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I

HAVE my pietie too, which could

It vent it selfe, but as it would,

Would say as much, as both have done
Before me here, the friend and sonne;

For I both lost a friend and father,

Of him whose bones this grave doth gather;
Deare Vincent Corbet, who so long
Had wrestled with diseases strong,
That though they did possess each limbe,
Yet he broke them, e're they could him,
With the just canon of his life,

A life that knew nor noise, nor strife;
But was by sweetning so his will,
All order, and disposure, still

His mind as pure, and neatly kept,
As were his nourceries; and swept
So of uncleannesse, or offence,
That never came ill odour thence:

And adde his actions unto these,
They were as specious as his trees.
'Tis true, he could not reprehend
His very manners, taught t' amend,
They were so even, grave, and holy;
No stubbornnesse so stiffe, nor folly
To licence ever was so light,
As twice to trespasse in his sight,

His lookes would so correct it, when
It chid the vice, yet uot the men.
Much from him I professe I wonne,
And more, and more, I should have done,
But that I understood him scant,
Now I conceive him by my want,
And pray who shall my sorrowes read,
That they for me their teares will shed;
For truly, since he left to be,

I feele, I'm rather dead than he?

Reader, whose life, and name, did e're become
An epitaph, deserv'd a tombe:
Nor wants it here through penurie, or sloth,
Who makes the one, so't be first makes both.

VOL. V.

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IF Sackvile, all that have the power to doe
Great and good turns, as wel could time them too,
And knew their how, and where: we should have then
Lesse list of proud, hard, or ingratefull men.
For benefits are aw'd with the same mind
As they are done, and such returnes they find:
You then, whose will not only, but desire
To succour my necessities tooke fire,
Not at my prayers, but your sense; which laid
The way to meet what others would upbraid;
And in the act did so my blush prevent,
As I did feele it done, as soone as meant:
You cannot doubt, but I who freely know
This good from you, as freely will it owe;
And though my fortune humble me, to take
The smallest courtesies with thankes, I make
Yet choyce from whom I take them; and would

shame

To have such doe me good, I durst not name:
They are the noblest benefits, and sinke
Deepest in man, of which when he doth thinke,
The memorie delights him more, from whom
Then what he hath receiv'd. Gifts stinke from some,
They are so long a comming, and so hard;
Where any deed is forc't, the grace is mard.

Can I owe thankes, for courtesies receiv'd
Against his will that does 'hem? that hath weav'd
Excuses, or delayes? or done 'hem scant,
That they have more opprest me, then my want?
Or if he did it not to succour me,

But by meere chance? for interest? or to free
Himselfe of farther trouble, or the weight

Of pressure, like one taken in a streight?

All this corrupts the thankes, lesse hath he wonne,
That puts it in his debt-booke e're 't be done;
Or that doth sound a trumpet, and doth call
His groomes to witnesse; or else lets it fall
In that proud manner: as a good so gain'd,
Must make me sad for what I have obtain'd. [face,
No! gifts and thankes should have one cheerefull
So each, that's done, and tane, becomes a brace.
He neither gives, or does, that doth delay
A benefit, or that doth throw't away,

No more then he doth thanke, that will receive
Nought but in corners; and is loath to leave,
Lest ayre, or print, but flies it: such men would
Run from the conscience of it if they could.

As I have seene some infauts of the sword
Well knowne, and practiz'd borrowers on their word,
Give thankes by stealth, and whispering in the eare,
For what they straight would to the world forsweare;
And speaking worst of those from whom they went
But then fist fill'd, to put me off the sent.
Now dam'mee, sir, if you shall not command
My sword ('tis but a poore sword understand)
As farre as any poore sword i' the land:
Then turning unto him is next at hand,
Damns whom he damn'd too, is the veriest gull,
H'as feathers, and will serve a man to pull.
Are they not worthy to be answer'd so,
That to such natures let their full hands flow,
And seeke not wants to succour: but inquire,
Like money-brokers, after names, and hire

Hh

Their bounties forth to him that last was made,
Or stands to be'n commission o' the blade?
Still, still the hunters of false fame apply

In time 'twill be a heape; this is not true
Alone in money, but in manners too.
Yet we must more then move still, or goe on,

