π1r π1v

Engraved bust of Katherine Philips in half-profile, looking to the left. Pedestal inscribed: Orinda. Orinda Guil·Faithorne fe.fecit



By the moſt deſervedly Admired Mrs. Katherine Philips
The matchleſs Orinda.

To which is added
Monsieur Corneille’s


With ſeveral other Tranſlations out of

Printed by J.M. for H. Herringman, at the Sign of
the Blew Anchor in the Lower Walk of the
New Exchange.16671667.

π2v A1r

The Preface.

When the falſe Edition of theſe Poems ſtole into the light, a Friend of that incomparable Ladys that made them, knowing how averſe ſhe was to be in print, and therefore being ſure that it was abſolutely againſt her conſent, as he believed it utterly without her knowledge, (ſhe being then in Wales above 150 miles from this Town) went preſently both to the Gentleman, who licens’d it upon the Stationer’s averment that he had her leave, and to the Stationer himſelf for whom it was printed, and took the beſt courſe he could with both to get it ſuppreſs’d, as it preſently was (though afterward many of the Books were privately ſold) and gave her an account by the next Poſt of what he had done. A while after he received this Anſwer, which you have here (taken from her own hand) under that diſguiſed Name ſhe had given him, it being her cuſtom to uſe ſuch with moſt of her particular friends.

Worthy Poliarchus, It is very well that you chid me ſo much for endeavouring to expreſs a part of the ſenſe I have of your obligations; for while you go on in conferring them beyond all poſſibility of acknowledgment, it is convenient for me to be forbidden to attempt it. Your laſt generous concern for me, in vindicating me from the unworthy uſage I have received at London from the Preſs, doth as much tranſcend all your former favours, as the injury done me by that Publiſher and Printer exceeds all the troubles that I remember I ever had. All I can ſay to you for it, is, that though you aſſert an unhappy, it is yet a very innocent perſon, and that it is impoſſible for maliceA lice A1v lice it ſelf to have printed thoſe Rimes (you tell me are gotten abroad ſo impudently) with ſo much abuſe to the things, as the very publication of them at all, though they had been never ſo correct, had been to me; to me (Sir) who never writ any line in my life with an intention to have it printed, and who am of my Lord Falkland’s mind, that said, He danger fear’d than cenſure leſs, Nor could he dread a breach like to a Preſs. And who (I think you know) am ſufficiently diſtruſtful of all, that my own want of company and better employment, or others commands have ſeduc’d me to write, to endeavor rather that they ſhould never be ſeen at all, than that they ſhould be expos’d to the world with ſuch effrontery as now they moſt unhappily are. But is there no retreat from the malice of the World? I thought a Rock and a Mountain might have hidden me, and that it had been free for all to ſpend their Solitude in what Reſveries they pleaſe, and that our Rivers (though they are babling) would not have betray’d the follies of impertinent thoughts upon their Banks; but ’tis only I who am that unfortunate perſon that cannot ſo much as think in private, that muſt have my imaginations rifled and expoſed to play the Mountebanks, and dance upon the Ropes to entertain all the rabble; to undergo all the raillery of the Wits, and all the ſeverity of the Wiſe, and to be the ſport of ſome that can, and ſome that cannot read a Verſe. This is a moſt cruel accident, and hath made ſo proportionate an impreſſion upon me, that really it hath coſt me a ſharp fit of ſickneſs ſince I heard it, and I believe would be more fatal but that I know what a Champion I have in you, and that I am ſure your credit in the World will gain me a belief from all that are knowing and civil, that I am ſo innocent of that wretched Artifice of a ſecret conſent (of which I am, I fear, ſuſpected) that whoever would have brought me those Copies A2r Copies corrected and amended, and a thouſand pounds to have bought my permiſſion for their being printed, ſhould not have obtained it. But though there are many things, I believe, in this wicked impreſſion of thoſe fancies, which the ignorance of what occaſion’d them, and the falſeneſs of the Copies may repreſent very ridiculous and extravagant, yet I could give ſome account of them to the ſevereſt Cato, and I am ſure they muſt be more abus’d than I think is poſſible (for I have not ſeen the Book, nor can imagine what’s in’t) before they can be render’d otherwiſe than Sir Edward Deering ſays in his Epilogue to Pompey. ――No bolder thought can tax Thoſe Rimes of blemiſh to the bluſhing Sex, As chaſte the lines, as harmleſs is the ſenſe, As the firſt ſmiles of infant innocence. So that I hope there will be no need of juſtifying them to Vertue and Honour; and I am ſo little concern’d for the reputation of writing Senſe, that provided the World would believe me innocent of any manner of knowledge, much leſs connivance at this Publication, I ſhall willingly compound never to trouble them with the true Copies, as you adviſe me to do: which if you ſtill ſhould judge abſolutely neceſſary to the reparation of this misfortune, and to general ſatisfaction; and that, as you tell me, all the reſt of my friends will preſs me to it, I ſhould yield to it with the ſame reluctancy as I would cut off a Limb to ſave my Life. However I hope you will ſatisfie all your acquaintance of my averſion to it, and did they know me as well as you do, that Apology were very needleſs, for I am ſo far from expecting applauſe for anything I ſcribble, that I can hardly expect pardon; and ſometimes I think that employment ſo far above my reach, and unfit for my Sex, that I am going to reſolve againſt it for ever; and could I have recovered thoſe fugitive Papers that have eſcap’d my hands, I had long ſince made A2v made a ſacrifice of them all. The truth is, I have an incorrigible inclination to that folly of riming, and intending the effects of that humour, only for my own amuſement in a retir’d life; I did not ſo much reſiſt it as a wiſer woman would have done; but ſome of my deareſt friends having found my Ballads, (for they deſerve no better name) they made me ſo much believe they did not diſlike them, that I was betray’d to permit ſome Copies for their divertiſement; but this, with ſo little concern for them, that I have loſt moſt of the originals, and that I ſuppoſe to be the cauſe of my preſent misfortune; for ſome infernal Spirits or other have catch’d thoſe rags of Paper, and what the careleſs blotted writing kept them from underſtanding, they have ſupplied by conjecture, till they put them into the ſhape wherein you ſaw them, or elſe I know not which way it is poſſible for them to be collected, or ſo abominably tranſcrib’d as I hear they are. I believe alſo there are ſome among them that are not mine, but every way I have ſo much injury, and the worthy perſons that had the ill luck of my converſe, and ſo their Names expos’d in this impreſſion without their leave, that few things in the power of Fortune could have given me ſo great a torment as this moſt afflictive accident. I know you Sir, ſo much my friend, that I need not ask your pardon for making this tedious complaint; but methinks it is a great injuſtice to revenge my ſelf upon you by this Harangue for the wrongs I have received from others; therefore I will only tell you that the ſole advantage I have by this cruel news, is that it has given me an experiment, That no adverſity can ſhake the conſtancy of your friendſhip, and that in the worſt humour that ever I was in, I am ſtill, Worthy Poliarchus, Your moſt faithful, moſt obliged Friend, and moſt humble Servant Orinda. She a1r

She writ divers Letters to many of her other friends ful of the like reſentments, but this is enough to ſhew how little ſhe desired the fame of being in print, and how much ſhe was troubled to be ſo expoſed. It may ſerve likewiſe to give a taſte of her Proſe to thoſe that have ſeen none of it, and of her way of writing familiar Letters, which ſhe did with ſtrange readineſs and facility, in a very fair hand, and perfect Orthography; and if they were collected with thoſe excellent Diſcourſes ſhe writ on ſeveral ſubjects, they would make a Volume much larger than this, and no leſs worth the reading.

About three months after this Letter ſhe came to London, where her Friends did much ſollicite her to redeem her ſelf by a correct impreſſion; yet ſhe continued ſtill averſe, though perhaps in time ſhe might have been over-rul’d by their perſwaſions if ſhe had lived.

But the ſmall Pox, that malicious diſeaſe (as knowing how little ſhe would have been concern’d for her handſomeneſs, when at the beſt) was not ſatisfied to be as injurious a Printer of her face, as the other had been of her Poems, but treated her with a more fatal cruelty than the Stationer had them; for though he to her moſt ſenſible affliction ſurreptitiouſly poſſeſs’d himſelf of a falſe Copy, and ſent thoſe children of her Fancy into the World, ſo martyred, that they were more unlike themſelves than ſhe could have been made had ſhe eſcaped; that murtherous Tyrant, with greater barbarity ſeiz’d unexpectedly upon her, the true Original, and to the much juſter affliction of all the world, violently tore her out of it, and hurried her untimely to her Grave, upon the 1664-06-2222. of June 1664. ſhe being then but 31 years of age.

But he could not bury her in Oblivion, for this Monument which ſhe erected for her ſelf, will for ever make her to be honoured as the honour of her Sex, the emulation of ours, and the admiration of both. That unfortunate ſurpriſe hath rob’d it of a much a1v much of that perfection it might elſe have had, having broke off the Tranſlation of Horace before it was finiſh’d, much leſs review’d, and hindred the reſt from being more exactly corrected, and put into the order they were written in, as ſhe poſſibly her ſelf would have done, had ſhe conſented to a ſecond Edition. ’Tis probable ſhe would alſo have left out ſome of thoſe pieces that were written with leſs care and upon occaſions leſs fit to be made publick, and ſhe might alſo have added more: but all induſtry has been us’d to make this Collection as full and as perfect as might be, by the addition of many that were not in the former impreſſion, and by divers Tranſlations, whereof the firſt has the Original in the oppoſite Page, that they who have a mind to compare them, may by that pattern find how juſt ſhe has been in all the reſt to both the Languages, exactly rendring the full ſence of the one, without tying her ſelf ſtrictly to the words, and clearly evincing the capaciouſneſs of the other, by compriſing it fully in the ſame number of lines, though in the Plays half the Verſes of the French are of thirteen ſyllables, and the reſt of twelve, whereas the Engliſh have no more but ten. In ſhort though ſome of her Pieces may perhaps be loſt, and others in hands that have not produc’d them; yet none that upon good grounds could be known to be hers, are left out; for many of the leſs conſiderable ones were publiſh’d in the other; but thoſe, or others that ſhall be judged ſo, may be excuſed by the politeneſs of the reſt which have more of her true ſpirit, and of her diligence. Some of them would be no diſgrace to the name of any Man that amongſt us is moſt eſteemed for his excellency in this kind, and there are none that may not paſs with favour, when it is remembred that they fell haſtily from the pen but of a Woman. We might well have call’d her the Engliſh Sappho, ſhe of all the female poets of former Ages, being for her Verſes and her Vertues a2r Vertues both, the moſt highly to be valued; but ſhe has call’d her ſelf Orinda, a name that deſerves to be added to the number of the Muſes, and to live with honour as long as they. Were our language as generally known to the world as the Greek and Latine were anciently, or as the French is now, her Verſes could not be confin’d within the narrow limits of our Iſlands, but would ſpread themſelves as far as the Continent has Inhabitants, or as the Seas have any ſhore. And for her Vertues, they as much ſurpaſs’d thoſe of Sappho as the Theological do the Moral, (wherein yet Orinda was not her inferiour) or as the fading immortality of an earthly Lawrel, which the juſtice of men cannot deny to her excellent Poetry, is tranſcended by that incorruptible and eternal Crown of Glory, wherewith the Mercy of God hath undoubtedly rewarded her more eminent Piety. Her merit ſhould have had a Statue of Porphiry wrought by ſome great Artiſt, equal in skill to Michael Angelo, that might have transferr’d to poſterity the laſting image of ſo rare a Perſon: but here is only a poor paper ſhadow of a Statue made after a Picture not very like her, to accompany that ſhe has drawn of her ſelf in theſe Poems, and which repreſents the beauties of her mind with a far truer reſemblance, than that does the liniaments, of her Face. They had ſooner performed this Right to her memory, if that raging Peſtilence which, not long after her, ſwept away ſo many thouſands here and in other places of this Kingdom; that devouring Fire, which ſince deſtroy’d this famous City; and the harſh ſounds of War, which with the thunderings of Cannon, deafn’d all ears to the gentle and tender ſtrains of Friendſhip, had not made the Publication of them hitherto unſeaſonable. But they have out-liv’d all theſe diſmal things to ſee the bleſſing of Peace, a conjuncture more ſuitable to their Nature, all compos’d of kindneſs; ſo that I hope a2v hope Time it ſelf ſhall have as little power againſt them as theſe other ſtorms have had, and then Ovid’ Nec Jovis ira, nec ignis, nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetuſtas, &c. s concluſion of his Metamorphoſis may with little alteration, more truth, and leſs vanity than by him to himſelf, be applyed to theſe once transformed, or rather deformed Poems, which, are here in ſome meaſure reſtor’d to their native Shape and Beauty, and therefore certainly cannot fail of a welcome reception now, ſince they wanted it not before, when they appeared in that ſtrange diſguiſe.

The b1r

The Earl of Orrery to Mrs. Philips.


When I but knew you by report,

I fear’d the praiſes of th’ admiring Court

Were but their Complements, but now I muſt

Confeſs, what I thought civil is ſcarce juſt:

For they imperfect Trophies to you raiſe,

You deſerve wonder, and they pay but praiſe;

A praiſe, which is as ſhort of your great due,

As all which yet have writ come ſhort of you.

You, to whom wonder’s paid by double right,

Both for your Verſes ſmoothneſs and their height.

In me it does not the leaſt trouble breed,

That your fair Sex does Ours in Verſe exceed,

Since every Poet this great Truth does prove,

Nothing ſo much inſpires a Muſe as Love;

Thence has your Sex the beſt poetick fires,

For what’s inſpir’d muſt yield to what inſpires.

And as Our Sex reſigns to Yours the due,

So all of your bright Sex muſt yield to You.

Experience ſhows, that never Fountain fed

A ſtream which could aſcend above its Head;

For thoſe whoſe wit fam’d Helicon does give,

To riſe above its height durſt never ſtrive,

Their double Hill too, though ’tis often clear,

Yet often on it clouds and ſtorms appear.

Let none admire then that the ancient wit

Shar’d in thoſe Elements infuſed it;

Nor that your Muſe than theirs aſcends much higher,

She ſharing in no Element but fire.

Paſt ages could not think thoſe things you do,

For their Hill was their Baſis and height too:

So that ’tis Truth, not Complement, to tell,

Your loweſt height their higheſt did excel;

Your nobler thoughts warm’d by a heav’nly fire,

To their bright Centre conſtantly aſpire;

b And b1v

And by the place to which they take their flight,

Leave us no doubt from whence they have their light.

Your merit has attain’d this high degree,

’Tis above praiſe as much as flattery,

And when in that we have drain’d all our ſtore,

All grant from this nought can be diſtant more.

Though you have ſung of friendſhips power ſo well,

That you in that, as you in wit excel,

Yet my own intereſt obliges me

To praiſe your practiſe more than Theory;

For by that kindneſs you your friend did ſhow

The honour I obtain’d of knowing you.

In Pictures none hereafter will delight,

You draw more to the life in black and white;

The Pencil to your Pen muſt yield the place,

This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.

Of bleſt retirement ſuch great Truths you write,

That ’tis my wiſh as much as your delight;

Our gratitude to praiſe it does think fit,

Since all you writ are but effects of it.

You Engliſh Corneil’s Pompey with ſuch flame,

That you both raiſe our wonder and his fame;

If he could read it, he like us would call

The copy greater than th’ Original;

You cannot mend what is already done,

Unleſs you’l finiſh what you have begun:

Who your Tranſlation ſees, cannot but ſay,

That ’tis Orinda’s Work, and but his Play.

The French to learn our Language now will ſeek,

To hear their greateſt Wit more nobly ſpeak;

Rome too would grant, were our Tongue to her known,

Cæſar ſpeaks better in’t than in his own.

And all thoſe Wreaths once circl’d Pompey’s brow,

Exalt his Fame, leſs than your Verſes now.

From theſe clear Truths all muſt acknowledge this,

If there be Helicon, in Wales it is.

Oh happy Country which to our Prince gives

His Title, and in which Orinda lives!

The b2r

The Earl of Roſcomon to Orinda: an imitation of Horace. Integer vitæ, &c. Carm. lib. I. od. 22.


Vertue (dear Friend) needs no defence,

No arms, but its own innocence;

Quivers and Bows, and poiſon’d darts,

Are only us’d by guilty hearts.


An honeſt mind, ſafely, alone

May travel through the burning Zone,

Or through the deepeſt Scythian ſnows,

Or where the fam’d Hydaſpes flows.


While (rul’d by a reſiſtleſs fire)

Our great Orinda I admire,

The hungry Wolves that ſee me ſtray

Unarm’d, and ſingle, run away.


Set me in the remoteſt place

That ever Neptune did embrace,

When there her image fills my breaſt,

Helicon is not half ſo bleſt.


