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For who can master those great parts like thee, He that is round within himselfe and streight,
That liv'st from hope, from feare, from faction free; Need seeke no other strength, no other height;
That hast thy brest so cleere of present crimes, Fortune upon him breaks her selfe, if ill,
Thon need'st not shrinke at royce of after-times; And what would hurt his vertue, makes it still.
Whose knowledge claymeth at the helme to stand; That thou at once, then, nobly mayst defend
But, wisely, thrusts not forth a forward hand, .With thine owne course the judgement of thy friend,
No more than Salust in the Romane State ! Be alwayes to thy gather'd selfe the same:
As, then, his cause, his glorie emulate.

And studie conscience, more than thou would'st fame. Although to write be lesser than to doo,

Though both be good, the latter yet is worst,
It is the next deed, and a great one too.

And ever is ill got without the first.
We need a man that knowes the severall graces
Of historie, and how to apt their places;
Where brevitie, where splendour, and where height,

Where sweetnesse is required, and where weight;
We need a man, can speake of the intents,
The counsells, actions, orders and events
Of state, and censure them: we need his pen

That thou hast kept thy love, encreast thy will,
Can write the things, the causes and the men,

Better'd thy trust to letters; that thy skill But most we need his faith (and all have you)

Hast taught thy selfe worthy thy pen to tread,
That dares not write things false, nor hide things true. How much of great example wert thou, Roe,

And that to write things worthy to be read :
If time to facts, as unto men would owe?

But much it now availes, what's done, of whom :

The selfe-same deeds, as diversly they come,

From place, or fortune, are made bigh or low,
Who shall doubt, Donne, whêr 1 a poet be,

And even the praiser's judgement suffers so.


Well, though thy name lesse than our great one When I dare send my epigrammes to thee?

Thy fact is more: let truth encourage thee.
That so alone canst judge, so' alone do'st make:
And in thy censures, evenly, do'st take
As free simplicitie, to dis-avow,

As thou hast best authoritie t' allow.
Read all I send: and if I finde but one

Mark'd by thy hand, and with the better stone,

Play-Wright by chance hearing some toyes I had My title's seal'd. Those that for claps doe write,

Cry'd to my face, they were th'elixir of wit : [writ, Let pui'nees', porters', players' praise delight,

And I must now beleeve him: for to day, And till they burst, their backs, like asses, load :

Five of my jests, then stolne, past him a play. A man should seeke great glorie, and not broad.


See you yond' motion ? not the old fa-ding,

To night, grave sir, both my poore house and I
Nor captayne Pod, nor yet the Eltham-thing;

Doe equally desire your company: But one more rare, and in the case so new :

Not that we think us worthy such a ghest, His cloake with orient velvet quite lin'd through;

But that your worth will dignifie our feast, (seeme, His rosie tyes and garters so ore-blowne,

With those that come; whose grace may make that

Something, wbich else, could hope for no esteeme. By his each glorious parcell to be knowne! He wont was to encounter me aloud,

It is the faire acceptance, sir, creates Where ere he met me; now he's dumbe or proud.

The entertaynement perfect: not the cates. Know you the cause? H' has neither land nor lease,

Yet shall you have, to rectifie your palate, Nor baudie stock that travells for encrease,

An olive, capers, or some better sallad Nor office in the towne, por place in court,

Ushring the mutton ; with a short-leg'd hen,
Nor 'bout the beares, nor noyse to make lords sport. Limons, and wine for sauce: to these a coney

If we can get her, full of eggs, and then,
He is no favorite's favorite, no deare trust
Of any madame, bath neadd squires, and must.

Is not to be despair'd of, for our money; (clarks, Nor did the king of Denmarke him salute,

And though fowle now be scarce, yet there are When he was here. Nor bath he got a sute,

The skie not falling, think we may have larks. Since he was gone, more than the one he weares.

I'le tell you of more, and lye, so you will come: Nor are the queene's most honor'd maids by th’eales May yet be there; and godwit

, if we can:

Of partrich, phesant, wood-cock, of which some About his forme. What then so swels each lim?

Knat, raile and ruffe too. How so ere my man
Only his clothes have over-leaven'd him.

