This will, I hope, your candid nature move,
'Cause I give freely what I dearly love;
And I believe 'tis true what I've been told,
You love good sack, as well as your partner gold.

I know not whether you like this or no,
But if it be not good, my will is so.

May it prove excellent! and may all those,
That drink it freely, be ingenious.

That is be found or made so! to yours and you,
May this year prove as prosperous as new.
May we live quiet and lay by our swords,
And have no more lawless and boist'rous lords!
May the law stand! may justice rule the roast,
One sober judge rules better than an host.
And be assur'd this truth you'll ever find,
I'll be as dutiful as you are kind;

Nor shall you in your rolls find out a man,
Will serve you more than I, though many can,

TO HIS FRIEND J. H.

If thou canst fashion no excuse,
To stay at home, as 'tis thy use,

When I do send for thee:

Let neither sickness, way, nor rain,
With fond delusions thee detain,

But come thy way to me.

Hang such a sickness that has power,
To seize on thee at such an hour,

When thou should'st take thy pleasure:
Go give thy doctor half a fee,
That it may never trouble thee,
Until thou art at leisure.

We have a cup of cider here,

That scorns that common strumpet beer,
And such dull drinks as they're :
Their potions made of hops and malt,
Can only make our fancies halt,

This makes them quick as air.

Ceres with Bacchus dares compare,
And swears her fruits the liquor are,
That poets so implore:

A sip of sack may work a verse,
But he that drinks a bowl of her's,
Shall thunder out a score.
To-morrow morning come away,
Friday we'll vote a happy day,
In spite of erra pater:

And bring with you a spark or twain,
Such as will drink, and drink again,
To treat about the matter.

TO A GENTLEMAN

THAT FELL SICK OF THE SMALL POX WHEN HE SHOULD BE MARRIED.

SIR,

WHEN you view these chequer'd lines and see,
How (bate the colour) like your face they be,
You'll think this sheet to be your looking glass,
And all these spots, the echoes of your face,
Wherein disease and love their field have pight,
To try which is more lovely, red or white:
Like our late soldiers, who more rage did show,
Unto the place that fed them, than their foe.

These things I guess rot by your face; I find
Your front is not the ndex of your mind.
Yet by your phys'nony thus much is meant,
You are not spotless, hough you're innocent.
Sir, if these verses o as halting pace,
They stumble in the vallies of your face.

Yet there is one thing which methinks I ha'n't, And I have studied to supply that want: Tis the synopsis of all misery;

'Tis the tenth waut, (dear friend) the want of thee, How great a joy 'twould be, how great a bliss, If we could have a metempsychosis!

May we once more enjoy ourselves, for neither Is truly blest, till we are blest together.

TO HIS FUEND MR. 1. B. BEING AT LONDON IN THE AUTHOR'S RETIREMENT. THOUGH we are now a alys'd, and can't find How to have mutual presence, but in mind, I'm bold to send you his, that you may know, Though you're above yet I do live belov.

Tho' I've no bags, hat are with child with gold,
And though my fire!ss chimules catch the cold,
For want of great reenues, yet I find
I've what's as good a all, a sated mind.
I neither money wan, nor have I store;
I have enough to liv, and ask no more.
No tiptoed turret, wose aspiring brow
Looks down and scors the humble roofs below;
My cottage lies benath the thunder's harms,
Laughs at the whisprs of the winds or storms.
My rooms are not elined with tapestry;
But ragged walls, were a few books may lie.
I slight the silks, whse ruffling whispers pride,
And all the world's tutologies beside.
My limbs inhabit bu a country dress,
Not to adorn, but crer nakedness.

My family's not suc, whose gentry springs,
Like old Mecænases from grandsire kings.
I've many kindred, et my friends are few,
Those few not rich, ad yet more rich than true.
I've but a drachm olearning, and less wit,
Yet that's enough toright my wealth from it;
As if those two selda or never meet,
But like two general that with bullets greet.

