaine,
I feare they'd love him too:

Yet if it be not knowne,

The pleasure is as good as none,

For that's a narrow joy is but our owne.

I'le tell, that if they be not glad,
They yet may envie me:

But then if I grow jealous madde,
And of them pittied be,

It were a plague 'bove scorne,
And yet it cannot be forborne,

Unlesse my heart would as my thought be torne.

He is, if they can find him, faire,

And fresh and fragrant too,

As summer's sky, or purged ayre,
And lookes as lillies doe,

That are this morning blowne,
Yet, yet I doubt he is not knowne,

And feare much more, that more of him be showne.

But he hath eyes so round and bright,
As make away my doubt,

Where Love may all his torches light,
Though Hate had put them out;

But then t'encrease my feares,
What nymph so e're his voyce but heares
Will be my rivall, though she have but eares.

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That she,

Whom I adore so much, should so slight me,
And cast my love behind:

I'm sure my language to her was as sweet,
And every close did meet

In sentence, of as subtile feet,
As hath the youngest hee,
That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree.

Oh, but my conscious feares,

That flie my thoughts betweene,
Tell me that she hath seene

My hundreds of gray haires,

Told seven and fortie yeares,

Read so much waste, as she cannot imbrace My mountaine belly, and my rockie face, And all these through her eyes, have stopt her cares.

AGAINST IEALOUSIE.

WRETCHED and foolish jealousie,
How camst thou thus to enter me?
I n're was of thy kind;

Nor have I yet the narrow mind
To vent that poore desire,

That others should not warme them at my fire.
I wish the Sun should shine,

On all men's fruit, and flowers, as well as mine.

But under the disguise of love

Thou sai'st thou onely cam'st to prove
What my affections were,

Think'st thou that love is help'd by feare?
Goe, get thee quickly forth,
Love's sicknesse, and his noted want of worth,
Seeke doubting men to please,

I ne're will owe my health to a disease.

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EPITAPH ON MASTER VINCENT CORBET.

I HAVE my pietie too, which could
It vent it selfe, but as it would,

Would say as much, as both have done
Before me here, the friend and sonne;
For I both lost a friend and father,
Of him whose bones this grave doth gather;
Deare Vincent Corbet, who so long
Had wrestled with diseases strong,
That though they did possess each limbe,
Yet he broke them, e're they could him,
With the just canon of his life,

A life that knew nor noise, nor strife;
But was by sweetning so his will,
All order, and disposure, still

His mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his nourceries; and swept
So of uncleannesse, or offence,
That never came ill odour thence:

And adde his actions unto these,
They were as specious as his trees.
'Tis true, he could not reprehend
His very manners, taught t' amend,
They were so even, grave, and holy;
No stubbornnesse so stiffe, nor folly
To licence ever was so light,
As twice to trespasse in his sight,

His lookes would so correct it, when
It chid the vice, yet uot the men.
Much from him I professe I wonne,
And more, and more, I should have done,
But that I understood him scant,
Now I conceive him by my want,
And pray who shall my sorrowes read,
That they for me their teares will shed;
For truly, since he left to be,

I feele, I'm rather dead than he?

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AN

EPISTLE TO SIR EDWARD SACKVÍLE,

NOW EARLE OF DORSET.

IF Sackvile, all that have the power to doe
Great and good turns, as wel could time them too,
And knew their how, and where: we should have then
Lesse list of proud, hard, or ingratefull men.
For benefits are ow'd with the same mind
As they are done, and such returnes they find:
You then, whose will not only, but desire
To succour my necessities tooke fire,
Not at my prayers, but your sense; which laid
The way to meet what others would upbraid;
And in the act did so my blush prevent,
As I did feele it done, as soone as meant:
You cannot doubt, but I who freely know
This good from you, as freely will it owe;
And though my fortune humble me, to take
The smallest courtesies with thankes, I make
Yet choyce from whom I take them; and would

shame

To have such doe me good, I durst not name:
They are the noblest benefits, and sinke
Deepest in man, of which when he doth thinke,
The memorie delights him more, from whom
Then what he hath receiv'd. Gifts stinke from some,
They are so long a comming, and so hard;
Where any deed is forc't, the grace is mard.

