Why, as we pass, do those on Xanthus' shore, It is not thou, but we are blind,
As gods behold us, and as gods adore ?

and our corporeal eyes (we find) But that, as well in danger as degree,

Dazzle the optics of our mind.
We stand the first; that when our Licians see
Our brave examples, they admiring say,

Love to our citadel resorts, « Behold cur gallant leaders! These are they

Through those deceitful sally-ports, Deserve the greatness; and unenvy'd stand:

Our sentinels betray our forts. Since what they act, transcends what they command.”

What subtle witchcraft man constrains, Could the declining of this fate (oh, friend)

To change his pleasure into pains, Our date to immortality extend ?

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

Like wedlock, honour's title have ?
With such a glorious folly thee inspire ?
But since with Fortune Nature doth conspire,

That word makes free-born man a slave. Since age, disease, or some less noble end, How happy be that loves not lives ! Though not less certain, dotb our days attend;

Him peither hope nor fear deceives,
Since 'tis decreed, and to this period lead To Fortune who no hostage gives.
A thousand ways, the noblest path we'll tread;
And bravely on, till they, or we, or all,

How unconcern'd in things to come!
A common sacrifice to honour fall.

If here uneasy, firds at Rome,
At Paris, or Madrid, his home.


PR'xthee 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 checks, nor hips, nor eyes,

That I prize,
Quick conceits, or sharp replies ;
If wise thou wilt appear and knowing,

Repartie, 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 behare;
All the day long Susan civil,

Pap by night, pap by night,
Or such a devil.

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 stiil his foes in number grew,
Thicker their darts and arrows fiew,
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.


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

Well may'st thou keep this world in awe;
Religion, wisdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumplı draw.
'Tis he commands the powers abore;
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;

| Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose, Nor Mars (her champion)'s flaming shield Whose purple blush the day foreshows; Guards him when Cupid takes the field.

The other three, with his own fires,

Phoebus, the poets' god, inspires; He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss

By Shakespear's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Much higher than fruition is;

Our stage's lustre Rome's outsbines : But less than nothing, if it miss.

These poets near our princes sleep,

And in one grave their mansion keep. When matches Love alone projects

They liv'd to see so many days, The cause transcending the effects,

Till time had blasted all their bays; That wild-fire's quench'd in cold neglects : But cursed be the fatal hour

That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower Whilst those conjunctions prove the best,

That in the Muses' garden grew, Where Love's of blindness dispossest,

And amongst wither'd laurels threw. By perspectives of interest.

Time, which made them their fame outlive,

To Cowley scarce did ripeness give. Though Solomon with a thousand wives,

Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave To get a wise successor strives,

Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have ; But one (and he a fool) survives.

In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art Old Rome of children took no care,

Of slower Nature got the start; They with their friends their beds did share,

But both in him so equal are, Secure ľadopt a hopeful heir.

None knows which bears the happiest share ;

To him no author was unknown, Lore drowsy days and stormy nights

Yet what he wrote was all his own ; Makes; and breaks friendship, whose delights He melted not the ancient gold, Feed, but not glut, our appetites.

Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold

To plunder all the Roman stores Well-chosen friendship, the most noble

Of poets, and of orators : Of virtues, all our joys makes double,

Horace's wit, and Virgil's state, And into halves divides our trouble.

He did not steal, but emulate ! But when th' unlucky knot we tie,

And when he would like them appear, Care, avarice, fear, and jealousy,

Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear :

He not from Rome alone, but Greece, Make friendship languish till it die.

Like Jason brought the golden fleece ; The wolf, the lion, and the bear,

To him that language (though to none When they their prey in pieces tear,

Of th' others) as his own was known. To quarrel with themselves forbear :

On a stiff gale (as Flaccus sings)

The Theban swan extends his wings,
Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep, When through th' etherial clouds he fies :
When love into their veins doth creep,

To the same pitch our swan doth rise ;
That law of Nature cease to keep.

Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd

When on that gale his wings are stretch'd; Who then can blame the amorous boy,

His fancy and his judgment such, Who the fair Helen to enjoy,

Each to the other seer'd too much, To quench his own, set fire on Troy?

His severe judgment (giving law)

His modest fancy kept in awe : Such is the world's preposterous fate,

As rigid husbands, jealous are, Amongst all creatures, mortal hate

When they believe their wives too fair. Love (though immortal) doth create.

His English streams so pure did flow, But love may beasts excuse, for they

As all that saw and tasted know : 'Their actions pot by reason sway,

But for his Latin vein, so clear, But their brute appetites obey.

