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And for it lose his eyes with gan-powder,
As th' other may his braines with quicksilver.
Well-fare the wise-men yet, on the Banckside,
My friends, the watermen! they could provide
Against thy furie, when, to serve their needs,
They made a Vulcan of a sheafe of reedes,
Whom they durst handle in their holy-day coates,
And safely trust to dresse, not burne their boates.
But, O those reeds! thy meere disdaine of them,
Made thee beget that cruell stratagem, [pranck)
(Which, some are pleas'd to stile but thy madde
Against the Globe, the glory of the Banke:
Which, though it were the fort of the whole parish,
Flanck'd with a ditch, and forc'd out of a marish,
I saw with two poore chambers taken in [beene!
And raz'd; e're thought could urge, this might have
See the world's ruines! nothing but the piles
Left! and wit since to cover it with tiles.
The brethren, they streight nois'd it out for newes,
"T was verily some relique of the stewes;
And this a sparkle of that fire let loose
That was lock'd up in the Winchestrian goose,
Bred on the Banck in time of poperie,
When Venus there maintain'd her misterie.
But others fell, with that conceipt, by the eares,
And cry'd, it was a threatning to the beares;
And that accursed ground, the Paris-Garden:
Nay, sigh'd a sister, 't was the nun, Kate Arden
Kindled the fire; but, then did one returne,
No foole would his owne harvest spoile, or burne!
If that were so, thou rather would'st advance
The place, that was thy wive's inheritance.
O no, cry'd all.. Fortune, for being a whore,
Scap'd not his justice any jot the more:
He burnt that idoll of the revels too:
Nay, let White-Hall with revels have to doe,
Though but in daunces, it shall know his power;
There was a judgement shown too in an houre.
He is true Vulcan still! he did not spare
Troy, though it were so much his Venus' care.
Foole, wilt thou let that in example come?
Did not she save from thence, to build a Rome?
'And what hast thou done in these pettie spights,
More then advanc'd the houses, and their rites ?
I will not argue thee, from those of guilt,
For they were burnt, but to be better built.
T is true, that in thy wish they were destroy'd,
Which thou hast only vented, not enjoy'd.

So would'st th' have run upon the Rolls by stealth,
And didst invade part of the common-wealth,
In those records, which, were all chronicles gone,
Will be remembred by six clerkes, to one.
But say all six, good men, what answer yee?
Lyes there no writ, out of the Chancerie
Against this Vulcan? po injunction?
No order? no decree? though we be gone
At common-law, me thinkes in his despight
Á court of equitie should doe us right.
But to confine him to the brew-houses,
The glasse-house, dye-fats, and their fornaces;
To live in sea-coale, and goe forth in smoake;
Or lest that vapour might the citie choake,
Condemne him to the brick-kills, or some hill-
Foot (out in Sussex) to an iron mill;
Or in small fagots have him blaze about
Vile tavernes, and the drunkards pisse him out;
Or in the bell-man's lanthorne, like a spie,
Burne to a snuffe, and then stinke out, and die:
I could invent a sentence, yet were worse;
But I'le conclude all in a civill curse.

Pox on your flameship, Vulcan; if it be
To all as fatall as 't hath beene to me,
And to Paul's steeple; which was unto us
'Bove all your fire-workes had at Ephesus,
Or Alexandria; and though a divine
Losse, remaines yet, as unrepair'd as mine.
Would you had kept your forge at Ætna still,
And there made swords, bills, glaves, and armes
your fill.

Maintain'd the trade at Bilbo; or else-where;
Strooke in at Millan with the cutlers there;
Or stay'd but where the fryar and you first met,
Who from the Devil's arse did guns beget,
Or fixt in the Low-Countreys, where you might
On both sides doe your mischiefes with delight;
Blow up, and ruine, myne, and countermyne,
Make your petards, and granats, all your fine
Engines of murder, and receive the praise
Of massacring man-kind so many wayes.
We aske your absence here, we all love peace,
And pray the fruites thereof, and the increase;
So doth the king, and most of the king's men
That have good places: therefore once agen,
Pox on thee Vulcan, thy Pandora's pox,
And all the evils that flew out her box
Light on thee: or if those plagues will not doo,
Thy wive's pox on thee, and B. B's too.

