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By this, although you fancie not the man, To hit in angles, and to clash with time:
Accept his Muse; and tell, I know you can, As all defence, or offence were a chime !
How many verses, madam, are your due?

I hate such measur'd, give me mettall'd fire, I can lose none in tendring these to you.

That trembles in the blaze, but (then) mounts I gaine, in having leave to keepe my day,

higher! And should grow ricb, had I much more to pay. A quick, and dazeling motion! when a paire

Of bodies meet like rarified ayre!
Their weapons shot out with that flame and force,

As they out-did the lightning in the course;

This were a spectacle! a sight to draw

Wonder to valour! No, it is the law
FATHER, John Burges,

Of daring not to doe a wrong; 'tis true,
Necessitie urges

Valour to sleight it, being done to you!
My wofull crie,

To know the heads of danger! where 't is fit
To sir Robert Pie:

To bend, to breake, provoke, or suffer it!
And that he will venter

All this (my lord) is valour! this is yours !
To send my debentur.

And was your father's! all your ancestours'!
Tell him his Ben

Who durst live great, 'mongst all the colds, and Knew the time, when

heates He lov'd the Muses;

Of humane life! as all the frosts, and sweates Though pow be refuses,

Of fortune! when, or death appear'd, or bands !
To take apprehension

And valiant were, with or without their hands.
Of a yeare's pension,
And more is behind :
Put him in mind
Christmas is neere;

And neither good cheare,
Mirth, fooling, nor wit,

Nor any least fit
Of gambol, or sport,
Will come at the court;
If there be no money,

Ir, passenger, thou canst but reade,
No plover, or coney

Stay, drop a teare for him that 's dead:
Will come to the table,

Henry, the brave young lord La-ware,
Or wine to enable

Minerva's and the Muses' care!
The Muse, or the poet,

What could their care doe 'gainst the spight
The parish will know it.

Of a disease, that lov'd po light Nor any quick-warming-pan helpe him to bed,

Of honour, por no ayre of good;
If the 'chequer be emptie, so will be bis head.

But crept like darknesse through his blood,
Offended with the dazeling fame
Of vertue, got above his name?
No noble furniture of parts,

No love of action, and high arts,

No aime at glorie, or in warre,

Ambition to become a starre,

Could stop the malice of this ill,
Thou, friend, wilt heare all censures, unto thee That spread his body o're, to kill:
All mouthes are open, and all stomacks free: And only his great soule envy'd,
Be thou my booke's intelligencer, note

Because it durst have noblier dy'd.
What each man sayes of it, and of what coat
His judgement is; if he be wise, and praise,
Thanke him: if other, he can give no bayes.
If his wit reach no higher, but to spring

Thy wife a fit of laugher, a cramp-ring
Will be reward enough, to weare like those, That you have seene the pride, beheld the sport,
That hang their richest jewells i' their nose;" And all the games of fortune plaid at court;
Like a rung beare, or swine, grunting out wit View'd there the mercat, read the wretched rate
As if that part lay for a [ ] most fit!

At which there are would sell the prince and state, If they goe on, and that thou lov'st a-life

That scarce you heare a publike voyce alive, Their perfum'd judgements, let them kisse thy wife. But whisperd counsells, and those only thrive;

Yet are got off thence with cleare mind and hands
To lift to Heaven: who is 't not understands

Your happinesse, and doth not speake you blest,

To see you set apart thus from the rest,

T' obtaine of God what all the land should aske?

A nation's sinne got pardon'd! 't were a taske They talk of fencing, and the use of armes, Fit for a bishop's knees! O bow them oft, The art of urging, and avoyding harmes,

My lord, till felt griefe make our stone hearts soft, The noble science, and the maistring skill

And we doe weepe to water for our sinne. Of making just approaches how to kill:

He, that in such a flood as we are in


Of riot and consumption, knowes the way

When all your life's a president of dayes, To teach the people how to fast, and pray, And murmure cannot quarrell at your wayes? And doe their penance to avert God's rod,

How is she barren growne of love! or broke! He is the man, and favorite of God.

That nothing can her gratitude provoke!
O times! O manners! surfet bred of ease,
The truly epidemicall disease!

