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Let it suffice for us, that we have lost
In him more than the widow'd world can boast
In any lump of her remaining clay.
Fair as the grey ey'd Morn he was; the day,
Youthful, and climbing upwards still, imparts
No haste like that of his increasing parts;
Like the meridian beam, his virtue's light
Was seen, as full of comfort and as bright.
Had his noon been as fix'd as clear-but he,
That only wanted immortality

To make him perfect, now submits to night,
In the black bosom of whose sable spite,
He leaves a cloud of flesh behind, and flies,
Refin'd, all ray and glory, to the skies.

Great saint shine there in an eternal sphere, And tell those powers to whom thou now draw'st

near,

[dead,

That by our trembling sense, in HASTINGS
Their anger and our ugly faults are read;
The short lines of whose life did to our eyes
Their love and majesty epitomize:

Tell them, whose stern degrees impose our laws,
The feasted Grave may close her hollow jaws:
Though Sin search Nature, to provide her here
A second entertainment half so dear,
She'll never meet a plenty like this hearse,
Till Time present her with the universe.

ON MY LORD CROFT'S AND MY JOURNEY INTO POLAND, FROM WHENCE WE BROUGHT 10,0001. FOR HIS MAJESTY, BY THE DECIMATION OF HIS SCOTISH SUBJECTS THERE.

TOLE, tole,

Gentle bell, for the soul

Of the pure ones in Pole,

Which are damn'd in our scroul.

Who having felt a touch

Of Cockram's greedy clutch,
Which though it was not much,
Yet their stubborness was such,
That when we did arrive,
'Gainst the stream we did strive;

They would neither lead nor drive:

Nor lend

An ear to a friend,

Nor an answer would send

To our letter so well penn'd.

Nor assist our affairs

With their monies nor their wares,

As their answer now declares,
But only with their prayers.

Thus they did persist

Did and said what they list,
Till the diet was dismist;
But then our breech they kist.

For when

It was mov'd there and then
They should pay one in ten,
The diet said, Amen.

And because they are loth
To discover the troth,
They must give word and oath,
Though they will forfeit both.

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These statesmen, you believe,
Send straight for the shrieve,
For he is one too, or would be;

But he drinks no wine,
Which is a shrewd sign

That all 's not so well as it should be.

These three, when they drink,
How little do they think

Of banishment, debts, or dying:
Not old with their years,
Nor cold with their fears;
But their angry stars still defying.

Mirth makes them not mad,
Nor sobriety sad;

But of that they are seldom in danger;
At Paris, at Rome,

At the Hague, they 're at home; The good fellow is no where a stranger.

TO SIR JOHN MENNIS,

BEING INVITED FROM CALAIS TO BOLOGNE TO

EAT A PIG.

ALL on a weeping Monday,
With a fat Bulgarian sloven,
Little admiral John

To Bologne is gone.

Whom I think they call Old Loven. Hadst thou not thy fill of carting, Will Aubrey, count of Oxon,

When nose lay in breech,
And breech made a speech,
So often cry'd A pox on?

A knight by land and water
Esteem'd at such a high rate,
When 'tis told in Kent,

In a cart that he went,

They'll say now, Hang him pirate.
Thou might'st have ta'en example,
From what thou read'st in story;
Being as worthy to sit
On an ambling tit
As thy predecessor Dory.

But oh! the roof of linen,

Intended for a shelter !

But the ran made an ass

Of tilt and canvass ;

And the snow, which you know is a melter.

But with thee to inveigle

That tender stripling Astcot,

Who was soak'd to the skin,
Through drugget so thin,

Having neither coat nor waistcoat.

He being proudly mounted,
Clad in cloak of Plymouth,
Defy'd cart so base,

For thief without grace,

That goes to make a wry mouth.

Nor did he like the omen,

For fear it might be his doom
One day for to sing,
With a gullet in string,
-A hymn of Robert Wisdom.

But what was all this business?
For sure it was important:

For who rides i' th' wet

When affairs are not great,

The neighbours make but a sport on't.

To a goodly fat sow's baby,
O John, thou hadst a malice,
The old driver of swine
That day sure was thine,
Or thou hadst not quitted Calais.

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Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore,
As gods behold us, and as gods adore?
But that, as well in danger as degree,
We stand the first; that when our Licians see
Our brave examples, they admiring say,
"Behold our gallant leaders! These are they
Deserve the greatness; and unenvy'd stand:
Since what they act, transcends what they com-
mand."

Could the declining of this fate (oh, friend)
Our date to immortality extend?

It is not thou, but we are blind,
And our corporeal eyes (we find)
Dazzle the optics of our mind.

Love to our citadel resorts,
Through those deceitful sally-ports,
Our sentinels betray our forts.

What subtle witchcraft man constrains,
To change his pleasure into pains,
And all his freedom into chains?

