Sivut kuvina

And langh, and measure thighes, then squeake, In this, and like, an itch of vanitie, spring, itch,

That scratching now's our best felicitie? Doe all the tricks of a saut lady bitch;

Well, let it goe. Yet this is better, then For t’ other pound of sweet-meats, he shall feele To lose the formes, and dignities of men, That payes, or what he will. The dame is steele: To fatter my good lord, and cry his bow le For these with her young companie she'll enter, Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soule: Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter, Although perhaps it has, what's that to me, And comes by these degrees, the stile t’inherit That may stand by, and hold my peace? will be Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit: When I am hoarse, with praising his each cast, Nor is the title question'd with our proud,

Give me but that againe, that I must wast Great, brave, and fashion'd folke, these are allow'd: In sugar candide, or in butter'd beere, Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,

For the recovery of my voyce ? No, there They 're growne commoditie upon exchange; Pardon his lordship. Flattry's growne so cheape He that will follow bat another's wife,

With him, for he is followed with that heape Is lov'd, though he let out his owne for life: That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud, The husband now's call'd churlish, or a poore As a poore single flatterer, without baud Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore; Is nothing, sach scarce meat and drinke he'le gire, Or use all arts, or haunt all companies

But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live, That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.

And be belor'd, while the whores last. O times! The brother trades a sister; and the friend Priend, flie from hence; and let these kindled rimes Lives to the lord, but to the ladie's end.

Light thee from Hell on Earth: where flatterers, Lesse must not be thought on then mistresse: or

spies, If it be thought, kild like her embrions; for, Informers, masters both of arts and lies, Whom no great mistresse hath as yet infam'd, Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers, that let blood A fellow of course letcherie is nam'd,

The life, and fame-vaynes (yet not understood The servant of the serving-woman in scorne, Of the poore sufferers) where the envious, proud, Ne're came to taste the plenteous mariage-horne. Ambitious, factious, superstitious, lowd

Thus they doe talke. And are these objects fit Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more For man to spend his money on? bis wit ? Prevaricators swarme: of which the store, Histime? health? soule ? will be for these goe throw (Because th' are every where amongst mån-kind Those thousands on his back, shall after blow Spread through the world) is easier farre to find, His body to the Counters, or the Fleete?

Then once to number, or bring forth to hand, Is it for these that fine man meets the street Though thou wert muster-master of the land. Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day, Goe quit 'hem all. And take along with thee, To teach each suit, he has the ready way

Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be, Proin Hide-Parke to the stage, where at the last That thine be just, and honest, that thy deeds His deare and borrow'd bravery he most cast? Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds; When not his combes, bis curling-irons, his glasse, That thou dost all things more for truth, then glory, Sweet bags, sweet powders, norsweet words will passe And never but for doing wrong be sory; For lesse securitie? Ofor these

That by commanding first thy selfe, thou mak'st Is it that man pulls on himselfe disease?

Thy person fit for any charge thou tak’st; Surfet? and quarrell? drinkes the tother health ? That fortune never make thee to complaine, Or by damnation voids it, or by stealth ?

But what she gives, thou dar'sť give her againe ; What farie of late is crept into our feasts? That whatsoever face thy fate puts on, What honour given to the drunkennest guests? Thou shrinke or start not, but be alwayes one; What reputation to beare one glasse more? That thou thinke nothing great, but what is good, When oft the bearer is borne out of dore ?

And from that thought strive to be understood. This hath our ill-us'd freedome, and soft peace So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame Brought on us, and will every houre increase; Still pretioas, with the odour of thy name. Our vices, doe not tarry in a place,

And last, blaspheme not; we did never heare But being in motion still (or rather in race) Man thought the valianter,'cause he durst sweare, Tilt one upon another, and now beare

No more, then we should thinke a lord had had This way, now that, as if their number were More honour in him, 'cause we'ave knowne him mad: More then themselves, or then our lives could take, These take, and now goe seeke thy peace in warre, But both fell prest under the load they make. Who falls for love of God, shall rise a starre.

I'le bid thee looke no more, bit flee, ffee friend,
This precipice, and rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens ruine. The whole day
Is not enough now, but the nights to play:
And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we

Goe make our selves the usurers at a cast.

EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAF. He that no more for age, cramps, palsies, can Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man

READER stay, To take the box up for him ; and pursues

And if I had no more to say,
The dice with glassenr eyes, to the glad views

But here doth lie till the last day,
Of what he throwes: like letchers growne content All that is left of Philip Gray.
To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

It might thy patience richly pay:
Can we not leave this won me? or will we not? For, if such men as he could die,
Is that the truer excuse? or bave we got

What suretie of life have thou, and I.


469 You blush, but doe not: friends are either none, EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

(Though they may mumber bodyes) or but one.