I study to live pleteously, though scant;
How not to have, ye not to care, nor want.
We've here no gaud feminines to show,
As you have in that reat seraglio:

He that weds here, ls cloister'd in a maid,
A sepulchre, where iver man was laid.
Ours are with loadstae touch'd, and never will
But right against the proper pole lie still:
Yours, like hell-gates do always open lie,
Like hackney jades tey stand at livery;
Like treasuries, whereach throws his mite;
Gulphs of contrarics,t once both dark and light;
Where whoso enters, s like gold refin'd,
Passing through fire, vhere Moloch sits enshrin'd,
And offers up a wholburnt sacrifice,
To pacify those fiery eities.

I have no far-fetchi, dear-bought delicates,
Whose virtue's prizenly by their rates.
No fanci'd kickshaws, hat would serve t' invite
To a fourth course theglutted appetite..
Hunger's my cook, m labour brings me meat,
Which best digests who it is sauc'd with sweat.
They that haye pleuries of these about them,
Yet do but live, and solo I without them.

I can sit in my stud soon or late,
And have no troopers aarrel with my gate;
Nor break the peace wh it; whose innocence
Stands only guarded ints own defence.
No debts to sue for, an no coin to lend,
No cause to fear my fo nor slight my friend.

AN ELEGY ON A LADY,

THAT DIED BEFORE HER INTENDED NUPTIALS.

AMONG the train of mourners, whose swoln eyes
Wallow in tears of these sad obsequies,
Admit me as a cypher here to come,
Who, though am nothing yet can raise a sutn;
And truly I can mourn as well as they,
Who're clad in sable weeds, though mine as gray.
Excuse me, sir, passion will swell that's pent,
Thank not my tears, I cannot but lament
To see a lady, ready for your bed,
To Death's embraces yield her maidenhead;
And that angelic corpse that should have been
A cabinet to lodge your jewels in,

Should now b'embalm'd with dust, and made a prey
To the happy worms, who may call that day
On which her limbs unto their lot did fall,
Your sad solemnities, their festival:
Should I not mourn, I could not pay the due
Of tears to her, or sympathy to you.
For Death did slay you both when she did die,
So who writes one's, must write both's elegy.
She was too good for you, she was too high,
A wife for angels to get angels by:

In whom there was as much divinity,
And excellence, as could in woman be;
Whom you and all did love, and did suppose
To be an angel in a mortal's clothes:
But Heaven, to undeceive you, let you know,
By her mortality, she was not so.

ON THE

GREAT CRIER AT WESTMINSTER-HALL WHEN the great crier, in that greater room, Calls Faunt-le-roy, and Alex-and-er Brome, The people wonder (as those heretofore When the dumb spake) to hear a crier roar. The kitling crew of criers that do stand, With eunuchs' voices, squeaking on each hand, Do signify no more, compar'd to him, Than member Allen did to patriot Pym. Those make us laugh, while we do him adore; Theirs are but pistol, his mouth's cannon-bore. Now those fame-thirsty spirits that endeavour To have their names enlarg'd, and last for ever, Must be attornies of this court, and so His voice shall like Fame's loudest trumpet blow Their names about the world, and make them last, While we can lend an ear, or he a blast.

TO THE MEMORY OF THAT LOYAL PATRIOT,
SIR I. CORDEL, KT.

THUS fell the grace and glory of our time,
Who durst be good when goodness was a crime;

2

A NEW YEAR'S GIFT.

THE season now requires a man should send
Some worthy present to his worthier friend:
And I (though poor in purse) do wear a heart,
That is ambitious to perform a part

In celebration of this new born day;
And having nothing to present, I'll pray
This year may be to me, as well as you,

So much more blest than t'other, as more new;
And in it so much happiness abound,

To turn us all to good, yet not turn round.
And may the Sun, that now begins t' appear
I' th' horizon to usher in the year,
Melt all those fatuous vapours, whose false light
Purblinds the world, and leads them from the right;
And may our Sol like that rise once again,
Mounted triumphant in a prosperous reign.
May all those Phaetons that, spite o' th' crown,
Would guide his chariot, tumble headlong down
So shall the land with happiness be crown'd,
When men turn rigut, and only years turn round.