Their thoughts and meanes to making loude the cry; We must accomplish; 'tis the last key-stone
But one is bitten by the dog he fed,

And hurt, seeks cure; the surgeon bids take bread,
And spunge-like with it dry up the blood quite,
Then give it to the hound that did him bite:
Pardon, sayes he, that were a way to see
All the towne-curs take each their snatch at me.
O, is it so knowes he so much? and will
Feed those, at whom the table points at still?
I not deny it, but to helpe the need
Of any, is a great and generous deed:
Yea, of th' ingratefull: and he forth must tell
Many a pound and piece will place one well;
But these men ever want: their very trade
Is borrowing; that but stopt, they doe invade
All as their prize, turne pyrats here at land,
Ha' their Bermudas, and their Streights i' th'Strand;
Man out of their boates to th' Temple, and not shift
Now, but command; make tribute what was gift;
And it is paid 'hem with a trembling zeale
And superstition, I dare scarce reveale
If it were cleare, but being so in cloud
Carryed and wrapt, I only am aloud

My wonder! why? the taking a clownes purse,
Or robbing the poore market-folkes, should nurse
Such a religious horrour in the brests
Of our towne gallantry! or why there rests
Such worship due to kicking of a punck!
Or swaggering with the watch, or drawer drunke;
Or feats of darknesse acted in mid-sun,
And told of with more licence then th' were done!
Sure there is misterie in it, I not know
That men such reverence to such actions show!
And almost deifie the authors! make
Lowd sacrifice of drinke, for their health-sake;
Reare suppers in their names! and spend whole nights
Unto their praise, in certaine swearing rites:
Cannot a man be reck'ned in the state
Of valour, but at this idolatrous rate?
I thought that fortitude had beene a meane
'Twixt feare and rashnesse: not a lust obscene,
Or appetite of offending, but a skill
Or science of a discerning good and ill.
And you, sir, know it well, to whom I write,
That with these mixtures we put out her light;
Her ends are honestie, and publike good!
And where they want, she is not understood.
No more are these of us, then let them goe,
I have the lyst of mine owne faults to know,
Looke to and cure; he's not a man hath none,
But like to be that every day mends one,
And feeles it; else he tarries by the beast.
Can I discerne how shadowes are decreast,
Or growne, by height or lownesse of the sunne?
And can I lesse of substance? when I runne,
Ride, saile, am coach'd, know I how farre I have gone,
And my minds motion not? or have I none:
No! he must feele and know, that will advance;
Men have been great, but never good by chance,
Or on the sudden. It were strange that he
Who was this morning such a one, should be
Sydney e'er night? or that did goe to bed
Coriat, should rise the most sufficient head
Of Christendome? And neither of these know,
Were the rack offer'd them, how they came so;
'Tis by degrees that men arrive at glad
Profit; in ought each day some little adde,

That makes the arch, the rest that there were put
Are nothing till that comes to bind and shut.
Then stands it a triumphall marke! then men
Observe the strength, the height, the why, and when,
It was erected; and still walking under
Meet some new matter to looke up and wonder! .
Such notes are vertuous men! they live as fast
As they are high; are rooted and will last.
They need no stilts, nor rise upon their toes,
As if they would belie their stature, those
Are dwarfes of honour, and have neither weight
Nor fashion; if they chance aspire to height,
'Tis like light canes, that first rise big and brave,
Shoot forth in smooth and comely spaces; have
But few and fair divisions: but being got
Aloft, grow lesse and streightned, full of knot,
And last, goe out in nothing: you that see
Their difference, cannot choose which you will be.
You know (without my flatt'ring you) too much
For me to be your indice. Keep you such,
That I may love your person (as I doe)
Without your gift, though I can rate that too,
By thanking thus the courtesie to life,
Which you will bury, but therein, the strife
May grow so great to be example, when
(As their true rule or lesson) either men,
Donnors or donnees, to their practise shall
Find you to reckon nothing, me owe all.

AN

EPISTLE TO MASTER JOHN SELDEN.

