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TO THE SMALL POXL.
So may the king proclaime your conscience is Against a multitude; and (with thy stile [while.
Thy hearers nectar, and thy clients balme,
Thy sincere practise breeds not thee a fame
Alone, but all thy ranke a reverend name.
Envious and foule disease, could there not be
One beautie in an age, and free from thee? Who thus long safe, would gaine upon the times
What did she worth thy spight? were there not store A right by the prosperitie of their crimes;
Of those that set by their false faces more Who, though their guilt and perjurie they know,
Then this did by her true ? she never sought Thinke, yea and boast, that they have done it so
Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought As, though the court pursues them on the sent,
Art her false servant; nor, for sir Hugh Plot, They will come of, and scape the punishment: Was drawne to practise other hue, then that When this appeares, just lord, to your sharp sight, Her owne bloud gave her: she ne’re had, nor hath He does you wrong, that craves you to doe right.
Any beliefe, in madam Baud-bee's bath,
What was the cause then ? thought'st thou, in dis-
[grace That Heaven should make no more; or should amisse,
Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this?
I, that thy ayme was; but her fate prevail'd:
What beautie would have lovely stilde,
What manners prettie, nature milde, Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife, What wonder perfect, all were fild Hook-handed harpies, gowned vultures, put
Upon record in this blest child. Upon the reverend pleaders; doe now shut
And, till the comming of the soule
To fetch the flesh, we keepe the roll.
Come, let us here enjoy the shade,
For love in shadow best is made.
Yet he himselfe is but a sparke.
A sparke to set whole world a-fire,
And have their being, their waste to see;
And waste still, that they still might be,
And fills my powers with perswading joy, Such are his powers, whom time hath stild,
That you should be too noble to destroy. Now swift, now slow, now tame, now wild;
There may some face or menace of a storme Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild ;
Looke forth, but cannot last in such a forme. The eldest god, yet still a child.
If there be nothing worthy you can see
God, and the good, know to forgive, and save;
The ignorant, and fooles, po pittie have.
I will nor stand to justifie my fault, Sir, I am thankfull, first to Heaven, for you; Or lay the excuse upon the vintner's rault; Next to your selfe, for making your love true: Or in confessing of the crime be nice, Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due. Or goe about to countenance the vice,
By naming in what companie 'twas in, You have unto my store added a booke,
As I would urge authoritie for sione. On which with profit I shall never looke,
No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be But must confesse from whom what gift I tooke, The subject of your grace in pardoning me,
And (stild your mercie's creature) will live more Not like your countrie-neighbours, that commit Your bonour now, then your disgrace before. Their vice of loving for a Christmasse fit;
Thinke it was frailtie, mistris, thinke me man, Which is indeed but friendship of the spit : Thinkethat your selfe, like Heaven, forgive me cas:
Where weaknesse doth offend, and vertue griere, But, as a friend, which name your selfe receave, There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve. And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave Thinke that I once was yours, or may be now, In letters, that mixe spirits, thus to weave.
Nothing is vile, that is a part of you:
Errour and folly in me may have crost Which, how most sacred I will ever keepe, Your just commands; yet those, not I, be lust. So may the fruitfull yine my temples steepe, I am regenerate now, become the child And Fame wake for me, when I yeeld to sleepe. Of your compassion; parents should be mild:
There is no father that for one demerit, Though you sometimes proclaime me too severe, Or two, or three, a sonne will dis-inherit, Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere
That is the last of punishments is meant; In friendship, I confesse: but deare friend, heare. No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent :
An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile) Little know they, that professe amitie,
We cut not off, till all cures else doe faile: And seeke to scant her comelie libertie,
And then with pause; for serer'd once, that's gone, How much they lame her in her propertie.
Would live his glory, that could keepe it on.
Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust And lesse they know, who being free to use Before you prove a medicine, is unjust : That friendship which no chance but love did chuse, You may so place me, and in such an ayre, Will unto licence that faire leave abuse.
As not alone the cure, but scarre be faire.