I'le therefore aske no more, but bid you love; They are not, sir, worst owers, that doe pay

And so, that either may example prove Debts when they can: good men may breake their Unto the other ; and live pattemes, how day ;

Others, in time, may love, as we doe now, And yet the noble nature never grudge,

Slip no occasion; as tiine stands not still, "T is then a crime, when the usurer is judge:

I know no beautie, nor no youth that will. And he is not in friendship. Nothing there

To use the present, then, is not abuse, Is done for gaine: if 't be, 't is not sincere.

You have a husband is the just excuse Nor should I at this time protested be,

Of all that can be done him ; such a one But that some greater names have broke with me,

As would make shift, to make himselfe alone And their words too, where I but breake my band :

That which we can; who both in you, his wife, I adde that (but) because I understand

His issue, and all circumstance of life That as the lesser breach : for hę that takes

As in his place, because he would not varie,
Simply my band, his trust in me forsakes,

Is constant to be extraordinarie.
And lookes unto the forfeit. If you be
Now so much friend, as you would trust in me,
Venter a longer time, and willingly :
All is not barren land, doth fallow lie.

Some grounds are made the richer, for the rest;
And I will bring a crup, if not the best.

A woman's friendship! God, whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,
Amongst my many other, that I may

No more, Tam sorry for so fond cause, say

At fifty yeares, almost, to value it,

That ne're was knowne to last above a fit, Can beautie, that did prompt me first to write,

Or have the least of good, but what it must Now threaten, with those meanes she did invite:

Put on for fashion, and take up on trust : Did her perfections call me on to gaze!

Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd, Then like, then love; and now would they amaze! That their whole life was wickednesse, though weard Or was she gracious a-farre off? but neere

Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots, A terrour? or is all this but my feare ?

But their whole inside full of ends, and knots? That as the water makes things, put in 't, streight, Knew I, that all

their dialogues, and discourse, Crooked appeare; so that doth my conceipt:

Were such as I will now relate, or worse.
I can helpe that with boldnesse; and love sware,
And fortune once, ť assist the spirits that dare.

[Here, something is wanting.)
But which shall lead nie on? both these are blind:
Such guides mey use not, who their way would find,
Except the way be errour to those ends :
And then the best are still, the blindest friends! Knew I this woman? yes; and you doe see,
Oh how a lover may mistake! to thinke,

How penitent I am, or I should be.
Or love, or fortnne blind, when they but winke Doc not you aske to know her, she is worse
To see men feare: or else for truth, and state, Then all ingredients made into one curse,
Because they would free justice imitate,

And that pour'd out upon man-kind, can be !
Vaile their owne eyes, and would impartially Thinke but the sin of all her sex, 't is she !
Be brought by us to meet our destinie.

I could forgive her being proud! a whore ! If it be thus; come love, and fortune goe, Perjur'd! and painted ! if she were no more, l'le lead you on; or if my fate will so,

But she is such, as she might, yet forestall That I must send one first, my choyce assignes, The Devill; and be the damning of us all. Love to my heart, and fortune to my lines.


LITTLE SHRUB GROWING BY, By those bright eyes, at whose immortall fires

Aske not to know this man. If Fame should speake Love lights his torches to inflame desires;

His name in

any mettall, it would breake.
By that faire stand, your forehead, whence he bends Two letters were enough the plague to teare
His double bow, and round his arrowes sends; Out of his grave, and poyson every eare.
By that tall grove, your baire, whose globy rings

A parcell of court-durt, a heape, and masse
He Pying curles

, and crispeth with his wings; Of all vice burld together, there he was,
By those pure bathes your either cheeke discloses, Proud, false, and trecherous, vindictive, all
Where he doth steepe himselfe in milke and roses; That thought can adde, unthankfull, the lay-stall
And lastly by your lips, the banke of kisses,

Of putrid flesh alive! of blood, the sinke!
Where men at once may plant, and gather blisses : And so I leave to stirre him, lest he stinke.
Tell me (my lov'd friend) doe you love or no ?
So well, as I may tell in verse 't is so ?

If hence thy silence be,

As 't is too just a cause;

Let this thought quicken thee,

Minds that are great and free, Though beautie be the marke of praise,

Should not on fortune pause, And yours of whom I sing be such

'Tis crowne enough to vertue still, her owne applause. As not the world can praise. too much, Yet is 't your vertue now I raise.

What though the greedie frie

Be taken with false baytes A vertue, like allay, so gone

Of worded balladrie, Throughout your forme; as though that move,

And thinke it poësie? " And draw, and conquer all men's love,

They die with their conceits, This subjects you to love of one.

