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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.

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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 eise his foes,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his course oppase.

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. ABRAHAM 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 truc
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,

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 none
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."

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,

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 stafe,
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,

TO FIVE MEMBERS OF THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.

And cannot go asunder:

But while the wicked starve, indeed
The saints have ready at their need
God's providence, and plunder.

Princes we are if we prevail,
And gallant villains if we fail :

When to our fame 'tis told,
It will not be our least of praise,
Since a new state we could not raise.

To have destroy'd the old.

Then let us stay and fight, and vote,
Till London is not worth a groat;

Oh'tis a patient beast!

When we have gall'd and tir'd the mule, And can no longer have the rule,

We'll have the spoil at least.

TO THE FIVE MEMBERS

OF THE

249

For all those pretty knacks you compose,
Alas, what are they but poems in prose?
And between those and ours there's no difference,
But that yours want the ryme, the wit, and the

sense:

;

But for lying (the most noble part of a poet) You have it abundantly, and yourselves know it And though you are modest and seem to abhor it, 'T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it:

Although the old maxim remains still in force,
That a sanctify'd cause must have a sanctify'd
If poverty be a part of our trade, [course,

So far the whole kingdom poets you have made,
Nay even so far as undoing will do it,
You have made king Charles himself a poet:
But provoke not his Muse, for all the world
knows,

Already you have had too much of his prose.

A WESTERN WONDER.

HONOURABLE HOUSE OF COMMONS, Do you not know not a fortnight ago,

THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.

AFTER
AFTER SO many concurring petitions
From all ages and sexes, and all conditions,
We come in the rear to present our follies
To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, Hampden, and
Holles.

Though set form of prayer be an abomination,
Set forms of petitions find great approbation :
Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their
souls,

So we from the depth and bottom of our bowls,
According unto the bless'd form you have taught

us,

We thank you first for the ills you have brought us:
For the good we receive we thank him that gave
And you for the confidence only to crave it. [it,
Next in course, we complain of the great viola-
Of privilege (like the rest of our nation); [tion
But 'tis none of yours of which we have spoken,
Which never had being until they were broken;
But ours is a privilege ancient and native,
Hangs not on an ordinance, or power legislative.
And first, 'tis to speak whatever we please,
Without fear of a prison or pursuivant's fees.
Next, that we only may lye by authority;
But in that also you have got the priority.
Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it
Poetical licence, and always did claim it.
By this we have power to change age into youth,
Turn nonsense to sense, and falsehood to truth;
In brief, to make good whatsoever is faulty;
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,
This though you cannot do, yet you are willing:
But when we undertake deposing or killing,
They're tyrants and monsters; and yet then the
poet

Takes full revenge on the villains that do it:
And when we resume a sceptre or crown,
We are modest, and seek not to make it our own.
But is 't not presumption to write verses to you,
Who make better poems by far of the two?

How they bragg'd of a Western Wonder? When a hundred and ten slew five thousand men, With the help of lightning and thunder?

There Hopton was slain again and again,
Or else my author did lye;
[living,
With a new Thanksgiving, for the dead who are
To God, and his servant Chidleigh.

But now on which side was this miracle try'd,
I hope we at last are even;

[graves, For sir Ralph and his knaves are risen from their To cudgel the clowns of Devon.

And there Stamford came, for his honour was

Of the gout three months together; [lame But it prov'd when they fought, but a running For his heels were lighter than ever. [gout For now he outruns his arms and his guns,

And leaves all his money behind him; But they follow after; unless he takes water, At Plymouth again they will find him.

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When out came the book which the news-monger | But, alas! he had been feasted
From the preaching ladies letter,
Where, in the first place, stood the Conqueror's
Which made it show much the better. [face,

But now without lying, you may paint him flying,
At Bristol they say you may find him,
Great William the Con, so fast he did run,
That he left half his name behind him.

With a spiritual collation,
By our frugal mayor,
Who can dine on a prayer,
And sup on an exhortation.
'Twas mere impulse of spirit,
Though he us'd the weapon carnal:
Filly foal," quoth he,
"My bride thou shalt be,

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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
Might amount to a new Thanksgiving.

This made Mr. Case, with a pitiful face,
In the pulpit to fall a weeping, [eyes,
Though his mouth utter'd lyes, truth fell from his
Which kept the lord-mayor from sleeping.

Now shut up shops, and spend your last drops,
For the laws, not your cause, you that loath
'em,

Lest Essex should start, and play the second part
Of the worshipful sir John Hotham.

NEWS FROM COLCHESTER:

Or, A proper New Ballad of certain Carnal Passages betwixt a Quaker and a Colt, at Horsly, near Colchester, in Essex.

To the tune of Tom of Bedlam.

ALL in the land of Essex,
Near Colchester the zealous,
On the side of a bank,

Was play'd such a prank,

As would make a stone-horse jealous.

Help Woodcock, Fox, and Naylor,
For brother Green 's a stallion:
Now, alas, what hope

Of converting the Pope,
When a Quaker turns Italian:

Even to our whole profession
A scandal 'twill be counted,

When 'tis talk'd with disdain,
Amongst the profane,

How brother Green was mounted.

And in the good time of Christmas,

Which though our saints have damn'd all,
Yet when did they hear
That a damn'd cavalier

E'er play'd such a Christmas gambal!

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 swallow'd:

Roll'd up in wanton swine's flesh,

The fiend might have crep into thee;
Then fullness of gut

Might have caus'd thee to rut,

And the Devil have so rid through thee.

"For if no respect of persons
Be due 'mongst sons of Adam,
In a large extent,
Thereby may be meant
That a mare 's as good as a madam."
Then without more ceremony,
Not bonnet vail'd, nor kiss'd her,
But took her by force,
"For better for worse,
And us'd her like a sister.
Now when in such a saddle
A saint will needs be riding,
Though we dare not say
'Tis a falling away,

May there be not some back-sliding?

"No surely," quoth James Naylor,
"Twas but an insurrection

Of the carnal part,
For a Quaker in heart
Can never lose perfection.

"For (as our masters' teach us)
The intent being well directed,
Though the Devil trepan
The Adamical man,
The saint stands uninfected."

But alas! a Pagan jury
Ne'er judges what 's intended;
Then say what we can,
Brother Green's outward man

I fear will be suspended.

And our adopted sister
Will find no better quarter,
But when him we enrol
For a saint, Filly Foal
Shall pass herself for a martyr.

Rome, that spiritual Sodom,
No longer is thy debtor,

O Colchester, now

Who's Sodom but thou,
Even according to the letter?

A SONG.
MORPHEUS, the humble god, that dwells
In cottages and smoaky cells,
Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
And though he fears no prince's frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown.

$ The Jesuits.

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