I KNOW to whom I write here, I am sure,
Though I am short, I cannot be obscure:
Lesse shall I for the art or dressing care,
Truth and the Graces best when naked are.
Your booke, my Selden, I have read, and much
Was trusted, that you thought my judgement such
To aske it: though in most of workes it be
A pennance, where a man may not be free,
Rather then office, when it doth or may
Chance that the friend's affection proves allay
Unto the censure. Yours all need doth flie
Of this so vitious humanitie,

Then which there is not unto studie a more
Pernitious enemie. We see before

A many of bookes, even good judgements wound
Themselves through favouring what is there not
But I on yours farre otherwise shall doe, [found:
Not flie the crime, but the suspition too:
Though I confesse (as every Muse hath err'd,
And mine not least) I have too oft preferr'd (much,
Men, past their termes, and prais'd some names too
But 'twas with purpose to have made them such,
Since being deceiv'd, I turne a sharper eye
Upon my selfe, and aske to whom? and why?
And what I write? and vexe it many dayes
Before men get a verse, much lesse a praise;
So that my reader is assur'd, I now
Meane what I speake, and still will keepe that vow.
Stand forth my object, then, you that have beene
Ever at home, yet have all countries seene :

And like a compasse, keeping one foot still
Upon your center, doe your circle fill
Of generall knowledge; watch'd meu, manners too,
Heard what times past have said, seene what ours doe:
Which grace shall I make love to first? your skill,
Or faith in things? or is't your wealth and will
T' instruct and teach? or your unweary'd paine
Of gathering? bountie in pouring out againe ?
What fables have you vext! what truth redeem'd!
Antiquities search'd! opinions dis-esteem'd!
Impostures branded! and authorities urg'd,
What blots and errours, have you watch'd and purg'd
Records and authors of! how rectified
Times, manners, customes! innovations spide!
Sought out the fountaines, sources, creekes, paths,
And noted the beginnings and decayes! [wayes,
Where is that nominall marke, or reall rite,
Forme, act, or ensigne, that hath scap'd your sight?
How are traditions there examin'd! how
Conjectures retriev'd! and a storie now
And then of times (besides the bare conduct
Of what it tells us) weav'd in to instruct.
I wonder'd at the richnesse, but am lost,
To see the workmanship so 'xceed the cost!
To marke the excellent seas'ning of your stile!
And manly elocution, not one while
With horrour rough, then rioting with wit!
But to the subject still the colours fit,

In sharpnesse of all search, wisdome of choise,
Newnesse of sense, antiquitie of voice!

I yeeld, I yeeld, the matter of your praise
Flowes in upon me, and I cannot raise
A banke against it. Nothing but the round
Large claspe of nature, such a wit can bound.
Monarch in letters! 'mongst the titles showne
Of others honours, thus, enjoy thy owne.
I first salute thee so; and gratulate
With that thy stile, thy keeping of thy state;
In offering this thy worke to no great name, [same,
That would, perhaps, have prais'd, and thank'd the
But nought beyond. He thou hast given it to,
Thy learned chamber-fellow, knowes to doe
It true respects. He will not only love,
Embrace, and cherish; but he can approve
And estimate thy paines; as having wrought
In the same mines of knowledge; and thence brought
Humanitie enough to be a friend,

And strength to be a champion, and defend
Thy gift 'gainst envie. O how I doe count
Among my commings in, and see it mount,
The graine of your two friendships! Hayward and
Selden! two names that so much understand!
On whom I could take up, and ne're abuse
The credit, what would furnish a tenth Muse !
But here's no time, nor place, my wealth to tell,
You both are modest. So am I. Farewell.

AN

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND,

TO PERSWADE HIM TO THE WARRES.

WAKE, friend, from forth thy lethargie: the drum
Beats brave, and loude in Europe, and bids come
All that dare rowse: or are not loth to quit
Their vitious ease, and be o'rewhelm'd with it.