And only pitious scorne upon their folly waites. 1 Wherein you triumph yet: because

Then take in hand thy lyre, ”T is of your selfe, and that you use

Strike in thy proper straine, The noblest freedome, not to chuse

With Japhet's lyve, aspire Against or faith, or honour's lawes.

Sol's chariot for new fire,

To give the world againe : But who should lesse expect from you,

Who aided him, will thee, the issue Jore's braine In whom alone Love lives agen? By whom he is restor'd to men:

And since our daintie age And kept, and bred, and brought up true?

Cannot indure reproofe,

Make not thy selfe a page, His falling temples you have rear'il

To that strumpet the stage, The withered garlands tane away;

But sing high and aloofe,

(hoofe. His altars kept from the decay,

Safe from the wolve's black jaw, and the dull ass's That envie wish'd, and nature fear'd.

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And on them burne so chaste a flame,

With so much loyaltie's expence,

As Love taquit such excellence Is gone himselfe into your name. And you are he: the deitie

To whom all lovers are design'd;

That would their better objects find : Among which faithfull troope am I.

Who as an off-spring at your shrine,

Have sung this hymne, and here entreat

One sparke of your diviner heat To light upon a love of mine.

Which if it kindle not, but scant

Appeare, and that to shortest view,

Yet give me leave t adore in you What I, in her, am griev'd to want.

From death, and darke oblivion, near the same,

The mistresse of man's life, grave bistorie,
Raising the world to good and evill fame,

Doth vindicate it to eternitie.
Wise Providence would so; that nor the good

Might be defrauded, nor the great secur'd,
But both might know their wayes were understood,

When vice alike in time with vertue dur'd:
Which makes that (lighted by the beamie hand

Of truth that searcheth the most secret springs,
And guided by experience, whose straite wand
Doth mete, whose lyne doth sound the depth of

things :)
She chearfully supporteth what she reares,

Assisted by no strengths, but are ber owne,
Some note of which each varied pillar beares,

By which, as proper titles, she is knowne,
Time's witnesse, herald of antiquitie,

The light of truth, and life of memorie.




WHERE do'st thou carelesse lie

Buried in ease and sloth?
Knowledge, that sleepes, doth die;
And this securitie,
It is the common moth,

[both, That eats on wits, and arts, and quite destroyes them




Are all th’ Aonian springs

Where art thou, Genius? I should use
Dri'd up? Iyes Thespia wast?

Thy present aide: arise, Invention,
Doth Clarius' harp want strings,

Wake, and put on the wings of Pindar's Muse,
That not a nymph now sings!

To towre with my intention Or droop they as disgrac't, (fac't? High, as his mind, that doth advance To see their seats and bowers by chattring pies de- Her upright head, above the reach of chance,

Or the times' envie :
Cynthius, I applie

My bolder numbers to thy golden lyre :
O, then inspire

High spirited friend,
Thy priest in this strange rapture; heate my braine I send nor balmes, nor cor'sives to your wound,
With Delphick fire :

Your fate hath found, That I may sing my thoughts, in some unvulgar A gentler, and more agile hand, to tend straine.

The cure of that, which is but corporall,

And doubtfull dayes (which were nam'd criticall,) Rich beame of honour, shed your light

Have made their fairest flight, On these darke rymes; that my affection

And now are out of sight.
May shine (through every chincke) to every sight Yet doth some wholsome physick for the mind,
Graced by your reflection !

Wrapt in this paper lie,
Then shall my verses, like strong charmes, Which in the taking if you mis-apply,
Breake the knit circle of her stonie armes,

You are unkind.
That hold your spirit:
And keepes your merit

Your covetous hand,
Lock't in her cold embraces, from the view Happy in that faire honour it hath gain'd,
Of eyes more true,

Must now be rayn’d. Who would with judgement search, searching con- True valour doth her owne renowne command clude,

In one full action; nor have you now more (As prov'd in you)

To doe, then be a husband of that store. True noblesse. Palme growes straight, though Thinke but how deare you bought, handled ne're so rude?

This same which you have caught,
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth:

"Tis wisdome, and that high, Nor thinke your selfe unfortunate,

For men to use their fortune reverently, If subject to the jealous errours

Even in youth. Of politique pretext, that wryes a state,

Sinke not beneath these terrours :

But whisper ; O glad innocence
Where only a man's birth is his offence;
Or the dis-favour,

Of such as savour
Nothing, but practise upon honour's thrall.

Hellen, did Homer never see
O vertue's fall,

Thy beauties, yet could write of thee?
When her dead essence (like the anatomie

Did Sappho, on her seven-tongu'd lute,
In Surgeon's ball)

So speake (as yet it is not mute)
Is but a statist's theame, to read phlebotomie.