Leave me upon ſome Lybian plain,

So ſhe my fancy entertain,

And when the thirſty Monſters meet,

They’ll all pay homage to my feet.


The Magick of Orinda’s Name,

Not only can their fierceneſs tame,

But, if that mighty word I once rehearſe,

They ſeem ſubmiſſively to roar in Verſe.

Upon b2v

Upon Mrs. K. Philips her Poems.

We allow’d you beauty, and we did ſubmit

To all the tyrannies of it.

Ah cruel Sex! will you depoſe us too in Wit?

Orinda does in that too reign,

Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,

And cancel great Apollo’s Salick Law.

We our old Title plead in vain:

Man may be Head, but Woman’s now the Brain.

Verſe was Love’s fire-arms heretofore:

In Beauties Camp it was not known,

Too many arms beſide that Conquerour bore.

’Twas the great Cannon we brought down,

T’aſſault a ſtubborn Town.

Orinda firſt did a bold ſally make,

Our ſtrongeſt quarter take,

And ſo ſucceſsful prov’d, that ſhe

Turn’d upon Love himſelf his own Artillery.


Women, as if the Body were the whole

Did that, and not the Soul,

Tranſmit to their poſterity;

If in it ſometimes they conceiv’d,

Th’ abortive Iſſue never liv’d.

’Twere ſhame and pity, Orinda, if in thee

A ſpirit ſo rich, ſo noble, and ſo high,

Should unmanur’d or barren lie.

But thou induſtriouſly haſt ſow’d and till’d

The fair and fruitful field:

And ’tis a ſtrange increaſe that it doth yield.

As when the happy Gods above

Meet all together at a Feaſt,

A ſecret joy unſpeakably does move

In their great Mother Cybeles contented breaſt:

With c1r

With no leſs pleaſure thou, methinks, ſhould’ſt ſee

This thy no leſs immortal Progeny,

And in their Birth thou no one touch doſt find,

Of th’ ancient Curſe to Woman-kind;

Thou bring’ſt not forth with pain,

It neither Travel is, nor Labour of thy Brain.

So eaſily they from thee come,

And there is ſo much room

In the unexhauſted and unfathom’d womb;

That, like the Holland Counteſs, thou might’ſt bear

A Child for ev’ry day of all the fertile year.


Thou doſt my Wonder, would’ſt my Envy raiſe,

If to be prais’d I lov’d more than to praiſe.

Wheree’re I ſee an excellence,

I muſt admire to ſee thy well-knit Senſe,

Thy Numbers gentle, and thy Fancies high,

Those as thy Forehead smooth, theſe sparkling as thine Eye.

’Tis ſolid, and ’tis manly all,

Or rather, ’tis Angelical:

For, as in Angels, we

Do in thy Verſes ſee

Both improv’d Sexes eminently meet;

They are than Man more ſtrong, and more than Woman ſweet.


They talk of Nine, I know not who,

Female Chimæras, that o’re Poets reign;

I ne’re could find that Fancy true,

But have invok’d them oft I’m ſure in vain.

They talk of Sappho, but, alas! the ſhame

Ill Manners ſoil the luſtre of her fame.

Orinda’s inward Vertue is ſo bright,

That like a Lantern’s fair encloſed light,

It through the Paper ſhines where ſhe doth write.

c Honour c1v

Honour and Friendſhip, and the gen’rous ſcorn

Of things for which we were not born,

(Things that can only by a fond diſeaſe,

Like that of Girles our vicious ſtomacks pleaſe)

Are the inſtructive ſubjects of her Pen.

And as the Roman Victory

Taught our rude Land arts, and civility

At once ſhe overcomes, enſlaves, and betters men.


But Rome with all her arts could ne’re inſpire

A Female Breaſt with ſuch a fire.

The warlike Amazonian Train,

Which in Elyſium now do peaceful reign,

And Wit’s mild Empire before Arms prefer,

Hope ’twill be ſettled in their Sex by her.

Merlin the Seer (and ſure he would not lie

In ſuch a ſacred Company)

Does Prophecies of learn’d Orinda ſhow,

Which he had darkly ſpoke ſo long ago.

Even Boadicia’s angry Ghoſt

Forgets her own misfortune and diſgrace,

And to her injur’d Daughters now does boaſt,

That Rome’s o’recome at laſt by a Woman of her race.

Abraham Cowley.

To c2r

To the Excellent Orinda.

Let the male Poets their male Phœbus chuſe,

Thee I invoke, Orinda, for my Muſe;

He could but force a Branch, Daphne her Tree

Moſt freely offers to her Sex and thee,

And ſays to Verſe, ſo unconſtrain’d as yours,

Her Laurel freely comes, your fame ſecures:

And men no longer ſhall with raviſh’d Bays

Crown their forc’d Poems by as forc’d a praiſe.

Thou glory of our Sex, envy of men,

Who are both pleas’d and vex’d with thy bright Pen:

Its luſtre doth intice their eyes to gaze,

But mens ſore eyes cannot endure its rayes;

It dazles and ſurprizes ſo with light,

To find a noon where they expected night:

A Woman Tranſlate Pompey! which the fam’d

Corneille with ſuch art and labour fram’d!

To whoſe cloſe verſion the Wits club their ſence,

And a new Lay poetick S M E C ſprings thence!

Yes, that bold work a Woman dares Tranſlate,

Not to provoke, nor yet to fear mens hate.

Nature doth find that ſhe hath err’d too long,

And now reſolves to recompence that wrong:

Phœbus to Cynthia muſt his beams reſigne,

The rule of Day and Wit’s now Feminine.

That Sex, which heretofore was not allow’d

To underſtand more than a beaſt, or crowd;

Of which Problems were made, whether or no

Women had Souls; but to be damn’d, if ſo;

Whoſe higheſt Contemplation could not paſs,

In mens eſteem, no higher than the Glaſs;

And all the painful labours of their Brain,

Was only how to Dreſs and Entertain:

Or, if they ventur’d to ſpeak ſenſe, the wiſe

Made that, and ſpeaking Oxe, like Prodigies.

From c2v

From theſe thy more than maſculine Pen hath rear’d

Our Sex; firſt to be prais’d, next to be feard.

And by the ſame Pen forc’d, men now confeſs,

To keep their greatneſs, was to make us leſs.

Men know of how refin’d and rich a mould

Our Sex is fram’d, what Sun is in our Gold:

They know in Lead no Diamonds are ſet,

And Jewels only fill the Cabinet.

Our Spirits purer far than theirs, they ſee;

By which even Men from Men diſtinguiſh’d be:

By which the Soul is judg’d, and does appear

Fit or unfit for action, as they are.

When in an Organ various ſounds do ſtroak,

Or grate the ear, as Birds ſing, or Toads Croak;

The Breath, that voyces every Pipe,’s the ſame,

But the bad mettal doth the ſound defame.

So, if our Souls by ſweeter Organs ſpeak,

And theirs with harſh falſe notes the air do break;

The Soul’s the ſame, alike in both doth dwell,

’Tis from her inſtruments that we excel.

Ask me not then, why jealous men debar

Our Sex from Books in Peace, from Arms in War;

It is becauſe our Parts will ſoon demand

Tribunals for our Perſons, and Command.

Shall it be our reproach, that we are weak,

And cannot fight, nor as the School-men ſpeak?

Even men themſelves are neither ſtrong nor wiſe,

If Limbs and Parts they do not exerciſe.

Train’d up to Arms, we Amazons have been,

And Spartan Virgins ſtrong as Spartan Men:

Breed Women but as Men, and they are theſe;

Whilſt Sybarit Men are Women by their eaſe.

Why ſhould not brave Semiramis break a Lance,

And why ſhould not ſoft Ninyas curle and dance?

Ovid in vain Bodies with change did vex,

Changing her form of life, Iphis chang’d Sex.

Nature to Females freely doth impart

That, which the Males uſurp, a ſtout, bold heart.

Thus d1r

Thus Hunters female Beaſts fear to aſſail:

And female Hawks more mettal’d than the male:

Men ought not then Courage and Wit ingroſs,

Whilſt the Fox lives, the Lyon, or the Horſe.

Much leſs ought men both to themſelves confine,

Whilſt Women, ſuch as you, Orinda, ſhine.

That noble friendſhip brought thee to our Coaſt,

We thank Lucaſia, and thy courage boaſt.

Death in each Wave could not Orinda fright,

Fearleſs she acts that friendſhip ſhe did write:

Which manly Vertue to their Sex confin’d,

Thou reſcueſt to confirm our ſofter mind;

For there’s required (to do that Virtue right)

Courage, as much in Friendſhip as in Fight.

The dangers we deſpiſe, doth this truth prove,

Though boldly we not fight, we boldly love.

Ingage us unto Books, Sappho comes forth,

Though not of Heſiod’s age, of Heſiod’s worth.

If Souls no Sexes have, as ’tis confeſt,

’Tis not the he or ſhe makes Poems beſt:

Nor can men call theſe Verſes Feminine,

Be the ſence vigorous and Maſculine.

’Tis true, Apollo ſits as Judge of Wit,

But the nine Female learned Troop are it:

Thoſe Laws, for which Numa did wiſe appear,

Wiſer Ægeria whiſper’d in his ear.

The Gracchi’s Mother taught them Eloquence;

From her Breaſts courage flow’d, from her Brain ſence;

And the grave Beards, who heard her ſpeak in Rome,

Bluſh’d not to be inſtructed, but o’recome.

Your ſpeech, as hers, commands reſpect from all,

Your very Looks, as hers, Rhetorical:

Something of grandeur in your Verſe men ſee,

That they riſe up to it as Majeſty.

The wiſe and noble Orrery’s regard,

Was much obſerv’d, when he your Poem heard:

All ſaid, a fitter match was never ſeen,

Had Pompey’s Widow been Arſamnes Queen.

d Pom- d1v

Pompey, who greater than himſelf’s become,

Now in your Poem, than before in Rome;

And much more laſting in the Poets Pen,

Great Princes live, than the proud Towers of Men.

He thanks falſe Egypt for its Treachery,

Since that his Ruine is ſo ſung by thee;

And ſo again would periſh, if withall,

Orinda would but celebrate his Fall.

Thus pleaſingly the Bee delights to die,

Foreſeeing, he in Amber Tomb ſhall lie.

If that all Ægypt, for to purge its Crime,

Were built into one Pyramid o’re him,

Pompey would lie leſs ſtately in that Herſe,

Than he doth now, Orinda, in thy Verſe:

This makes Cornelia for her Pompey vow,

Her hand ſhall plant his Laurel on thy brow:

So equal in their merits were both found,

That the ſame Wreath Poets and Princes Crown’d:

And what on that great Captains Brow was dead,

She Joies to ſee re-flouriſh’d on thy head.

In the French Rock Cornelia firſt did ſhine,

But ſhin’d not like her ſelf till ſhe was thine:

Poems, like Gems, tranſlated from the place

Where they firſt grew, receive another grace.

Dreſt by thy hand, and poliſh’d by thy Pen,

She glitters now a Star, but Jewel then:

No flaw remains, no cloud, all now is light,

Tranſparent as the day, bright parts more bright.

Corneille, now made Engliſh, ſo doth thrive,

As Trees tranſplanted do much luſtier live.

Thus Oar digg’d forth, and by ſuch hands as thine

Refin’d and ſtamp’d, is richer than the Mine.

Liquors from Veſſel into Veſſel pour’d,

Muſt loſe ſome Spirits, which are ſcarce reſtor’d:

But the French Wines, in their own Veſſel rare,

Pour’d into ours, by thy hand, Spirits are;

So high in taſte, and ſo delicious,

Before his own Corneille thine would chuſe.

He d2r

He finds himſelf inlightned here, where ſhade

Of dark expreſſion his own words had made:

There what he would have ſaid, he ſees ſo writ,

As generouſly, to juſt decorum fit.

When in more words than his you pleaſe to flow,

Like a ſpread Floud, inriching all below,

To the advantage of his well meant ſence,

He gains by you another excellence.

To render word for word, at the old rate,

Is only but to Conſtrue, not Tranſlate:

In your own fancy free, to his ſence true,

We read Corneille, and Orinda too:

And yet ye both are ſo the very ſame,

As when two Tapers join’d make one bright flame.

And ſure the Copier’s honour is not ſmall,

When Artiſts doubt which is Original.

But if your fetter’d Muſe thus praiſed be,

What great things do you write when it is free?

When it is free to chuſe both ſence and words,

Or any ſubject the vaſt World affords?

A gliding Sea of Chryſtal doth beſt ſhow

How ſmooth, clear, full, and rich your Verſe doth flow:

Your words are choſen, cull’d, not by chance writ,

To make the ſence, as Anagrams do hit.

Your rich becoming words on the ſence wait,

As Maids of Honour on a Queen of State.

’Tis not White Satin makes a Verſe more white,

Or ſoft; Iron is both, write you on it.

Your Poems come forth caſt, no File you need,

At one brave Heat both ſhap’d and poliſhed.

But why all theſe Encomiums of you,

Who either doubts, or will not take as due?

Renown how little you regard, or need,

Who like the Bee, on your own ſweets doth feed?

There are, who like weak Fowl with ſhouts fall down,

Doz’d with an Army’s Acclamation:

Not d2v

Not able to indure applauſe, they fall,

Giddy with praiſe, their praiſes Funeral.

But you, Orinda, are ſo unconcern’d,

As if when you, another we commend.

Thus, as the Sun, you in your Courſe ſhine on,

Unmov’d with all our admiration:

Flying above the praiſe you ſhun, we ſee

Wit is ſtill higher by humility.


To e1r

To the memory of the Excellent Orinda.


Forgive bright Saint a Vot’ry, who

No miſſive Orders has to ſhow,

Nor does a call to inſpiration owe:

Yet rudely dares intrude among

This ſacred, and inſpir’d throng;

Where looking round me, ev’ry one I ſee

Is a ſworn Prieſt of Phœbus, or of thee.

Forgive this forward zeal for things divine,

If I ſtrange fire do offer at thy Shrine:

Since the pure Incenſe, and the Gum

We ſend up to the Pow’rs above,

(If with devotion giv’n, and love)

Smells ſweet, and does alike accepted prove,

As if from golden Cenſors it did come;

Though we the pious tribute pay

In ſome rude veſſel made of common clay.


What by Pindaricks can be done,

Since the great Pindar’s greater Mr. A. Cowley. Son

(By ev’ry Grace adorn’d, and ev’ry Muſe inſpir’d)

From th’ ungrateful World, to kinder Heaven’s retir’d:

He, and Orinda from us gone,

What Name like theirs ſhall we now call upon?

Whether her Vertue, or her Wit

We chuſe for our eternal Theme,

What hand can draw the perfect Scheme?

None but her ſelf could ſuch high ſubjects fit:

We yield, with ſhame we yield

To Death and Her the field:

For were not Nature partial to us Men,

The World’s great Order had inverted been;

Had ſhe ſuch Souls plac’d in all Woman-kind,

Giv’n ’um like wit, not with like goodneſs join’d,

Our vaſſal Sex to hers had homage pay’d;

Woman had rul’d the World, and weaker Man obey’d.

e 3. To e1v


To thee O Fame, we now commit

Her, and theſe laſt remains of gen’rous wit:

I charge thee, deeply to enroll

This glorious Name in thy immortal Scroll;

Write ev’ry letter in large Text,

And then to make the luſtre hold,

Let it be done with pureſt Gold,

To dazle this Age, and outſhine the next:

Since not a Name more bright than Hers,

In this, or thy large Book appears.

And thou impartial, powerful Grave,

Theſe Reliques (like her deathleſs Poems ſave)

Ev’n from devouring Time ſecure,

May they ſtill reſt from other mixture pure:

Unleſs ſome dying Monarch ſhall to trye

Whether Orinda, though her ſelf could dye,

Can ſtill give others immortality;

Think, if but laid in her miraculous Tomb,

As from the Prophets touch, new life from hers may come.

James Tyrrell.

To e2r

To the Memory of the incomparable Orinda.

A Pindarick Ode.


Along Adieu to all that’s bright,

Noble, or brave, in Womankind,

To all the wonders of their Wit,

And Trophies of their mind;

The glowing Heat of th’ Holy Fire is gone,

To th’ Altar, whence ’twas kindled, flown;

There’s nought on Earth, but Aſhes left behind;

E’re ſince th’ amazing ſound was ſpred,

Orinda’s Dead,

Every ſoft and fragrant word,

All that language could afford,

Every high and lofty thing,

That’s wont to ſet the Soul on wing,

No longer with this worthleſs World would ſtay:

Thus when the Death of the great Pan was told,

A long the ſhore the diſmal tidings roll’d,

The leſſer Gods their Fanes forſook;

Confounded with the mighty ſtroke,

They could not over-live that Fatal day,

But ſigh’d, and groan’d their gaſping Oracles away.