SPEACH ACCORDING TO HORACE.
WHY yet, my noble hearts, they cannot say,
But we have powder still for the king's day,
And ord'nance too: so much as from the tower
T' have wak'd, if sleeping, Spaine's ambassadeur,
Old Æsope Gundomar: the French can tell,
For they did see it the last tilting well,
That we have trumpets, armour, and great horse,
Lances, and men, and some a breaking force.
They saw too store of feathers, and more may,
If they stay here but till Saint George's day.
All ensignes of a warre, are not yet dead,
Nor markes of wealth so from our nation fled,
But they may see gold-chaines, and pearle wome
then,

Lent by the London dames, to the lords men;
Withall, the dirtie paines those citizens take
To see the pride at court, their wives doe make:
And the returne those thankfull courtiers yeeld
To have their husbands drawne forth to the field,
And comming home, to tell what acts were done
Under the auspice of young Swynnerton.
What a strong fort old Pimblicoe had beene!
How it held out! how (last) 't was taken in!
Well, I say thrive, thrive brave artillerie yard,
Thou seed-plot of the warre, that hast not spar'd
Powder, or paper, to bring up the youth
Of London, in the militarie truth,

These ten yeares day; as all may sweare that looke
But on thy practise, and the posture booke:
He that but saw thy curious captaines drill,
Would thinke no more of Vlushing, or the Brill:

But give them over to the common eare,
For that unnecessarie charge they were.
Well did thy craftie clerke, and knight, sir Hugh,
Supplant bold Panton; and brought there to view
Translated Ælian's tactickes to be read,

And the Greeke discipline (with the moderne) shed

So, in that ground, as soone it grew to be
The cittie-question, whether Tilly, or he,
Were now the greater captaine? for they saw
The Berghen siege, and taking in Breda,
So acted to the life, as Maurice might,
And Spinola have blushed at the sight.
O happie art! and wise epitome

Of bearing armes ! most civill soldierie !
Thou canst draw forth thy forces, and fight drie
The battells of thy aldermanitie;
Without the hazard of a drop of blood:
More then the surfets in thee that day stood.
Goe on, increast in vertue and in fame,
And keepe the glorie of the English name
Up among nations. In the stead of bold
Beauchamps, and Nevills, Cliffords, Audleys old;
Insert tby Hodges', and those newer men,
As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen:
That keepe the warre, though now 't be growne

more tame,

Alive yet, in the noise, and still the same,
And could (if our great men would let their sonnes
Come to their schooles) show 'hem the use of guns;
And there instruct the noble English heires
In politique, and militar affaires;

But he that should perswade, to have this done
For education of our lordings, soone
Should he heare of billow, wind, and storme,
From the tempestuous grandlings, who 'll informe
Us, in our bearing, that are thus, and thus,
Borne, bred, allied? what 's he dare tutor us?
Are we by booke-wormes to be awde? must we
Live by their scale, that dare doe nothing free?
Why are we rich, or great, except to show
All licence in our lives? what need we know?
More then to praise a dog? or horse? or speake
The hawking language? or our day to breake
With citizens? let clownes and tradesmen breed
Their sonnes to studie arts, the lawes, the creed:
We will beleeve like men of our owne ranke,
In so much land a yeare, or such a banke,
That turnes us so much moneys, at which rate
Our ancestors impos'd on prince and state.
Let poore nobilitie be vertuous: we,
Descended in a rope of titles, be

From Guy, or Bevis, Arthur, or from whom
The herald will. Our blood is now become
Past any need of vertue. Let them care,
That in the cradle of their gentrie are,
To serve the state by councels, and by armes:
We neither love the troubles, nor the harmes.
What love you then? your whore? what study?
Carriage, and dressing. There is up of late [gaite,
The academie, where the gallants meet-
What, to make legs? yes, and to smell most sweet,
All that they doe at playes. O, but first here
They learne and studie; and then practise there.
But why are all these irons i' the fire

Of severall makings? helps, helps, t' attire
His lordship. That is for his band, his haire
This, and that box his beautie to repaire;
This other for his eye-browes: hence, away,
I may no longer on these pictures stay,
These carkasses of honour: taylors' blocks,
Cover'd with tissue, whose prosperitie mocks
The fate of things: whilst totter'd vertue holds
Her broken armes up, to their emptie moulds.