Of Phaon's forme? or doth the boy,
In whom Anacreon once did joy,

Lie drawne to life, in his soft verse,
Let Brontes, and black Steropes,

As he whom Maro did rehearse? Sweat at the forge, their hammers beating;

Was Lesbia sung by learn'd Catullas? Pyracmon's boure will come to give them ease,

Or Delia's graces by Tibullus ? Though but while mettal's heating:

Doth Cynthia, in Propertius' song And, after all the Ætnean ire,

Shine more, then she the stars among
Gold, that is perfect, will out-live the fire.

Is Horace his each love so high
For fury wasteth,

Rap't from the Earth, as not to die?
As patience lasteth.

With bright Lycoris, Gallus' choice,
No armour to the mind ! he is shot free

Whose fame hath an eternall voice.
From injurie,

Or hath Corynna, by the name
That is not hurt; not he, that is not hit;

Her Ovid gave her, dimn'd the fame
So fooles we see,

Of Cæsar's daughter, and the line
Oft scape an imputation, more through luck, then

'Which all the world then stylid devine ? wit.

Hath Petrarch since his Laura rais'd

Equall with her? or Ronsart prais'd Bat to your selfe, most loyall lord,

His new Cassandra 'bove the old,
(Whose beart in that bright sphere flames clearest, Which all the fate of Troy foretold ?
Though many gems be in your bosome stor'd,

Hath our great Sidney, Stella set,
Unknowne which is the dearest)

Where never star shone brighter yet?
If I auspitionsly devine,

Or Constable's ambrosiack Muse
FAs my hope tells) that our faire Phæbus' shine, Made Dian not his notes refuse?
Shall light those places,

Have all these done (and yet I mnisse
With lustrous graces,

The swan, that so relish'd Pancharis)
Where darknesse, with her glomie sceptred band, And shall not I my Celia bring,
Doth now command.

Where men may see whom I doe sing,
O then (my best-best lov'd) let me importune,

Though I, in working of my song,
That you will stand,

Come short of all this learned throng, As farre from all revolt, as you are now from for- Yet sure my tunes will be the best, tune.

So much my subject drownes the rest.

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Scarce the bill againe doth flourish,
Scarce the world

a wit doth nourish,

To restore

Phoebus to his crowne againe; TO THE NOBLE LADY, THE LADY MARY WORTH,

And the Muses to their braine ;

As before.
I TH4t have beene a lover, and could show it,

Though not in these, in rithmes not wholly dumbe, Vulgar languages that want
Since I exscribe your sonnets, am become

Words, and sweetnesse, and be scant
A better lover, and much better poët.

Of true measure,
Nor is my Muse or I asham'd to owe it

Tyrant rime hath so abused,
To those true numerous graces; whereof some, That they long since bave refused,
But charme the senses, others over-come

Other ceasure:
Both braines and hearts; and mine now best doe
For in your verse all Cupid's armorie, [know it:

He that first invented thee,
His flames, his shafts, his quiver, and his bow,

May his joynts tormented bee, His very eyes are yours to overthrow.

Cramp'd for ever; But then his mother's sweets you so apply,

Still may syllabes jarre with time,
Her joyes, her smiles, her loves, as readers take Still may reason warre with rime,
For Venus' ceston every line you make.

Resting never.
May his sense, when it would meet
The cold tumour in his feet,

Grow unsounder,
And his title be long foole,
That in rearing such a scboole

Was the founder.



Rime the rack of finest wits,
That expresseth but by fits

True conceipt,
Spoyling senses of their treasure,
Cosening judgement with a measure,

But false weight.




Wresting words, from their true calling ;
Propping verse, for feare of falling

To the ground.
Joynting syllabes, drowning letters,
Fasting vowells, as with fetters

They were bound!

Soone as lazie thou werţ knowne,
All good poëtrie hence was flowne,

And was banish'd
For a thousand yeares together,
All Pernassus' greene did wither,

And wit vanish'd

Iç thou wouldst know the vertues of mankind
Read here in one, what thou in all canst find,
And goe no farther: let this circle be
Thy universe, though his epitome.
Cecill, the grave, the wise, the great, the good:
What is there more that can ennoble blood?
The orphan's pillar, the true susject's shield,
The poore's full store-bouse, and just servant's field,
The only faithfull watchman for the realme,
That in all tempests never quit the helme,
But stood unshaken in his deeds, and name,
And labour'd in the worke, not with the fame,
That still was good for goodnesse sake, nor thought
Upon reward, till the reward him sought.
Whose offices and honours did surprize,
Rather than meet him; and, before his eyes
Clos'd to their peace, he saw his branches shoot,
And in the noblest families tooke root
Of all tbe land, who now at such a rate,
Of divine blessing, would not serve a state?

Pegasus did fie away,
At the wells no Muse did stay,

But bewail'd.
Go to see the fountaine drie,
And Apollo's musique die,

All light failed!

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