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And with the vulgar doth it not obtaine

The name of cruell weather, storme, and raine?
Be not affected with these markes too much
Of crueltie, lest they doe make you such.
But view the mildnesse of your Maker's state,
As I the penitent's here emulate:
He, when he sees a sorrow such as this,
Streight puts off all his anger, and doth kisse
The contrite soule, who hath no thought to win
Upon the hope to have another sin
Forgiven him; and in that lyne stand I,
Rather then once displease you more, to die,
To suffer tortures, scorne, and infamie,
What fooles, and all their parasites can apply;
The wit of ale, and genius of the malt
Can pumpe for; or a libell without salt
Produce; though threatning with a coale, or chalke
On every wall, and sung where e're I walke.
I number these as being of the chore
Of contumelie, and urge a good man more
Then sword, or fire, or what is of the race
To carry noble danger in the face:
There is not any punishment, or paine,
A man should flie from, as he would disdaine.
Then, mistris, here, here let your rigour end,
And let your mercie make me asham'd t' offend.
I will no more abuse my vowes to you,
Then I will studie falshood, to be true.
O, that you could but by dissection see
How much you are the better part of me;
How all my fibres by your spirit doe move,
And that there is no life in me, but love.
You would be then most confident, that tho'
Publike affaires command me now to goe
Out of your eyes, and be awhile away;
Absence, or distance, shall not breed decay.
Your forme shines here, here, fixed in my heart;
I may dilate my selfe, but not depart.
Others by common stars their courses run,
When I see you, then I doe see my sun,
Till then 't is all but darknesse, that I have;
Rather then want your light, I wish a grave.

AN ELEGIE.

To make the doubt cleare, that no woman's true,
Was it my fate to prove it full in you?
Thought I but one had breath'd the purer ayre,
And must she needs be false, because she's faire?
Is it your beautie's marke, or of your youth,
Or your perfection, not to studie truth?
Or thinke you Heaven is deafe? or hath no eyes?
Or those it has, winke at your perjuries?
Are vowes so cheape with women? or the matter
Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water,
And blowne away with wind? or doth their breath,
Both hot and cold at once, threat life and death?
Who could have thought so many accents sweet
Tun'd to our words, so many sighes should meet
Blowne from our hearts, so many oathes and teares
Sprinkled among, all sweeter by our feares,
And the devine impression of stolne kisses,
That seal'd the rest, could now prove emptie blisses?
Did you draw bonds to forfeit? signe, to breake?
Or must we read you quite from what you speake,
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?

O, I prophane! though most of women be The common monster, love shall except thee, My dearest love, how ever jealousie,

With circumstance might urge the contrarie.
Sooner I'le thinke the Sunne would cease to cheare
The teeming Earth, and that forget to beare;
Sooner that rivers would run back, or Thames
With ribs of ice in June would bind his streames:
Or Nature, by whose strength the world indures,
Would change her course, before you alter yours:
But, O, that trecherous breast, to whom weake you
Did trust our counsells, and we both may rue,
Having his falshood found too late! 'twas he
That made me cast you guiltie, and you me.
Whilst he, black wretch, betray'd each simple word
We spake, unto the comming of a third !
Curst may he be that so our love hath slaine,
And wander wretched on the Earth, as Cain.
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pittie;
In plaguing him let miserie be wittie;
Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,
Till he be noysome as his infamie;
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
And not be trusted more on his soule's price;
And after all selfe-torment, when he dyes,
May wolves teare out his heart, vultures his eyes,
Swyne eat his bowels, and his falser tongue,
That utter'd all, be to some raven flung;
And let his carrion corse be a longer feast
To the king's dogs, then any other beast.
Now I have curst, let us our love receive;
In me the flame was never more alive.
I could begin againe to court and praise,
And in that pleasure lengthen the short dayes
Of my life's lease; like painters that doe take
Delight, not in made workes, but whilst they make.
I could renew those times, when first I saw
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law
To like what you lik'd, and at masques, or playes,
Commend the selfe-same actors, the same wayes;
Aske how you did, and often with intent
Of being officious, grow impertinent;

All which were such lost pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch'd as a disease.
But, being got, it is a treasure, sweet,
Which to defend, is harder then to get;
And ought not be prophan'd on either part,
For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.

AN ELEGIE.

