For ample joys; then lo fing, as loud
As thunder fhot from the divided cloud!

Let Cygnus pluck from the Arabian waves
The ruby of the rock, the pearl that paves
Great Neptune's court; let every sparrow bear
From the Three Sifters' weeping bark a tear :
Let fpotted lynxes their fharp talons fill
With cryftal fetch'd from the Promethean hill:
Let Cytherea's birds fresh wreaths compofe,
Knitting the pale-fac'd lily with the rofe;
Let the self-gotten phœnix rob his neft,
Spoil his own funeral pile, and all his best
Of myrrh, of frankincenfe, of caffia,, bring,
To firew the way for our returned king!
Let every poft a panegyric wear,
Each wall, each pillar, gratulations bear:
And yet, let no man invocate a Mufe;
The very matter will itself infuse
A facred fury; let the merry bells

(For unknown joys work unknown miracles)
Ring without help of fexton, and profage
A new-made holy-day for future age!
And, if the ancients u 'd to dedicate
A golden temple to propitious Fate,
At the return of any noble men,
Of heroes, or of emperors, we must then
Raife up a double trophy; for their fame
Was but the fhadow of our Charles's name,
Who is there where all virtues mingled flow,
Where no defects or imperfections grow?
Whofe head is always crown'd with victory,
Snatch'd from Bellona's hand; him luxury
In peace debilitates: whofe tongue can win
Tully's own garland, pride to him creeps in.
On whom (like Atlas' fhoulders) the propt state
(As he were primum mobile of Fate)
Sokly relics; him blind ambition moves;
His tyranny the bridled fubject proves.
But all thofe virtues, which they all poffeft
Divided, are collected in thy breast,

Great Charles! Let Caefar boaft Pharfalia's fight,
Honorius praise the Parthian's unfeign'd flight;
Let Alexander call himself Jove's peer,
And place his image near the thunderer;

Vet while our Charles with equal balance reigns
'Twixt Mercy and Aftrea, and maintains
A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis only he,
Who is moft near, moit like, the Deity.

I durft not but in fecret murmurs pray;
To whisper in Jove's ear

How much I wish that funeral,
Or gape at fuch a great one's fall;
This let all ages hear,

And future times in my foul's picture fee
What I abhor, what I defire to be.

I would not be a Puritan, though he

Can preach two hours, and yet his fermon be
But half a quarter long:

Though, from his old mechanic trade,
By vilion he's a paftor made,

His faith was grown fo ftrong;
Nay, though he think to gain falvation
By calling th' Pope the Whore of Babylon.
I would not be a School-mafter, though he
His rods no lefs than Fafces deem to be;

Though he in many a place
Turns Lilly oftener than his gowns,
Till at the laft he make the nouns

Fight with the verbs apace';
Nay, though he can, in a poetic heat,
Figures, born fince, out of poor Virgil beat.
I would not be Justice of Peace, though he
Can with equality divide the fee,

And ftakes with his clerk draw;
Nay, though he fits upon the place
Of judgment with a learned face
Intricate as the law;

And, whilt he mulets enormities demurely,
Breaks Prifcian's head with fentences fecurely.

I would not be a Courtier, though he
Makes his whole life the trueft comedy
Although he be a man
In whom the taylor's forming art,
And nimble barber, claim more part
Than Nature herself can;

Though, as he ufes men, 'tis his intent
To put off death too with a compliment.

From Lawyer's tongues though they can spin with ease

The shortest cause into a paraphrase;

From Ufurers' confcience

(For fwallowing up young heirs so fast, Without all doubt, they'll choak at last) Make me all innocence,

Good Heaven! and from thy eyes, O Juftice!

From Singing-mens' religion, who are
Always at church, juft like the crows, 'caufe there
They build themselves a neft:

From too much Poetry which fhines
With gold in nothing but its lines,

Free, O you Powers! my breast.
And from Aftronomy, which in the skies
Finds fish and bulls, yet doth but tantalize.

From your Court-madams' beauty, which doth carry

At morning May, at night a January:

From the grave city brow

(For though it want an R, it has

The letter of Pythagoras)

Keep me, O fortune, now!

And chines of beef innumerable fend me,
Or from the ftomach of the guard defend me.
This only grant me, that my means may lie
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Th' unknown are better than ill-known;

Rumour can ope the grave!

Acquaintance I would have; but when 't depends
Not from the number, but the choice, of friends.

Books fhould, not bufine fs, entertain the light;
And fleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night.
My house a cottage more

Than palace; and fhould fitting be
For all my ufe, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With Nature's hand, not Art's; that pleafures

yield

Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading space;
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,

Thefe unbought fports, and happy state,
I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly fay, each night,

To-morrow let my fun his beams difplay,
Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to-day *.