Shall reade a peece of Virgil, Tacitus,
Livie, or of some better booke to us,

Of which we'll speake our minds, amidst our meate;

And I'le professe no verses to repeate:

To this if ought appeare, which I not know of,

That will the pastrie, not my paper, show of.
Thou hast begun well, Roe, which stand well to, Digestive cheese, and fruit there sure will be;
And I know nothing more thou hast to do. But that which most doth take my Muse, and me,


Is a pure cup of rich Canary-wine,

And to your scene lent no lesse dignitie Which is the Mermaid's now, but shall be mine: Of birth, of match, of forme, of chastitie? Of wbich had Horace, or Anacreon tasted,

Or, more than born for the comparison Their lives, as doe their lines, till now had lasted. Of former age, or glory of our own, Tabacco, nectar, or the Thespian spring,

Where you advanced, past those times to be Are all but Luther's beere, to this I sing.

The light and marke unto posteritie? Of tbis we will sup free, but moderately,

Judge they, that can: here I have rais'd to show
And we will have no Pooly', or Parrot by; A picture, which the world for yours must know,
Nor sball our caps make any guiltie men : And like it too; if they looke equally :
But, at our parting, we will be, as when

If not, 'tis fit for you, some should envy.
We innocently met. No simple word,
That shall be utter'd at our mirthfull boord,
Shall make us sad next morning: or affright

The libertie, that we'le enjoy to night.


Madame, had all antiquitie been lost,

All history seal'd up, and fables crost

That we had left us; nor by time, nor place,

Least mention of a nymph, a Muse, a Grace, I doe but name thee, Pembroke, and I finde But even their names were to be made a-new, It is an epigramme, on all man-kinde;

Who could not but create them all from you? Against the bad, but of, and to the good :

He, that but saw you weare the wheaten hat, Both which are ask'd, to have thee understoor.

Would call you more than Ceres, if not that: Nor could the age have mist thee, in this strife And, drest in shepherd's tyre, who would not say: Of vice, and vertue, wherein all great life You were the brigbt Oenone, Flora, or May? Almost is exercis'd : and scarce one knows, If dancing, all would cry th' Idaljan queene To which, yet, of the sides himselfe he owes. Were leading forth the Graces on the greene: They follow vertue, for reward, to day;

And, armed to the chase, so bare her bow To morrow vice, if she give better pay:

Diana' alone, so hit, and hunted so, And are so good, or bad, just at a price,

There's none so dull, that for your stile would aske, As nothing else discernes the vertue' or vice.

That saw you put on Pallas' plumed caske : But thou whose nobleesse keepes one stature still,

Or, keeping your due state, that would not cry. And one true posture, though besieg'd with ill There Juno sate, and yet no peacock by. Of what ambition, faction, pride can raise ; So are you Nature's index, and restore, Whose life, ev'n they, that envie it, must praise;

l' your selfe, all treasure lost of th' age before. That art so reverenc'd, as thy comming in, But in the view, doth interrupt their sinne; Thou must draw more: and they, that hope to see

CVJ. The common-wealth still safe, must studie thee.


JF men get name, for some one vertue: then,

What man art tbou, that art so many men,

All-vertuous Herbert! on whose every part How well, faire crowne of your faire sex, might he, whether thy learning they would take, or wit,

Truth might spend all her voice, Fame all her art. That but the twi-light of your sprite did see, And noted for what tlesh such soules were fram’d, Thy standing upright to thy selfe, thy ends

Or valour, or thy judgement seasoning it, Know you to be a Sydney, though un-nam'd ?

Like straight, thy pietie to God, and friends: And, being nam’d, how little doth that name

Their latter praise would still the greatest be, Need any Muse's praise to give it fame?

And yet they, all together, lesse than thee.
Which is it selfe, the imprese of the great,
And glorie of them all, but to repeate !
Forgive me then, if mine but say you are

A Sydney: but in that extend as farre
As lowdest praisers, who perhaps would finde

For every part a character assign'd.
My praise is plaine, and where so ere profest,

Doz what you come for, captaine, with your newes;

That's, sit, and eat: doe not my eares abuse. Becomes pone more than you, who need it least.

I oft looke on false coine, to know't from true:
Not that I love it more, than I will you.

Tell the grosse Dutch those grosser tales of yours,

How great you were with their two emperours ;

And yet are with their princes: fill them full TO SUSAN COUNTESSE OP MONTGOMERY.