’T is not alone the merchant, but the clowne AN EPIGRAM

Is banke-rupt turn'd! the cassock, cloake, and gowne,
Are lost upon accompt! and none will know
How much to Heaven for thee, great Charles, they






Great Charles, among the holy gifts of grace
Annexed to thy person, and thy place,
'T is not enough (thy pietie is such)
To cure the callid king's evill with thy touch;
But thou wilt yet a kinglier mastrie trie,
To cure the poet's evill, povertie :
And, in these cures, do'st so thy selfe enlarge,
As thou dost cure our evill, at thy charge.
Nay, and in this, thou show'st to value more
One poet, then of other folke ten score.
O pietie! so to weigh the poores' estates !
O bountie! so to difference the rates !
What can the poet wish his king may doe,
But that he cure the people's evill too?

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And art thou borne, brave babe? blest be thy birth!
That so hath crown'd our hopes, our spring, and
The bed of the chast lilly, and the rose ! (earth,
What month then May, was fitter to disclose
This prince of flowers? soone shoot thou up, and
The same that thou art promis'd, but be slow
And long in changing. Let our nephewes see
Thee quickly (come) the garden's eye to be,
And there to stand so. Haste, now envious Moone,
And interpose thy selfe, ('care not how soone.)
And threat'the great eclipse. Two houres but runde,
Sol will re-shine. If not, Charles hath a soone.



Non displicuisse meretur
Festinat Cæsar qui placuisse tibi.



Who dares denie that all first fruits are duc
To God, denies the god-head to be true:

Who doubts those fruits God can with gaine restore,
Doth by bis doubt distrust his promise more.

He can, he will, and with large int'est pay,
What (at his liking) he will take away.

Haile, Mary, full of grace, it once was said, Then royall Charles, and Mary, doe not grutch

And by an angell, to the blessed'st maid That the Almightie's will to you is such:

The mother of our Lord: why may not I But thanke his greatnesse, and his goodnesse too;

(Without prophanenesse) yet, a poet, cry And tbinke all still the best that he will doe.

Haile, Mary, full of honours, to my queene, That thought shall make, he will this losse supply(Except the joy that the first Mary brought,

The mother of our prince? when was there seene With a long, large, and blest posteritie! For God, whose essence is so infinite,

Whereby the safetie of man-kind was wrought) Cannot but heape that grace he will requite.

So generall a gladnesse to au isle !
To make the hearts of a whole nation smile,
As in this prince? let it be lawfull, so
To compare small with great, as still we owe

Glorie to God. Then, haile to Mary! spring

Of so much safetie to the realme, and king.






How happy were the subject! if he knew,
Most pious king, but his owne good in you !
How many times, Live long, Charles, would he say,
If he but weighid the blessings of this day?
And as it turnes our joyfull yeare about,
For safetie of such majestie cry out?
Indeed, when had great Brittaine greater cause
Then now, to love the soveraigne and the lawes?
When you that raigne are her example growne,
And what are bounds to her, you make your owne?
When your assidious practise doth secure
That faith which she professeth to be pure ?

Clio. Up, publike joy, remember

This sixteenth of November,

Some brave un-common way:
And though the parish-steeple
Be silent to the people,

Ring thou it holy-day.


What, though the thriftie Tower

And rather wish, in their expense of sack,
And gunnes there, spare to poure

So, the allowance from tbe king to use,
Their noises forth in thunder:

As the old bard, should no Canary lack,
As fearfull to awake

'T were better spare a butt, then spill bis Muse. This citie, or to shake

For in the genius of a poet's verse,
Their guarded gates asudder?

The king's fame lives. Go now, denie bis teirce. Thai. Yet, let our trumpets sound;

And cleave both ayre and ground,

With beating of our drums:
Let every lyre le strung,

Harpe, lute, Theorbo sprung,
With touch of daintie thums!

Eut. That when the quire is full,

Sonne, and my friend, I had not call’d you so
The harmony may pull

To me, or beene the same to you, if show,
The angels from their spheares:

Profit, or chance had made us: but I know
And each intelligence

What by that name we each to other owe,
May wish it selfe a sense;

Freedome, and truth ; with love from those begot.
Whilst it the dittie heares.

Wise-crafts on which the flatterer ventures not.

His is more safe commoditie, or none:
Behold the royall Mary,

Nor dares he come in the comparison.
The daughter of great Harry!

But as the wretched painter, who so ill
And sister to just Lewis !

Painted a dog, that now his subtler skill
Comes in the pompe and glorie

Was, t' have a boy stand with a club, and fright
Of all her brother's storie,

All live dogs from the lane, and bis shop's sight. And of her father's prowesse !

Till he had sold his piece, drawne so unlike:

So doth the flattrer, with farre cunning strike Erul. She showes, so farre above

At a friend's freedome, proves all circling meanes The fained queene of love,

To keepe him off; and how-so-e're be gleanes This sea-girt isle upon:

Some of his formes, he lets him not come neere As here no Venus were;

Where he would fixe, for the distinction's feare.
But, that she raigning here,

For as at distance few have facultie
Had got the ceston on!