It is a call to keepe the spirits alive,
That gaspe for action, and would yet revive
Man's buried honour, in his sleepie life:
Quickning dead nature, to her noblest strife.
All other acts of worldlings are but toyle
In dreames, begun in hope, and end in spoile.
Looke on th' ambitious man, and see him nurse,
His unjust hopes, with praises begg'd, or (worse)
Bought flatteries, the issue of his purse,
Till he become both their, and his owne curse!
Looke on the false and cunning man, that loves
No person, nor is lov'd; what wayes he proves
To gaine upon his belly; and at last
Crush'd in the snakie brakes, that he had past!
See, the grave, sower, and supercilious sir
In outward face, but inward, light as furre,
Or feathers, lay his fortune out to show,
Till envie wound, or maime it at a blow!
See him that's call'd, and thought the happiest man,
Honour'd at once, and envi'd (if it can

Be honour is so mixt) by such as would,
For all their spight, be like him if they could:
No part or corner man can looke upon,
But there are objects bid him to be gone
As farre as he can flie, or follow day,
Rather then here so bogg'd in vices stay:
The whole world here leaven'd with madnesse swells;
And being a thing blowne out of nought, rebells
Against his Maker; high alone with weeds,
And impious ranknesse of all sects and seeds:
Not to be checkt, or frighted now with fate,
But more licentious made, and desperate!
Our delicacies are growne capitall,

And even our sports are dangers! what we call
Friendship is now mask'd hatred! justice fled,
And shamefastnesse together! all lawes dead
That kept man living! pleasures only sought!
Honour and honestie, as poore things thought
As they are made! pride and stiffe clownage mixt
To make up greatnesse! and man's whole good fix'd
In bravery, in gluttony, or coyne,

All which he makes the servants of the groine,
Thither it flowes: how much did Stallion spend
To have his court-bred-fillie there commend
His lace and starch; and fall upon her back
In admiration, stretch'd upon the rack
Of lust, to his rich suit, and title, lord?

I, that's a charme and halfe! she must afford That all respect; she must lie downe: nay more 'Tis there civilitie to be a whore;

He's one of blood, and fashion! and with these
The bravery makes, she can no honour leese:
To do't with cloth, or stuffes, lust's name might merit;
With velvet, plush, and tissues, it is spirit.

O, these so ignorant monsters! light, as proud,
Who can behold their manners, and not clowd-
Like upon them lighteu? If nature could
Not make a verse; anger or laughter would,
To see 'hem aye discoursing with their glasse,
How they may make some one that day an asse,
Planting their purles, and curles spread forth like net,
And every dressing for a pitfall set

To catch the flesh in, and to pound a
Be at their visits, see 'hem squemish, sick,
Ready to cast, at one, whose band sits ill,
And then leape mad on a neat pickardill;
As if a brize were gotten i' their tayle,
And firke, and jerke, and for the coach-man raile,
And jealous of each other, yet thinke long
To be abroad chanting some baudie song,

And laugh, and measure thighes, then squeake, I In this, and like, an itch of vanitie,

spring, itch,

Doe all the tricks of a saut lady bitch;

For t' other pound of sweet-meats, he shall feele
That payes, or what he will. The dame is steele:
For these with her young companie she'll enter,
Where Pittes, or Wright, or Modet would not venter,
And comes by these degrees, the stile t' inherit
Of woman of fashion, and a lady of spirit:
Nor is the title question'd with our proud,
Great, brave, and fashion'd folke, these are allow'd:
Adulteries now, are not so hid, or strange,
They're growne commoditie upon exchange;
He that will follow but another's wife,
Is lov'd, though he let out his owne for life:
The husband now's call'd churlish, or a poore
Nature, that will not let his wife be a whore;
Or use all arts, or haunt all companies
That may corrupt her, even in his eyes.
The brother trades a sister; and the friend
Lives to the lord, but to the ladie's end.
Lesse must not be thought on then mistresse: or
If it be thought, kild like her embrions; for,
Whom no great mistresse hath as yet infam'd,
A fellow of course letcherie is nam'd,
The servant of the serving-woman in scorne,
Ne're came to taste the plenteous mariage-horne.

Thus they doe talke. And are these objects fit
For man to spend his money on? his wit?
His time? health? soule? will he for these goe throw
Those thousands on his back, shall after blow
His body to the Counters, or the Fleete?