That is, if still your favours you apply, It is an act of tyrannie, not love,
And not the bounties you ha' done, deny In practiz'd friendship wholly to reprove,
Could you demand the gifts you
gave, againe! As flatt'ry, with friends' humours still to move. Why wasit? did e're the cloudesaske back their raine?
The Sunne his heat and light? the ayre his des From cach of which I labour to be free,
Or winds the spirit, by which the flower so grew ? Yet if with either's vice 1 tegnted be,
That were to witber all, aud make a grave Forgive it, as my frailtie, and not me.
Of that wise Nature would a cradle have?
Her order is to cherish, and preserve, For no man lives so out of passion's sway, Consumption's nature to destroy, and sterve. Bat shall sometimes be tempted to obey
But to exact againe what once is given,
Is nature's meere obliquitie! as Heaven
God lightenis not at man's each fraile offence,
He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,
And then his thunder frights more then it kills. "Tis true, I'm broke! vowes, oathes, and all I had He cannot angrie be, but all must quake, Of credit lost. And I am now run madde:
It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill;
And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill.' In a calme skie; then when the heaven is horld It is a darknesse hath blockt up my sense,
About in cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather, And drives it in to eat on my offence,
As all with storme and tempest ran together. Or there to sterve it. Helpe, O you that may O imitate that sweet serenitie Alone lend succours, and this furie staya x v odlo That makes us live, not that which calls to die. Offended inistris, you are yet so faire,
vanduo In darke and sullen mornes, doe we not say, As light breakes from you, that affrights despairé, This looketh like an execution day?
And with the vulgar doth it not obtaine
0, I prophane ! though most of women be The name of cruell weather, storme, and raine ? The common monster, love shall except thee, Be not affected with these markes too much My dearest love, how ever jealousie, Of crueltie, lest they doe make you such.
With circumstance might urge the contrarie. Bat view the mildnesse of your Maker's state, Sooner Ple thinke the Sunne would cease to chenre As I the penitent's here emulate:
The teeming Earth, and that forget to beare; He, when he sees a sorrow such as this,
Sooner that rivers would run back, or Thames Streight puts off all his anger, and doth kisse With ribs of ice in June would bind his streames: The contrite soule, who hath no thought to win Or Nature, by whose strength the world indures, Upon the hope to have another sin
Would change her course, before you alter yours: Forgiven him; and in that lyme stand I,
But, O, that trecherous breast, to whom weake you Rather then once displease you more, to die, Did trust our counsells, and we both may rue, To suffer tortures, scorne, and'infamie,
Having his falshood found too late ! 'twas he What fooles, and all their parasites can apply; That made me cast you guiltie, and you me. The wit of ale, and genius of the malt
Whilst be, black wretch, betray'd each simple word Can pumpe for; or a libell without salt
We spake, unto the comming of a third ! Produce; though třreatning with a coale, or chalke Curst may he be that so our love hath slaine, On every wall, and sung where e're I walke. And wander wretched on the Earth, as Cajn. I number these as being of the chore
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pittie; Of contumelie, and urge a good man more In plaguing him let miserie be wittie; Then sword, or fire, or what is of the race
Let all eyes shuo him, and he shun each eye, To carry noble danger in the face:
Till he be noysome as his infamie; There is not any punishment, or paine,
May he without remorse deny God thrice, A man should Aie from, as he would disdaine. And not be trusted more on bis soule's price; Then, mistris, here, here let your rigour end, And after all selfe-torment, when he dyes, And let your mercie make me asham'd ť offend. May wolves teare out his heart, vultures his eyes, I will no more abuse my vowes to you,
Swyne eat his bowels, and his falser tongue, Then I will studie falshood, to be true.
That utter'd all, be to some raven Aung; O, that you could but by dissection see
And let his carrion corse be a longer feast How much you are the better part of me; To the king's dogs, then any other beast. How all my fibres by your spirit doe move, Now I have curst, let us our love receive; And that there is no life in me, but love.