Or if death sought not them who seek not death, May not a prison, or a grave,

Would I advance? or should my vainer breath
With such a glorious folly thee inspire?
But since with Fortune Nature doth conspire,
Since age, disease, or some less noble end,
Though not less certain, doth our days attend;
Since 'tis decreed, and to this period lead
A thousand ways, the noblest path we'll tread;
And bravely on, till they, or we, or all,
A common sacrifice to honour fall.

MARTIAL. EPIGRAM.

PR'Y THEE die and set me free,
Or else be

Kind and brisk, and gay like me;
I pretend not to the wise ones,
To the grave, to the grave,
Or the precise ones.

'Tis not cheeks, nor lips, nor eyes,
That I prize,

Quick conceits, or sharp replies;
If wise thou wilt appear and knowing,
Repartic, Repartie,

To what I'm doing.

Pr'ythee why the room so dark?
Not a spark

Left to light me to the mark;
I love day-light and a candle,
And to see, and to see,

As well as handle.

Why so many bolts and locks,
Coats and smocks,

And those drawers, with a pox;
I could wish, could Nature make it,
Nakedness, nakedness

Itself were naked.

But if a mistress I must have,

Wise and grave,

Let her so herself behave;
All the day long Susan civil,
Pap by night, pap by night,

Or such a devil.

FRIENDSHIP AND SINGLE LIFE,

AGAINST

LOVE AND MARRIAGE.

LOVE! in what poison is thy dart
Dipt, when it makes a bleeding heart?
None know, but they who feel the smart,

Like wedlock, honour's title have?
That word makes free-born man a slave.

How happy he that loves not lives!
Him neither hope nor fear deceives,
To Fortune who no hostage gives.

How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneasy, finds at Rome,
At Paris, or Madrid, his home.

Secure from low and private ends,
His life, his zeal, his wealth attends
His prince, his country, and his friends.
Danger and honour are his joy;
But a fond wife, or wanton boy,
May all those generous thoughts destroy.
Then he lays-by the public care,
Thinks of providing for an heir;
Learns how to get, and how to spare.

Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night,
The Trojan hero did affright,
Who bravely twice renew'd the fight.

Though still his foes in number grew,
Thicker their darts and arrows flew,
Yet left alone, no fear he knew.

But Death in all her forms appears,
From every thing he sees and hears,
For whom he leads, and whom he bears'.

Love, making all things else his foes,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his course oppose.

This was the cause the poets sung.

Thy mother from the sea was sprung,
But they were mad to make thee young.

Her father not her son art thou:
From our desires our actions grow;
And from the cause th' effect must flow.

Love is as old as place or time;.
Twas he the fatal tree did climb,
Grandsire of father Adam's crime.

Well may'st thou keep this world in awe ;
Religion, wisdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumph draw.

"Tis he commands the powers above;
Phoebus resigns his darts, and Jove
His thunder, to the god of Love.

! His father and son.

To him doth his feign'd mother yield;

Nor Mars (her champion)'s flaming shield
Guards him when Cupid takes the field.

He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss
Much higher than fruition is;
But less than nothing, if it miss.

When matches Love alone projects
The cause transcending the effects,
That wild-fire's quench'd in cold neglects:

Whilst those conjunctions prove the best,
Where Love's of blindness dispossest,
By perspectives of interest.

Though Solomon with a thousand wives,
To get a wise successor strives,
But one (and he a fool) survives.

Old Rome of children took no care,

They with their friends their beds did share,
Secure t' adopt a hopeful heir.

Love drowsy days and stormy nights
Makes; and breaks friendship, whose delights
Feed, but not glut, our appetites.

Well-chosen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double,
And into halves divides our trouble.

But when th' unlucky knot we tie,
Care, avarice, fear, and jealousy,
Make friendship languish till it die.
The wolf, the lion, and the bear,
When they their prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themselves forbear:

Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep,
When love into their veins doth creep,
That law of Nature cease to keep.

Who then can blame the amorous boy,
Who the fair Helen to enjoy,
To quench his own, set fire on Troy?
Such is the world's preposterous fate,
Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
Love (though immortal) doth create.

But love may beasts excuse, for they
Their actions not by reason sway,
But their brute appetites obey.

But man's that savage beast, whose mind,
From reason to self-love declin'd,
Delights to prey upon his kind.

ON

MR.PRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH,
AND BURIAL AMONGST THE
ANCIENT POETS.

OLD Chaucer, like the morning star,
To us discovers day from far;
His light those mists and clouds dissolv'd,
Which our dark nation long involv'd ;
But he descending to the shades,
Darkness again the age invades.

Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose,

Whose purple blush the day foreshows;
The other three, with his own fires,
Phoebus, the poets' god, inspires;

By Shakespear's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines,
Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines :
These poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep.
They liv'd to see so many days,
Till time had blasted all their bays:
But cursed be the fatal hour
That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower
That in the Muses' garden grew,
And amongst wither'd laurels threw.
Time, which made them their fame outlive,
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.
Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;
In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art
Of slower Nature got the start;
But both in him so equal are,

None knows which bears the happiest share:
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores
Of poets, and of orators:
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate!