UPON HIS MARE,

STOLEN BY A TROOPER.

WHY, let her go, I'll vex myself no more,
Lest my beart break, like to my stable door.
'Twas but a mare! if she be gone, she's gone!
'Tis not a mare that I do stand upon.
Now by this cross I am so temperate grown,
I'll bridle Nature, since my mare is gone.
I have a little learning, and less wit,
That wealth is sure, no thief can pilfer it.
All worldly goods are frail and variable,
Yea, very jades are now become unstable.
Riches, they say, have wings; my mare had so,
For tho' she had legs, yet she could hardly ge;
But thieves and fate have such a strong command
To make those go, which have ro feet to stand.
She was well skill'd in writing elegies,
And every mile writes, "Here my rider lies."
Now, since I've ne'er a beast to ride upon,
Would I might never go, my verse shall run.
From thief or true-man one may ride secure.
I'll mount on Pegasus, for he's so poor,

I would not rack invention for a curse
To plague the thief, for fear I make him worse.
I would not have him hang'd, for that would be
Sufficient for the law, but not for me.
In charity I wish him no more pain,
But to restore me home my mare again;
And 'cause I would not have good customs alter,
I wish who has the mare, may have the halter.

UPON

RIDING ON A TIRED HORSE, 'TWAS hot, and our Olympic charioteer Limbeck'd the body of the traveller, Which to prevent, I like the Sun did go: He was on horseback, I on horseback too. Thus my all-conquering namesake us'd to ride ilis stallion, as I did mine bestride:

So on we go to view the desolation

Of that half plague to our distressed nation.

But my horse was so superstitious grown,
He would fall down, and worship every stone;
Nay, he in reverence to each holy place,
Was often seen to fall upon his face :
And had I been inclin'd to popishness,
I needed have no other cross but this.
Within a mile or two, without command,
Do what I could, this jade would make a stand.
I prais'd him, thinking glory were a spur
To prick him on; all would not make him stir.
All worldly things do post away, we know;
But yet my horse would neither run nor go.
What everlasting creature should this be,
That all things are less permanent than he!
So long I kick'd, the people did suppose
The armless man had beat a drum with's toes.
But though a march or an alar'm I beat,
The senseless horse took all for a retreat.
The people's jeers mov'd me to no remorse,
No more than all my kicks did move my horse.
Had Phaeton's horses been as mine is, they
Needed no reins, they'll never run away.
I wish'd for old Copernicus to prove,
That while we both stood still, the Earth would
Oh! for an earthquake, that the hills might meet,
To bring us home, tho' we mov'd not our feet.
All would not do: I was constrain'd to be
The bringer up of a foot company.
But now in what a woeful case were I,
If like our horsemen I were put to fly!
I wish all cowards, (if that be too much)
Half of our horsemen, which I'll swear are such,
In the next fight, when they begin to flee,
They may be plagu'd with a tir'd horse, like me.

TO HIS FRIEND I. B.

[move.

THOU think'st that I to thee am fully known,
Yet thou'lt not think how powerful I am grown.
I can work miracles, and when I do
Think on thy worth, think thee a wonder too.
Thy constant love, and lines in verse and prose,
Makes me think thee and them miraculous.
Myself am from myself, both here and there I
Suppose myself grown an ubiquitary.
We are a miracle, and 'tis with us
As with John Baptist and his Lazarus.
I thou, and thou art I, and 'tis a wonder
That we both live, and yet both live asuuder.
Come, then, let's meet again; for until we
Unite, the times can't be at unity.
But if this distance must still interpose
Between my eye and thee, yet let us close
In mind; and tho' our necks bi-forked grown,
Spread eagle like, yet let our breasts be one.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

YOUR pardon, lady: by my troth I err,
I thought each face a painted sepulchre,
That wore but beauty on't: I did suppose
That outward beauty had been ominous;
And that it had been so opposite to wit,
As it ne'er wisdom met, nor virtue it.
Your face confutes me, and I do begin
To know my errour, and repent my sin.
For on those rosy checks I plainly see
And read my former thought's deformity.