Of your Moravian borse, Venetian bul). [away, Were they that nam'd you, prophets? did they see, Tell them, what parts yo' have taen, whence run Even in the dew of grace, what you would be? What states yo' have gull'd, and which yet keeps yo' Or did our times require it, to behold

Give them your services, and embassies [in pay. A new Susanna, equall to that old ?

In Ireland, Holland, Sweden ; pompous lies! Or, because some scarce think that story true, In Hungary, and Poland, Turkie too; To make those faithfull, did the Fates send you ? What at Ligorne, Rome, Florence you did doe?


And in some yeare, all these together heap'd, And that so strong and deepe, as't might be thoogtt,
For which there must more sea, and land be leap'd, He wrote with the same spirit that he fought,
If but to be beleev'd you have the hap,

Nor that his work liv'd in the hands of foes,
Than can a flea at twice skip i' the map. (drunk, Un-argued then, and yet hatb fame from those ;
Give your young states men, (that first make you Not all these, Edmonds, or what else put too,
And then Iye with you closer, than a punque, Can so speake Cæsar, as thy labours doe.
For newes) your Ville-royes, and Sillcries, Por, where his person liv'd scarce one just age,
lanins, your Nuncios, and your Tuilleries, And that, midst envie, and parts; then fell by rage:
Your arch-dukes' agents, and your Beringhams, His deeds too dying, but in bookes (whose good
That are your words of credit. Keepe your names How few have read! how fewer understood ?)
Of Hannow, Shieter-huissen, Popenheim,

Thy learned hand, and true Promethean art
Hans-spiegle, Rotteinberg, and Boutersheim, (As by a new creation) part by part,
For your next meale; this you are sure of. Why in every counsell, stratageme, designe,
Will you part with them, here unthriftily? Action, or engine, worth a note of thine,
Nay, now you puffe, tuske, and draw up your chin, T'all future time, not onely doth restore
Twirle the poore chaine you run a feasting in. His life, but makes, that he can die no more.
Come, be not angrie, you are hungry; eat;
Doe what you come for, captaine, there's your meat.



Who, Edmonds, reades thy book and doth not see

What th' antique souldiers were, the nioderne be?

Wherein thou shew'st how much the latter are
STRENGTH of my countrey, whilst I bring to view
Such as are misse-call?d captaines, and wrong you; And that in action there is nothing new,

Beholding to this master of the war;
And your high names: I doe desire, that thence
Be nor put on you, nor you take offence.

More than to vary what our elders knew :
I sweare by your true friend, my Muse, I love

Which all, but ignorant captaines, will confesse: Your great profession; which I once did prove:

Nor to give Cæsar this, makes ours the lesse. And did not shame it with my actions then,

Yet thou, perhaps, shall meet some tongues will No more than I dare now doe with my peo.

grutch, He that not trusts me, baving vow'd thus much,

That to the world thou should'st reveale so much, But's angry for the captaine still, is such.

And thence, deprave thee, and thy work. To those
Cæsar stands up, as from his urne late rose,
By thy great helpe: and doth proclaime by me,

They murder him againe that envy thee.

Who now calls on thee, Nevil, is a Muse,

That serves nor fame, nor titles; but doth chuse

Where vertue makes them both, and that's in thee:
Where all is faire, beside thy pedigree.

With thy small stock, why art thou ventring still Thou art not one seek'st miseries with hope,

At this so subtile sport; and play'st so ill ? Wrestlest with dignities, or fain'st a scope

Think'st thou it is ineere fortune that can win?

Or thy rank sitting? that thou dar'st put in
Of service to the publique, when the end

Thy all, at all: and what so ere I do,
Is private gaine, which hath long guilt to friend.
Thou rather striv'st the matter to possesse,

Art still at that, and think'st to blow me up too? And elements of honour, than the dresse;

I cannot for the stage a drama lay, To make they lent life good against the fates:

Tragick, or comick; but thou writ'st the play. And first to know thine owne state, then the state's. An epick poeme; thou hast the same end.

I leave thee there, and giving way, intend To be the same in root thou art in height; And that thy soule should give thy flesh her weight. Next morne, an ode: thou mak’st a song ere night.