I Waller.

AN EPISTLE.

TO MASTER ARTH. SQUIB.

WHAT I am not, and what I faine would be, Whilst I informe my selfe, I would teach thee, My gentle Arthur; that it might be said One lesson we have both learn'd, and well read; I neither am, nor art thou one of those That hearkens to a jack's pulse, when it goes. Nor ever trusted to that friendship yet Was issue of the taverne, or the spit: Much lesse a name would we bring up, or nurse, That could but claime a kindred from the purse. Those are poore ties depend on those false ends, 'Tis vertue alone, or nothing, that knits friends: And as within your office, you doe take No piece of money, but you know, or make First weigh a friend, then touch, and trie him too: Inquirie of the worth: so must we doe, For there are many slips, and counterfeits. Deceit is fruitfull. Men have masques and nets, But these with wearing will themselves unfold: They cannot last. No lie grew ever old, Turne him, and see his threds: looke, if he be Friend to himselfe, that would be friend to thee. For that is first requir'd, a man be his owne: But he that's too-much that, is friend of none. Then rest, and a friend's value understand It is a richer purchase then of land.

AN EPIGRAM

ON SIR EDWARD COKE,

WHEN HE WAS LORD CHIEFE IUSTICE OF ENGLAND. He that should search all glories of the gowne, And steps of all rais'd servants of the crowne, He could not find then thee, of all that store, Whom fortune aided lesse, or vertue more, Such, Coke, were thy beginnings, when thy good In others' évill best was understood: [aide, When, being the stranger's helpe, the poore man Thy just defences made th' oppressor afraid. Such was thy processe, when integritie, And skill in thee, now grew authoritie; That clients strove, in question of the lawes, More for thy patronage, then for their cause, And that thy strong and manly eloquence Stood up thy nation's fame, her crowne's defence; And now such is thy stand, while thou dost deale Desired justice to the publique weale Like Solon's selfe; explat'st the knottie lawes With endlesse labours, whilst thy learning drawes No lesse of praise, then readers in all kinds Of worthiest knowledge, that can take men's minds. Such is thy all; that (as I'sung before) None fortune aided lesse, or vertue more. Or if chance must to each man that doth rise Needs lend an aide, to thine she had her eyes.

AN EPISTLE

ANSWERING TO ONE THAT ASKED TO BE SEALED OF THE
TRIBE OF BEN.

MEN that are safe, and sure, in all they doe,
Care not what trials they are put unto;
They meet the fire, the test, as martyrs would;
And though opinion stampe them not, are gold.

480

JONSON'S POEMS.

I could say more of such, but that I flie
To speake my selfe out too ambitiously,
And showing so weake an act to vulgar eyes,
Put conscience and my right to comprimise.
Let those that meerely talke, and never thinke,
That live in the wild anarchie of drinke,
Subject to quarrell only; or else such

As make it their proficiencie, how much

They 'ave glutted in, and letcher'd out that weeke,
That never yet did friend, or friendship seeke
But for a sealing: let these men protest.
Or th' other on their borders, that will jest
On all soules that are absent; even the dead,
Like flies, or wormes, which man's corrupt parts fed:
That to speake well, thinke it above all sinne,
Of any companie but that they are in,
Call every night to supper in these fitts,
And are receiv'd for the covey of witts;
That censure all the towne, and all th' affaires,
And know whose ignorance is more then theirs ;
Let these men have their wayes, and take their times
To vent their libels, and to issue rimes,

I have no portion in them, nor their deale
Of newes they get, to strew out the long meale ;
I studie other friendships, and more one,
Then these can ever be; or else wish none.
What is 't to me, whether the French designe
Be, or be not, to get the Val-telline?