Strong, full, and high it doth appear,

That were immortal Virgil here,
But man's that savage beast, whose mind, Him, for his judge, he would not fear:
From reason to self-love declin'd,

Of that great portraiture, so truc
Delights to prey upon his kind.

A copy, pencil never drew.
My Muse her song had ended here,
But both their Genii straight appear:

Joy and amazement her did strike,
MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH, Two twins she never saw so like.
AND BURIAL AMONGST THE 'Twas taught by wise Pythagoras,

One soul might through more bodies pass.

Seeing such transmigration there,
OLD Chaucer, like the morning star,

She thought it not a fable here.
To us discovers day from far;

Such a resemblance of all parts,
His light those mists and clouds dissolvid, Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts;
Which our dark nation long involv'd :

Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell,
But he descending to the shades,

| And show the world this parallel : Darkness again the age invades,

Fixt and contemplative their looks,


Still turning over Nature's books :

The wheel that governs all: Their works chaste, moral, and divine,

From thence the change in church and state, Where profit and delight combine;

And all the mischief bears the date
They, gilding dirt, in noble verse

From Haberdashers' Hall.
Rustic philosophy rehearse.
When heroes, gods, or god-like kings,

Did we force Ireland to despair,
They praise, on their exalted wings

Upon the king to cast the war, To the celestial orbs they climb,

To make the world abhor him, And with th' harmonious spheres keep time:

Because the rebels us'd his name? Nor did their actions fall behind

Though we ourselves can do the same,
Their words, but with like candour shin'd;

While both alike were for him.
Each drew fair characters, yet none
Of these they feign'd, excels their own.

Then the same fire we kindled here
Both by two generous princes lov'd,

With what was given to quench it there, Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd,

And wisely lost that nation : Yet having each the same desire,

To do as crafty beggars use, Both from the busy throng retire.

To maim themselves, thereby t'abuse
Their bodies to their minds resign'd,

The simple man's compassion.
Car'd not to propagate their kind :
Yet though both fell before their hour,

Have I so often past between
Time on their offspring hath no power,

Windsor and Westminster, unseen, Nor fire nor Fate their bays shall blast,

And did myself divide :
Nor Death's dark veil their day o'ercast.

To keep his excellence in awe,
And give the parliament the law ?

For they knew none beside.


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

| 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 Aing abroad the fire ?

But 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.

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,

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.

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 vath?
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,

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



And cannot go asunder :

For all those pretty knacks you compose, But while the wicked starve, indeed

Alas, what are they but poems in prose ? The saints have ready at their need

And between those and ours there's no difference, God's providence, and plunder.

But that yours want the ryme, the wit, and the


sense : Princes we are if we prevail,

Rut for lying (the most noble part of a poet) And gallant villains if we fail :

You have it abundantly, and yunrselves know it ; When to our fame 'tis told,

And though you are modest and seem to abhor it, It will not be our least of praise,

'T has done you good service, and thank Hell Since a new state we could not raise,

for it : To have destroy'd the old.

Although the old maxim remains still in force,

That a sanctify'd cause must have a sanctify'd Then let us stay and fight, and vote,

If poverty be a part of our trade, [course, Till London is not worth a groat;

So far the whole kingdom poets you have made, Oh'tis a patient beast !

Nay even so far as undoing will do it, When we have gall’d and tir'd the mule,

You have made king Charles himself a poct : And can no longer have the rule,

But provoke not his Muse, for all the world
We'll have the spoil at least.

Already you have had too much of his prose.


Do you not know not a fortnight ago, THE RUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS. How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder ?

When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men, AFTER SO many concurring petitions

With the help of lightning and thunder ?
From all ages and sexes, and all conditions,
We come in the rear to present our follies There Hopton was slain again and again,
To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and Or else my author did lye ;

[living, Holles.

With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are Though set form of prayer be an abomination, To God, and his servant Chidleigh. Set forms of petitions find great approbation : Therefore, as others from th’ bottom of their But now on which side was this miracle try'd, souls,

I hope we at last are even ;

[graves, So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls, For sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their According unto the bless'd form you have taught To cudgel the clowns of Devon,

us, Wethank you first for the ills you have brought us : And there Stamford came, for his honour was For the good we receive we thank him that gave

Of the gout three months together ; [lame And you for the confidence only to crave it. [it, But it prov'd when they fought, but a running Next in course, we complain of the great viola For his heels were lighter than ever. [gout Of privilege (like the rest of our nation) ; [tion But'tis none of yours of which we have spoken,

For now he outruns his arms and his guns, Which never had being until they were broken ;

And leaves all his money behind him ; But ours is a privilege ancient and native,

But they follow after; unless he takes water, Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative.