How rigid are the Laws of Fate,

And how ſevere that black Decree?

No ſublunary thing is free,

But all muſt enter th’ Adamantine Gate:

Sooner, or later ſhall we come

To Natures dark Retiring room,

And yet ’tis pity, is it not?

The learned as the fool ſhould dye,

One e2v

One full as low as t’other lye;

Together Blended in the general lot;

Diſtinguiſh’t only from the common croud,

By an hindg’d Coffin, or an Holland ſhroud,

Though Fame and Honour ſpeak them ne’re ſo loud;

Alas Orinda, even thou!

Whoſe happy verſe made others live,

And certain Immortality could give;

Blaſted are all thy blooming glories now,

The Laurel wither’s o’re thy brow:

Methinks it ſhould diſturbe thee to conceive

That when poor I this artleſs breath reſign,

My Duſt ſhould have as much of Poetry as Thine.


Too ſoon we languiſh with deſire

Of what we never could enough admire;

On th’ Billows of this world ſome times we riſe

So dangerouſly high,

We are to Heaven too nigh;

When (all in rage

Grown hoary with one minute’s age,)

The very ſelf ſame fickle wave,

Which the entrancing Proſpect gave,

Swoll’n to a Mountain, ſinks into a grave.

Too happy Mortals if the Pow’rs above

As merciful would be,

And eaſy to preſerve the thing we love,

As in the giving they are free!

But they too oft delude our weary’d Eyes,

They fix a flaming Sword ’twixt us and Paradiſe;

A weeping Evening crowns a ſmiling Day,

Yet why ſhould Heads of Gold, have feet of Clay?

Why ſhould the Man that wav’d th’ Almighty Wand,

That led the Murmuring Croud,

By Pillar and by Cloud,

Shiver- f1r

Shivering atop of aery Piſgah ſtand,

Only to ſee, but never, never tread the Promis’d Land?


Throw your Swords, and Gauntlets by

You daring Sons of War,

You cannot purchaſe e’re you dy

One honourable ſcar,

Since that fair hand that gilded all your Bays,

That in heroick Numbers wrot your praiſe,

While you ſecurely ſlept on Honour’s Bed,

It ſelf, alas! is withered, cold and Dead;

Cold and Dead are all thoſe Charms,

Which burniſh’t your Victorious Arms:

Inglorious Arms hereafter muſt

Bluſh firſt in bloud, and then in ruſt:

No Oil, but that of Her ſmooth words will ſerve

Weapon, and Warriour to preſerve.

Expect no more from this dull Age,

But folly, or Poetique Rage,

Short-liv’d Nothings of the Stage,

Vented to Day, and cry’d to morrow down,

With her the ſoul of Poeſie is gone;

Gone, while our expectations flew

As high a pitch as She has done,

Exhal’d to Heaven like early dew,

Betimes the little ſhining drops are flown,

E’re th’ drowzy World perceiv’d that Manna was come down.


You of the Sex that would be fair,

Exceeding lovely, hither come,

Would you be pure as Angels are,

Come dreſs you by Orinda’s Tomb,

And leave your flatt’ring Glaſs at home;

Within this Marble Mirrour ſee

f How f1v

How one day ſuch as She

You muſt, and yet alas! can never be.

Think on the heights of that vaſt Soul,

And then admire, and then condole.

Think on the wonders of Her Pen,

’Twas that made Pompey truely Great,

Neither th’expence of bloud nor ſweat,

Nor yet Cornelia’s Kindneſs made him live agen.

With envy think, when to the Grave you goe,

How very little muſt be ſaid of you,

Since all that can be ſaid of vertuous Woman was her due.

Thomas Flatman. M. A.

On f2r

On the Death of Mrs Katherine Philips.

Cruel Diſeaſe! Ah could it not ſuffice

Thy old and conſtant ſpight to exerciſe

Againſt the gentleſt and the faireſt ſex,

Which ſtill thy Depredations moſt do vex?

Where ſtill thy malice moſt of all

(Thy malice or thy luſt) does on the faireſt fall?

And in them moſt aßault the faireſt place,

The Throne of Empreſs Beauty, even the Face?

There was enough of that here to aßwage

(One would have thought) either thy Luſt or Rage:

Waſt not enough, when thou, Profane Diſeaſe,

Didſt on this glorious Temple ſeize,

Waſt not enough, like a wild zealot there,

All the rich outward ornaments to tear,

Deface the Innocent Pride of beauteous Images?

Waſt not enough thus rudely to defile,

But thou muſt quite deſtroy the goodly Pile?

And thy unbounded Sacrilege commit

On the inward Holyeſt Holy of her Wit?

Cruel Diſeaſe! there thou miſtook’ſt thy Power;

No Mine of Death can that Devour;

On her Embalmed Name it will abide

An Everlaſting Pyramide,

As high as Heaven the Top, as Earth the Baſis wide.


All Ages paſt, Record; all Countrys now

In various kinds ſuch equal Beauties ſhow,

That even Judge Paris would not know

On whom the Golden Apple to beſtow.

Though Goddeßes to his ſentence did ſubmit,

Women and Lovers would appeal from it;

Nor durſt he say, of all the fameemale race

This is the ſovreign Face.

And ſome (though theſe be of a kind that’s Rare,

That’s much, oh much leſs frequent then the Fair)

So equally renown’d for virtue are,

That it is the Mother of the Gods might poſe,

When the beſt Woman for her guide ſhe choſe,

But f2v

But if Apollo ſhould deſign

A Woman Laureat to make,

Without diſpute he would Orinda take,

Though Sappho and the famous Nine

Stood by, and did repine.

To be a Princeſs or a Queen

Is Great, but ’tis a Greatneſs always ſeen,

The World did never but two Women know

Who, one by fraud, the other by wit did riſe

To the two tops of Spiritual dignities;

One Female Pope of old, one Female Poet now.


Of Female Poets who had names of old,

Nothing is ſhewn, but onely told,

And all we hear of them, perhaps maay be

Male Flattery onely, and Male Poetry;

Few minutes did their Beauties Lightning waſt,

The Thunder of their voice did longer laſt,

But that too ſoon was paſte

The certain proofs of our Orinda’s Wit

In her own laſting characters are writ,

And they will long my praiſe of them ſurvive,

Though long perhaps too that may live.

The trade of Glory managed by the pen

Though great it be, and every where is found,

Does bring in but ſmall profit to us men;

’Tis by the number of the ſharers drown’d,

Orinda in the female Coaſts of fame

Engroßes all the Goods of a Poetique name,

She does no Partner with her ſee;

Does all the Buſineſs there Alone which we

Are forced to carry on by a whole company.


But Wit’s like a Luxuriant Vine,

Unleſs to Virtues prop it join,

Firm and erect, towards Heaven bound,

Though it with beauteous leaves and pleaſant fruit be crown’d

It lies deform’d, and rotting on the ground.

Now g1r

Now ſhame and bluſhes on us all

Who our own Sex ſuperiour call;

Orinda does our boaſting Sex out-do,

Not in wit only, but in virtue too:

She does above our beſt examples riſe,

In hate of vice, and ſcorn of vanities.

Never did ſpirit of the manly make,

And dipt all o’re in Learnings ſacred Lake,

A temper more invulnerable take;

No violent paſſion could an entrance find

Into the tender goodneſs of her mind:

Through walls of ſtone those furious bullets may

Force their impetuous way;

When her ſoft breaſt they hit, damped and dead they lay.


The fame of friendſhip, which ſo long had told

Of three or four illuſtrious Names of old,

Till hoarſe and weary of the tale ſhe grew,

Rejoyces now to have got a new,

A new, and more ſurpriſing ſtory

Of fair Lucaſia and Orinda’s glory.

As when a prudent man does once perceive

That in ſome foreign Country he muſt live,

The Language and the Manners he does ſtrive

To underſtand and practiſe here,

That he may come no ſtranger there;

So well Orinda did her ſelf prepare,

In this much different Clime for her remove,

To the glad world of Poetry and Love;

There all the bleſt do but one body grow,

And are made one too with their glorious Head,

Whom there triumphantly they wed,

After the ſecret Contract paſt below;

There Love into Identity does go,

’Tis the firſt unities Monarchique Throne,

The Centre that knits all, where the great Three’s but One.

Abraham Cowley.

g The g1v
Imprimatur. 1667-08-20Aug. 20. 1667. Roger L’Eſtrange.
Poems. B1r 1


Upon the double Murther of K. Charles I. in Anſwer to a Libellous Copy of Rimes by Vavaſor Powell.

Ithink not on the State, nor am concern’d

Which way ſoever the great Helm is turn’d:

But as that ſon whoſe father’s danger nigh

Did force his native dumbneſs, and untie

The fetter’d organs; ſo this is a cauſe

That will excuſe the breach of Nature’s laws.

Silence were now a ſin, nay Paſſion now

Wiſe men themſelves for Merit would allow.

What noble eye could ſee (and careleſs paſs)

The dying Lion kick’d by every Aſs?

Has Charles ſo broke God’s Laws, he muſt not have

A quiet Crown, nor yet a quiet Grave?

Tombs have been Sanctuaries; Thieves lie there

Secure from all their penalty and fear.

Great Charles his double miſery was this,

Unfaithful Friends, ignoble Enemies.

Had any Heathen been this Prince’s foe,

He would have wept to ſee him injur’d ſo.

His Title was his Crime, they’d reaſon good

To quarrel at the Right they had withſtood.

He broke God’s Laws, and therefore he muſt die;

And what ſhall then become of thee and I?

Slander muſt follow Treaſon; but yet ſtay,

Take not our Reaſon with our King away.

Though you have ſeiz’d upon all our defence,

Yet do not ſequeſter our common Senſe.

B Chriſt B1v 2

Chriſt will be King, but I ne’re underſtood

His Subjects built his Kingdom up with blood,

Except their own; or that he would diſpence

With his commands, though for his own defence.

Oh! to what height of horrour are they come

Who dare pull down a crown, tear up a Tomb?

On the numerous Acceſs of the Engliſh to wait upon the King in Flanders.

Haſten, Great Prince, unto thy Britiſh Iſles,

Or all thy Subjects will become Exiles.

To thee they flock, thy Preſence is their home,

As Pompey’s Camp, where e’re it mov’d, was Rome.

They that aſſerted thy Juſt Cauſe go hence

To teſtifie their joy and reverence;

And thoſe that did not, now, by wonder taught,

Go to confeſs and expiate their fault.

So that if thou doſt ſtay, thy gaſping Land

It ſelf will empty on the Belgick ſand:

Where the affrighted Dutchman does profeſs

He thinks it an Invaſion, not Addreſs.

As we unmonarch’d were for want of thee,

So till thou come we ſhall unpeopled be.

None but the cloſe Fanatick will remain,

Who by our Loyalty his ends will gain:

And he th’exhauſted Land will quickly find

As deſolate a place as he deſign’d.

For England (though grown old with woes) will ſee

Her long deny’d and Sovereign Remedy.

So when old Jacob could but credit give

That his prodigious Joſeph ſtill did live,

(Joſeph that was preſerved to reſtore

Their lives that would have taken his before)

It is enough, (ſaid he) to Egypt I

Will go, and ſee him once before I die.

Arion B2r 3

Arion on a Dolphin, To his Majeſty at his paſſage into England.

Whom does this ſtately Navy bring?

O! ’tis Great Britain’s Glorious King.

Convey him then, ye Winds and Seas,

Swift as Deſire and calm as Peace.

In your Reſpect let him ſurvey

What all his other Subjects pay;

And propheſie to them again

The ſplendid ſmoothneſs of his Reign.

Charles and his mighty hopes you bear:

A greater now than Cæsar’s here;

Whoſe Veins a richer Purple boaſt

Than ever Hero’s yet engroſt;

Sprung from a Father ſo auguſt,

He triumphs in his very duſt.

In him two Miracles we view,

His Vertue and his Safety too:

For when compell’d by Traitors crimes

To breathe and bow in forreign Climes,

Expos’d to all the rigid fate

That does on wither’d Greatneſs wait,

Plots againſt Life and Conſcience laid,

By Foes purſu’d, by Friends betray’d;

Then Heaven, his ſecret potent friend,

Did him from Drugs and Stabs defend;

And, what’s more yet, kept him upright

’Midſt flattering Hope and bloudy Fight.

Cromwell his whole Right never gain’d

Defender of the Faith remain’d,

For which his Predeceſſors fought

And writ, but none ſo dearly bought.

Never was Prince ſo much beſieged,

At home provok’d, abroad obliged;

Nor B2v 4

Nor ever Man reſiſted thus,

No not great Athanaſius.

No help of Friends could, or Foes ſpight,

To fierce Invaſion him invite.

Revenge to him no pleaſure is,

He ſpar’d their bloud who gap’d for his;

Bluſh’d any hands the Engliſh Crown

Should faſten on him but their own.

As Peace and Freedom with him went,

With him they came from Baniſhment.

That he might his Dominions win,

He with himſelf did firſt begin:

And, that beſt victory obtain’d,

His Kingdom quickly he regain’d.

Th’ illuſtrious ſuff’rings of this Prince

Did all reduce, and all convince

He only liv’d with ſuch ſucceſs,

That the whole world would fight with leſs.

Aſſiſtant Kings could but ſubdue

Thoſe Foes which he can pardon too.

He thinks no Slaughter-trophees good,

Nor Laurels dipt in Subjects blood;

But with a ſweet reſiſtleſs art

Diſarms the hand, and wins the heart;

And like a God doth reſcue thoſe

Who did themſelves and him oppoſe.

Go, wondrous Prince, adorn that Throne

Which Birth and Merit make your own;

And in your Mercy brighter ſhine

Than in the Glories of your Line:

Find Love at home, and abroad Fear,

And Veneration every where.

Th’ united world will you allow

Their Chief, to whom the Engliſh bow:

And Monarchs ſhall to yours reſort,

As Sheba’s Queen to Judah’s Court;

Returning thence conſtrained more

To C1r 5

To wonder, envy, and adore.

Diſcovered Rome will hate your Crown,

But ſhe ſhall tremble at your Frown.

For England ſhall (rul’d and reſtor’d by You)

The suppliant world protect, or elſe ſubdue.

On the Fair Weather juſt at the Coronation, it having rained immediately before and after.

So clear a ſeaſon, and ſo ſnatch’d from ſtorms,

Shews Heav’n delights to ſee what Man performs.

Well knew the Sun, if ſuch a day were dim,

It would have been an injury to him:

For then a Cloud had from his eye conceal’d

The nobleſt ſight that ever he beheld.

He therefore check’d th’invading Rains we fear’d,

And in a bright Parentheſis appear’d.

So that we knew not which look’d moſt content,

The King, the People, or the Firmament.

But the Solemnity once fully paſt,

The ſtorm return’d with an impetuous haſt.

And Heav’n and Earth each other to out-do,

Vied both in Cannons and in Fire-works too.

So Iſrael paſt through the divided floud,

While in obedient heaps the Ocean ſtood:

But the ſame Sea (the Hebrews once on ſhore)

Return’d in torrents where it was before.

To the Queen’s Majeſty on her Arrival at Portſmouth, 1662-05-14May 14. 1662.

Now that the Seas & Winds ſo kind are grown,

For our advantage to reſign their own;

Now you have quitted the triumphant Fleet,

And ſuffered Engliſh ground to kiſs your Feet,

Whilſt your glad Subjects with impatience throng

C To C1v 6

To ſee a Bleſſing they have begg’d ſo long;

Whilſt Nature (who in complement to you

Kept back till now her wealth and beauty too)

Hath, to attend the luſtre your eyes bring,

Sent forth her lov’d Embaſſadour the Spring;

Whilſt in your praiſe Fame’s echo doth conſpire

With the ſoft touches of the ſacred Lyre;

Let an obſcurer Muſe upon her knees

Preſent you with ſuch Offerings as theſe,

And you as a Divinity adore,

That ſo your mercy may appear the more;

Who, though of thoſe you ſhould the beſt receive,

Can ſuch imperfect ones as theſe forgive.

Hail Royal Beauty, Virgin bright and great,

Who do our hopes ſecure, our joys compleat.

We cannot reckon what to you we owe,

Who make Him happy who makes us be ſo.

But Heav’n for us the deſp’rate debt hath paid,

Who ſuch a Monarch hath your Trophee made.

A Prince whoſe Vertue did alone ſubdue

Armies of Men, and of Offences too.

So good, that from him all our bleſſings flow,

Yet is a greater than he can beſtow.

So great, that he diſpenſes life and death,

And Europe’s fate depends upon his breath.

(For Fortune in amends now courts him more

Than ever ſhe affronted him before:

As Lovers that of Jealouſie repent

Grow troubleſome in kind acknowledgment.)

Who greater courage ſhew’d in wooing you,

Than other Princes in their battels do.