Or the state's ships sent forth belike to meet
Some hopes of Spaine in their West-Indian fleet ?
Whether the dispensation yet be sent,

Or that the match from Spaine was ever meant?
I wish all well, and pray high Heaven conspire
My prince's safetie, and my king's desire;
But if for honour we must draw the sword,
And force back that, which will not be restor❜d,
I have a body yet, that spirit drawes
To live, or fall, a carkasse in the cause.
So farre without inquirie what the states,
Brunsfield, and Mansfield doe this yeare, my fates
Shall carry me at call; and I'le be well,
Though I doe neither heare these newes, nor tell
Of Spaine or France; or were not prick'd downe one
Of the late mysterie of reception,

Although my fame, to his, not under-heares,
That guides the motions, and directs the beares.
But that's a blow, by which in time I may
Lose all my credit with my Christmas clay,
And animated porc'lane of the court,
I, and for this neglect, the courser sort
Of earthen jarres there may molest me too:
Well, with mine owne fraile pitcher what to doe
I have decreed; keepe it from waves, and presse;
Lest it be justled, crack'd, made nought, or lesse :
Live to that point I will, for which I am man,
And dwell as in my center as I can,
Still looking to, and ever loving Heaven;
With reverence using all the gifts thence given.
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent
Such as are square, wel-tagde, and permanent,
Not built with canvasse, paper, and false lights,
As are the glorious scenes at the great sights;
And that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds,
Oylie expansions, or shrunke durtie folds,
But all so cleare, and led by reason's flame,
As but to stumble in her sight were shame.
These I will honour, love, embrace, and serve :
And free it from all question to preserve.
So short you read my character, and theirs
I would call mine, to which not many staires

Are asked to climbe. First give me faith, who know
My selfe a little. I will take you so,

As you have writ your selfe. Now stand, and them
Sir, you are sealed of the tribe of Ben.

THE DEDICATION

OF THE KING'S NEW CELLAR.

TO BACCHUS.

SINCE, Bacchus, thou art father
Of wines, to thee the rather
We dedicate this cellar,

Where new, thou art made dweller;
And seale thee thy commission:
But 't is with a condition,
That thou remaine here taster
Of all to the great master.
And looke unto their faces,
Their qualities, and races,
That both their odour take him,
And relish merry make him.

For, Bacchus, thou art freer
Of cares, and over-seer
Of feast, and merry meeting,
And still begin'st the greeting:
See then thou dost attend him,
Lyæus, and defend him,
By all the arts of gladnesse,
From any thought like sadnesse.

So mayst thou still be younger
Then Phoebus; and much stronger
To give mankind their eases,
And cure the world's diseases:

So may the Muses follow
Thee still, and leave Apollo
And thinke thy streame more quicker
Then Hippocrenes liquor:

And thou make many a poet,
Before his braine doe know it;
So may there never quarrell
Have issue from the barrell;
But Venus and the Graces
Pursue thee in all places,
And not a song be other
Then Cupid, and his mother.

That when king James above here
Shall feast it, thou maist love there
The causes and the guests too,
And have thy tales and jests too,
Thy circuits, and thy rounds free,
As shall the feast's faire grounds be.
Be it he hold communion
In great saint George's union;
Or gratulates the passage
Of some wel-wrought embassage:
Whereby he may knit sure up
The wished peace of Europe:
Or else a health advances,
To put bis court in dances,
And set us all on skipping,
When with his roy all shipping
The narrow seas are shadie,
And Charles brings home the ladie.

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AN EPIGRAM

ON THE COURT-PUCELL.

Does the Court-Pucell then so censure me,
And thinkes I dare not her? let the world see.
What though her chamber be the very pit
Where fight the prime cocks of the game, for wit?
And that as any are strooke, her breath creates
New in their stead, out of the candidates?
What though with tribade lust she force a Muse,
And in an epicone fury can write newes
Equall with that, which for the best newes goes,
As aërie light, and as like wit as those?
What though she talke, and can at once with them,
Make state, religion, bawdrie, all a theame.
And, as lip-thirstie, in each word's expense,
Doth labour with the phrase more then the sense?
What though she ride two mile on holy-dayes
To church, as others doe to feasts and playes,
To shew their tires? to view, and to be view'd?
What though she be with velvet gownes indu'd,
And spangled petticotes brought forth to eye,
As new rewards of her old secrecie!