In me the fame was never more alive. You would be then most confident, that tho' I could begin agajue to court and praise, Publike affaires command me now to goe
And in that pleasure lengthen the short dayes Out of your eyes, and be awhile away;
Of my life's lease; like painters that doe take Absence, or distance, shall not breed decay. Delight, not in made workes, but whilst they make. Your forme shines here, here, fixed in my heart; I could renew those times, when first I saw 1 may dilate my selfe, but not depart.
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law 5 Others by common stars their courses run,
To like what you lik'd, and at masques, or playes, When I see you, then I doe see my sun,
Commend the selfe-same actors, the same wayes;
Of being officious, grow impertinent;
Which to defend, is harder then to get;
And ought not be prophan'd on either part,
For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art. To make the doubt cleare, that no woman's true, Was it my fate to prove it full in you? Thought I but one had breath'd the purer ayre, And must she needs be false, because she's faire? Is it your beautie's marke, or of your youth,
AN ELEGIE. Or your perfection, not to studie truth? Or thinke you Heaven is deafe? or hath no eyes ? Taat love's a bitter sweet, I ne’re conceive, Or those it has, winke at your perjuries ?
Till the sower minute comes of taking leave, Are vowes so cheape with women or the matter And then I taste it. But as men drinke up Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water, In haste the bottome of a med’cin'd cup, Ånd blowne away with wind ? or doth their breath, and take some sirrup after; so doe I, Both hot and cold at once, threat life and death? To put all relish from my memorie Who could have thought so many accents sweet Of parting, drowne it in the hope to meet Tuo'd to var words, so many sighes should meet Shortly againe, and make our absence sweet. Blowne from our hearts, so many oathes and teares This makes me, mistris, that sometime by stealth Sprinkled among, all sweeter by our feares, Under another name, I take your health ; And the devine impression of stolne kisses, And turne the ceremonies of those nights That seal'd the rest, could now prove emptie blisses? I give, or owe my friends, into your rites, Did you draw bonds to forfeit signe, to breake? But ever without blazon, or least shade Or must we read you quite from what you speake, Of vowes so sacred, and in silence made; And find the truth out the wrong way? or must For though love thrive, and may grow up with cheare, He first desire you false, would wish you just ? And free societie, he's borri else-where,
And must be bred, so to conceale his birth, Who shall forbid me then in rithme to be
As light and active as the youngest he
His lynes, and hourely sits the poet's horse.
Put on any ivy garland, let me see And turning all he toucheth into pelfe,
Who frownes, who jealous is, who taxeth me. Keepe in reserv'd in his dark-lanterne face, Fathers, and husbands, I doe claime a right As if that ex'lent dulnesse were love's grace;
In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight No, mistris, no, the open merrie man
Sooner then my affection from the faire. Moves like a sprightly river, and yet can
No face, no hand, proportion, line, or ayre Keepe secret in his channels what he breedes, Of beautie, but the Muse hath interest in : 'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weedes. There is not worne that lace, purle, knot or pin
, They looke at best like creame-bowles, and you soone But is the poët's matter : and he must, Shall find their depth: they 're sounded with a When he is furious, love, although not last. spoone.
But then content, your daughters and your wives They maysay grace, and for Love's chaplaines passe; (If they be faire and worth it) have their lives But the grave lover ever was an asse;
Made longer by our praises : or, if not, Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come
Wish you had fowle ones, and deformed got; Out with the other, for he's still at home;
Curst in their cradles, or there chang'd by elves, Like the dull wearied crane that (come on land)
So to be sure you doe enjoy your selves. Doth while he keepes his watch, betray his stand: Yet keepe those up in sackcloth too, or lether, Where he that knowes will like a lapwing fie
Por silke will draw some sneaking songster thither. Farre from the nest, and so himselfo belie
It is a ryming age and verses swarme To others, as be will deserve the trust
At every stall: the cittie cap's a charme. Due to that one, that doth believe him just.