Never was Spain ſo generouſly defi’d;

Where they deſign’d a Prey, he courts a Bride.

Hence they may gueſs what will his Anger prove,

When he appear’d ſo brave in making Love;

And be more wiſe than to provoke his Arms,

Who can ſubmit to nothing but your Charms.

And C2r 7

And till they give him leiſure to ſubdue,

His Enemies muſt owe their peace to you.

Whilſt he and you mixing illuſtrious Rays,

As much above our wiſhes as our praiſe,

Such Hero’s ſhall produce, as even they

Without regret or bluſhes ſhall obey.

To the Queen-mother’s Majeſty, 1661-01-01Jan. 1. 16601.

You juſtly may forſake a Land which you

Have found ſo guilty and ſo fatal too.

Fortune, injurious to your Innocence,

Shot all her poiſon’d arrows here, or hence.

’Twas here bold Rebels once your Life purſu’d

(To whom ’twas Treaſon only to be rude,)

Till you were forc’d by their unwearied ſpight

(O glorious Criminal!) to take your flight.

Whence after you all that was Humane fled;

For here, oh! here the Royal Martyr bled,

Whoſe cauſe and heart muſt be divine and high,

That having you could be content to die.

Here they purloin’d what we to you did owe,

And paid you in variety of woe.

Yet all thoſe billows in your breaſt did meet

A heart ſo firm, ſo loyal, and ſo ſweet,

That over them you greater conqueſt made

Than your Immortal Father ever had.

For we may read in ſtory of ſome few

That fought like him, none that indur’d like you:

Till Sorrow bluſh’d to act what Traitors meant,

And Providence it ſelf did firſt repent.

But as our Active, ſo our Paſſive, ill

Hath made your ſhare to be the ſufferer’s ſtill.

As from our Miſchiefs all your troubles grew,

’Tis your ſad right to ſuffer for them too.

Elſe our Great Charles had not been hence ſo long,

Nor C2v 8

Nor the Illuſtrious Glou’ſter dy’d ſo young:

Nor had we loſt a Princeſs all confeſt

To be the greateſt, wiſeſt, and the beſt;

Who leaving colder parts, but leſs unkind,

(For it was here ſhe ſet, and there ſhe ſhin’d,)

Did to a moſt ungrateful Climate come

To make a Viſit, and to find a Tomb.

So that we ſhould as much your ſmile deſpair,

As of your ſtay in this unpurged air;

But that your Mercy doth exceed our Crimes

As much as your Example former times,

And will forgive our Off’rings, though the flame

Does tremble ſtill betwixt regret and ſhame.

For we have juſtly ſuffered more than you

By the ſad guilt of all your ſuff’rings too.

As you the great Idea have been ſeen

Of either fortune, and in both a Queen,

Live ſtill triumphant by the nobleſt wars,

And juſtifie your reconciled ſtars.

See your Offenders for your mercy bow,

And your try’d Virtue all Mankind allow;

While you to ſuch a Race have given birth,

As are contended for by Heaven and Earth.

Upon the Princeſs Royal her Return into England.

Welcome ſure Pledge of reconciled Powers;

If Kingdoms have Good Angels, you are ours:

For th’Ill ones check’d by your bright influence,

Could never ſtrike till you were hurried hence.

But then, as Streams withſtood more rapid grow,

War and Confuſion ſoon did overflow:

Such and ſo many ſorrows did ſucceed,

As it would be a new one now to read.

But whilſt your Luſtre was to us deny’d,

You ſcatter’d bleſſings every where beſide.

Nature D1r 9

Nature and Fortune have ſo curious been,

To give you Worth, and Scene to ſhew it in.

But we do moſt admire that gen’rous Care

Which did your glorious Brother’s ſufferings ſhare;

So that he thought them in your Preſence none,

And yet your ſuff’rings did increaſe his own.

O wondrous Prodigy! O Race Divine!

Who owe more to your Actions than your Line.

Your Lives exalt your Father’s deathleſs Name,

The bluſh of England, and the boaſt of Fame.

Pardon, Great Madam, this unfit Addreſs,

Which does profane the Glory ’twould confeſs.

Our Crimes have baniſh’d us from you, and we

Were more remov’d by them than by the Sea.

Nor is it known whether we wrong’d you more

When we rebell’d, or now we do adore.

But what Guilt found, Devotion cannot miſs;

And you who pardon’d that, will pardon this.

Your bleſt Return tells us our ſtorms are ceas’d,

Our faults forgiven, and our ſtars appeas’d.

Your Mercy, which no Malice could deſtroy,

Shall firſt beſtow, and then inſtruct, our Joy.

For bounteous Heav’n hath in your Highneſs ſent

Our great Example, Bliſs, and Ornament.

On the Death of the Illuſtrious Duke of Gloucester.

Great Glou’ſter’s dead, and yet in this we muſt

Confeſs that angry Heaven is wiſe and juſt.

We have ſo long and yet ſo ill endur’d

The woes which our offences had procur’d,

That this new ſtroke would all our ſtrength deſtroy,

Had we not known an interval of Joy.

And yet perhaps this ſtroke had been excus’d,

If we this interval had not abus’d.

D But D1v 10

But our Ingratitude and Diſcontent

Deſerv’d to know our mercies were but lent:

And thoſe complaints Heaven in this rigid fate

Does firſt chaſtiſe, and then legitimate.

By this it our Diviſions does reprove,

And makes us join in grief, if not in love.

For (Glorious Youth) all Parties do agree,

As in admiring, ſo lamenting thee;

The Sovereign’s, Subject’s, Foreiner’s delight;

Thou wert the univerſal Favourite.

Not Rome’s belov’d and brave Marcellus fell

So much a Darling or a Miracle.

Though built of richeſt bloud and fineſt earth,

Thou hadſt a heart more noble than thy birth:

Which by th’afflictive changes thou didſt know,

Thou hadſt but too much cauſe and time to ſhow.

For when Fate did thy Infancy expoſe

To the moſt barbarous and ſtupid Foes;

Yet thou didſt then ſo much expreſs the Prince,

As did even them amaze, if not convince.

Nay, that looſe Tyrant whom no bound confin’d,

Whom neither laws, nor oaths, nor ſhame could bind,

Although his Soul was than his Look more grim,

Yet thy brave Innocence half ſoftn’d him.

And he that Worth wherein thy Soul was dreſt

By his ill-favour’d clemency confeſt;

Leſſening the ill which he could not repent,

He call’d that Travel which was Baniſhment.

Eſcap’d from him, thy Trials were encreas’d;

The ſcene was chang’d, but not the danger ceas’d.

Thou from rough Guardians to Seducers gone,

Thoſe made thy Temper, theſe thy Judgmtent known;

Whilſt thou the nobleſt Champion wert for Truth,

Whether we view thy Courage or thy Youth.

If to foil Nature and Ambition claims

Greater reward than to encounter Flames,

All that ſhall know the ſtory muſt allow

A Martyr’s Crown prepared for thy brow.

But D2r 11

But yet thou wert ſuſpended from thy Throne,

Till thy Great Brother had regain’d his own:

Who though the braveſt Suff’rer, yet even He

Could not at once have miſt his Crown and Thee.

But as Commiſſion’d Angels make no ſtay,

But having done their errand go their way:

So thy part done, not thy reſtored State,

The future ſplendour which did for thee wait,

Nor that thy Prince and Country muſt mourn for

Such a Support, and ſuch a Counſellor,

Could longer keep thee from that bliſs, whence thou

Look’ſt down with pity on Earth’s Monarchs now;

Where thy capacious Soul may quench her thirſt,

And younger Brothers may inherit firſt.

While on our King Heav’n does this care expreſs,

To make his Comforts ſafe he makes them leſs.

For this ſucceſsful Heathens uſe to ſay,

It is too much, (great Gods) ſend ſome allay.

To Her Royal Highneſs the Dutcheſs of York, on her commanding me to ſend her ſome things that I had written.

To you whoſe Dignity ſtrikes us with aw,

And whoſe far greater Judgment gives us law,

(Your Mind b’ing more tranſcendent than your State,

For while but Knees to this, Hearts bow to that,)

Theſe humble Papers never durſt come near,

Had not your pow’rful Word bid them appear;

In which ſuch majeſty, ſuch ſweetneſs dwells,

As in one act obliges, and compels.

None can diſpute commands vouchſaf’d by you.

What ſhall my fears then and confuſion do?

They muſt reſign, and by their juſt pretence

Some value ſet on my obedience.

For in religious Duties, ’tis confeſt,

The moſt Implicite are accepted beſt.

If D2v 12

If on that ſcore your Highneſs will excuſe

This bluſhing tribute of an artleſs Muſe,

She may (encourag’d by your leaſt regard,

Which firſt can worth create, and then reward)

At modeſt diſtance with improved ſtrains

That Mercy celebrate which now ſhe gains.

But ſhould you that ſeverer juſtice uſe,

Which theſe too prompt Approches may produce,

As the ſwift Hinde which hath eſcaped long,

Believes a Vulgar ſhot would be a wrong;

But wounded by a Prince falls without ſhame,

And what in life ſhe loſes, gains in fame:

So if a Ray from you chance to be ſent,

Which to conſume, and not to warm, is meant;

My trembling Muſe at leaſt more nobly dies,

And falls by that a truer ſacrifice.

On the Death of the Queen of Bohemia.

Although the moſt do with officious heat

Only adore the Living and the Great;

Yet this Queen’s Merits Fame ſo far hath ſpread,

That ſhe rules ſtill, though diſpoſſeſt and dead.

For loſing one, two other Crowns remain’d;

Over all hearts and her own griefs ſhe reign’d.

Two Thrones ſo ſplendid, as to none are leſs

But to that third which ſhe does now poſſeſs.

Her Heart and Birth Fortune ſo well did know,

That ſeeking her own fame in ſuch a Foe,

She dreſt the ſpacious Theatre for the fight,

And the admiring World call’d to the ſight:

An Army then of mighty Sorrows brought,

Who all againſt this ſingle Vertue fought;

And ſometimes ſtratagems, and ſometimes blows

To her Heroick Soul they did oppoſe:

But at her feet their vain attempts did fall,

And ſhe diſcover’d and ſubdu’d them all.

Till E1r 13

Till Fortune weary of her malice grew,

Became her Captive and her Trophee too:

And by too late a Tribute begg’d t’have been

Admitted ſubject to ſo brave a Queen.

But as ſome Hero who a field hath wone,

Viewing the things he had ſo greatly done;

When by his ſpirit’s flight he finds that he

With his own Life muſt buy his Victory,

He makes the ſlaughter’d heap that next him lies

His Funeral Pile, and then in triumph dies:

So fell this Royal Dame, with conquering ſpent,

And left in every breaſt her monument;

Wherein ſo high an Epitaph is writ,

As I muſt never dare to copy it.

But that bright Angel which did on her wait,

In fifty years contention with her fate,

And in that office did with wonder ſee

How great her troubles, how much greater ſhe;

How ſhe maintain’d her beſt Prerogative,

In keeping ſtill the power to Forgive:

How high ſhe did in her Devotion go,

And how her Condeſcention ſtoop’d as low;

With how much Glory ſhe had ever been

A Daughter, Siſter, Mother, Wife, and Queen;

Will ſure employ ſome deathleſs Muſe to tell

Our children this inſtructive Miracle,

Who may her ſad Illuſtrious Life recite,

And after all her Wrongs may do her right.

On the 1651-09-033. of September, 1651.

As when the glorious Magazine of Light

Approches to his Canopy of Night,

He with new ſplendour clothes his dying Rays,

And double brightneſs to his Beams conveys;

And (as to brave and check his ending fate)

Puts on his higheſt looks in’s loweſt ſtate,

E Dreſt E1v 14

Dreſt in ſuch terrour as to make us all

Be Anti-Perſians, and adore his Fall;

Then quits the world depriving it of Day,

While every Herb and Plant does droop away:

So when our gaſping Engliſh Royalty

Perceiv’d her Period was now drawing nigh,

She ſummons her whole ſtrength to give one blow,

To raiſe her ſelf, or pull down others too.

Big with revenge and hope ſhe now ſpake more

Of terror than in many months before;

And muſters her Attendants, or to ſave

Her from, or elſe attend her to, the Grave:

Yet but enjoy’d the miſerable fate

Of ſetting Majeſty, to die in State.

Unhappy Kings, who cannot keep a Throne,

Nor be ſo fortunate to fall alone!

Their weight ſinks others: Pompey could not fly,

But half the World muſt bear him company;

And captiv’d Sampſon could not life conclude,

Unleſs attended with a multitude.

Who’d truſt to Greatneſs now, whoſe food is air,

Whoſe ruine ſudden, and whoſe end deſpair?

Who would preſume upon his Glorious Birth,

Or quarrel for a ſpacious ſhare of Earth,

That ſees ſuch Diadems become ſo cheap,

And Heros tumble in a common heap?

Oh give me Vertue then, which ſums up all,

And firmly ſtands when Crowns and Scepters fall.

To the noble Palæmon, on his incomparable Diſcourſe of Friendſhip.

We had been ſtill undone, wrapt in diſguiſe,

Secure, not happy; cunning, and not wiſe;

War had been our deſign, Intereſt our trade;

We had not dwelt in ſafety, but in ſhade;

Hadſt E2r 15

Hadſt thou not hung out Light more welcome far

Than wand’ring Sea-men think the Northern-ſtar;

To ſhew, leſt we our happineſs ſhould miſs,

’Tis plac’d in Friendſhip, Mens and Angels bliſs.

Friendſhip, which had a ſcorn or mask been made,

And ſtill had been derided or betray’d;

At which the great Phyſician ſtill had laugh’d,

The Souldier ſtormed, and the Gallant ſcoff’d;

Or worn not as a Paſſion, but a Plot,

At firſt pretended, and at laſt forgot;

Hadſt thou not been her great Deliverer,

At firſt diſcover’d, and then reſcu’d her,

And raiſing what rude Malice had flung down,

Unveil’d her Face, and then reſtor’d her Crown:

By ſo auguſt an action to convince,

’Tis greater to ſupport than be a Prince.

Oh for a Voice which loud as Thunder were,

That all Mankind thy conqu’ring truths might hear!

Sure the Litigious as amaz’d would ſtand,

As Fairy Knights touch’d with Cambina’s Wand,

Drawn by thy ſofter, and yet ſtronger Charms,

Nations and Armies would lay down their Arms.

And what more honour can on thee be hurl’d,

Than to protect a Vertue, ſave a world?

But while great Friendſhip thou haſt copied out,

Thou’ſt drawn thy ſelf ſo well, that we may doubt

Which moſt appears, thy Candour or thy Art,

Whether we owe more to thy Brain or Heart.

But this we know without thine own conſent,

Thou’ſt rais’d thy ſelf a glorious Monument;

Temples and Statues Time will eat away,

And Tombs (like their Inhabitants) decay;

But there Palæmon lives, and ſo he muſt

When Marbles crumble to forgotten duſt.

To E2v 16

To the Right Honourable Alice Counteſs of Carbury, at her coming into Wales.

As when the firſt day dawn’d, Man’s greedy Eye

Was apt to dwell on the bright Prodigy,

Till he might careleſs of his Organ grow,

And let his wonder prove his danger too:

So when our Country (which was deem’d to be

Cloſe-mourner in its own obſcurity,

And in neglected Chaos ſo long lay)

Was reſcu’d by your beams into a Day,

Like men into a ſudden luſtre brought,

We juſtly fear’d to gaze more than we ought.


From hence it is you loſe moſt of your right,

Since none can pay’t, nor durſt do’t if they might.

Perfection’s miſery ’tis that Art and Wit,

While they would honour, do but injure it.

But as the Deity ſlights our Expence,

And loves Devotion more than Eloquence:

So ’tis our Confidence you are Divine,

Makes us at diſtance thus approch your Shrine.

And thus ſecur’d, to you who need no art,

I that ſpeak leaſt my wit may ſpeak my heart:


Then much above all zealous injury,

Receive this tribute of our ſhades from me,

While your great Splendours, like eternal Spring,

To theſe ſad Groves ſuch a refreſhment bring,

That the deſpiſed Country may be grown,

And juſtly too, the Envy of the Town.

That ſo when all Mankind at length have loſt

The F1r 17

The Vertuous Grandeur which they once did boaſt,

Of you like Pilgrims they may here obtain

Worth to recruit the dying world again.

To Sir Edward Deering (the noble Silvander) on his Dream and Navy, perſonating Orinda’s preferring Roſania before Solomon’s Traffick to Ophir.

Then am I happier than is the King; My Merchandiſe does no ſuch danger bring: The Fleet I traffick with fears no ſuch harms, Sails in my ſight, and anchors in my arms. Each new and unperceived grace Diſcovered in that mind and face, Each motion, ſmile, and look from thee Brings pearls and Ophir- gold to me.