Is it for these that fine man meets the street
Coach'd, or on foot-cloth, thrice chang'd every day,
To teach each suit, he has the ready way
From Hide-Parke to the stage, where at the last
His deare and borrow'd bravery he must cast?
When not his combes, his curling-irons, his glasse,
Sweet bags, sweet powders, nor sweet words will passe
For lesse securitie? O- for these

Is it that man pulls on himselfe disease?
Surfet? and quarrell? drinkes the tother health?
Or by damnation voids it or by stealth?
What furie of late is crept into our feasts?
What honour given to the drunkennest guests?
What reputation to beare one glasse more?
When oft the bearer is borne out of dore?
This hath our ill-us'd freedome, and soft peace
Brought on us, and will every houre increase;
Our vices, doe not tarry in a place,

But being in motion still (or rather in race)
Tilt one upon another, and now beare
This way, now that, as if their number were
More then themselves, or then our lives could take,
But both fell prest under the load they make.

I'le bid thee looke no more, but flee, flee friend,
This precipice, and rocks that have no end,
Or side, but threatens ruine. The whole day
Is not enough now, but the nights to play:
And whilst our states, strength, body, and mind we

waste;

Goe make our selves the usurers at a cast.
He that no more for age, cramps, palsies, can
Now use the bones, we see doth hire a man
To take the box up for him; and pursues
The dice with glassen eyes, to the glad views
Of what be throwes: like letchers growne content
To be beholders, when their powers are spent.

Can we not leave this wome? or will we not? Is that the truer excuse? or have we got

That scratching now's our best felicitie?
Well, let it goe. Yet this is better, then
To lose the formes, and dignities of men,
To flatter my good lord, and cry his bowle
Runs sweetly, as it had his lordship's soule:
Although perhaps it has, what's that to me,
That may stand by, and hold my peace? will he
When I am hoarse, with praising his each cast,
Give me but that againe, that I must wast
In sugar candide, or in butter'd beere,
For the recovery of my voyce? No, there
Pardon his lordship. Flattry's growne so cheape
With him, for he is followed with that heape
That watch, and catch, at what they may applaud,
As a poore single flatterer, without baud

Is nothing, such scarce meat and drinke he'le give,
But he that's both, and slave to both, shall live,
And be belov'd, while the whores last. O times!
Friend, flie from hence; and let these kindled rimes
Light thee from Hell on Earth: where flatterers,
spies,

Informers, masters both of arts and lies,

Lewd slanderers, soft whisperers, that let blood
The life, and fame-vaynes (yet not understood
Of the poore sufferers) where the envious, proud,
Ambitious, factious, superstitious, lowd
Boasters, and perjur'd, with the infinite more
Prevaricators swarme: of which the store,
(Because th' are every where amongst man-kind
Spread through the world) is easier farre to find,
Then once to number, or bring forth to hand,
Though thou wert muster-master of the land.

Goe quit 'hem all. And take along with thee,
Thy true friend's wishes, Colby, which shall be,
That thine be just, and honest, that thy deeds
Not wound thy conscience, when thy body bleeds;
That thou dost all things more for truth, then glory,
And never but for doing wrong be sory;
That by commanding first thy selfe, thou mak'st
Thy person fit for any charge thou tak'st;
That fortune never make thee to complaine,
But what she gives, thou dar'st give her againe ;
That whatsoever face thy fate puts on,
Thou shrinke or start not, but be alwayes one;
That thou thinke nothing great, but what is good,
And from that thought strive to be understood.
So, 'live or dead, thou wilt preserve a fame
Still pretious, with the odour of thy name.
And last, blaspheme not; we did never heare
Man thought the valianter, 'cause he durst sweare,
No more, then we should thinke a lord had had
More honour in him, 'cause we'ave knowne him mad:
These take, and now goe seeke thy peace in warre,
Who falls for love of God, shall rise a starre.

AN

EPITAPH ON MASTER PHILIP GRAY.

READER stay,

And if I had no more to say, But here doth lie till the last day, All that is left of Philip Gray. It might thy patience richly pay : For, if such men as he could die, What suretie of life have thou, and I.

EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

THEY are not, sir, worst owers, that doe pay
Debts when they can: good men may breake their
day;

And yet the noble nature never grudge,
'Tis then a crime, when the usurer is judge:
And he is not in friendship. Nothing there
Is done for gaine: if 't be, 't is not sincere.
Nor should I at this time protested be,

But that some greater names have broke with me,
And their words too, where I but breake my band:
I adde that (but) because I understand
That as the lesser breach: for he that takes
Simply my band, his trust in me forsakes,
And lookes unto the forfeit. If you be
Now so much friend, as you would trust in me,
Venter a longer time, and willingly:
All is not barren land, doth fallow lie.
Some grounds are made the richer, for the rest;
And I will bring a crop, if not the best.

AN ELEGIE.

CAN beautie, that did prompt me first to write,
Now threaten, with those meanes she did invite:
Did her perfections call me on to gaze!
Then like, then love; and now would they amaze!
Or was she gracious a-farre off? but neere
A terrour? or is all this but my feare?
That as the water makes things, put in 't, streight,
Crooked appeare; so that doth my conceipt:
I can helpe that with boldnesse; and love sware,
And fortune once, t' assist the spirits that dare.
But which shall lead me on? both these are blind:
Such guides men use not, who their way would find,
Except the way be errour to those ends:
And then the best are still, the blindest friends!
Oh how a lover may mistake! to thinke,
Or love, or fortune blind, when they but winke
To see men feare: or else for truth, and state,
Because they would free justice imitate,
Vaile their owne eyes, and would impartially
Be brought by us to meet our destinie.
If it be thus; come love, and fortune goe,
I'le lead you on; or if my fate will so,
That I must send one first, my choyce assignes,
Love to my heart, and fortune to my lines.

You blush, but doe not: friends are either none,
(Though they may number bodyes) or but one.
I'le therefore aske no more, but bid you love;
And so, that either may example prove
Unto the other; and live patternes, how
Others, in time, may love, as we doe now.
Slip no occasion; as time stands not still,
I know no beautie, nor no youth that will.
To use the present, then, is not abuse,
You have a husband is the just excuse
Of all that can be done him; such a one
As would make shift, to make himselfe alone
That which we can; who both in you, his wife,
His issue, and all circumstance of life
As in his place, because he would not varie,
Is constant to be extraordinarie.

A SATYRICALL SHRUB.

A WOMAN'S friendship! God, whom I trust in,
Forgive me this one foolish deadly sin,
Amongst my many other, that I may
No more, I am sorry for so fond cause, say
At fifty yeares, almost, to value it,
That ne're was knowne to last above a fit,
Or have the least of good, but what it must
Put on for fashion, and take up on trust;
Knew I all this afore? had I perceiv'd,
That their whole life was wickednesse, though weav'd
Of many colours; outward, fresh from spots,
But their whole inside full of ends, and knots ?
Were such as I will now relate, or worse.
Knew I, that all their dialogues, and discourse,

[Here, something is wanting.]

Knew I this woman? yes; and you doe see,
How penitent I am, or I should be.
Doe not you aske to know her, she is worse
Then all ingredients made into one curse,
And that pour'd out upon man-kind, can be!
Thinke but the sin of all her sex, 't is she!
I could forgive her being proud! a whore!
Perjur'd! and painted! if she were no more,
But she is such, as she might, yet forestall
The Devil; and be the damping of us all.

AN ELEGIE.

By those bright eyes, at whose immortall fires
Love lights his torches to inflame desires;
By that faire stand, your forehead, whence he bends
His double bow, and round his arrowes sends;
By that tall grove, your haire, whose globy rings
He flying curles, and crispeth with his wings;
By those pure bathes your either cheeke discloses,
Where he doth steepe himselfe in milke and roses;
And lastly by your lips, the banke of kisses,
Where men at once may plant, and gather blisses:
Tell me (my lov'd friend) doe you love or no?
So well, as I may tell in verse 't is so?

LITTLE SHRUB GROWING BY,

ASKE not to know this man. If Fame should speake
Two letters were enough the plague to teare
His name in any mettall, it would breake.
Out of his grave, and poyson every eare.
A parcell of court-durt, a heape, and masse
Of all vice hurld together, there he was,
Proud, false, and trecherous, vindictive, all
That thought can adde, unthankfull, the lay-stall
Of putrid flesh alive! of blood, the sinke!
And so I leave to stirre him, lest he stinke.

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