In a fatin fuit, redeem'd but yesterday;
One who is ravish'd with a cock-pit play;
Who prays God to deliver him from no evil
Befides a taylor's bill; and fears no devil
Befides a ferjeant, thrust me from my feat:
At which I 'gan to quarrel, till a neat
Man in a ruff (whom therefore I did take
For barrister) open'd his mouth and spake;
"Boy, get you gone, this is no school.” “Oh no;
"For, if it were, all you gown'd men would go
"Up for falfe Latin." They grew straight to be
Incens'd; I fear'd they would have brought

on me

An action of trespass; till the young man
Aforefaid, in the fatin fuit, began

Toftrike me doubtlefs there had been a fray,
Had not I providently skipp'd away
Without replying: for to fcold is ill,

Where every tongue 's the clapper of a mill,
And can out-found Homer's Gradivus; fo
Away got 1: but ere I far did go,

I flung (the darts of wounding poetry)
These two or three fharp curfes back: May he
Be by his father in his ftudy took

At Shakespeare's plays, inftead of my Lord Coke!
May he (though all his writings grow as foon
As Butter's out of cftimation)

Get him a poet's name, and fo ne'er come
Into a ferjeant's or dead judge's room!
May he become fome poor phyfician's prey,
Who keeps men with that confcience in delay
As he his client doth, till his health be
Nay, for all that, may the disease be gone
As far-fetcht as a Greek noun's pedigree!
Never but in the long vacation!
May neighbours ufe all quarrels to decide;
But if for law any to Lendon ride,
Of all thofe clients let not one be his,
Unless he come in Forma Pauperis !

Grant this, ye Gods that favour poetry!
That all these never-ceafing tongues may be
Brought into reformation, and not dare

To quarrel with a thread-bare black: but spare Them who bear fcholars' names, left fome one

take

Spleen, and another Ignoramus make.

A POETICAL REVENGE.

TO THE DUTCHESS OF BUCKINGHAM.

FI fhould fay, that in your face were seen
Nature's beft picture of the Cyprian Queens
If I fhould fwear, under Minerva's name,
Poets (who prophets are) foretold your fame;
The future age would think it flattery;
But to the prefent, which can witness be,
'Twould feem beneath your high deferts, as far
As you above the rest of women are.

When Manners' name with Villiers' join'd
I fee,

How do I reverence your nobility!
But when the virtues of your ftock I view,
Envy'd in your dead lord, admir'd in you),

I half adore them; for what woman can,
Befides yourself (nay, I might fay what mзn)
But fex, and birth, and fate, and years excel
In mind, in fame, in worth, in living well?
Oh, how had this begot idolatry,

If you had liv'd in the world's infancy,

When man's t. much religion made the best
Or deities, or femi-gods at least '
But we, forbidden this by piety,
Or, if we were not, by your modefty,
Will make our hearts an altar, and there pray
Not to, but for, you; nor that England may
Enjoy your equal, when you once are gone,
But, what's more poffible, t'enjoy you long.

TO HIS VERY MUCH HONOURED GODFATHER,
MR. A. B.

Love (for that upon the wings of fame
Shall perhaps mock Death or Time's darts)
my Name.

I love it more, becaufe 'twas given by you;
I love it most, because 'twas your name too;
For if I chance to flip, a confcious shame
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.
I'm glad that city, t' whom I ow'd before
(But, ah me! Fate hath croft that willing fcore)
A father, gave me a godfather too;
And I'm more glad, because it gave me you:
Whom I may rightly think, and term, to be
Of the whole city an epitome.

I thank my careful Fate, which found out one
When Nature had not licensed my tongue
Farther than cries) who fhould my office do;
I thank her more, because the found out you:
In whofe each look I may a fentence fee;
In whose each deed, a teaching homily.
How fhall I pay this debt to you? My fate
Denies me Indian pearl or Perfian plate;
Which though it did not, to requite you thus,
Were to fend a les to Alcinous,

And fell the cunning'it way -No! when I can,
In every leaf, in every verfe, write Man;

When my quill relifsheth a school no more;
When my pen-feather'd Mufe hath learnt to foar,
And gotten wings as well as feet; look then
For equal thanks from my unwearied pen:
Till future ages fay, 'twas you did give
A name to me, and I made yours to live.

That to the thirsty traveller may say,

I am accurft; go turn fome other way?

It is unjust: black flood! thy guilt is more, Sprung from his lofs, than all thy watery flore Can give thee tears to mourn for: birds fhall be, And beats, henceforth afraid to drink of thee.

What have I faid? my pious rage hath been
Too hot, and acts, whilst it accufeth, fin.
Thou'rt innocent, I know, ftill clear and bright,
Fit whence fo pure a foul fhould take its flight-
How is angry zeal confin'd! for he
Muft quarrel with his love and piety,
That would revenge his death. Oh, I fhall in,
And with anon he had lefs virtuous been.
For when his brother (tears for him I'd fpill,
But they're all challeng'd by the greater ill)
Struggled for life with the rude waves, he too
Leapt in, and when hope no faint beam could
fhow,

His charity fhone moft: "Thou fhalt," faid he,
"Live with me, brother, or I'll die with thee;"
And fo he did! Had he been thine, O Rome!
Thou would't have call'd this death a martyrdom,
And fainted him. My confcience give me leave,
I'll do foto: if Fate will us bereave
Of him we honour'd living, there must be
A kind of reverence to his memory,
After his death; and where more juft than here,
Where life and end were both fo fingular?
He that had only talk'd with him, might find
A little academy in his mind;

Where Wisdom mafter was, and fellows all
Which we can good, which we can virtuous, call;
Reafon, and Holy Fear the proctors were,
To apprehend those words, thofe thoughts, that err.
His learning had out-run the rest of heirs,
Stol'n beard from Time, and leapt to twenty
years.