But I who live, and have liv'd twentie yeare And such your servant is, who vowes to keepe
Where I may bandle silke, as free, and deere, The jewell of your name, as close as sleepe As any mercer, or the whale-bone man Can lock the sense up, or the beart a thought, That quilts those bodice I have leave to span ; And never be by time, or folly brought,
Have eaten with the beauties, and the wits, Weaknesse of braine, or any charme of wine,
And braveries of court, and felt their fits The sinne of boast, or other countermine,
Of love, and bate; and came so nigh to knom (Made to blow up love's secrets) to discover Whether their faces were their owne, or do: That article, may not become our lover :
It is not likely I sbould now looke downe Which in assurance to your brest I tell,
Upon a velvet petticote, or a gowne,
Whose like I'ave knowne the taylor's wife put
Being, the best clothes still to preoccupie.
Put a coach-mare in tissue, must I horse
Her presently? or leape thy wife of force, Since you must goe, and I must bid farewell,
When by thy sordid bountie she hath on Heare, mjstris, your departing servant tell
A gowne of that, was the caparison? What it is like: and doe not thinke they can
So I might dote upon thy chaires and stooles Be idle words, though of a parting man;
That are like cloath'd. Must I be of those fooles It is as if a night should shade noone-day,
Of race accompted, that no passion have Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away; But when thy wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave? And we were left under that hemisphere,
Then ope thy wardrobe, thinkeme that poore groome Where we must feele it darke for balfe a yeare.
That from the foot-man, when he was become What fate is this, to change men's dayes and houres, An officer there, did make most solemne love To shift their seasons, and destroy their powers !
To ev'ry petticote he brush'd, and glove Alas I ha’ lost my heat, my blood, my prime,
He did lay up, and would adore the shoe, Winter is come a quarter e're his time;
Or slipper was left off, and kisse it too, My health will leave me ; and when you depart,
Court every hanging gowne, and after that, How shall I doe, sweet mistris, for my heart?
Lift up some one, and doe, I tell not what. You would restore it? no, that's worth a feare,
Thou didst tell me, and wert o're-joy'd to peepe - As if it were not worthy to be there:
In at a hole, and see these actions creepe (prose, O, keepe it still; for it bad rather be
From the poore wretch, which though he play'd in Your sacrifice, then here remaine with me. He would have done in verse, with any of those And so I spare it, come what can become
Wrung on the withers by lord Love's despight, Of me, I'le softly tread upon my tombe;
Had he had the facultie to reade, and write! Or like a ghost walke silent amongst men,
Such songsters there are store of; witnesse be
That chanc'd the lace laid on a smock to see,
That (in pure madrigall) unto his mother
Commended the French hood and scarlet goede
The lady mayresse pass'd in through the town, Let me be what I am, as Virgil cold,
Unto the Spittle sermon. 0, what strange As Horace fat, or as Anacreon old;
Varietie of silkes were on th’ Exchange! No poet's verses yet did ever move,
Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one: Whose readers did not thinke he was in love. Another answers, 'Lasse those silkes are none,
i smiling L'envoye, as he would deride
Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece, ny comparison had with his Cheap-side.
To light tobacco, or save roasted geese, ind vouches both the pageant, and the day, Sindge capons, or poore pigges, dropping their cyes; Vhen not the shops, but windowes doe display Condemnu'd me to the oveas with the pies; 'he stuffes, the velvets, plushes, fringes, lace, And so, have kept me dying a whole age, od all the originall riots of the place:
Not ravish'd all hence in a minute's rage. et the poore fooles enjoy their follies, love But that's a marke, whereof thy rites doe boast,
goat in velvet; or some block could move To make consumption, ever where thou go'st; Inder that cover; an old mid-wive's hat!
Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire Ir a close-stvole so cas'd ;, or any fat
T have held a triumph, or a feast of fire, awd in a velvet scabberd ! I envy
Especially in paper; that that steame lone of their pleasures! nor will ask thee, why Had tickled your large nosthrill: many a reame hou 'rt jealous of thy wife's, or daughter's case: To redeeme mine, I had sent in enough, (stuffe. fore then of either's manners, wit, or face!