I could believe hyperboles, and think
That praise too low that flows from pen and ink;
That you're all angel: when I look on you,
I'm forc'd to think the rampant'st fictions true.
Nay, I dare swear (though once I did abhor it)
That men love women, and have reason for it.
The lapidaries now shall learn to set
Their diamonds in gold, and not in jet.
The proverb's crost, for now a man may find
"A beauteous face th' index of such a mind."
How I could praise you, and your worth display,
But that my ravish'd pen is forc'd to stay;
And when I think t' express your purer fashion,
My expressions turn to stupid admiration.
Nature's perfection! she, by forming thee,
Proves she has now infallibility.

You're an Enchiridion, whom Heav'n did print
To copy by, with no errata in't.
You're my Urania; nay, within you be
The Muses met in their tertrinity:
Else how could I turn poet, and retain
My banish'd Muse into my thoughts again!
See what your wit, see what your beauty can,
T" make a poet's more than t' make a man:
I've wit b' infusion; nay, I've beauty too;
I think I'm comely, if you think me so.
Add to your virtues love, and you may be
A wife for Jove: pray let that Jove be me.

ON THE TURN-COAT CLERGY.
THAT clergymen are changeable, and teach
That now 'gainst which they will to morrow preach,
Is an undoubted truth; but that in this
Their variation they do aught amiss,
I stedfastly deny: the world, we see,
Preserves itself by mutability;

And by an imitation each thing in it
Preserves itself by changing every minute.

The heavenly orbs do move and change, and there's
The much admired music of the spheres.
The Sun, the Moon, the stars, do always vary;
The times turn round still, nothing stationary.
Why then should we blame clergymen, that do,
Because they're heavenly, like the Heavens go?
Nay, th' Earth itself, on which we tread, (they say}
Turns round, and's moving still; then why not
they?

Our bodies still are changing from our birth,
Till they return to their first matter, earth.
We draw in air and food; that air and food
Incorporates, and turns our flesh and blood.
Then we breathe out ourselves in sweat, and vent
Our flesh and blood by use and excrement,
With such continual change, that none can say,
He's the same man that he was yesterday.
Besides, all creatures cannot choose but be
By much the worse for their stability:
For standing pools corrupt, while running springs
Yield sweet refreshment to all other things.
The highest church-things oftenest change, we
know,

The weather-cock that stands o' th' top does so.
The bells when rung in changes best do please;
The nightingale, that minstrel of the trees,
Varies her note, while the dull cuckoo sings
Only one note, no auditory brings."

Why then should we admire our Levites' change,
Since 'tis their natʼral motion? 'Tis not strange

A SATIRE ON THE REBELLION.
URCE me no more to sing, I am not able
To raise a note: songs are abominable.
Yea, David's psalms do now begin to be
Turn'd out of church, by hymns extempore,
No accents are so pleasant now as those
That are cæsura'd through the pastor's nose,
I'll only weep our misery and ruth,
I am no poet, for I speak the truth.
Behold a self against itself doth fight,
And the left hand prevails above the right.
The grumbling guts, the belly of the state,
Unthankful for the wholesome food they ate,
Belch at their head, and do begin to slight
The cates, to which they had an appetite.
They long for kickshaws and new-fangled dishes,
Not which all love, but which each fancy wishes.
Behold a glorious Phœbus tumbling down,
While the rebellious bards usurp the crown.
Behold a team of Phaetons aspire

To guide the Sun, and set the world on fire.
All goes to wrack, and it must needs be so,
When those would run, that know not how to go.
Behold a lawful sovereign, to whose mind
Dishonesty's a stranger now confin'd,