Can I owe thankes, for courtesies receiv'd
Against his will that does 'hem? that hath weav'd
Excuses, or delayes? or done 'hem scant,
That they bave more opprest me, then my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me,

But by meere chance? for interest? or to free
Himselfe of farther trouble, or the weight

Of pressure, like one taken in a streight?

All this corrupts the thankes, lesse hath he woune,
That puts it in his debt-booke e're 't be done;
Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call
His
groomes to witnesse; or else lets it fall
In that proud manner: as a good so gain'd,
Must make me sad for what I have obtain'd. [face,

No! gifts and thankes should have one cheerefull
So each, that's done, and tane, becomes a brace.
He neither gives, or does, that doth delay
A benefit, or that doth throw't away,

No more then he doth thanke, that will receive
Nought but in corners; and is loath to leave,
Lest ayre, or print, but flies it: such men would
Run from the conscience of it if they could,

As I have seene some infants of the sword
Well knowne, and practiz'd borrowers on their word,
Give thankes by stealth, and whispering in the eare,
For what they straight would to the world forsweare;
And speaking worst of those from whom they went
But then fist fill'd, to put me off the sent.
Now dam'mee, sir, if you shall not command
My sword ('tis but a poore sword understand)
As farre as any poore sword i' the land:
Then turning unto him is next at hand,
Damns whom he damn'd too, is the veriest gull,
H'as feathers, and will serve a man to pull.

Are they not worthy to be answer'd so, That to such natures let their full hands flow, And seeke not wants to succour: but inquire, Like money-brokers, after names, and hire

Hh

Their bounties forth to him that last was made,
Or stands to be'n commission o' the blade?
Still, still the hunters of false fame apply

In time 'twill be a heape; this is not true
Alone in money, but in manners too.
Yet we must more then move still, or goe on,

Their thoughts and meanes to making loude the cry; We must accomplish; 'tis the last key-stone
But one is bitten by the dog he fed,

And hurt, seeks cure; the surgeon bids take bread,
And spunge-like with it dry up the blood quite,
Then give it to the hound that did him bite:
Pardon, sayes he, that were a way to see
All the towne-curs take each their snatch at me.
O, is it so? knowes he so much? and will
Feed those, at whom the table points at still?
I not deny it, but to helpe the need
Of any, is a great and generous deed:
Yea, of th' ingratefull: and he forth must tell
Many a pound and piece will place one well;
But these men ever want: their very trade
Is borrowing; that but stopt, they doe invade
All as their prize, turne pyrats here at land,
Ha' their Bermudas, and their Streights i' th'Strand;
Man out of their boates to th' Temple, and not shift
Now, but command; make tribute what was gift;
And it is paid 'hem with a trembling zeale
And superstition, I dare scarce reveale
If it were cleare, but being so in cloud
Carryed and wrapt, I only am aloud

My wonder! why? the taking a clownes purse,
Or robbing the poore market-folkes, should nurse
Such a religious horrour in the brests
Of our towne gallantry! or why there rests
Such worship due to kicking of a punck!
Or swaggering with the watch, or drawer drunke;
Or feats of darknesse acted in mid-sun,
And told of with more licence then th' were done!
Sure there is misterie in it, I not know
That men such reverence to such actions show!
And almost deifie the authors! make
Lowd sacrifice of drinke, for their health-sake;
Reare suppers in their names! and spend whole nights
Unto their praise, in certaine swearing rites:
Cannot a man be reck'ned in the state
Of valour, but at this idolatrous rate?
I thought that fortitude had beene a meane
"Twixt feare and rashnesse: not a lust obscene,
Or appetite of offending, but a skill
Or science of a discerning good and ill.
And you, sir, know it well, to whom I write,
That with these mixtures we put out her light;
Her ends are honestie, and publike good!
And where they want, she is not understood.
No more are these of us, then let them goe,
I have the lyst of mine owne faults to know,
Looke to and cure; he's not a man hath none,
But like to be that every day mends one,
And feeles it; else he tarries by the beast.
Can I discerne how shadowes are decreast,
Or growne, by height or lownesse of the sunne?
And can I lesse of substance? when I runne,
Ride, saile, am coach'd, know I how farre I have gone,
And my minds motion not? or have 1 none:
No! he must feele and know, that will advance;
Men have been great, but never good by chance,
Or on the sudden. It were strange that he
Who was this morning such a one, should be
Sydney e'er night? or that did goe to bed
Coriat, should rise the most sufficient head
Of Christendome? And neither of these know,
Were the rack offer'd them, how they came so;
'Tis by degrees that men arrive at glad
Profit; in ought each day some little adde,