And, as the fun, though in full glory bright,
Shines upon all men with impartial light,
And a good-morrow to the beggar brings
With as full rays as to the mightiest kings:
So he, although his worth just state might claim,
And give to pride an honourable name,
With courtesy to all, cloath'd virtue fo,
That 'twas not higher than his thoughts were
low.

In's body too no critique eye could find
The fmalleft blemish, to belye his mind;
He was all purenefs, and his outward part
But reprefents the picture of his heart.
When waters fwallow'd mankind, and did

cheat

The hungry worm of its expected meat;
When

gems, pluckt from the fhore by ruder hands,

SON AND HER TO SIR THOMAS LITTLETON,

10 WAS DROWNED LEAPING INTO THE WATER TO SAVE HIS YOUNGER BROTHER.

'Mongft all thofe fpoils, there was not any prey Cou-equal what this brook hath ftol'n away. Weep then, fad flood; and, though thou'rt in

nocent,

About the fhore, as they did yesterday? Will the fun court them still? and fhall they fhow No confcious wrinkle furrow'd on their brow,

ment;

And, when long grief hath drunk up all thy fore, Come to our eyes, and we will lend thee more.

THE fall of mankind under death's extent
The quire of bleffed angels did lament;
And wish'd a reparation to fee

By him, who Manhood join'd with Deity.
How grateful fhould man's fafety then appear
T himself, whofe fafety can the angels cheer!
Benedi&a tu in Mulieribus.

DEATH came, and troops of fad difeafes led
To th' carth, by woman's hand folicited;
Life came fo too, and troops of Graces led
To th' earth, by woman's faith folicited.
As our life's fprings came from thy bleffed womb,
So from our mouths fprings of thy praise shall

come;

Who did life's bleffing give, 'tis fit that the,
Above all women, fhould thrice bleffed be.

Et Benedictus fructus ventris tui. WITH mouth divine the Father doth proteft, He a good word fent from his stored breaft; 'Twas Chrift: which Mary, without carnal thought,

From the unfathom'd depth of goodness brought; The word of blefling a juft caufe affords

To be oft bleffed with redoubled words!

Spiritus Sanctus fuperveniet in te.

AS when foft weft-winds ftrook the garden-
rofe,

A fhower of fweeter air faletes the nofe;
The breath gives fparing kiffes, nor with power
Unlocks the virgin-bofom of the flower;
So the Holy Spirit upon Mary blow'd,
And from her facred box whole rivers flow'd;

Yet loos'd not thine eternal chastity:
Thy rofe's folds do ftill entangled lie.
Believe Chrift born from an unbruised womb,
So from unbruised bark the odours come.

Et virtus Altiffimi obumbrabit tibi.
GOD his great Son begot ere time begun :
Mary in time brought forth her little fon,
Of double fubftance One; life he began,
God without Mother, without Father, Man.
Great is the birth; and 'tis a stranger deed
That She no man, than God no wife, fhould need
A Shade delighted the child-bearing maid,
And God himfelf became to her a Shade.
O ftrange defcent! who is Light's author, he
Will to his creature thus a Shadow be.
As unfeen Light did from the Father flow,
So did feen Light from Virgin Mary grow.
When Moles fought God in a fhade to fee,
The father's fhade was Chrift the Deity.
Let's feek for day, we darkness, whilft our fight
In light finds darkness, and in darknefs light.

O DE I.

ON THE PRAISE OF POETRY..

IS not a pyramid of marble stone, 'Though high as our ambition:

'Tis not a tomb cut out in brass, which can Give life to th' afhes of a man:

But verfes only; they fhall fresh appear,

Whilft there are men to read or hear. When time fhall make the lafting brafs decay, And eat the pyramid away;

Turning that monument wherein men trutt

Their names, to what it keeps, poor duft; Then fhall the Epitaph remain, and be

New-graven in eternity.

Poets by death are conquer'd; but the wit
Of poets triumphs over it.

What cannot verfe? When Tcian Orpheus took

His lyre, and gently on it ftrook, The learned ftones came dancing along,

And kept time to the charming fong.
With artificial pace the warlike pine,

The elm, and his wife the ivy, twine:
With all the better trees, which erst had stood
Unmov'd, forfook their native wood.
The laurel to the poet's hand did bow,

Craving the honour of his brow;
And every loving arm embrac'd, and made

With their officious leaves a fhade.
The beafts too ftrove his auditors to be,

Forgetting their old tyranny.

The fearful hart next to the lion came,

And wolf was fhepherd to the lamb. Nightingales, harmlefs fyrens of the air,

And Mufes of the place, were there; Who, when their little windpipes they had found Unequal to fo ftrange a found,

O'ercome by art and grief they did expire,

And fell upon the conquering lyre.