THAT love's a bitter sweet, I ne're conceive
Till the sower minute comes of taking leave,
And then I taste it. But as men drinke up
In haste the bottome of a med'cin'd cup,
And take some sirrup after; so doe I,
To put all relish from my memorie
Of parting, drowne it in the hope to meet
Shortly againe, and make our absence sweet.
This makes me, mistris, that sometime by stealth
Under another name, I take your health;
And turne the ceremonies of those nights
I give, or owe my friends, into your rites,
But ever without blazon, or least shade
Of vowes so sacred, and in silence made;
For though love thrive, and may grow up with cheare,
And free societie, he's born else-where,

And must be bred, so to conceale his birth,
As neither wine doe rack it out, or mirth.
Yet should the lover still be ayrie and light
In all his actions, rarified to spright:
Not like a Midas shut up in himselfe,
And turning all he toucheth into pelfe,
Keepe in reserv'd in his dark-lanterne face,
As if that ex'lent dulness were love's grace;
No, mistris, no, the open merrie man
Moves like a sprightly river, and yet can
Keepe secret in his channels what he breedes,
'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weedes.
They looke at best like creame-bowles, and you soone
Shall find their depth: they 're sounded with a
spoone.

They may say grace, and for Love's chaplaines passe;
But the grave lover ever was an asse;
Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come
Out with the other, for he's still at home;
Like the dull wearied crane that (come on land).
Doth while he keepes his watch, betray his stand:
Where he that knowes will like a lapwing flie
Farre from the nest, and so himselfe belie
To others, as he will deserve the trust
Due to that one, that doth believe him just.
And such your servant is, who vowes to keepe
The jewell of your name, as close as sleepe
Can lock the sense up, or the heart a thought,
And never be by time, or folly brought,
Weaknesse of braine, or any charme of wine,
The sinne of boast, or other countermine,
(Made to blow up love's secrets) to discover
That article, may not become our lover:
Which in assurance to your brest I tell,
If I had writ no word, but, deare, farewell.

AN ELEGIE.

SINCE
you must goe, and I must bid farewell,
Heare, mistris, your departing servant tell
What it is like: and doe not thinke they can
Be idle words, though of a parting man;
It is as if a night should shade noone-day,
Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away;
And we were left under that hemisphere,
Where we must feele it darke for halfe a yeare.
What fate is this, to change men's dayes and houres,
To shift their seasons, and destroy their powers!
Alas I ha' lost my heat, my blood, my prime,
Winter is come a quarter e're his time;
My health will leave me; and when you depart,
How shall I doe, sweet mistris, for my heart?
You would restore it? no, that's worth a feare,
As if it were not worthy to be there:
O, keepe it still; for it had rather be
Your sacrifice, then here remaine with me.
And so I spare it, come what can become
Of me, I'le softly tread upon my tombe;
Or like a ghost walke silent amongst men,
Till I may see both it and you agen.

AN ELEGIE.

LET me be what I am, as Virgil cold,
As Horace fat, or as Anacreon old;
No poet's verses yet did ever move,

Whose readers did not thinke he was in love.

Who shall forbid me then in rithme to be
As light and active as the youngest he
That from the Muses' fountaines doth indorse
His lynes, and hourely sits the poet's horse.
Put on any ivy garland, let me see
Who frownes, who jealous is, who taxeth me.
Fathers, and husbands, I doe claime a right
In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight
Sooner then my affection from the faire.
No face, no hand, proportion, line, or ayre
Of beautie, but the Muse hath interest in;
There is not worne that lace, purle, knot or pin,
But is the poet's matter: and he must,
When he is furious, love, although not lust.
But then content, your daughters and your wives
(If they be faire and worth it) have their lives
Made longer by our praises: or, if not,
Wish you had fowle ones, and deformed got;
Curst in their cradles, or there chang'd by elves,
So to be sure you doe enjoy your selves.
Yet keepe those up in sackcloth too, or lether,
For silke will draw some sneaking songster thither.
It is a ryming age and verses swarme
At every stall: the cittie cap's a charme.
But I who live, and have liv'd twentie yeare
Where I may handle silke, as free, and neere,
As any mercer, or the whale-bone man
That quilts those bodice I have leave to span ;
Have eaten with the beauties, and the wits,
And braveries of court, and felt their fits
Of love, and hate; and came so nigh to know
Whether their faces were their owne, or no:
It is not likely I should now looke downe
Upon a velvet petticote, or a gowne,
Whose like I 'ave knowne the taylor's wife put on
To doe her husband's rites in, e're 'twere gone
Home to the customer: his letcherie
Being, the best clothes still to preoccupie.
Put a coach-mare in tissue, must I horse
Her presently? or leape thy wife of force,
When by thy sordid bountie she hath on

gowne of that, was the caparison?