Thus far Sir Edw. Deering.

Sir, To be noble; when ’twas voted down,

To dare be good, though a whole Age ſhould frown;

To live within, and from that even ſtate

See all the under-world ſtoop to its fate;

To give the Law of Honour, and diſpence

All that is handſome, great and worthy thence;

Are things at once your practice and your end,

And which I dare admire, but not commend.

But ſince t’oblige the world is your delight,

You muſt deſcend within our reach and ſight:

For ſo Divinity muſt take diſguiſe,

Leſt Mortals periſh with the bright ſurpriſe.

And thus your Muſe (which can enough reward

All actions ſhe vouchſafes but to regard,

And Honours gives, than Kings more permanent;

Above the reach of Acts of Parliament)

May ſuffer an acknowledgment from me,

For having thence receiv’d Eternity.

My thoughts with ſuch advantage you expreſs,

F I F1v 18

I hardly know them in this charming dreſs.

And had I more unkindneſs from my friend

Than my demerits e’re could apprehend,

Were the Fleet courted with this gale of wind,

I might be ſure a rich return to find.

So when the Shepherd of his Nymph complain’d,

Apollo in his ſhape his Miſtreſs gain’d:

She might have ſcorn’d the Swain, & found excuſe;

But could not his great Oratour refuſe.

But for Roſania’s Intereſt I ſhould fear

It would be hard t’obtain your pardon here.

But your firſt Goodneſs will, I know, allow

That what was Bounty then, is Mercy now.

Forgiveneſs is the nobleſt Charity,

And nothing can worthy your favour be.

For you (God-like) are ſo much your own fate,

That what you will accept you muſt create.

To Mr. Henry Lawes.

Nature, which is the vaſt Creation’s Soul,

That ſteddy curious Agent in the whole,

The Art of Heaven, the Order of this Frame,

Is only Number in another name.

For as ſome King conqu’ring what was his own,

Hath choice of ſeveral Titles to his Crown;

So harmony on this ſcore now, that then,

Yet ſtill is all that takes and governs Men.

Beauty is but Compoſure, and we find

Content is but the Concord of the Mind,

Friendſhip the Uniſon of well-tun’d Hearts,

Honour the Chorus of the nobleſt parts,

And all the World on which we can reflect

Muſick to th’ Ear, or to the Intellect.

If then each man a Little World muſt be,

How many Worlds are copied out in thee,

Who art ſo richly formed, ſo compleat

T’epi- F2r 19

T’epitomize all that is Good and Great;

Whoſe Stars this brave advantage did impart,

Thy Nature’s as harmonious as thy Art?

Thou doſt above the Poets praiſes live,

Who fetch from thee th’ Eternity they give.

And as true Reaſon triumphs over ſenſe,

Yet is ſubjected to intelligence:

So Poets on the lower World look down,

But Lawes on them; his Height is all his own.

For, like Divinity it ſelf, his Lyre

Rewards the Wit it did at firſt inſpire.

And thus by double right Poets allow

His and their Laurel ſhould adorn his brow.

Live then, great Soul of Nature, to aſſwage

The ſavage dulneſs of this ſullen Age.

Charm us to Senſe; for though Experience fail

And Reaſon too, thy Numbers may prevail.

Then, like thoſe Ancients, ſtrike, and ſo command

All Nature to obey thy gen’rous hand.

None will reſiſt but ſuch who needs will be

More ſtupid than a Stone, a Fiſh, a Tree.

Be it thy care our Age to new-create:

What built a World may ſure repair a State.

A Sea-Voyage from Tenby to Briſtol, begun 1652-09-05Sept. 5. 1652. ſent from Briſtol to Lucaſia 1652-09-08Sept. 8. 1652

Hoiſe up the Sail, cry’d they who underſtand

No word that carries kindneſs for the Land:

Such ſons of clamour, that I wonder not

They love the Sea, whom ſure ſome Storm begot.

Had he who doubted Motion theſe men ſeen,

Or heard their tongues, he had convinced been.

For had our Bark mov’d half as faſt as they,

We had not need caſt Anchor by the way.

One of the reſt pretending to more wit,

Some ſmall Italian ſpoke, but murther’d it;

For F2v 20

For I (thanks to Saburra’s Letters) knew

How to diſtinguiſh ’twixt the falſe and true.

But t’oppoſe theſe as mad a thing would be

As ’tis to contradict a Presbyt’ry.

’Tis Spaniſh though, (quoth I) e’en what you pleaſe:

For him that ſpoke it ’tmight be Bread and Cheeſe.

So ſoftly moves the Bark which none controuls,

As are the meetings of agreeing Souls:

And the Moon-beams did on the water play,

As if at Midnight ’twould create a Day.

The amorous Wave that ſhar’d in ſuch diſpence

Expreſt at once delight and reverence.

Such trepidation we in Lovers ſpye

Under th’oppreſſion of a Miſtreſs eye.

But then the Wind ſo high did riſe and roar,

Some vow’d they’d never truſt the traitor more.

Behold the fate that all our Glories ſweep,

Writ in the dangerous wonders of the Deep:

And yet behold Man’s eaſie folly more,

How ſoon we curſe what erſt we did adore.

Sure he that firſt himſelf did thus convey,

Had ſome ſtrong paſſion that he would obey.

The Bark wrought hard, but found it was in vain

To make its party good againſt the Main,

Toſs’d and retreated, till at laſt we ſee

She muſt be faſt if ere ſhe ſhould be free.

We gravely Anchor caſt, and patiently

Lie priſoners to the weather’s cruelty.

We had nor Wind nor Tyde, nor ought but Grief,

Till a kind Spring-tide was our firſt relief.

Then we float merrily, forgetting quite

The ſad confinement of the ſtormy night.

E’re we had loſt theſe thoughts, we ran aground,

And then how vain to be ſecure we found.

Now they were all ſurpriz’d. Well, if we muſt,

Yet none ſhall ſay that duſt is gone to duſt.

But we are off now, and the civil Tide

Aſſiſted us the Tempeſts to out-ride.

But G1r 21

But what moſt pleas’d my mind upon the way,

Was the Ships poſture that in Harbour lay:

Which to a rocky Grove ſo cloſe were fix’d,

That the Trees branches with the Tackling mix’d.

One would have thought it was, as then it ſtood,

A growing Navy, or a floating Wood.

But I have done at laſt, and do confeſs

My Voyage taught me ſo much tediouſneſs.

In ſhort, the Heav’ns muſt needs propitious be,

Becauſe Lucaſia was concern’d in me.

Friendſhip’s Myſtery, To my deareſt Lucaſia.

Come, my Lucaſia, ſince we ſee

That Miracles Mens faith do move,

By wonder and by prodigy

To the dull angry world let’s prove

There’s a Religion in our Love.


For though we were deſign’d t’agree,

That Fate no liberty deſtroyes,

But our Election is as free

As Angels, who with greedy choice

Are yet determin’d to their joyes.


Our hearts are doubled by the loſs,

Here Mixture is Addition grown;

We both diffuſe, and both ingroſs:

And we whoſe minds are ſo much one,

Never, yet ever are alone.

G We G1v 22


We court our own Captivity

Than Thrones more great and innocent:

’Twere baniſhment to be ſet free,

Since we wear fetters whoſe intent

Not Bondage is, but Ornament.


Divided joyes are tedious found,

And griefs united eaſier grow:

We are our ſelves but by rebound,

And all our Titles ſhuffled ſo,

Both Princes, and both Subjects too.


Our Hearts are mutual Victims laid,

While they (ſuch power in Friendſhip lies)

Are Altars, Prieſts, and Off’rings made:

And each Heart which thus kindly dies,

Grows deathleſs by the Sacrifice.

Content, To my deareſt Lucaſia.

Content, the falſe World’s beſt diſguiſe,

The ſearch and faction of the Wiſe,

Is ſo abſtruſe and hid in night,

That, like that Fairy Red-croſs Knight,

Who treacherous Falſhood for clear Truth had got,

Men think they have it when they have it not.


For Courts Content would gladly own,

But ſhe ne’er dwelt about a Throne:

And G2r 23

And to be flatter’d, rich, and great,

Are things which do Mens ſenſes cheat.

But grave Experience long ſince this did ſee,

Ambition and Content would ne’er agree.


Some vainer would Content expect

From what their bright Out-sides reflect:

But ſure Content is more Divine

Than to be digg’d from Rock or Mine:

And they that know her beauties will confeſs,

She needs no luſtre from a glittering dreſs.


In Mirth ſome place her, but ſhe ſcorns

Th’aſſiſtance of ſuch crackling thorns,

Nor owes her ſelf to ſuch thin ſport,

That is ſo ſharp and yet ſo ſhort:

And Painters tell us they the ſame ſtrokes place,

To make a laughing and a weeping face.


Others there are that place Content

In Liberty from Government:

But whomſoe’re Paſſions deprave,

Though free from ſhackles, he’s a ſlave.

Content and Bondage differ only then,

When we are chain’d by Vices, not by Men.


Some think the Camp Content does know,

And that ſhe fits o’th’ Victor’s brow:

But in his Laurel there is ſeen

Often a Cypreſs-bow between.

Nor G2v 24

Nor will Content her ſelf in that place give,

Where Noiſe and Tumult and Deſtruction live.


But yet the moſt Diſcreet believe,

The Schools this Jewel do receive,

And thus far’s true without diſpute,

Knowledge is ſtill the ſweeteſt fruit.

But whilſt men ſeek for Truth they loſe their Peace;

And who heaps Knowledge, Sorrow doth increaſe.


But now ſome ſullen Hermite ſmiles,

And thinks he all the World beguiles,

And that his Cell and Diſh contain

What all mankind wiſh for in vain.

But yet his pleaſure’s follow’d with a Groan,

For man was never born to be alone.


Content her ſelf beſt comprehends

Betwixt two ſouls, and they two friends,

Whoſe either joyes in both are fix’d,

And multiply’d by being mix’d:

Whoſe minds and intereſts are ſo the ſame;

Their Griefs, when once imparted, loſe that name.


Theſe far remov’d from all bold noiſe,

And (what is worſe) all hollow joyes,

Who never had a mean deſign,

Whoſe flame is ſerious and divine,

And calm, and even, muſt contented be,

For they’ve both Union and Society.

Then H1r 25


Then, my Lucaſia, we who have

Whatever Love can give or crave;

Who can with pitying ſcorn ſurvey

The Trifles which the moſt betray;

With innocence and perfect friendſhip fir’d

By Vertue joyn’d, and by our Choice retir’d.


Whoſe Mirrours are the cryſtal Brooks,

Or elſe each others Hearts and Looks;

Who cannot wiſh for other things

Then Privacy and Friendſhip brings:

Whoſe thoughts and perſons chang’d and mixt are one,

Enjoy Content, or elſe the World hath none.

A dialogue of Abſence ’twixt Lucaſia and Orinda.

Set by Mr. Hen. Lawes.


Say, my Orinda, why ſo ſad?


Abſence from thee doth tear my heart;

Which, ſince with thine it union had,

Each parting ſplits.


And can we part?


Our Bodies muſt.


But never we:

Our Souls, without the help of Senſe,

By wayes more noble and more free

Can meet, and hold intelligence.


And yet thoſe Souls, when firſt they met,

Lookt out at windows through the Eyes.


But ſoon did ſuch acquaintance get,

Not Fate nor Time can them ſurprize.


Abſence will rob us of that bliſs

To which this Friendſhip title brings:

Love’s fruits and joys are made by this

Uſeleſs as Crowns to captiv’d Kings.


Friendſhip’s a Science, and we know

There Contemplation’s moſt employ’d.

H Orin. H1v 26


Religion’s ſo, but practick too,

And both by niceties deſtroy’d.


But who ne’re parts can never meet,

And ſo that happineſs were loſt.


Thus Pain and Death are ſadly ſweet,

Since Health and Heav’n ſuch price muſt coſt.


But we ſhall come where no rude hand ſhall ſever,

And there wee’l meet and part no more for ever.

To my dear Siſter Mrs. C. P. on her Marriage.

We will not like thoſe men our offerings pay

Who crown the cup, then think they crown the day.

We make no garlands, nor an altar build,

Which help not Joy, but Oſtentation yield.

Where mirth is juſtly grounded theſe wild toyes

Are but a troubleſome, and empty noiſe.


But theſe ſhall be my great Solemnities,

Orinda’s wiſhes for Caßandra’s bliſs.

May her Content be as unmix’d and pure

As my Affection, and like that endure;

And that ſtrong Happineſs may ſhe ſtill find

Not owing to her Fortune, but her Mind.


May her Content and Duty be the ſame,

And may ſhe know no Grief but in the name.

May his and her Pleaſure and Love be ſo

Involv’d and growing, that we may not know

Who moſt Affection or moſt Peace engroſt;

Whoſe Love is ſtrongeſt, or whoſe Bliſs is moſt.

May H2r 27


May nothing accidental e’re appear

But what ſhall with new bonds their Souls endear;

And may they count the hours as they paſs,

By their own Joys, and not by Sun or Glaſs:

While every day like this may ſacred prove

To Friendſhip, Gratitude, and ſtricteſt Love.

To Mr. Henry Vaughan, Siluriſt, on his Poems.

Had I ador’d the multitude, and thence

Got an antipathy to Wit and Senſe,

And hugg’d that fate in hope the World would grant

’Twas good affection to be ignorant;

Yet the leaſt Ray of thy bright fancy ſeen,

I had converted, or excuſeleſs been;

For each Birth of thy Muſe to after-times

Shall expiate for all this Age’s crimes.

Firſt ſhines thy Amoret, twice crown’d by thee,

Once by thy Love, next by thy Poetry:

Where thou the beſt of Unions doſt diſpence,

Truth cloth’d in Wit, and Love in Innocence.

So that the muddieſt Lovers may learn here,

No Fountains can be ſweet that are not clear.

There Juvenal reviv’d by thee declares

How flat man’s Joys are, and how mean his Cares;

And generouſly upbraids the World that they

Should ſuch a value for their Ruine pay.

But when thy ſacred Muſe diverts her Quill,

The Landskip to deſign of Leon’s hill;

As nothing elſe was worthy her or thee,

So we admire almoſt t’Idolatry.

What Savage breaſt would not be rap’d to find

Such Jewels in ſuch Cabinets enſhrin’d?

Thou (fill’d with Joys too great to ſee or count)

Deſcend’ſt H2v 28

Deſcend’ſt from thence like Moſes from the Mount,

And with a candid, yet unqueſtion’d aw,

Reſtor’ſt the Golden Age when Verſe was Law.

Inſtructing us thou ſo ſecur’ſt thy fame,

That nothing can diſturb it but my name;

Nay I have hopes that ſtanding ſo near thine

’Twill loſe its droſs, and by degrees refine.

Live till the diſabuſed World conſent,

All Truths of Uſe, or Strength, or Ornament,

Are with ſuch Harmony by thee diſplay’d

As the whole World was firſt by Number made;

And from the charming rigour thy Muſe brings,

Learn, there’s no pleaſure but in ſerious things.

A retir’d Friendſhip, To Ardelia.

Come, my Ardelia, to this Bower,

Where kindly mingling Souls awhile

Let’s innocently ſpend an hour,

And at all ſerious follies ſmile.


Here is no quarrelling for Crowns,

Nor fear of changes in our Fate;

No trembling at the great ones frowns,

Nor any ſlavery of State.


Here’s no diſguiſe nor treachery,

Nor any deep conceal’d deſign;

From Bloud and Plots this Place is free,

And calm as are thoſe looks of thine.


Here let us ſit and bleſs our Stars,

Who did ſuch happy quiet give,

As I1r 29

As that remov’d from noiſe of Wars

In one anothers hearts we live.


Why ſhould we entertain a fear?

Love cares not how the World is turn’d:

If crouds of dangers ſhould appear,

Yet Friendſhip can be unconcern’d.


We wear about us ſuch a charm,

No horrour can be our offence;

For miſchief’s ſelf can do no harm

To Friendſhip or to Innocence.


Let’s mark how ſoon Apollo’s beams

Command the flocks to quit their meat,

And not entreat the neighbouring ſtreams

To quench their thirſt, but cool their heat.


In ſuch a ſcorching Age as this

Who would not ever ſeek a ſhade,

Deſerve their Happineſs to miſs,

As having their own peace betray’d.


But we (of one anothers mind

Assur’d) the boiſterous World diſdain;

With quiet Souls and unconfin’d

Enjoy what Princes wiſh in vain.

I To I1v 30

To Mrs. Mary Carne, when Philaſter courted her.