That makes the arch, the rest that there were put
Are nothing till that comes to bind and shut.
Then stands it a triumphall marke! then men
Observe the strength, the height, the wby, and when,
It was erected; and still walking under
Meet some new matter to looke up and wonder!
Such notes are vertuous men! they live as fast
As they are high; are rooted and will last.
They need no stilts, por rise upon their toes,
As if they would belie their stature, those
Are dwarfes of honour, and have neither weight
Nor fashion; if they chance aspire to height,
"Tis like light caues, that first rise big and brave,
Shoot forth in smooth and comely spaces; have
But few and fair divisions: but being got
Aloft, grow lesse and streightned, full of knot,
And last, goe out in nothing: you that see
Their difference, cannot choose which you will be.
You know (without my flatt'ring you) too much
For me to be your indice. Keep you such,
That I may love your person (as I doe)
Without your gift, though I can rate that too,
By thanking thus the courtesie to life,
Which you will bury, but therein, the strife
May grow so great to be example, when
(As their true rule or lesson) either men, ́
Donnors or donnees, to their practise shall
Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all.

AN

EPISTLE TO MASTER JOHN SELDEN.
I KNOW to whom I write here, I am sure,
Though I am short, I cannot be obscure:
Lesse shall I for the art or dressing care,
Truth and the Graces best when naked are.
Your booke, my Selden, I have read, and much
Was trusted, that you thought my judgement such
To aske it: though in most of workes it be
A pennance, where a man may not be free,
Rather then office, when it doth or may
Chance that the friend's affection proves allay
Unto the censure. Yours all need doth ffie
Of this so vitious humanitie,

Then which there is not unto studie a more
Pernitious enemie. We see before

A many of bookes, even good judgements wound
Themselves through favouring what is there not
But I on yours farre otherwise shall doe, [found:
Not flie the crime, but the suspition too:
Though I confesse (as every Muse hath err'd,
And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd [much,
Men, past their termes, and prais'd some names too
But 'twas with purpose to have made them such,
Since being deceiv'd, I turne a sharper eye
Upon my selfe, and aske to whom? and why?
And what I write? and vexe it many dayes
Before men get a verse, much lesse a praise;
So that my reader is assur'd, I now
Meane what I speake, and still will keepe that row.
Stand forth my object, then, you that have beeue
Ever at home, yet have all countries seene :

And like a compasse, keeping one foot still
Upon your center, doe your circle fill
Of generall knowledge; watch'd men, manners too,
Heard what times past have said, seene what ours doe:
Which grace shall I make love to first? your skill,
Or faith in things? or is't your wealth and will
T' instruct and teach? or your unweary'd paine
Of gathering? bountie in pouring out againe?
What fables have you vext! what truth redeem'd!
Antiquities search'd! opinions dis-esteem'd!
Impostures branded! and authorities urg'd,
What blots and errours, have you wat::h'd and purg'd
Records and authors of! how rectified
Times, manners, customes! innovations spide!
Sought out the fountaines, sources, creekes, paths,
And noted the beginnings and decayes! [wayes,
Where is that nominall marke, or reall rite,
Forme, act, or ensigne, that hath scap'd your sight?
How are traditions there examin'd! how
Conjectures retriev'd and a storie now
And then of times (besides the bare conduct
Of what it tells us) weav'd in to instruct.
I wonder'd at the richnesse, but am lost,
To see the workmanship so 'xceed the cost!
To marke the excellent seas'ning of your stile!
And manly elocution, not one while
With horrour rough, then rioting with wit!
But to the subject still the colours fit;

In sharpnesse of all search, wisdome of choise,
Newnesse of sense, antiquitie of voice!