So I might dete upon thy chaires and stooles
That are like cloath'd. Must I be of those fooles
Of race accompted, that no passion have
But when thy wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave?
Then ope thy wardrobe, thinke me that poore groome
That from the foot-man, when he was become
An officer there, did make most solemne love
To ev'ry petticote he brush'd, and glove
He did lay up, and would adore the shoe,
Or slipper was left off, and kisse it too,
Court every hanging gowne, and after that,
Lift up some one, and doe, I tell not what.
Thou didst tell me; and wert o're-joy'd to peepe
In at a hole, and see these actions creepe [prose,
From the poore wretch, which though he play'd in
He would have done in verse, with any of those
Wrung on the withers by lord Love's despight,
Had he had the facultie to reade, and write!
Such songsters there are store of; witnesse he
That chanc'd the lace laid on a smock to see,
And straight-way spent a sonnet; with that other
That (in pure madrigall) unto his mother
Commended the French hood and scarlet gowne
The lady mayresse pass'd in through the towne,
Unto the Spittle sermon. O, what strange
Varietie of silkes were on th' Exchange!

Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one;
Another answers, 'Lasse those silkes are none,

In smiling L'envoye, as he would deride
Any comparison had with his Cheap-side.
And vouches both the pageant, and the day,
When not the shops, but windowes doe display
The stuffes, the velvets, plushes, fringes, lace,
And all the originall riots of the place:
Let the poore fooles enjoy their follies, love
A goat in velvet; or some block could move
Under that cover; an old mid-wive's hat!
Or a close-stoole so cas'd; or any fat
Bawd in a velvet scabberd! I envy

None of their pleasures! nor will ask thee, why
Thou 'rt jealous of thy wife's, or daughter's case:
More then of either's manners, wit, or face!

AN EXECRATION UPON VULCAN.

AND why to me this, thou lame lord of fire,
What had I done that might call on thine ire?
Or urge thy greedie flame, thus to devoure
So many my yeares-labours in an houre?
I ne're attempted, Vulcan, 'gainst thy life;
Nor made least line of love to thy loose wife ;
Or in remembrance of thy afront, and scorne,
With clownes, and tradesmen, kept thee. clos'd in
horne.

'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong downe,
And Mars that gave thee a lanthorne for a crowne:
Was it because thou wert of old denied
By Jove to have Minerva for thy bride,
That since thou tak'st all envious care and paine,
To ruine any issue of the braine?
Had I wrote treason there, or heresie,
Imposture, witchcraft, charmes, or blasphemie,
I had deserv'd then thy consuming lookes,
Perhaps, to have beene burned with my bookes.
But, on thy malice, tell me, didst thou spie
Any, least loose, or scurrile paper lie
Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be,
By thy owne vote, a sacrifice to thee?
Did I there wound the honours of the crowne?
Or taxe the glories of the church, and gowne?
Itch to defame the state? or brand the times?
And my selfe most, in some selfe-boasting rimes?
If none of these, then why this fire? or find
A cause before; or leave me one behind.
Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule,
Th' Esplandians, Arthurs, Palmerins, and all
The learned librarie of Don Quixote;
And so some goodlier monster had begot,
Or spun out riddles, and weav'd fiftie tomes
Of logogriphes, and curious palindromes,
Or pump'd for those hard trifles anagrams,
Or eteostichs, or those finer flammes
Of egges, and halberds, cradles, and a herse,
A paire of scisars, and a combe in verse;
Acrostichs, and telestichs, on jumpe names,
Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames,
On such my serious follies: but, thou 'It say,
There were some pieces of as base allay,
And as false stampe there; parcels of a play,
Fitter to see the fire-light, then the day;
Adulterate moneys, such as might not goe:
Thou should'st have stay'd, till publike fame said so.
She is the judge, thou executioner;

Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her power,
Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy crueltie
With some more thrift, and more varietie :

Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece,
To light tobacco, or save roasted geese,
Sindge capons, or poore pigges, dropping their eyes;
Condemn'd me to the ovens with the pies;
And so, have kept me dying a whole age,
Not ravish'd all hence in a minute's rage.
But that's a marke, whereof thy rites doe boast,
To make consumption, ever where thou go'st;
Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire
T' have held a triumph, or a feast of fire,
Especially in paper; that that steame
Had tickled your large nosthrill: many a reame
To redeeme mine, I had sent in enough, [stuffe.
Thou should'st have cry'd, and all beene proper
The Talmud, and the Alcoran had come,
With pieces of the legend; the whole summe
Of errant knight-hood, with the dames, and dwarfes;
The charmed boates, and the enchanted wharfes,
The Tristrams, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peers,
All the madde Rolands, and sweet Oliveers;
To Merlin's marvailes, and his Caball's losse,
With the chimæra of the Rosie-crosse,
Their seales, their characters, hermetique rings,
Their jemme of riches, and bright stone, that brings
Invisibilitie, and strength, and tongues;