To judge, so all men comming deere can spie,

Though now of flattery, as of picture are
Calli. See, see our active king

More subtle workes, and finer pieces farre,
Hath taken twice the ring

Then knew the former ages: yet to life,
Upon his pointed lance:

All is but web and painting; be the strife
Whilst all the ravish'd rout

Never so great to get them: and the ends,
Doe mingle in a shout,

Rather to boast rich hangings then rare friends,
Hay ! for the flowre of France!
I'ra. This day the court, doth measure
Her joy in state and pleasure;

And with a reverend feare,
The revells, and the play,

Sumine up this crowned day,
Her two and twenti'th yeare!


SIR H. MORISON, Poly. Sweet! happy Mary! all

The people her doe call!

And this the wombe divine !
So fruitfull, and so faire,

BRAVE infant of Saguntum, cleare
Hath brought the land an heire !

Thy comming forth in that great yeare,
And Charles a Caroline.

When the prodigious Hannibal did crowne
His rage, with razing your immortall towne.
Thou, looking then about,
E're thou wert halfe got out,

Wise child, did'st hastily returne,

And mad'st thy mother's wombe thine urne.

How summ'd a circle didst thou leave man-kind

Of deepest lore, could we the center find !
What can the cause be, when the king hath given

His poet sack, the house-hold will not pay?
Are they so scanted in their store? or driven Did wiser nature draw thee back,

For want of kuowing the poet, to say him nay? From out the horrour of that sack,
Well, they should know him, would the king but where shame, faith, honour, and regard of right

His poet leave to sing his house-hold true; (grant Lay trampled on; the deeds of death, and night He'ld frame such ditties of their store, and want, Urg'd, hurried forth, and horld

Would make the very greene-cloth to looke blew: Upon th’affrighted world:






Sword, fire, and famine, with fell fury met;
And all on utmost ruine set ;

As, could they but life's miseries fore-see,
No doubt all infants would returne like thee? Call, noble Lucius, then for wine, ,

And let thy lookes with gladnesse shine:

Accept this garland, plant it on thy head,
For, what is life, if measur'd by the space,

And thinke, nay know, thy Morison's not dead,

He leap'd the present age, Not by the act ?

Possest with holy rage, Or masked man, if valu'd by his face,

To see that bright eternall day: Above his fact?

Of which we priests, and poëts say Here's one out-lip'd his peeres,

Such truths, as we expect for happy men, And told forth fourescore yeares;

And there he lives with memorie; and Ben
He vexed time, and busied the whole state;
Troubled both foes, and friends;
But ever to no ends :

What did this stirrer, but die late ?
How well at twentie had he falne, or stood!

Johnson, who sung this of him, e're he went

Himselfe to rest,
For three of his foure-score he did no good.

Or taste a part of that full joy he meant
To have exprest,

In this bright asterisme:
He entred well, by vertuous parts,

Where it were friendship's schisme, Got ap and thriv'd with honest arts:

(Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry) He purchas'd friends, and fame, and honours then, To separate these twiAnd had his noble name advanc'd with men : Lights, the Dioscuri; But weary of that flight,

And keepe the one halfe from his Harry. He stoop'd in all men's sight

But fate doth so alternate the designe, To sordid flatteries, acts of strife,

Whilst that in Heaven, this light on earth must shine. And sunke in that dead sea of life So deep, as he did then death's waters sup; But that the corke of title boy'd him up.

And shine as you exalted are ;

Two names of friendship, but one starre: Alas, but Morison fell young:

Of hearts the union. And those not by chance He never fell, thou fall'st, my tongue.

Made, or indenture, or leas'd out t' advance He stood, a souldier to the last right end,

The profits for a time. A perfect patriot, and a noble friend,

No pleasures vaine did chime, But most a vertuous sonne.

Of rimes, or ryots, at your feasts, All offices were done

Orgies of drinke, or fain'd protests: By him, so ample, full, and round,

But simple love of greatnesse and of good; In weight, in measure, number, sound,

That knits brave minds and manners more then As though his age imperfect might appeare,

blood. His life was of humanitie the spheare.