And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear:
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jason brought the golden fleece;
To him that language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
On a stiff gale (as Flaccus sings)
The Theban swan extends his wings,
When through th' etherial clouds he flies:
To the same pitch our swan doth rise;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd
When on that gale his wings are stretch'd;
His fancy and his judgment such,
Each to the other seem'd too much,
His severe judgment (giving law)
His modest fancy kept in awe :
As rigid husbands, jealous are,
When they believe their wives too fair.
His English streams so pure did flow,
As all that saw and tasted know:
But for his Latin vein, so clear,
Strong, full, and high it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Him, for his judge, he would not fear:
Of that great portraiture, so true
A copy, pencil never drew.

My Muse her song had ended here,
But both their Genii straight appear:
Joy and amazement her did strike,
Two twins she never saw so like.
'Twas taught by wise Pythagoras,
One soul might through more bodies pass.
Seeing such transmigration there,
She thought it not a fable here.
Such a resemblance of all parts,
Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts;
Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell,
And show the world this parallel :
Fixt and contemplative their looks,

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Still turning over Nature's books:
Their works chaste, moral, and divine,
Where profit and delight combine;
They, gilding dirt, in noble verse
Rustic philosophy rehearse.
When heroes, gods, or god-like kings,
They praise, on their exalted wings

To the celestial orbs they climb,

And with th' harmonious spheres keep time:
Nor did their actions fall behind

Their words, but with like candour shin'd;
Each drew fair characters, yet rone
Of these they feign'd, excels their own.
Both by two generous princes lov'd,

Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd,
Yet having each the same desire,
Both from the busy throng retire.
Their bodies to their minds resign'd,
Car'd not to propagate their kind:
Yet though both fell before their hour,
Time on their offspring hath no power,
Nor fire nor Fate their bays shall blast,
Nor Death's dark yeil their day o'ercast.

A SPEECH AGAINST PEACE

AT THE

CLOSE COMMITTEE.

To the tune of, "I went from England."

Bur will you now to peace incline,
And languish in the main design,
And leave us in the lurch?

I would not monarchy destroy,
But as the only way t' enjoy
The ruin of the church.

Is not the bishop's bill deny'd,
And we still threaten'd to be try'd?

You see the king embraces Those counsels he approv'd before: Nor doth he promise, which is more, That we shall have their places.

Did I for this bring in the Scot? (For 'tis no secret now) the plot

Was Saye's and mine together;

Did I for this return again,
And spend a winter there in vain,

Once more t' invite them hither?

Though more our money than our cause
Their brotherly assistance draws,

My labour was not lost.
At my return I brought you thence
Necessity, their strong pretence,

And these shall quit the cost.

Did I for this my country bring
To help their knight against their king,
And raise the first sedition?
Though I the business did decline,
Yet I contriv'd the whole design,
And sent them their petition.

So many nights spent in the city
In that invisible committee,

The wheel that governs all :

From thence the change in church and state, And all the mischief bears the date

From Haberdashers' Hall.

Did we force Ireland to despair,
Upon the king to cast the war,

To make the world abhor him, Because the rebels us'd his name? Though we ourselves can do the same, While both alike were for him.

Then the same fire we kindled here
With what was given to quench it there,
And wisely lost that nation:

To do as crafty beggars use,
To maim themselves, thereby t' abuse
The simple man's compassion.

Have I so often past between
Windsor and Westminster, unseen,
And did myself divide :
To keep his excellence in awe,
And give the parliament the law?
For they knew none beside.

Did I for this take pains to teach
Our zealous ignorants to preach,

And did their lungs inspire;
Gave them their texts, show'd them their parts,
And taught them all their little arts,
To fling abroad the fire?

Sometimes to beg, sometimes to threaten,
And say the cavaliers have beaten,

To stroke the people's ears?

Then straight when victory grows cheap,
And will no more advance the heap,
To raise the price of fears.

And now the books, and now the bells,
And now our act the preacher tells,
To edify the people;
All our divinity is news,
And we have made of equal use
The pulpit and the steeple.

And shall we kindle all this flame
Only to put it out again,

And must we now give o'er,
And only end where we begun ?
In vain this mischief we have done,

If we can do no more.

If men in peace can have their right,
Where's the necessity to fight,

That breaks both law and oath?
They'll say they fight not for the cause,
Nor to defend the king and laws.
But us against them both.

Either the cause at first was ill,
Or being good, it is so still;

And thence they will infer,
That either now or at the first
They were deceiv'd; or, which is worst,
That we ourselves may err.

But plague and famine will come in,
For they and we are near of kin,

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