The art of kindling the true coale by lungs;
With Nicholas Pasquill's Meddle with your match,
And the strong lines, that so the time doe catch,
Or captaine Pamplet's horse and foot, that sallie
Upon th' Exchange, still out of Pope's-head-alley.
The weekly Corrants, with Paul's Seale; and all
Th' admir'd discourses of the prophet Ball:
These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine or sup,
Had made a meale for Vulcan to lick up.
But in my deske, what was there to accite
So ravenous, and vast an appetite?

I dare not say a body, but some parts
There were of search, and mastry in the arts.
All the old Venusine, in poëtrie,

And lighted by the Stagerite, could spie,
Was there mad English: with the grammar too,
To teach some that, their nurses could not doe,
The puritie of language; and among
The rest, my journey into Scotland song,
With all th' adventures; three bookes not afraid
To speake the fate of the Sicilian maid
To our owne ladyes; and in storie there
Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine yeare;
Wherein was oyle, beside the succour spent,
Which noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent:
And twice-twelve years stor'd up humanitie,
With humble gleanings in divinitie,
After the fathers, and those wiser guides
Whom faction had not drawne to studie sides.
How in these ruines Vulcan, thou dost lurke,
All soote, and embers! odious, as thy worke!
I now begin to doubt, if ever grace,
Or goddesse, could be patient of thy face.
Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire!
'Cause thou canst halt with us in arts, and fire!
Sonne of the wind! for so thy mother, gone
With lust, conceiv'd thee; father thou hadst none.
When thou wert born, and that thou look'st at best,
She durst not kisse, but flung thee from her brest.
And so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his cup:
No mar'le the clownes of Lemnos tooke thee up;
For none but smiths would have made thee a god.
Some alchimist there may be yet, or odde
Squire of the squibs, against the pageant day,
May to thy name a Vulcanale say;

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And for it lose his eyes with gun-powder,
As th' other may his braines with quicksilver.
Well-fare the wise-men yet, on the Banckside,
My friends, the watermen! they could provide
Against thy furie, when, to serve their needs,
They made a Vulcan of a sheafe of reedes,
Whom they durst handle in their holy-day coates,
And safely trust to dresse, not burne their boates.
But, O those reeds! thy meere disdaine of them,
Made thee beget that cruell stratagem, [pranck)
(Which, some are pleas'd to stile but thy madde
Against the Globe, the glory of the Banke:
Which, though it were the fort of the whole parish,
Flanck'd with a ditch, and forc'd out of a marish,
I saw with two poore chambers taken in [beene!
And raz'd; e're thought could urge, this might have
See the world's ruines! nothing but the piles
Left! and wit since to cover it with tiles.
The brethren, they streight nois'd it out for newes,
"T was verily some relique of the stewes;,
And this a sparkle of that fire let loose
That was lock'd up in the Winchestrian goose,
Bred on the Banck in time of poperie,
When Venus there maintain'd her misterie.
But others fell, with that conceipt, by the eares,
And cry'd, it was a threatning to the beares;
And that accursed ground, the Paris-Garden:
Nay, sigh'd a sister, 't was the nun, Kate Arden
Kindled the fire: but, then did one returne,
No foole would his owne harvest spoile, or burne!
If that were so, thou rather would'st advance
The place, that was thy wive's inheritance.
O no, cry'd all. Fortune, for being a whore,
Scap'd not his justice any jot the more:
He burnt that idoll of the revels too:
Nay, let White-Hall with revels have to doe,
Though but in daunces, it shall know his power;
There was a judgement shown too in an houre.
He is true Vulcan still! he did not spare
Troy, though it were so much his Venus' care.
Foole, wilt thou let that in example come?
Did not she save from thence, to build a Rome?
And what hast thou done in these pettie spights,
More then advanc'd the houses, and their rites?
I will not argue thee, from those of guilt,
For they were burnt, but to be better built.
"T is true, that in thy wish they were destroy'd,
Which thou hast only vented, not enjoy'd.