As ſome great Conqueror who knows no bounds,

But hunting Honour in a thouſand wounds,

Purſues his rage, and thinks that Triumph cheap

That’s but attended with the common heap,

Till his more happy fortune doth afford

Some Royal Captive that deſerv’d his ſword,

And only now is of his Laurel proud,

Thinking his dang’rous valour well beſtow’d;

But then retreats, and ſpending hate no more,

Thinks Mercy now what Courage was before:

As Cowardiſe in fight, ſo equally

He doth abhor a bloudy Victory:

So, Madam, though your Beauty were allow’d

To be ſevere unto the yielding Croud,

That were ſubdu’d e’re you an Object knew

Worthy your Conqueſt and your Mercy too;

Yet now ’tis gain’d, your Victory’s compleat.

Only your Clemency ſhould be as great.

None will diſpute the power of your Eyes,

That underſtands Philaſter is their prize.

Hope not your Glory can have new acceſs,

For all your future Trophees will grow leſs:

And with that Homage be you ſatisfi’d

From him that conquers all the World beſide.

Nor let your Rigour now the Triumph blot,

And loſe the honour which your Beauty got.

Be juſt and kind unto your Peace and Fame,

In being ſo to him, for they’re the ſame:

And live and die at once, if you would be

Nobly tranſmitted to Poſterity.

Take heed leſt in the ſtory they peruſe

A murther which no language can excuſe:

But wiſely ſpare the trouble of one frown;

Give him his happineſs, and know your own.

Thus I2r 31

Thus ſhall you be as Honour’s ſelf eſteem’d,

Who have one Sex oblig’d, your own redeem’d,

This the Religion due unto your Shrine

Shall be as Univerſal, as Divine:

And that Devotion ſhall this bleſſing gain,

Which Law and Reaſon do attempt in vain.

The World ſhall join, maintaining but one ſtrife,

Who ſhall moſt thank you for Philaſters life.

To Mr. J.B. the noble Cratander, upon a Compoſition of his which he was not willing to own publickly.

As when ſome injur’d Prince aſſumes Diſguiſe,

And ſtrives to make his Carriage ſympathize,

Yet hath a great becoming Meen and Air,

Which ſpeaks him Royal ſpight of all his care:

So th’ Iſſues of thy Soul can ne’re be hid,

And the Sun’s force may be as ſoon forbid

As thine obſcur’d; there is no ſhade ſo great

Through which it will not dart forth light and heat.

Thus we diſcover thee by thy own Day,

Againſt thy will ſnatching the Cloud away.

Now the Piece ſhines, and though we will not ſay,

Parents can Souls, as Taper lights, convey;

Yet we muſt grant thy Soul tranſmitted here

In beams almoſt as laſting and as clear.

And that’s our higheſt praiſe, for but thy Mind,

Thy Works could never a reſemblance find.

That mind whoſe ſearch can Nature’s ſecret hand

At one great ſtroke diſcover and command,

Which cleareth times and things, before whoſe eyes

Nor Men nor Notions dare put on diſguiſe.

And were all Authors now as much forgot

As proſperous Ignorance her ſelf would plot,

Had we the rich ſupplies of thy own breaſt,

The knowing World would never miſs the reſt.

Men did before from Ignorance take their Fame,

But I2v 32

But Learning’s ſelf is honour’d by thy Name.

Thou ſtudieſt not belief to introduce

Of Novelties, more fit for ſhew than uſe;

But think’ſt it nobler Charity t’uphold

The credit and the Beauty of the old:

And with one hand canſt eaſily ſupport

Learning and Law, a Temple and a Court.

And this ſecures me: for as we below

Valleys from Hills, Houſes from Churches know,

But to their ſight who ſtand extreamly high,

Theſe forms will have one flat Equality:

So from a lower Soul I well might fear

A critick cenſure when ſurvey’d too near;

But not from him who plac’d above the beſt

Lives in a height which levels the reſt.

To the Excellent Mrs. Anne Owen, upon her receiving the name of Lucaſia, and adoption into our Society, 1651-12-28December 28. 1651.

We are compleat, and Fate hath now

No greater bleſſing to beſtow:

Nay the dull World muſt now confeſs

We have all worth, all happineſs.

Annals of State are trifles to our fame,

Now ’tis made ſacred by Lucaſia’s name.

But as though through a Burning-glaſs

The Sun more vigorous doth paſs,

Yet ſtill with general freedom ſhines;

For that contracts, but not confines:

So though by this her beams are fixed here,

Yet ſhe diffuſes glory every where.

Her Mind is ſo entirely bright,

The ſplendour would but wound our ſight,

And muſt to ſome diſguiſe ſubmit,

Or K1r 33

Or we could never worſhip it.

And we by this relation are allow’d

Luſtre enough to be Lucaſia’s Cloud.

Nations will own us now to be

A Temple of Divinity;

And Pilgrims ſhall ten Ages hence

Approch our Tombs with reverence.

May then that time which did ſuch bliſs convey

Be kept by us perpetual Holy-day.

To the truly Noble Mrs. Anne Owen, on my firſt Approches.


As in a Triumph Conquerors admit

Their meaneſt Captives to attend on it,

Who, though unworthy, have the power confeſt,

And juſtifi’d the yielding of the reſt:

So when the buſie World (in hope t’excuſe

Their own ſurprize) your Conqueſts do peruſe,

And find my name, they will be apt to ſay,

Your charms were blinded, or elſe thrown away.

There is no honour got in gaining me,

Who am a prize not worth your Victory.

But this will clear you, that ’tis general,

The worſt applaud what is admir’d by all.

But I have plots in’t: for the way to be

Secure of fame to all poſterity,

Is to obtain the honour I purſue,

To tell the World I was ſubdu’d by you.

And ſince in you all wonders common are,

Your Votaries may in your Vertues ſhare,

While you by noble Magick worth impart:

She that can Conquer, can reclaim a heart.

Of this Creation I ſhall not deſpair,

Since for your own ſake it concerns your care.

K For K1v 34

For ’tis more honour that the World ſhould know,

You made a noble Soul, than found it ſo.


Not to oblige Lucaſia by my voice,

To boaſt my fate, or juſtifie my choice,

Is this deſign’d; but pity does engage

My Pen to reſcue the declining Age.

For ſince ’tis grown in faſhion to be bad,

And to be vain or angry, proud or mad,

(While in their Vices only Men agree)

Is thought the only modern Gallantry;

How would ſome brave Examples check the crimes,

And both reproch, and yet reform, the Times?

Nor can Morality it ſelf reclaim

Th’apoſtate World like my Lucaſia’s name:

Lucaſia, whoſe rich Soul had it been known

In that Time th’Ancients call’d the Golden one,

When Innocence and Greatneſs were the ſame,

And Men no battels knew but in a game,

Chuſing what Nature, not what Art, prefers;

Poets were Judges, Kings Philoſophers;

Even then from her the Wiſe would copies draw,

And ſhe to th’infant World had giv’n a Law.

That Souls were made of Number could not be

An Obſervation, but a Prophecy.

It meant Lucaſia, whoſe harmonious ſtate

The Spheres and Muſes only imitate.

But as then Muſick is beſt underſtood,

When every Chord’s examin’d and found good:

So what in others Judgment is and Will,

In her is the ſame even Reaſon ſtill.

And as ſome Colour various ſeems, but yet

’Tis but our diff’rence in conſidering it:

So ſhe now light, and then does light diſpence,

But is one ſhining Orb of Excellence:

And K2r 35

And that ſo piercing when ſhe Judgement takes,

She doth not ſearch, but Intuition makes:

And her Diſcoveries more eaſie are

Than Cæſar’s Conqueſt in his Pontick War.

As bright and vigorous her beams are pure,

And in their own rich candour ſo ſecure,

That had ſhe liv’d where Legends were deviſed,

Rome had been juſt, and ſhe been canonized.

Nay Innocence her ſelf leſs clear muſt be,

If Innocence be any thing but ſhe.

For Vertue’s ſo congenial to her mind,

That Liquid things, or Friends, are leſs combin’d.

So that in her that Sage his wiſh had ſeen,

And Vertue’s ſelf had perſonated been.

Now as diſtilled Simples do agree,

And in th’Alembick loſe variety;

So Vertue, though in pieces ſcatter’d ’twas,

Is by her Mind made one rich uſeful maſs.

Nor doth Diſcretion put Religion down,

Nor haſty Zeal uſurp the Judgment’s crown.

Wiſdom and Friendſhip have one ſingle Throne,

And make another Friendſhip of their own.

Each ſev’ral piece darts ſuch fierce pleaſing rayes,

Poetick Lovers would but wrong in praiſe.

All hath proportion, all hath comlineſs,

And her Humility alone exceſs.

Her Modeſty doth wrong a Worth ſo great,

Which Calumny her ſelf would noblier treat:

While true to Friendſhip and to Nature’s truſt,

To her own Merits only ſhe’s unjuſt.

But as Divinity we beſt declare

By ſounds as broken as our Notions are;

So to acknowledge ſuch vaſt Eminence,

Imperfect Wonder is our Eloquence.

No Pen Lucaſia’s glories can relate,

But they admire beſt who dare imitate.

Wiſton K2v 36

Wiſton Vault.

And why this Vault and Tomb? alike we muſt

Put off Diſtinction, and put on our Duſt.

Nor can the ſtatelieſt fabrick help to ſave

From the corruptions of a common Grave;

Nor for the Reſurrection more prepare,

Than if the Duſt were ſcatter’d into air.

What then? Th’ambition’s juſt, ſay ſome, that we

May thus perpetuate our Memory.

Ah falſe vain task of Art! ah poor weak Man!

Whoſe Monument does more than’s Merit can:

Who by his Friends beſt care and love’s abus’d,

And in his very Epitaph accus’d:

For did they not ſuſpect his Name would fall,

There would not need an Epitaph at all.

But after death too I would be alive,

And ſhall, if my Lucaſia do, ſurvive.

I quit theſe pomps of Death, and am content,

Having her heart to be my Monument:

Thought ne’re Stone to me, ’twill Stone for me prove,

By the peculiar miracles of Love.

There I’le Inſcription have which no Tomb gives,

Not, Here Orinda lies, but, Here ſhe lives.

Friendſhip in Embleme, or the Seal. To my deareſt Lucaſia.


The Hearts thus intermixed ſpeak

A Love that no bold ſhock can break;

For joyn’d and growing both in one,

Neither can be diſturb’d alone.

That L1r 37


That means a mutual Knowledge too;

For what is’t either heart can do,

Which by its panting Centinel

It does not to the other tell?


That Friendſhip Hearts ſo much refines,

It nothing but it ſelf deſigns:

The hearts are free from lower ends,

For each point to the other tends.


They flame, ’tis true, and ſeveral wayes,

But ſtill thoſe Flames do ſo much raiſe,

That while to either they incline

They yet are noble and divine.


From ſmoke or hurt thoſe Flames are free,

From groſſneſs or mortality:

The Heart (like Moſes Buſh preſumed)

Warm’d and enlightned, not conſumed.


The Compaſſes that ſtand above

Expreſs this great immortal Love;

For Friends, like them, can prove this true,

They are, and yet they are not, two.

L And L1v 38


And in their poſture is expreſt

Friendſhip’s exalted Intereſt:

Each follows where the other leans,

And what each does, this other means.


And as when one foot does ſtand faſt,

And t’other circles ſeeks to caſt,

The ſteddy part does regulate

And make the wandrer’s motion ſtraight:


So Friends are only two in this,

T’reclaim each other when they miſs:

For whoſoe’re will groſly fall,

Can never be a Friend at all.


And as that uſeful Inſtrument

For Even lines was ever meant;

So Friendſhip from good Angels ſprings,

To teach the world Heroick things.


As theſe are found out in deſign

To rule and meaſure every Line;

So Friendſhip governs actions beſt,

Preſcribing unto all the reſt.


And as in Nature nothing’s ſet

So juſt as Lines in number met;

So Compaſſes for theſe b’ing made,

Do Friendſhip’s harmony perſwade.

And L2r 39


And like to them, ſo Friends may own

Extenſion, not Diviſion:

Their Points, like Bodies, ſeparate;

But Head, like Souls, knows no ſuch fate.


And as each part ſo well is knit,

That their Embraces ever fit:

So Friends are ſuch by deſtiny,

And no third can the place ſupply.


There needs no Motto to the Seal:

But that we may the mind reveal

To the dull Eye, it was thought fit

That Friendſhip only ſhould be writ.


But as there are Degrees of bliſs,

So there’s no Friendſhip meant by this,

But ſuch as will tranſmit to Fame

Lucaſia and Orinda’s name.

In Memory of F.P. who died at Acton the 1660-05-2424. May 1660. at 12 and 12 of Age.

If I could ever write a laſting Verſe,

It ſhould be laid, dear Saint, upon thy Herſe.

But Sorrow is no Muſe, and does confeſs

That it leaſt can what it would moſt expreſs.

Yet that I may ſome bounds to grief allow,

I’le try if I can weep in Numbers now.

Ah beauteous Bloſſom too untimely dead!

Whither? ah whither is thy ſweetneſs fled?

Where L2v 40

Where are the charms that alwaies did ariſe

From the prevailing language of thy Eyes?

Where is thy beauteous and lovely meen,

And all the wonders that in thee were ſeen?

Alas! in vain, in vain on thee I rave;

There is no pity in the ſtupid Grave.

But ſo the Bankrupt ſitting on the brim

Of thoſe fierce billows which had ruin’d him,

Begs for his loſt Eſtate, and does complain

To the inexorable Flouds in vain.

As well we may enquire when Roſes die,

To what retirement their ſweet Odours flie;

Whither their Virtues and their Bluſhes haſte,

When the ſhort triumph of their life is paſt;

Or call their periſhing Beauties back with tears,

As adde one moment to thy finiſh’d years.

No, thou art gone, and thy preſaging Mind

So thriftily thy early hours deſign’d,

That haſty Death was baffled in his Pride,

Since nothing of thee but thy Body dy’d.

Thy Soul was up betimes, and ſo concern’d

To graſp all Excellence that could be learn’d,

That finding nothing fill her thirſting here,

To the Spring-head ſhe went to quench it there;

And ſo prepar’d, that being freed from ſin

She quickly might become a Cherubin.

Thou wert all Soul, and through thy Eyes it ſhin’d:

Aſham’d and angry to be ſo confin’d,

It long’d to be uncag’d, and thither flown

Where it might know as clearly as ’twas known.

In theſe vaſt hopes we might thy change have found,

But that Heav’n blinds whom it decrees to wound.

For Parts ſo ſoon at ſo ſublime a pitch,

A Judgment ſo mature, Fancy ſo rich,

Never appear unto unthankful Men,

But as a Viſion to be hid again.

So glorious Scenes in Maſques, Spectators view

With the ſhort pleaſure of an hour or two;

But M1r 41

But that once paſt, the Ornaments are gone,

The Lights extinguiſh’d, and the Curtains drawn.

Yet all theſe Gifts were thy leſs noble part,

Nor was thy Head ſo worthy as thy Heart;

Where the Divine Impreſſion ſhin’d ſo clear,

As ſnatch’d thee hence, and yet endear’d thee here:

For what in thee did moſt command our love

Was both the cauſe and ſign of thy remove.

Such fools are we, ſo fatally we chooſe:

That what we moſt would keep we ſooneſt looſe.

The humble greatneſs of thy Pious thought,

Sweetneſs unforc’d, and Baſhfulneſs untaught,

The native Candour of thine open breaſt,

And all the Beams wherein thy Worth was dreſt,

Thy Wit ſo bright, ſo piercing and immenſe,

Adorn’d with wiſe and lovely Innocence,

Might have foretold thou wert not ſo compleat,

But that our joy might be as ſhort as great.

So the poor Swain beholds his ripened Corn

By ſome rough Wind without a Sickle torn.

Never, ah! never let ſad Parents gueſs

At one remove of future happineſs:

But reckon Children ’mong thoſe paſsing joys

Which one hour gives, and the next hour deſtroys.

Alas! we were ſecure of our content;

But find too late that it was onely lent,

To be a Mirrour wherein we may ſee

How frail we are, how ſpotleſs we ſhould be.

But if to thy bleſt Soul my grief appears,

Forgive and pity theſe injurious tears:

Impute them to Affections ſad exceſs,

Which will not yield to Nature’s tenderneſs,

Since ’twas through deareſt ties and higheſt truſt

Continued from thy Cradle to thy Duſt;

And ſo rewarded and confirm’d by thine,

That (wo is me!) I thought thee too much mine.

But I’le reſign, and follow thee as faſt

As my unhappy Minutes will make haſt.

M Till M1v 42

Till when the freſh remembrances of thee

Shall be my Emblems of Mortality.

For ſuch a loſs as this (bright Soul!) is not

Ever to be repaired or forgot.

In memory of that excellent perſon Mrs. Mary Lloyd of Bodidriſt in Denbigh-ſhire, who died 1656-11-13Nov. 13. 1656. after ſhe came thither from Pembroke-ſhire.