What though she hath won on trust, as many doe,
And that her truster feares her? must I too?
I never stood for any place: my wit
Thinkes it selfe nought, though she should valew it.
I am no states-man, and much lesse divine
For bawdry, 't is her language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the idolatrie

To stuffes and laces, those my man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In contract twice; what can she perjure more?
Indeed, her dressing some man might delight,
Her face there 's none can like by candle light.
Not he, that should the body have, for case
To his poore instrument, now out of grace.
Shall I advise thee, Pucell? steale away [day;
From court, while yet thy fame hath some small
The wits will leave you, if they once perceive
You cling to lords; and lords, if them you leave
For sermoneeres; of which now, one, now other,
They say, you weekly invite with fits o' th' mother,
And practise for a miracle; take heed

This age would lend no faith to Dorrel's deed;
Or if it would, the court is the worst place,
Both for the mothers, and the babes of grace,
For there the wicked in the chaire of scorne,
Will call 't a bastard, when a prophet's borne.

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And though all praise bring nothing to your name,
Who (herein studying conscience, and not fame)
Are in your selfe rewarded; yet 't will be
A cheerefull worke to all good eyes, to see
Among the daily ruines that fall foule
Of state, of fame, of body, and of soule,
So great a vertue stand upright to view,
As makes Penelope's old fable true,
Whilst your Ulisses hath ta'ne leave to goe,
Countries and climes, manners and men to know.
Only your time you better entertaine,
Then the great Homer's wit for her could faine;
For you admit no companie but good,
And when you want those friends, or neere in blood,
Or your allies, you make your bookes your friends,
And studie them unto the noblest ends,
Searching for knowledge, and to keepe your mind
The same it was inspir'd, rich, and refin'd.
These graces, when the rest of ladyes view
Not boasted in your life, but practis'd true,
As they are hard for them to make their owne,
So are they profitable to be knowne :
For when they find so many meet in one,
It will be shame for them if they have none.

LORD BACON'S BIRTH-DAY.

HAILE happie Genius of this antient pile!
How comes it all things so about the smile?
The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst
Thou stand'st as if some mysterie thou did'st!
Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day
For whose returnes, and many, all these pray :
And so doe I. This is the sixtieth yeare
Since Bacon, and thy lord was born, and here;
Sonne to the grave wise keeper of the seale,
Fame and foundation of the English weale.
What then his father was, that since is he,
Now with a title more to the degree;
England's high chancellor: the destin'd heire
In his soft cradle to his father's chaire,
Whose even thred the Fates spinne round and full,
Out of their choysest, and their whitest wooll.

'T is a brave cause of joy, let it be knowne, For 't were a narrow gladnesse, kept thine owne. Give me a deep-crown'd-bowle, that I may sing In raysing him the wisdome of my king.

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THE wisdome, madam, of your private life,
Where with this while you live a widowed wife,
And the right wayes you take unto the right,
To conquer rumour, and triumph on spight;
Not only shunning by your act, to doe
Ought that is ill, but the suspition too,
Is of so brave example, as he were
No friend to vertue, could be silent here.
The rather when the vices of the time
Are growne so fruitfull, and false pleasures climbe
By all oblique degrees, that killing height [weight.
From whence they fall, cast downe with their owne
VOL. V.

A POEME

SENT ME BY SIR WILLIAM BURLASE.

THE PAINTER to the poet.

To paint thy worth, if rightly I did know it,
And were but painter halfe like thee a poët,
Ben, I would show it:

But in this skill, m' unskilfull pen will tire,
Thou, and thy worth, will still be found farre higher;
And I a lier.

Then, what a painter's here? or what an eater
Of great attempts! when as his skill's no greater,
And he a cheater?

I i

Then what a poet's here! whom, by confession Of all with me, to paint without digression There's no expression.

MY ANSWER.

THE POET TO THE PAINTER.