So would'st th' have run upon the Rolls by stealth,
And didst invade part of the common-wealth,
In those records, which, were all chronicles gone,
Will be remembred by six clerkes, to one.
But say all six, good men, what answer yee?
Lyes there no writ, out of the Chancerie
Against this Vulcan? no injunction?
No order? no decree? though we be gone

At common-law, me thinkes in his despight
A court of equitie should doe us right.
But to confine him to the brew-houses,

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The glasse-house, dye-fats, and their fornaces;
To live in sea-coale, and goe forth in smoake;
Or lest that vapour might the citie choake,
Condemne him to the brick-kills, or some hill-
Foot (out in Sussex) to an iron mill;
Or in small fagots have him blaze about
Vile tavernes, and the drunkards pisse him out;
Or in the bell-man's lanthorne, like a spie,
Burne to a snuffe, and then stinke out, and die:
I could invent a sentence, yet were worse;
But I'le conclude all in a civill curse.

Pox on your flameship, Vulcan; if it be
To all as fatall as 't hath beene to me,
And to Paul's steeple; which was unto us
'Bove all your fire-workes had at Ephesus,
Or Alexandria; and though a divine
Losse, remaines yet, as unrepair'd as mine.
Would you had kept your forge at Ætna still,
And there made swords, bills, glaves, and armes
your fill.

Maintain'd the trade at Bilbo; or else-where;
Strooke in at Millan with the cutlers there;
Or stay'd but where the fryar and you first met,
Who from the Devil's arse did guns beget,
Or fixt in the Low-Countreys, where you might
On both sides doe your mischiefes with delight;
Blow up, and ruine, myne, and countermyne,
Make your petards, and granats, all your fine
Engines of murder, and receive the praise
Of massacring man-kind so many wayes.
We aske your absence here, we all love peace,
And pray the fruites thereof, and the increase;
So doth the king, and most of the king's men
That have good places: therefore once agen,
Pox on thee Vulcan, thy Pandora's pox,
And all the evils that flew out her box
Light on thee: or if those plagues will not doo,
Thy wive's póx on thee, and B. B's too.

SPEACH ACCORDING TO HORACE.

WHY yet, my noble hearts, they cannot say,
But we have powder still for the king's day,
And ord'nance too: so much as from the tower
T' have wak'd, if sleeping, Spaine's ambassadour,
Old Æsope Gundomar: the French can tell,
For they did see it the last tilting well,
That we have trumpets, armour, and great horse,
Lances, and men, and some a breaking force.
They saw too store of feathers, and more may,
If they stay here but till Saint George's day.
All ensignes of a warre, are not yet dead,
Nor markes of wealth so from our nation fled,
But they may see gold-chaines, and pearle worne
then,

Lent by the London dames, to the lords men;
Withall, the dirtie paines those citizens take
To see the pride at court, their wives doe make:
And the returne those thankfull courtiers yeeld
To have their husbands drawne forth to the field,
And comming home, to tell what acts were done
Under the auspice of young Swynnerton,
What a strong fort old Pimblicoe had beene!
How it held out! how (last) 't was taken in!
Well, I say thrive, thrive brave artillerie yard,
Thou seed-plot of the warre, that hast not spar'd
Powder, or paper, to bring up the youth
Of London, in the militarie truth,
These ten yeares day; as all may sweare that looke
But on thy practise, and the posture booke:
He that but saw thy curious captaines drill,
Would thinke no more of Vlushing, or the Brill:
But give them over to the common eare,
For that unnecessarie charge they were.
Well did thy craftie clerke, and knight, sir Hugh,
Supplant bold Panton; and brought there to view
Translated Ælian's tactickes to be read,

And the Greeke discipline (with the moderne) shed

So, in that ground, as soone it grew to be
The cittie-question, whether Tilly, or he,
Were now the greater captaine? for they saw
The Berghen siege, and taking in Breda,
So acted to the life, as Maurice might,
And Spinola have blushed at the sight.
O happie art! and wise epitome

Of bearing armes most civill soldierie !