Icannot hold, for though to write were rude,

Yet to be ſilent were Ingratitude,

And Folly too; for if Poſterity

Should never hear of ſuch a one as thee,

And onely know this Age’s brutiſh fame,

They would think Vertue nothing but a Name.

And though far abler Pens muſt her define,

Yet her Adoption hath engaged mine:

And I muſt own where Merit ſhines ſo clear,

’Tis hard to write, but harder to forbear.

Sprung from an ancient and an honour’d Stem,

Who lent her luſtre, and ſhe paid it them;

Who ſtill in great and noble things appeared,

Whom all their Country lov’d, and yet they feared.

Match’d to another good and great as they,

Who did their Country both oblige and ſway.

Behold herſelf, who had without diſpute

More then both Families could contribute.

What early Beauty Grief and Age had broke,

Her lovely Reliques and her Off-ſpring ſpoke.

She was by nature and her Parents care

A Woman long before moſt others are.

But yet that antedated ſeaſon ſhe

Improv’d to Vertue, not to Liberty.

For ſhe was ſtill in either ſtate of life

Meek as a Virgin, Prudent as a Wife

And ſhe well knew, although ſo young and fair,

Juſtly to mix Obedience Love and Care;

Whil’ſt M2r 43

Whil’ſt to her Children ſhe did ſtill appear

So wiſely kind, ſo tenderly ſevere,

That they from her Rule and Example brought

A native Honour, which ſhe ſtampt and taught.

Nor can a ſingle Pen enough commend

So kind a Siſter and ſo clear a Friend.

A Wiſdom from above did her ſecure,

Which as ’twas peaceable, was ever pure.

And if well-order’d Commonwealths muſt be

Patterns for every private Family,

Her Houſe, rul’d by her hand and by her eye,

Might be a Pattern for a Monarchy.

Solomon’s wiſeſt Woman leſs could do;

She built her houſe, but this preſerv’d hers too.

She was ſo pious that when ſhe did die,

She ſcarce chang’d Place, I’m ſure not Company.

Her Zeal was primitive and practick too;

She did believe, and pray, and read, and do.

A firm and equal Soul ſhe had engroſt,

Juſt ev’n to thoſe that diſoblig’d her moſt.

She grew to love thoſe wrongs ſhe did receive

For giving her the power to Forgive.

Her Alms I may admire, but not relate,

But her own works ſhall praiſe her in the gate.

Her Life was checquer’d with afflictive years,

And even her Comfort ſeaſon’d in her Tears.

Scarce for a Husband’s loſs her eyes were dried,

And that loſs by her Children half ſupplied,

When Heav’n was pleas’d not theſe dear Props t’afford,

But tore moſt off by ſickneſs or by ſword.

She, who in them could ſtill their Father boaſt,

Was a freſh Widow every Son ſhe loſt.

Litigious hands did her of Right deprive,

That after all ’twas Penance to ſurvive.

She ſtill theſe Griefs hath nobly undergone,

Which few ſupport at all, but better none.

Such a ſubmiſsive Greatneſs who can find?

A tender Heart with ſo reſolv’d a Mind?

But M2v 44

But ſhe, though ſenſible, was ſtill the ſame,

Of a reſigned Soul, untainted Fame,

Nor were her Vertues coarſly ſet, for ſhe

Out-did Example in Civility.

To beſtow bleſſings, to oblige, relieve,

Was all for which ſhe could endure to live.

She had a joy higher in doing good,

Than they to whom the benefit accru’d.

Though none of Honour had a quicker ſenſe,

Never had Woman more of complacence;

Yet loſt it not in empty forms, but ſtill

Her Nature noble was, her Soul gentile.

And as in Youth ſhe did attract, (for ſhe

The Verdure had without the Vanity)

So ſhe in Age was mild and grave to all,

Was not moroſe, but was majeſtical.

Thus from all other Women ſhe had skill

To draw their good, but nothing of their ill.

And ſince ſhe knew the mad tumultuous World,

Saw Crowns revers’d, Temples to ruine hurl’d;

She in Retirement choſe to ſhine and burn,

As a bright Lamp ſhut in ſome Roman Urn.

At laſt, when ſpent with ſickneſs, grief and age,

Her Guardian Angel did her death preſage:

(So that by ſtrong impulſe ſhe chearfully

Diſpenſed bleſſings, and went home to die;

That ſo ſhe might, when to that place removed,

Marry his Aſhes whom ſhe ever loved)

She dy’d, gain’d a reward, and paid a debt.

The Sun himſelf did never brighter ſet.

Happy were they that knew her and her end,

More happy they that did from her deſcend:

A double bleſſing they may hope to have,

One ſhe convey’d to them, and one ſhe gave.

All that are hers are therefore ſure to be

Bleſt by Inheritance and Legacy.

A Royal Birth had leſs advantage been.

’Tis more to die a Saint than live a Queen.

To N1r 45

To the truly competent Judge of Honour, Lucaſia, upon a ſcandalous Libel made by J.J.

Honour, which differs Man from Man much more

Then Reaſon differ’d him from Beaſts before,

Suffers this common Fate of all things good,

By the blind World to be miſunderſtood.

For as ſome Heathens did their Gods confine,

While in a Bird or Beaſt they made their ſhrine;

Depos’d their Deities to Earth, and then

Offer’d them Rites that were too low for Men:

So thoſe who moſt to Honour ſacrifice,

Preſcribe to her a mean and weak diſguiſe;

Impriſon her to others falſe Applauſe,

And from Opinion do receive their Laws.

While that inconſtant Idol they implore,

Which in one breath can murther and adore.

From hence it is that thoſe who Honour court,

(And place her in a popular report)

Do proſtitute themſelves to ſordid Fate,

And from their Being oft degenerate.

And thus their Tenents too are low and bad,

As if ’twere honourable to be mad:

Or that their Honour had concerned been

But to conceal, not to forbear, a ſin.

But Honour is more great and more ſublime,

Above the battery of Fate or Time.

We ſee in Beauty certain airs are found,

Which not one Grace can make, but all compound.

Honour’s to th’Mind as Beauty to the Senſe,

The fair reſult of mixed Excellence.

As many Diamonds together lie,

And dart one luſtre to amaze the Eye:

So Honour is that bright Ætherial Ray

Which many Stars doth in one light diſplay.

But as that Beauty were as truly ſweet,

N Were N1v 46

Were there no Tongue to praiſe, no Eye to ſee’t;

And ’tis the Privilege of a native Spark,

To ſhed a conſtant Splendour in the dark:

So Honour is its own Reward and End,

And ſatisfied within, cannot deſcend

To beg the ſuffrage of a vulgar Tongue,

Which by commending Vertue doth it wrong.

It is the Charter of a noble Action,

That the performance giveth ſatisfaction.

Other things are below’t; for from a Clown

Would any Conqueror receive his Crown?

’Tis reſtleſs Cowardice to be a drudge

To an uncertain and unworthy Judge.

So the Cameleon, who lives on air,

Is of all Creatures moſt inclin’d to fear.

But peaceable reflections on the Mind

Will in a ſilent ſhade Contentment find.

Honour keeps Court at home, and doth not fear

To be condemn’d abroad, if quitted there.

While I have this retreat, ’tis not the noiſe

Of Slander, though believ’d, can wrong my Joyes.

There is advantage in’t: for Gold uncoin’d

Had been unuſeful, nor with glory ſhin’d:

This ſtamp’d my Innocency in the Ore,

Which was as much, but not ſo bright, before.

Till an Alembick wakes and outward draws,

The ſtrength of Sweets lies ſleeping in their Cauſe:

So this gave me an opportunity

To feed upon my own Integrity.

And though their Judgment I muſt ſtill diſclaim,

Who can nor give nor take away a fame:

Yet I’le appeal unto the knowing few,

Who dare be juſt, and rip my heart to you.

To N2r 47

To Antenor, on a Paper of mine which J.J. threatens to publiſh to prejudice him.

Muſt then my Crimes become thy Scandal too?

Why, ſure the Devil hath not much to do.

The weakneſs of the other Charge is clear,

When ſuch a trifle muſt bring up the Rear.

But this is mad deſign, for who before

Loſt his repute upon anothers ſcore?

My Love and Life I muſt confeſs are thine,

But not my Errours, they are only mine.

And if my Faults muſt be for thine allow’d,

It will be hard to diſſipate the Cloud:

For Eve’s Rebellion did not Adam blaſt,

Until himſelf forbidden Fruit did taſte.

’Tis poſſible this Magazine of Hell

(Whoſe name would turn a verſe into a ſpell,

Whoſe miſchief is congenial to his life)

May yet enjoy an honourable Wife.

Nor let his ill be reckoned as her blame,

Nor yet my Follies blaſt Antenor’s name.

But if thoſe lines a Puniſhment could call

Laſting and great as this dark Lanthorn’s gall;

Alone I’d court the Torments with content,

To teſtifie that thou art Innocent.

So if my Ink through malice prov’d a ſtain,

My Bloud ſhould juſtly waſh it off again.

But ſince that Mint of ſlander could invent

To make ſo dull a Ryme his Inſtrument,

Let Verſe revenge the quarrel. But he’s worſe

Then wiſhes, and below a Poet’s curſe;

And more then this Wit knows not how to give,

Let him be ſtill himſelf, and let him live.

N2 Roſania N2v 48

Roſania ſhadowed whileſt Mrs. Mary Awbrey.

If any could my dear Roſania hate,

They only ſhould her Character relate.

Truth ſhines ſo bright there, that an Enemy

Would be a better Oratour then I.

Love ſtifles Language, and I muſt confeſs,

I had ſaid more if I had loved leſs.

Yet the moſt critical who that Face ſee

Will ne’re ſuſpect a partiality.

Others by time and by degrees perſwade,

But her firſt look doth every heart invade.

She hath a Face ſo eminently bright,

Would make a Lover of an Anchorite:

A Face where conqueſt mixt with modeſty

Are both compleated in Divinity.

Not her leaſt glance but ſets a heart on fire,

And checks it if it ſhould too much aſpire.

Such is the Magick of her looks, the ſame

Beam doth both kindle and refine our flame.

If ſhe doth ſmile, no Painter e’re would take

Another Rule when he would Mercy make.

And Heav’n to her ſuch ſplendour hath allow’d,

That no one poſture can her Beauty cloud:

For if ſhe frown, none but would phanſie then

Juſtice deſcended here to puniſh Men.

Her common looks I know not how to call

Any one Grace, they are compos’d of all.

And if we Mortals could the doctrine reach,

Her Eyes have language, and her Looks do teach.

And as in Palaces the outmoſt, worſt

Rooms entertain our wonder at the firſt;

But once within the Preſence-Chamber door,

We do deſpiſe what e’re we ſaw before:

So when you with her Mind acquaintance get,

You’l hardly think upon the Cabinet.

Her O1r 49

Her Soul, that Ray ſhot from the Deity,

Doth ſtill preſerve its native purity;

Which Earth can neither threaten nor allure,

Nor by falſe joys defile it, or obſcure.

The Innocence which in her heart doth dwell,

Angels themſelves can only parrallel.

More gently ſoft then is an Evening-ſhower:

And in that ſweetneſs there is coucht a Power,

Which ſcorning Pride, doth think it very hard

That Modeſty ſhould need ſo mean a Guard.

Her Honour is protected by her Eyes,

As the old Flaming Sword kept Paradiſe.

Such Conſtancy of Temper, Truth and Law,

Guides all her actions, that the World may draw

From her one Soul the nobleſt Precedent

Of the moſt ſafe, wiſe, vertuous Government.

And as the higheſt Element is clear

From all the Tempeſts which diſturb the Air:

So ſhe above the World and its rude noiſe,

Above our ſtorms a quiet Calm enjoys.

Tranſcendent things her noble thought ſublime,

Above the faults and trifles of the Time.

Unlike thoſe Gallants which take far leſs care

To have their Souls, then make their Bodies fair;

Who (ſick with too much leiſure) time do paſs

With theſe two books, Pride, and a Looking-glaſs:

Plot to ſurprize Mens hearts, their pow’r to try,

And call that Love, which is meer Vanity.

But ſhe, although the greateſt Murtherer,

(For ev’ry glance commits a Maſſacre)

Yet glories not that ſlaves her power confeſs,

But wiſhes that her Monarchy were leſs.

And if ſhe love, it is not thrown away,

As many do, onely to ſpend the day;

But her’s is ſerious, and enough alone

To make all Love become Religion.

And to her Friendſhip ſhe ſo faithful is,

That ’tis her onely blot and prejudice:

O For O1v 50

For Envy’s ſelf could never errour ſee

Within that Soul, ’bating her love to me.

Now as I muſt confeſs the name of Friend

To her that all the World doth comprehend

Is a moſt wild Ambition; ſo for me

To draw her picture is flat Lunacy.

Oh! I muſt think the reſt; for who can write

Or into words confine what’s Infinite?

To the Queen of Inconſtancy, Regina Collier, in Antwerp.


Unworthy, ſince thou haſt decreed

Thy Love and Honour both ſhall bleed,

My Friendſhip could not chuſe to die

In better time or company.


What thou haſt got by this Exchange

Thou wilt perceive, when the Revenge

Shall by thoſe treacheries be made,

For which our Faith thou haſt betray’d.


When thy Idolaters ſhall be

True to themſelves, and falſe to thee,

Thou’lt ſee that in Heart-merchandiſe,

Value, not Number, makes the price.


Live to that day, my Innocence

Shall be my Friendſhip’s juſt defence:

For O2r 51

For this is all the World can find,

While thou wert noble, I was kind.


The deſp’rate game that thou doſt play

At private Ruines cannot ſtay;

The horrid treachery of that Face

Will ſure undo its native place.


Then let the Frenchmen never fear

The victory while thou art there:

For if Sins will call Judgments down,

Thou haſt enough to ſtock the Town.

To my Excellent Lucaſia, on our Friendſhip.

Idid not live until this time

Crown’d my felicity,

When I could ſay without a crime,

I am not thine, but Thee.

This Carcaſs breath’d, and walkt, and ſlept,

So that the World believ’d

There was a Soul the Motions kept;

But they were all deceiv’d.

For as a Watch by art is wound

To motion, ſuch was mine:

But never had Orinda found

A Soul till ſhe found thine;

Which now inſpires, cures and ſupplies,

And guides my darkned Breaſt:

For thou art all that I can prize,

My Joy, my Life, my Reſt.

No O2v 52

No Bridegrooms nor Crown-conquerors mirth

To mine compar’d can be:

They have but pieces of this Earth,

I’ve all the World in thee.

Then let our Flames ſtill light and ſhine,

And no falſe fear controul,

As innocent as our Deſign,

Immortal as our Soul.

Roſania’s private Marriage.

It was a wiſe and kind deſign of Fate,

That none ſhould this day’s glory celebrate:

For ’twere in vain to keep a time which is

Above the reach of all Solemnities.

The greateſt Actions paſs without a noiſe,

And Tumults but prophane diviner Joys.

Silence with things tranſcendent neareſt ſuits,

The greateſt Emperours are ſerv’d by Mutes.

And as in ancient time the Deities

To their own Prieſts reveal’d no Myſteries

Until they were from all the World retir’d,

And in ſome Cave made fit to be inſpir’d.

So when Roſania (who hath them out-vied,

And with more Juſtice might be Deified;

Who if ſhe had their Rites and Altars, we

Should hardly think it were Idolatry)

Had found a breaſt that did deſerve to be

Receptacle of her Divinity;

It was not fit the gazing World ſhould know

When ſhe convey’d her ſelf to him, or how.

An Eagle ſafely may behold the Sun,

When weak Eyes are with too much Light undone.

Now as in Oracles were underſtood,

Not the Prieſt’s only, but the common good:

So P1r 53

So her great Soul would not imparted be,

But in deſign of general Charity.

She now is more diffuſive than before;

And what men then admir’d, they now adore.

For this Exchange makes not her Power leſs,

But only fitter for the World’s Addreſs.

May then that Mind (which if we will admit

The Univerſe one Soul, muſt ſure be it)

Inform this All, (which, till ſhe ſhin’d out, lay

As drowſie men do in a cloudy day)

And Honour, Vertue, Reaſon ſo diſpence,

That all may owe them to her influence:

And while this Age is thus imploy’d, may ſhe

Scatter new Bleſſings for Poſterity.

I dare not any other wiſh prefer,

For only her beſtowing adds to her.

And to a Soul ſo in her ſelf complete

As would be wrong’d by any Epithete,

Whoſe ſplendour’s fix’d unto her choſen Sphere,

And fill’d with Love and Satisfaction there,

What can increaſe the Triumph, but to ſee

The World her Convert and her Hiſtory?

Injuria Amicitiæ.

Lovely Apoſtate! what was my offence?