Thou should'st have cry'd, and all beene proper
Oferrantknight-hood, with the dames, and dwarfes; AN EXECRATION UPON VULCAN. The charmed boates, and the enchanted wharfes,
The Tristrams, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peers, Ind why to me this, thou lame lord of fire, All the madde Rolands, and sweet Oliveers; Vhat had I Jone that might call on thine ire? To Merlin's marrailes, and his Caball's losse, fr urge thy greedje flame, thus to devoure
With the chimæra of the Rosie-crosse, o many my yeares-labours in an houre?
Their seales, their characters, hermetique rings, ne're attempted, Vulcan, 'gainst thy life; Their jemme of riches, and bright stone, that brings for made least line of love to thy loose wife; Invisibilitie, and strength, and tongues; !r in remembrance of thy afront, and scorne, The art of kindling the true coale by laugs; Vith clownes, and tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in With Nicholas Pasquill's Meddle with your match, horne.
And the strong lines, that so the time doe catch, I'was Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong downe, Or captaine Pamplet's horse and foot, that sallie .nd Mars that gave thee a lanthorne for a crowne: Upon th’ Exchange, still out of Pope's-head-alley. Vas it because thou wert of old denied
The weekly. Corrants, with Paul's Seale; and all iy Jove to have Minerva for thy bride,
Th' admir'd discourses of the prophet Ball: hat since thou tak'st all envious care and paine, These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine or sup, o ruine any issue of the braine?
Had made a meale for Vulcan to lick up. lad I wrote treason there, or heresie,
But in my deske, what was there to accite mposture, witchcraft, charmes, or blasphemie, So ravenous, and vast an appetite?
bad deserv'd then thy consuming lookes, I dare not say a body, but some parts
And lighted by the Stagerite, could spie, Conceal’d, or kept there, that was fit to be, Was there mad English: with the grammar too, By thy owne vote, a sacrifice to thee?
To teach some that, their nurses could not doe, Did I there wound the honours of the crowne? The puritie of language; and among Or taxe the glories of the church, and gowne? The rest, my journey into Scotland song, Itch to defame the state ? or brand the times? With all th' adventures; three bookes not afraid And my selfe most, in some selfe-boasting rimes? To speake the fate of the Sicilian maid If none of these, then why this fire? or find To our owne ladyes; and in storie there A cause before; or leave me one behind.
Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine yeare; Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule,
Wherein was oyle, beside the succour spent, Th' Esplandians, Arthurs, Palmerins, and all Which noble Carew, Cotton, Selden Jent: The learned librarie of Don Quixote;
And twice-twelve years stor'd up humanitie,
With humble gleanings in divinitie,
Whom faction had not drawne to studie sides. Or pump'd for those hard trifes anagrams, How in these ruines Vulcan, thou dost lurke, Or eteostichs, or those finer flammes
All soote, and embers! odious, as thy worke! Of egges, and halberds, cradles, and a herse, I now begin to doubt, if ever grace, A paire of scisars, and a combe in verse;
Or goddesse, could be patient of thy face. Acrostichs, and telestichs, on jumpe names, Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire ! Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames, 'Cause thou canst halt with us in arts, and fire! On such my serious follies: but, thou 'lt say,
Sonne of the wind! for so thy mother, gone There were some pieces of as base allay,
With lust, conceiv'd thee; father thou hadst none, And as false stampe there ; parcels of a play, When thou wert born, and that thou look’st at best, Fitter to see the fire-light, then the day;
She durst not kisse, but fung thee from her brest. Adulterate moneys, such as might not gue: ånd so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his cup : Thou should'st have stay'd, till publike fame said so. No marle the clownes of Lemnos tooke thee up; She is the judge, thou executioner;
For none but smiths would have made thee a god. Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her power, Some alchimist there may be yet, or odde Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy crueltie Squire of the squibs, against the pageant day, With some more thrift, and more varietie : May to thy name a Vulcanale say;