Thou canst draw forth thy forces, and fight drie
The battells of thy aldermanitie;
Without the hazard of a drop of blood:

More then the surfets in thee that day stood.
Goe on, increast in vertue and in fame,
And keepe the glorie of the English name
Up among nations. In the stead of bold
Beauchamps, and Nevills, Cliffords, Audleys old;
Insert thy Hodges', and those newer men,
As Stiles, Dike, Ditchfield, Millar, Crips, and Fen:
That keepe the warre, though now 't be growne
more tame,

Alive yet, in the noise, and still the same,
And could (if our great men would let their sonnes
Come to their schooles) show 'hem the use of guns;
And there instruct the noble English heires
In politique, and militar affaires;

But he that should perswade, to have this done
For education of our lordings, soone
Should he heare of billow, wind, and storme,
From the tempestuous grandlings, who 'll informe
Us, in our bearing, that are thus, and thus,
Borne, bred, allied? what's he dare tutor us?
Are we by booke-wormes to be awde? must we
Live by their scale, that dare doe nothing free?
Why are we rich, or great, except to show
All licence in our lives? what need we know?
More then to praise a dog? or horse? or speake
The hawking language? or our day to breake
With citizens? let clownes and tradesmen breed
Their sonnes to studie arts, the lawes, the creed:
We will beleeve like men of our owne ranke,
In so much land a yeare, or such a banke,
That turnes us so much moneys, at which rate
Our ancestors impos'd on prince and state.
Let poore nobilitie be vertuous: we,
Descended in a rope of titles, be
From Guy, or Bevis, Arthur, or from whom
The herald will. Our blood is now become
Past any need of vertue. Let them care,
That in the cradle of their gentrie are,
To serve the state by councels, and by armes:
We neither love the troubles, nor the harmes.
What love you then? your whore? what study?
Carriage, and dressing. There is up of late [gaite,
The academie, where the gallants meet-
What, to make legs? yes, and to smell most sweet,
All that they doe at playes. O, but first here
They learne and studie; and then practise there.
But why are all these irons i' the fire

Of severall makings? helps, helps, t' attire
His lordship. That is for his band, his haire
This, and that box his beautie to repaire;
This other for his eye-browes: hence, away,
I may no longer on these pictures stay,
These carkasses of honour: taylors' blocks,
Cover'd with tissue, whose prosperitie mocks
The fate of things: whilst totter'd vertue holds
Her broken armes up, to their emptie moulds.

1 Waller.

AN EPISTLE.

TO MASTER ARTH. SQUIB.

WHAT I am not, and what I faine would be,
Whilst I informe my selfe, I would teach thee,
My gentle Arthur; that it might be said
One lesson we have both learn'd, and well read;
I neither am, nor art thou one of those
That hearkens to a jack's pulse, when it goes.
Nor ever trusted to that friendship yet
Was issue of the taverne, or the spit:
Much lesse a name would we bring up, or nurse,
That could but claime a kindred from the purse.
Those are poore ties depend on those false ends,
'T is vertue alone, or nothing, that knits friends:
And as within your office, you doe take
No piece of money, but you know, or make
Inquirie of the worth: so must we doe,
First weigh a friend, then touch, and trie him too:
For there are many slips, and counterfeits.
Deceit is fruitfull. Men have masques and nets,
But these with wearing will themselves unfold:
They cannot last. No lie grew ever old.
Turne him, and see his threds: looke, if he be
Friend to himselfe, that would be friend to thee.
For that is first requir'd, a man be his owne:
But be that 's too-much that, is friend of none.
Then rest, and a friend's value understand
It is a richer purchase then of land.

AN EPIGRAM

ON SIR EDWARD COKE,

WHEN HE WAS LORD CHIEFE IUSTICE OF ENGLAND.

He that should search all glories of the gowne,
And steps of all rais'd servants of the crowne,
He could not find then thee, of all that store,
Whom fortune aided lesse, or vertue more,
Such, Coke, were thy beginnings, when thy good
In others' evill best was understood: [aide,
When, being the stranger's helpe, the poore man's
Thy just defences made th' oppressor afraid.
Such was thy processe, when integritie,
And skill in thee, now grew authoritie;
That clients strove, in question of the lawes,
More for thy patronage, then for their cause,
And that thy strong and manly eloquence
Stood up thy nation's fame, her crowne's defence;
And now such is thy stand, while thou dost deale
Desired justice to the publique weale
Like Solon's selfe; explat'st the knottie lawes
With endlesse labours, whilst thy learning drawes
No lesse of praise, then readers in all kinds
Of worthiest knowledge, that can take men's minds.
Such is thy all; that (as I súng before)
None fortune aided lesse, or vertue more.
Or if chance must to each man that doth rise
Needs lend an aide, to thine she had her eyes.

AN EPISTLE

ANSWERING TO ONE THAT ASKED TO BE sealed of TRE
TRIBE OF BEN.

MEN that are safe, and sure, in all they doe,
Care not what trials they are put unto;
They meet the fire, the test, as martyrs would;
And though opinion stampe them not, are gold.

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