I modestly quit that, and think to write,
Goe on, and doubt not, what posteritie,


to elegies; thou meet'st me there:
Now I have sung thee thus, shall judge of thee.
Thy deeds unto thy name will prove new wombes,

To satyres; and thou dost pursue me. Where, Whilst others toyle for titles to their tombes.

Where shall I scape thee in an epigramme? 0, (thou cry'st out) that is thy proper game. Troth, if it be, I pitty thy ill lucke;

That both for wit and sense so oft dost plucke,

And never art encounter'd, I confesse:

Nor scarce dost colour for it, which is lesse.

Prøy thee, yet save the rest; give ore in time: ON HIS CÆSAR'S COMMENTARIES OBSERVED, AND

There's no vexation, that can make thee prime.

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Not Cæsar's deeds, nor all his honours wonne,
In these west-parts, nor when that warre was done,
The name of Pompey for an enemie,
Cato's to boot, Rome, and her libertie,
All yeelding to his fortune, nor the while,
To have engrav'd these acts, with his owne stile,

So Phæbus make me worthy of his bayes,
As but to speaķe thee, Overbury, is praise :

In men,


So where thou liv'st thou mak'st life understood ! So did thy vertue ’nforme, thy wit sustaine Where, what makes others great, doth keep thee That age, when thou stood'st up the master-braine: good!

Thou wert the first, mad'st merit know her strength, I think, the fate of court thy comming crav'd,

And those that lack'd it, to suspect at length, That the wit there, and manners might be sav'd : 'Twas not entayl'd on title. That some word For since, what ignorance, what pride is filed! Might be found out as good, and not my lord: And letters, and humanity in the stead !

That nature no such difference had imprest Repent thee not of thy faire precedent,

but every bravest was the best : Could make such men, and such a place repent : That blood not minds, but minds did blood adorne; Nor may'any feare, to lose of their degree, And to live great was better than great borne. Who 'in such ambition can but follow thee. These were thy knowing arts : which who doth now

Vertuously practise, must at least allow

Them in, if not from thee; or must commit

A desperate solecisme iu truth and wit,
I MUST beleere some miracles still be,
When Sydnye's name I heare, or face I see:

For Cupid, who (at first) took vaine delight
In meere out-formes, untill he lost his sight,
Hath chang'd his soule, and made his object you : Groene, come of age, his state sold out of hand
Where finding so much beauty met with vertue, For ’his whore: Groyne doth still occupy his land,
He hath not only gain'd himselfe his eyes,
But in your love made all his servants wise.



Gut eates all day, and lechers all the night,

So all his meat he tasteth over, twice: You wonder, who this is ! and why I name And, striving so to double his delight, Him not aloud, that boasts so good a fame:

He makes himselfe a thorough-fare of vice. Naming so many, too! but, this is one,

Thus, in bis belly, can he change a sin,
Suffers no name, but a description :

Lust it comes out, that gluttony went in.
Being no vitious person, but the vice
About the town; and known too, at that price.
A subtile thing. that doth affections win

By speaking well o' the company 'it's in.
Talkes loud, and baudy, has a gather'd deale

Of news, and noyse, to sow out a long meale.

Not he that flies the court for want of clothes, Can come from Tripoly, leape stooles, and wink,

At hunting railes, having no gift in othes,
Do all, that 'longs to the anarchy of drink,

Cries out’gainst cocking, since he cannot bet,
Except the duell. Can sing songs and catches;
Give every one his dose of mirth : and watches

Shuns prease, for two maine causes, poxe, and debt,

With me can merit more, than that good man, Whose name's un-welcome to tbe present eare,

Whose dice not doing well, to a pulpit ran.
And bim it layes on; if it be not there.
Teils of him all the tales it selfe then makes;

No, Shelton, give me thee, canst want all these,

But dost it out of judgement, not disease; But, if it shall be question d, under-takes,

Dar'st breathe in any ayre; and with safe skill, It will deny all ; and forsweare it too:

Till thou canst find the best, choose the least ill. Not that it feares, but will not have to do With such a one. And therein keeps it's word,

That to the vulgar canst thy selfe apply,

Treading a better path, not contrary; 'Twill see it's sister naked, ere a sword.

And, in their errours' maze, thine own way know : At every meale, where it doth dine, or sup, The cloth's no sooner gone, but it gets up,

Which is to live to conscience, not to show.