Goe now, and tell out dayes summ'd up with feares, You lik'd, then after to apply

This made you first to know the why
And make them yeares;
Produce thy masse of miseries on the stage,

That liking; and approach so one the t'other, To swell thine age;

Till either grew a portion of the other :

Each stiled by his end, Repeat of things a throng,

The copie of his friend. To show thou hast beene long

You liv'd to be the great surnames, Not liv'd; for life doth her great actions spell,

And titles, by which all made claimes
By what was done and wrought

Unto the vertue. Nothing perfect done,
In season, and so brought
To light: her measures are, how well

But as a Cary, or a Morison.
Each syllab'e answer'd, and was form'd, how faire;
These make the lines of life, and that's her ayre.

And such a force the faire example had,

As they that saw It is not growing like a tree

The good, and durst not practise it, were glad In bulke, doth make man better be;

That such a law
Or standing long an oake, three hundred yeare, Was left yet to man-kind;
To fall a logge, at last, dry, bald, and seare: Where they might read, and find
A lillie of a day,

Friendship, indeed, was written, not in words: Is fairer farre, in May,

And with the heart, not pen, Although it fall, and die that night;

Of two so early men, It was the plant and flowre of light.

Whose lines her rolles were, and records. In small proportions we just beauties see:

Who, e're the first downe bloomed on the chin, And in sbort measures life may perfect be. Had sow'd these fruits and got the barvest in.




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Weston! that waking man! tbat eye of state!

Who seldome sleepes! whom bad men only hate! LORD HIGH TREASURER OF ENGLAND Why doe I irritate, or stirre up thee,

Thou sluggish spawne, that canst, but wilt not see! AN EPISTLE MENDICANT. 1631.

Feed on thy selfe for spight, and show thy kind : MY LORD,

To vertue, and true worth, be ever blind.

Dreame thou could'st hurt it, but before thou wake, POORB wretched states, prest by extremities, T'effect it; feele, thou 'ast made thine owne heart Are faine to seeke for succours, and supplies

Of princes' aides, or good men's charities.
Disease the enemie, and his engineeres,
Want, with the rest of bis conceal'd compeeres,
Have cast a trench about me, now five yeares;
And made those strong approaches by false braies,

Reduicts, halfe-moones, horne-workes, and such

AN ODE GRATULATORIE, close wayes, The Muse not peepes out, one of hundred dayes ;

FOR HIS RETURNE FROM HIS EMBASSIE. 1632. But lyes block'd up, and straightned, narrow'd in, Such pleasure as the teeming Earth Fix'd to the bed, and boords, unlike to win

Doth take an easie Nature's birth, Health, or scarce breath, as she had never bin ; When she puts forth the life of ev'ry thing:

And in a dew of sweetest raine, Unlesse some saving honour of the crowne,

She lies deliver'd without paine, Dare thinke it, to relieve, no lesse renowne,

Of the prime beautie of the yeare, the Spring. Abed-rid wit, then a besieged towne.

The river in their shores doe run,
The clowdes rack cleare before the Sun,

The rudest winds obey the calmest ayre,

Rare plants from ev'ry banke doe rise,

And ev'ry plant the sense surprise,
ON HIS BIRTH-DAY, NOV. 19, 1632.

Because the order of the whole is faire !

The very verdure of her nest,
This is king Charles his day. Speake it thou Towre Wherein she sits so richly drest,
Unto the ships, and they from tier to tier

As all the wealth of season there was spread; Discharge it 'bout the iland, in an hoare,

Doth show the Graces and the Houses As lowd as thunder, and as swift as fire.

Have multipli'd their arts and powers, Let Ireland meet it out at sea halfe way,

In making soft her aromatique bed. Repeating all Great Brittain's joy, and more,

Such joyes, such sweets doth your returne Adding her owne glad accents to this day,

Bring all your friends (faire lord) that burne Like Eccho playing from the other shore.

With love to heare your modestie relate, What drums, or trumpets, or great ord’nance can,

The bus'nesse of your blooming wit, The poetrie of steeples, with the bells,

With all the fryit shall follow it,
Three kingdomes' mirth, in light, and aërie man,

Both to the honour of the king and state.
Made lighter with the wine. All noises else,
At bonefires, rockets, fire-workes, with the shoutes O how will then our court be pleas'd,
That cry that gladnesse, which their hearts would / To see great Charles of travaile eas'd,

When he beholds a graft of his owne hand,
Had they but grace of thinking, at these routes, Shoot up an olive fruitfull, faire,
On th' often comming of this holy-day:

To be a shadow to his heire, And ever close the burden of the song,

And both a strength, and beautie to his land! Still to have such a Charles, but this Charles long. The wish is great; but where the prince is such, What prayers (people) can you thinke too much!


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