At Plymouth again they will find him.
And first, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivant's fees.

What Reading hath cost, and Stamford hath Next, that we only may lye by authority ;

Goes deep in the sequestrations! Clost,

These wounds will not heal, with your new great But in that also you have got the priority. Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it

Nor Jepson's declarations.
Poetical licence, and always did claim it. Now, Peters and Case, in your prayer and grace
By this we have power to change age into youth, Remember the new Thanksgiving ;
Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth; Isaac and his wife, now dig for your life,
In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty ;

Or shortly you'll dig for your living.
This art some poet, or the Devil, has taught ye:
And this our property you have invaded;
And a privilege of both houses have made it.

But that trust above all in poets reposed,
That kings by them only are made and deposed, You heard of that wonder, of the lightning and
This though you cannot do, yet you are willing :
But when we undertake deposing or killing, which made the lye so much the louder :
They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the Now list to another, that miracle's brother,

Which was done with a firkin of powder.
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it :
And when we resume a sceptre or crown,

O what a damp it struck through the camp !
We are modest, and seek not to make it our own. But as for honest sir Ralph,
But is 't not presumption to write verses to you, It blew him to the Vies, without beard or cyes,
Who make better poems by far of the two? But at least three heads and a half.



When out came the book which the news-monger | But, alas ! he had been feasted

From the preaching ladies letter, stook | With a spiritual collation, Where, in the first place, stood the Conqueror's By our frugal mayor, Which made it show much the better. [face, Who can dine on a prayer,

And sup on an exhortation. But now without lying, you may paint him flying,

At Bristol they say you may find him, | 'Twas mere impulse of spirit, Great William the Con, so fast he did run, Though he us'd the weapon carnal: That he left half his name behind him.

“ Filly foal," quoth he,

“ My bride thou shalt be, And now came the post, save all that was lost, And how this is lawful, learn all.

But alas, we are past deceiving
By a trick so stale, or else such a tale

“ For if no respect of persons Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.

Be due 'mongst sons of Adam,

In a large extent, This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,

Thereby may be meant In the pulpit to fall a weeping, reyes, | That a mare 's as good as a madam." Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his

Then without more ceremony, Which kept the lord-mayor from sleeping.

Not bonnet vail'd, nor kiss'd her, Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,

But took her by force,

For better for worse, For the laws, not your cause, you that loath

| And us'd her like a sister. 'em, Lest Essex should start, and play the second part Now when in such a saddle Of the worshipful sir John Hotham.

A saint will needs be riding,

Though we dare not say

'Tis a falling away, NEWS FROM COLCHESTER:

May there be not some back-sliding? Or, A proper New Ballad of certain Carnal Pas-1“ No surely,” quoth James Naylor, sages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horsly,

“ 'Twas but an insurrection near Colchester, in Essex.

Of the carnal part,

For a Quaker in heart
To the tune of Tom of Bedlam.

Can never lose perfection.
All in the land of Essex,

“ For (as our masters' teach us) Near Colchester the zealous, .

The intent being well directed,
On the side of a bank,

Though the Devil trepan
Was play'd such a prank,

The Adamical man,
As would make a stone-horse jealous.

The saint stands uninfected." Help Woodcock, Fox, and Naylor,

But alas ! a Pagan jury For brother Green 's a stallion :

Ne'er judges what 's intended; Now, alas, what hope

Then say what we can, Of converting the Pope,

Brother Green's outward man When a Quaker turns Italian :

I fear will be suspended. Even to our whole profession

And our adopted sister A scandal 'twill be counted,

Will find no better quarter,
When 'tis talk'd with disdain,

But when him we enrol
Amongst the profane,

For a saint, Filly Foal
How brother Green was mounted.

Shall pass herself for a martyr.
And in the good time of Christmas,
Which though our saints have damn'd all, Rome, that spiritual Sodom,
Yet when did they hear

No longer is thy debtor,
That a damn'd cavalier

O Colchester, now
E’er play'd such a Christmas gambal!

Who's Sodom but thou,

Even according to the letter?
Had thy flesh, O Green, been pamper'd
With any cates unhallow'd,

Hadst thou sweeten'd thy gums
With pottage of plums,

Or profane minc'd pye hadst swallowd: Morpheus, the humble god, that dwells

In cottages and smoaky cells, Roll'd up in wanton swine's flesh,

Hates gilded roofs and beds of down; The fiend might have crep into thee; .

And though he fears no prince's frown, Then fullness of gut

Flies from the circle of a crown.
Might bave caus'd thee to rut,
And the Devil have so rid through thee.

$ The Jesuits.

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