He that, but living halfe his age, dyes such ; And shifting of its faces, doth play more

Makes the whole longer, than'twas given him, much, Parts than the Italian could do, with bis door. Acts old iniquity, and in the fit Of miming, gets th' opinion of a wit. Executes men in picture. By defect,

From friendship, is its own fame's architect.

An inginer, in slanders, of all fashions,
That seeming prayses are yet accusations,

Describd it's thus: defin'd would you it have?
Then, the town's honest man's her errant'st knave. Weep

with me all you that read

This little story :

And know, for whom a teare you shed,

Death's selfe is sorry.

'Twas a child, that so did thrive

In grace and feature,
LEPHSON, thou mnan of men, to whose lov'd name As Heaven and Nature seem'd to strive
All gentry, yet, owe part of their best flame!

Which own'd the creature.


Yearės be numbred scarce thirteene,

One name was Elizabeth, When Fates turn'd cruell,

Th'other let it sleep with death: Yet three fili'd zodiackes had he been

Fitter, where it dyed, to tell, The stage's jewell;

Than that it liv'd at all. Parewell.
And did act (what now we moane)

Old men so duely,
As, sooth, the Parcæ thought him one,
He plai'd so truely.

So, by errour, to his fate

They all consented;
But viewing him since (alas, too late)

Uv'DALE, thou piece of the first times, a man They have repented;

Made for what nature could, or vertue can; And have sought (to give new birth)

Both whose dimensions, lost, the world might find In bathes to steep him ;

Restored in thy body, and thy mind! But being so much too good for Earth,

Who sees a soule, in such a body set,
Heaven vowes to keepe him.

Might love the treasure for the cabinet.
But I, no child, no foole, respect the kinde,
The full, the flowing graces there enshrin'd)

Which (would the world not mis-call't, fiattery)

I could adore, almost t' idolatry.


RUDYERD, as lesser dames to great ones ise,
My lighter comes, to kisse thy learned Muse;
Whose better studies while she emulates,
She learnes to know long difference of their states.
Yet is the office not to be despis'd,
If only love should make the action pris'd :
Nor he, for friendship, to be thought unfit,
That strives his manners should procede his wit.

Retye'd, with purpose your faire worth to praise,
'Mongst Hampton shades, and Phoebus' grore of

I pluck'd a branch; the jealous god did frowne,
And bade me lay th' usurped laurell down :
Said I wrong'd him, and (which was more) his love.
I answer'd, Daphne now no paine can prove.
Phæbus replyed. Bold head, it is not she:
Cary my love is, Daphne but my tree.



IF I would wish for truth, and not for show,
The aged Saturne's age, and rites to know;

If I would strive to bring back tinies, and try
The world's pure gold, and wise simplicity;

If I would vertue set, as she was yong,
And beare her speak with one, and her first tongue; if I should faile, in gratitude, to thee

Is there a hope, that man would thankfull be, If holiest friend-ship, naked to the touch,

To whom I am so bound, lov'd Aubigny? I would restore, and keep it ever such;

No, I do, therefore, call posterity I need no other arts, but study thee:

Into the debt; and reckon on her head,
Who prov'st, all these were, and again may be.

How full of want, how swallow'd up, how dead
I, and this Muse bad been, if thou hadst not

Lent timely succours, and new life begot :

So, all reward, or name, that growes to me

By her attempt, shall still be owing thee:

And than this same, I know no abler way
Writing thy selfe, or judging others writ,

To thank thy benefits: which is, to pay.
I know not which th' hast most, candour, or wit:
But both th' hast so, as who affects the state
Of the best writer, and judge, should emulate.





WOULD'st thou heare, what man can say
In a little ? reader, stay.
Under-neath this stone doth lye
As much beauty, as could dye:
Which in life did harbour give
To more vertue, than doth live.
If, at all, she had a fault,
Leave it buried in this vault.

Ros, (and my joy to name) th'art now to go,
Countries, and climes, manners, and men to know,
T'extract, and choose the best of all these knowne,
And those to turne to blood, and make thine owne.
May winds, as soft as breath of kissing friends,
Attend thee hence; and there, may all thy ends,
As the beginnings here, prove purely sweet,
And perfect in a circle always meet.
So, when we, blest with thy returne, shall see
Thy selfe, with thy first thoughts, brought home

by thee,

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