To the anarchic pow'r of those, whose reason
Is flat rebellion, and their truth is treason.
Behold the loyal subjects pill'd and poll'd,
And from Algiers to Tunis bought and sold.
Their goods sequest'red by a legal stealth,
The private robb'd, t' uphold the commonwealth.
And those the only plunderers are grown
Of others' states, that had none of their own.
Robbers no more by night in secret go,
They have a licence now for what they do.
If any to the rulers do complain,
They know no other godliness but gain:
Nor give us any plaster for the sore
Of paying much, but only paying more.
Whate'er we do or speak, howe'er we live,
All is acquitted, if we will but give.
They sit in bulwarks, and do make the laws
But fair pretences to a fouler cause;
And, horse-lcech like, cry "Give;" whate'er they
Or sing, the burthen of their song is "Pay." [say
How wretched is that state! how full of woe!
When those that should preserve, do overthrow!
When they rule us, and o'er them money reigns,
Who still cry "Give," and always gape for gains!
But on those judges lies a heavy curse,

That measure crimes by the delinquent's purse.
The time will come, when they do cease to live,
Some will cry "Take," as fast as they cry'd
"Give."

VOL VI

TO HIS REVEREND FRIEND DR. S.

ON HIS PIOUS AND LEARNED BOOK.

THE times are chang'd, and the misguided rout
Now tug to pull in what they tumbled out,
And with like eagerness. The factious crew,
Who ruin'd all, are now expos'd to view :
Their vizor's off, and now we plainly see
Both what they are, and what they aim'd to be,
And what they meant to do to us and ours,
If either ours or we were in their pow'rs.

That vip'rous brood of Levi, who gnaw'd through
Their mother's bowels, and their father's too,
To break a passage to their lewd designs,
Have found th' effects of all their undermines,
And see themselves out-acted in their show,
By sucking sprouts that out of them did grow.
They're now out- wink'd, out-fasted, and out-
tongu'd;
[dung'd:
Their pulpits reap those fields which they had
Who split the church into so many schisms,
The zeal of these eats t'other's patriarchisms:
And, vermin-like, they do that corse devour,
Whose putrefaction gave them life and pow'r.
Now they repent, (though late) and turn to you
Of the old church, that's constant, pure, and true.

Thanks to such lights as you are, who have stay'd In that firm truth, from which they fondly stray'd, Endur'd reproach, and want, all violent shocks, Which roll'd like billows, while you stood like rocks,

Unmov'd by all their fury, kept your ground,
Fix'd as the poles, whiles they kept twirling round a
Submitted to all rage, and lost your all,

Yet ne'er comply'd with, or bow'd knee to Baal.
You preach'd for love of preaching, with desire
T' instruct, and to reform; while pay and hire,
Which made them preach, were ta'en away from

you,

You still strove on, and led the people through
That wilderness of errour, into which
Those ignes-fatui, tempted by the itch

Of pride and change, had led them; and when

th' times,

Envying your worth, voted your sermons crimes,
And made it treason to relieve or hear you,
And constituted to affront and jeer you,
Those patentees of graces and good livings,
Grown rich with fees, and fat with full thanks-

givings,

Who roll'd a stone upon your mouths, for fear
Truth would find out a resurrection there:
Then from the press you piously did show
What, why, and how, we should believe and know,
And pray and practise; made it out to us
Why our church-institutes were these and thus;
And how we ought t' observe them, so that we
May find them that, which of themselves they be
Commands and comforts: this, sir, we do find
Perform'd by this rare issue of your mind,
Your pious and your profitable lines,
Which can't be prais'd by such a pen as mine's,
But must b' admir'd and lov'd, and you must be
For ever thank'd and honour'd too by me,
And all that know or read you; since you do
Supply the pious, and the learned too

So well, that both must say, to you they owe
What good they practise, and what good they