I yeeld, I yeeld, the matter of your praise
Flowes in upon me, and I cannot raise
A banke against it. Nothing but the round
Large claspe of nature, such a wit can bound.
Monarch in letters! 'mongst the titles showne
Of others honours, thus, enjoy thy owne.
I first salute thee so; and gratulate
With that thy stile, thy keeping of thy state;
In offering this thy worke to no great name, [same,
That would, perhaps, have prais'd, and thank'd the
But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,
Thy learned chamber-fellow, knowes to doe
It true respects. He will not only love,
Embrace, and cherish; but he can approve
And estimate thy paines; as having wrought
In the same mines of knowledge; and thence brought
Humanitie enough to be a friend,

And strength to be a champion, and defend
Thy gift 'gainst envie. O how I doe count
Among my commings in, and see it mount,
The graine of your two friendships! Hayward and
Selden! two names that so much understand!
On whom I could take up, and ne're abuse
The credit, what would furnish a tenth Muse!
But here's no time, nor place, my wealth to tell,
You both are modest. So am I. Farewell.

AN

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

TO PERSWADE HIM TO THE WARRES.

WAKE, friend, from forth thy lethargie: the drum
Beats brave, and loude in Europe, and bids come
All that dare rowse: or are not loth to quit
Their vitious ease, and be 'rewhelm'd with it.

It is a call to keepe the spirits alive,
That gaspe for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried honour, in his sleepie life:
Quickning dead nature, to her noblest strife.
All other acts of worldlings are but toyle
In dreames, begun in hope, and end in spoile.
Looke on th' ambitious man, and see him nurse,
His unjust hopes, with praises begg'd, or (worse)
Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse,
Till he become both their, and his owne curse!
Looke on the false and cunning man, that loves
No person, nor is lov'd; what wayes he proves
To gaine upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the snakie brakes, that he had past!
See, the grave, sower, and supercilious sir
In outward face, but inward, light as furre,
Or feathers, lay his fortune out to show,
Till envie wound, or maime it at a blow!
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest man,
Honour'd at once, and envi'd (if it can

Be honour is so mixt) by such as would,
For all their spight, be like him if they could:
No part or corner man can looke upon,
But there are objects bid him to be gone
As farre as he can flie, or follow day,
Rather then here so bogg'd in vices stay:
The whole world here leaven'd with madnesse swells;
And being a thing blowne out of nought, rebells
Against his Maker; high alone with weeds,
And impious ranknesse of all sects and seeds:
Not to be checkt, or frighted now with fate,
But more licentious made, and desperate!
Our delicacies are growne capital,

And even our sports are dangers! what we call
Friendship is now mask'd hatred! justice fled,
And shamefastnesse together! all lawes dead
That kept man living! pleasures only sought!
Honour and honestie, as poore things thought
As they are made! pride and stiffe clownage mixt
To make up greatnesse! and man's whole good fix'd
In bravery, in gluttony, or coyne,

All which he makes the servants of the groine,
Thither it flowes: how much did Stallion spend
To have his court-bred-fillie there commend
His lace and starch; and fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the rack
Of lust, to his rich suit, and title, lord?

I, that's a charme and halfe! she must afford
That all respect; she must lie downe: nay more
'Tis there civilitie to be a whore;

He's one of blood, and fashion! and with these
The bravery makes, she can no honour leese:
To do't with cloth, or stuffes,lust's name might merit;
With velvet, plush, and tissues, it is spirit.

O, these so ignorant monsters! light, as proud,
Who can behold their manners, and not clowd-
Like upon them lighten? If nature could
Not make a verse; anger or laughter would,
To see 'hem aye discoursing with their glasse,
How they may make some one that day an asse,
Planting their purles, and curles spread forth like net,
And every dressing for a pitfall set

To catch the flesh in, and to pound a
Be at their visits, see 'hem squamish, sick,
Ready to cast, at one, whose band sits ill,
And then leape mad on a neat pickardill;
As if a brize were gotten i' their tayle,
And firke, and jerke, and for the coach-man raile,
And jealous of each other, yet thinke long
To be abroad chanting some baudie song,

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