WHY? though I seeme of a prodigious wast,
I am not so voluminous and vast,

But there are lines wherewith I might b' embrac❜d.

'Tis true, as my wombe swells, so my backe stoupes, And the whole lumpe growes round, deform'd, and droupes,

But yet the tun at Heidelberg had houpes.

You were not tied by any painter's law
To square my circle, I confesse; but draw
My superficies: that was all you saw.

Which if in compasse of no art it came
To be described by a monogram,

With one great blot yo' had form'd me as I am.

But whilst you curious were to have it be
An archetipe for all the world to see,
You made it a brave piece, but not like me.

O, had I now your manner, maistry, might,
Your power of handling, shadow, ayre, and spright,
How I would draw, and take hold and delight.

But, you are he can paint; I can but write:
A poet hath no more but black and white,
Ne knowes he flatt'ring colours, or false light.

Yet when of friendship I would draw the face, A letter'd mind, and a large heart would place To all posteritie; I will write Burlase.

EPISTLE

TO MR. ARTHUR SQUIB.

I AM to dine, friend, where I must be weigh'd
For a just wager, and that wager paid
If I doe lose it: and, without a tale,

A merchant's wife is regent of the scale.
Who when she heard the match, concluded streight,
An ill commoditie! 't must make good weight.
So that upon the point my corporall feare
Is, she will play dame justice too severe;
And hold me to it close; to stand upright
Within the ballance, and not want a mite;
But rather with advantage to be found
Full twentie stone, of which I lack two pound:
That's six in silver; now within the socket
Stinketh my credit, if into the pocket

It doe not come: one piece I have in store,
Lend me, deare Arthur, for a weeke five more,
And you shall make me good, in weight, and fashion,
And then to be return'd; or protestation
To goe out after-till when take this letter
For your securitie. I can no better.

TO MR. JOHN BURGES. WOULD God, my Burges, I could thinke Thoughts worthy of thy gift, this inke, Then would I promise here to give

Verse that should thee and me out-live.
But since the wine hath steep'd my braine,
I only can the paper staine;

Yet with a dye that feares no moth,
But scarlet-like out-lasts the cloth.

AN EPIGRAM

TO WILLIAM, EARLE OF NEWCASTLE.

WHEN first, my lord, I saw you backe your horse,
Provoke his mettall, and command his force
To all the uses of the field and race,
Me thought I read the ancient art of Thrace,
And saw a centaure, past those tales of Greece,
So seem'd your horse and you both of a peece!
You show'd like Perseus upon Pegasus;
Or Castor mounted on his Cyllarus:
Or what we heare our home-borne legend tell
Of bold sir Bevis and his Arundell:
Nay, so your seate his beauties did endorse,
As I began to wish my selfe a horse;
And surely, had I but your stable seene
Before, I thinke my wish absolv'd had beene.
For never saw I yet the Muses dwell,
Nor any of their houshold halfe so well.
So well! as when I saw the floore and roome,
I look'd for Hercules to be the groome:
And cri'd, away with the Cæsarian bread,
At these immortall mangers Virgil fed.

EPISTLE

TO MY LADY COVELL.

You won not verses, madam, you won me,
When you would play so nobly, and so free.
A booke to a few lynes: but it was fit
You won them too, your oddes did merit it:
So have you gain'd a servant, and a Muse:
The first of which I feare you will refuse;
And you may justly, being a tardie, cold,
Unprofitable chattell, fat and old,
Laden with bellie, and doth hardly approach
His friends, but to breake chaires, or cracke a coach.
His weight is twenty stone within two pound;
And that's made up as doth the purse abound.
Marrie, the Muse is one can tread the aire,
And stroke the water, nimble, chast, and faire,
Sleepe in a virgin's bosome without feare,
Run all the rounds in a soft ladye's care,
Widow or wife, without the jealousie
Of either suitor, or a servant by.
Such (if her manners like you) I doe send,
And can for other graces her commend,
To make you merry on the dressing stoole
A mornings, and at afternoones to foole
Away ill company, and helpe in rime,
Your Joane to passe her melancholie time.

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