Or am I puniſh’d for Obedience?

Muſt thy ſtrange Rigour find as ſtrange a time?

The Act and Seaſon are an equal Crime.

Of what thy moſt ingenious ſcorns could do

Muſt I be Subject and Spectator too?

Or were the Sufferings and Sins too few

To be ſuſtain’d by me, perform’d by you?

Unleſs (with Nero) your uncurb’d deſire

Be to ſurvey the Rome you ſet on fire.

While wounded for and by your Power, I

At once your Martyr and your Proſpect die.

P This P1v 54

This is my doom, and ſuch a ridling Fate

As all impoſſibles doth complicate.

For Obligation here is Injury,

Conſtancy Crime, Friendſhip a Hereſie.

And you appear ſo much on Ruine bent,

Your own deſtruction gives you now Content:

For our twin-Spirits did ſo long agree,

You muſt undo your ſelf to ruine me.

And, like ſome Frantick Goddeſs, you’re inclin’d,

To raze the Temple where you are enſhrin’d.

And, what’s the Miracle of Cruelty,

Kill that which gave you Immortality.

While glorious Friendſhip, whence your Honour ſprings,

Lies gaſping in the Crowd of common things;

And I’m ſo odious, that for being kind

Doubled and ſtudied Murthers are deſign’d.

Thy ſin’s all Paradox, for ſhould’ſt thou be

Thy ſelf again, th’wouldſt be ſevere to me.

For thy Repentance coming now ſo late,

Would only change, and not relieve my Fate.

So dangerous is the conſequence of ill,

Thy leaſt of Crimes is to be cruel ſtill.

For of thy Smiles I ſhould yet more complain,

If I ſhould live to be betray’d again.

Live then (fair Tyrant) in Security,

From both my Kindneſs and Revenge be free;

While I, who to the Swains had ſung thy Fame,

And taught each Echo to repeat thy Name,

Will now my private Sorrow entertain,

To Rocks and Rivers, not to thee, complain.

And though before our Union cheriſh’d me,

’Tis now my pleaſure that we diſagree.

For from my Paſſion your laſt Rigour grew,

And you kill’d me becauſe I worſhipp’d you.

But my worſt Vows ſhall be your Happineſs,

And not to be diſturb’d by my diſtreſs.

And though it would my ſacred flames pollute,

To make my heart a ſcorned proſtitute;

Yet P2r 55

Yet I’le adore the Author of my Death,

And kiſs the Hand that robs me of my breath.

To Regina Collier, on her cruelty to Philaſter.

Triumphant Queen of ſcorn! how ill doth ſit

In all that Sweetneſs, ſuch injurious Wit?

Unjuſt and Cruel! what can be your prize,

To make one heart a double Sacrifice?

Where ſuch ingenious Rigour you do ſhew,

To break his Heart, you break his Image too;

And by a Tyranny that’s ſtrange and new,

You murther him becauſe he worſhips you.

No pride can raiſe you, or can make him ſtart,

Since Love and Honour do enrich his heart.

Be Wiſe and Good, leſt when Fate will be juſt,

She ſhould o’rethrow thoſe glories in the duſt,

Rifle your Beauties, and you thus forlorn.

Make a cheap Victim to another’s ſcorn;

And in thoſe Fetters which you do upbraid,

Your ſelf a wretched Captive may be made.

Redeem the poyſon’d Age, let it be ſeen

There’s no ſuch freedom as to ſerve a Queen.

But you I ſee are lately Round-head grown,

And whom you vanquiſh you inſult upon.

To Philaſter, on his Melancholy for Regina.

Give over now thy tears, thou vain

And double Murtherer;

For every minute of thy pain

Wounds both thy ſelf and her.

Then leave this dulneſs; for ’tis our belief,

Thy Queen muſt cure, or not deſerve, thy Grief.

Phi- P2v 56

Philoclea’s parting.

Kinder than a condemned Man’s reprieve

Was your dear Company that bad me live.

When by Roſania’s ſilence I had been

The wretchedeſt Martyr any Age hath ſeen.

But as when Traytors faint upon the rack,

Tormentors ſtrive to call their Spirits back;

Not out of kindneſs to preſerve their breath,

But to increaſe the Torments of their Death:

So was I raiſed to this glorious ſtate,

To make my fall the more unfortunate.

But this I know, none ever dy’d before

Upon a ſadder or a nobler ſcore.

To Roſania, now Mrs. Mountague, being with her.


As men that are with Viſions grac’d

Muſt have all other thoughts diſplac’d,

And buy thoſe ſhort deſcents of Light

With loſs of Senſe; or Spirit’s flight:


So ſince thou wert my happineſs,

I could not hope the rate was leſs;

And thus the Viſion which I gain

Is short t’enjoy, and hard t’attain.


Ah then! what a poor trifle’s all

That thing which here we Pleaſure call,

Since Q1r 357

Since what our very Souls hath coſt

Is hardly got and quickly loſt?


Yet is there Juſtice in the fate;

For ſhould we dwell in bleſt eſtate,

Our Joys thereby would ſo inflame,

We ſhould forget from whence we came.


If this ſo ſad a doom can quit

Me for the follies I commit;

Let no eſtrangement on thy part

Adde a new ruine to my heart.


When on my ſelf I do reflect,

I can no ſmile from thee expect:

But if thy Kindneſs hath no plea,

Some freedom grant for Charity.


Elſe the juſt World muſt needs deny

Our Friendſhip an Eternity:

This Love will ne’re that title hold;

For mine’s too hot and thine too cold.


Divided Rivers loſe their name;

And ſo our too unequal flame

Parted, will Paſſion be in me,

And an Indifference in thee.

Q Thy Q1v 58


Thy abſence I could eaſier find,

Provided thou wert well and kind,

Than ſuch a Preſence as is this,

Made up of ſnatches of my bliſs.


So when the Earth long gaſps for rain,

If ſhe at laſt ſome few drops gain,

She is more parched than at firſt;

That ſmall recruit increas’d the thirſt.

To my Lucaſia.

Let dull Philoſophers enquire no more

In Nature’s womb, or Cauſes ſtrive t’explore,

By what ſtrange harmony and courſe of things

Each body to the whole a tribute brings;

What ſecret unions ſecret Neighbourings make,

And of each other how they do partake.

Theſe are but low Experiments: but he

That Nature’s harmony intire would ſee,

Muſt ſearch agreeing Souls, ſit down and view

How ſweet the mixture is, how full, how true;

By what ſoft touches Spirits greet and kiſs,

And in each other can complete their bliſs.

A wonder ſo ſublime, it will admit

No rude Spectator to contemplate it.

The Object will refine, and he that can

Friendſhip revere muſt be a noble man.

How much above the common rate of things

Muſt they then be from whom this Union ſprings?

But what’s all this to me, who live to be

Diſprover of my own Morality?

And Q2r 59

And he that knew my unimproved Soul,

Would ſay I meant all Friendſhip to controul.

But Bodies move in time, and ſo muſt Minds;

And though th’attempt no eaſie progreſs finds,

Yet quit me not, leſt I ſhould deſp’rate grow,

And to ſuch Friendſhip adde ſome Patience now.

O may good Heav’n but ſo much Vertue lend,

To make me fit to be Lucaſia’s Friend!

But I’le forſake my ſelf, and ſeek a new

Self in her breaſt that’s for more rich and true.

Thus the poor Bee unmark’d doth hum and flye,

And droan’d with age would unregarded dye,

Unleſs ſome lucky drop of precious Gum

Do bleſs the Inſect with an Amber-tomb.

Then glorious in its funeral the Bee

Gets Eminence, and gets Eternity.

On Controverſies in Religion.

Religion, which true Policy befriends,

Deſign’d by God to ſerve Man’s nobleſt ends,

Is by that old Deceiver’s ſubtle play

Made the chief party in its own decay,

And meets that Eagles deſtiny, whoſe breaſt

Felt the ſame ſhaft which his own feathers dreſt.

For that great Enemy of Souls perceiv’d,

The notion of a Deity was weav’d

So cloſely in Man’s Soul; to ruine that,

He muſt at once the World depopulate.

But as thoſe Tyrants who their Wills purſue,

If they expound old Laws, need make no new:

So he advantage takes of Nature’s light,

And raiſes that to a bare uſeleſs height;

Or while we ſeek for Truth, he in the Queſt

Mixes a Paſſion, or an Intereſt,

To make us loſe it; that, I know not how,

’Tis not our Practice, but our Quarrel now.

As Q2v 60

As in the Moon’s Eclipſe ſome Pagans thought

Their barbarous Clamours her deliverance wrought:

So we ſuppoſe that Truth oppreſſed lies,

And needs a Reſcue by our Enmities.

But ’tis Injuſtice, and the Mind’s Diſeaſe,

To think of gaining Truth by loſing Peace.

Knowledge and Love, if true, do ſtill unite;

God’s Love and Knowledge are both Infinite.

And though indeed Truth does delight to lie

At ſome Remoteneſs from a Common Eye;

Yet ’tis not in a Thunder or a Noiſe,

But in ſoft Whiſpers and the ſtiller Voice.

Why ſhould we then Knowledge ſo rudely treat,

Making our weapon what was meant our meat?

’Tis Ignorance that makes us quarrel ſo;

The Soul that’s dark will be contracted too.

Chimæra’s make a noiſe, ſwelling and vain,

And ſoon reſolve to their own ſmoak again.

But a true Light the ſpirit doth dilate,

And robs it of its proud and ſullen ſtate;

Makes Love admir’d becauſe ’tis underſtood,

And makes us Wiſe becauſe it makes us Good.

’Tis to a right Proſpect of things that we

Owe our Uprightneſs and our Charity.

For who reſiſts a beam when ſhining bright,

Is not a Sinner of a common height.

That ſtate’s a forfeiture, and helps are ſpent,

Not more a Sin, than ’tis a Puniſhment.

The Soul which ſees things in their Native frame,

Without Opinion’s Mask or Cuſtom’s name,

Cannot be clogg’d to Senſe, or count that high

Which hath its Eſtimation from a Lie.

(Mean ſordid things, which by miſtake we prize,

And abſent covet, but enjoy’d deſpiſe.)

But ſcorning theſe hath robb’d them of their art,

Either to ſwell or to ſubdue the Heart;

And learn’d that generous frame to be above

The World in hopes, below it all in love:

Touch’d R1r 61

Touch’d with Divine and Inward Life doth run,

Not reſting till it hath its Centre won;

Moves ſteadily until it ſafe doth lie

I’ th’ Root of all its Immortality;

And reſting here hath yet activity

To grow more like unto the Deity;

Good, Univerſal, Wiſe and Juſt as he,

(The ſame in kind, though diff’ring in degree)

Till at the laſt ’tis ſwallow’d up and grown

With God and with the whole Creation one;

It ſelf, ſo ſmall a part, i’ th’ Whole is loſt,

And Generals have Particulars engroſt.

That dark contracted Perſonality,

Like Miſts before the Sun, will from it flie.

And then the Soul, one ſhining ſphear, at length

With true Love’s wiſdom fill’d and purged ſtrength,

Beholds her higheſt good with open face,

And like him all the World ſhe can embrace.

To the Honoured Lady E.C.


Ido not write to you that men may know

How much I’m honour’d that I may do ſo:

Nor hope (though I your rich Example give)

To write with more ſucceſs than I can live,

To cure the Age; nor think I can be juſt,

Who only dare to write, becauſe I muſt.

I’m full of you, and ſomething muſt expreſs,

To vent my wonder and your pow’r confeſs.

Had I ne’re heard of your Illuſtrious Name,

Nor known the Scotch or Engliſh ancient Fame;

Yet if your glorious Frame did but appear,

I could have ſoon read all your Grandeur there.

I could have ſeen in each majeſtick ray

What greatneſs Anceſtors could e’re convey;

R And R1v 62

And in the luſtre of your Eyes alone,

How near you were allied to the Throne:

Which yet doth leſſen you, who cannot need

Thoſe bright advantages which you exceed.

For you are ſuch, that your Deſcent from Kings

Receives more Honour from you than it brings:

As much above their Glories as our Toil.

A Court to you were but a handſom foil.

And if we name the Stock on which you grew,

’Tis rather to do right to it than you:

For thoſe that would your greateſt ſplendour ſee,

Muſt read your Soul more than your Pedigree.

For as the ſacred Temple had without

Beauty to feed thoſe eyes that gaz’d about,

And yet had riches, ſtate, and wonder more,

For thoſe that ſtood within the ſhining door;

But in the Holy place the admitted few,

Luſtre receiv’d and Inſpiration too:

So though your Glories in your Face be ſeen,

And ſo much bright Inſtruction in your Meen;

You are not known but where you will impart

The treasures of your more illuſtrious Heart.

Religion all her odours ſheds on you,

Who by obeying vindicate her too:

For that rich Beam of Heaven was almoſt

In nice Diſputes and falſe Pretences loſt;

So doubly injur’d, ſhe could ſcarce ſubſiſt

Betwixt the Hypocrite and Caſuiſt;

Till you by great Example did convince

Us of her nature and her reſidence,

And choſe to ſhew her face, and eaſe her grief,

Leſs by your Arguments than by your Life;

Which, if it ſhould be copied out, would be

A ſolid Body of Divinity.

Your Principle and Practice light would give

What we ſhould do, and what we ſhould believe:

For the extenſive Knowledge you profeſs,

You do acquire with more eaſe than confeſs.

And R2r 63

And as by you Knowledge has thus obtain’d

To be refin’d, and then to be explain’d:

So in return ſhe uſeful is to you,

In Practice and in Contemplation too.

For by the various ſuccours ſhe hath lent,

You act with Judgment, and think with Content.

Yet thoſe vaſt Parts with ſuch a Temper meet,

That you can lay them at Religion’s feet.

Nor is it half ſo bold as it is true,

That Vertue is her ſelf oblig’d to you:

For being dreſt in your ſubduing Charms,

She conquers more than did the Roman Arms.

We ſee in you how much that Malice ly’d

That ſtuck on Goodneſs any ſullen Pride;

And that the harſhneſs some Profeſſors wear

Falls to their own, and not Religion’s ſhare.

But your bright ſweetneſs if it but appear,

Reclaims the bad, and ſoftens the auſtere.

Men talk’d of Honour too, but could not tell

What was the ſecret of that active ſpell.

That beauteous Mantle they to divers lent,

Yet wonder’d what the mighty nothing meant.

Some did confine her to a worthy Fame,

And ſome to Royal Parents gave her Name.

You having claim unto her either way,

By what a King could give, a world could pay,

Have a more living Honour in your breaſt,

Which juſtifies, and yet obſcures the reſt;

A Principle from Fame and Pomp unty’d,

So truly high that it deſpiſes Pride;

Buying good actions at the deareſt rate,

Looks down on ill with as much ſcorn as hate;

Acts things ſo generous and bravely hard,

And in obliging finds ſo much Reward;

So Self-denying great, ſo firmly juſt,

Apt to confer, ſtrict to preſerve a Truſt;

That all whoſe Honour would be juſtified,

Muſt by your ſtandard have it ſtamp’d and tried.

But R2v 64

But your Perfection heightens others Crimes,

And you reproch while you inform the Times.

Which ſad advantage you will ſcarce believe;

Or if you muſt, you do conceal and grieve.

You ſcorn ſo poor a foil as others ill,

And are Protectour to th’ unhappy ſtill;

Yet are ſo tender when you ſee a ſpot,

You bluſh for thoſe who for themselves could not.

You are ſo much above your Sex, that we

Believe your Life your greateſt courteſie:

For Women boaſt, they have you while you live

A Pattern and a Repreſentative.

And future Mothers who in Child-birth groan,

Shall wiſh for Daughters knowing you are one.

The world hath Kings whoſe Crowns are cemented

Or by the bloud they boaſt, or that they ſhed:

Yet theſe great Idols of the ſtooping crew

Have neither Pleaſure ſound, nor Honour true.

They either fight, or play; and Power court,

In trivial anger, or in cruel ſport.

You, who a nobler Privilege enjoy,

(For you can ſave whom they can but deſtroy)

An Empire have where different mixtures kiſs;

You’re grave, not ſour, and kind, but not remiſs.

Such ſweetened Majeſty, ſuch humble State,

Do love and reverence at once create.

Pardon (dear Madam) theſe untaught Eſſayes,

I can admire more fitly than I praiſe.

Things ſo ſublime are dimly underſtood,

And you are born ſo great, and are ſo good,

So much above the Honour of your Name,

And by neglect do ſo ſecure your Fame;

Whose Beauty’s ſuch as captivates the Wiſe,

Yet only you of all the World deſpiſe;

That have ſo vaſt a Knowledge ſo ſubdued,

Religion ſo adorn’d, and ſo purſued;

A Wit ſo ſtrong, that who would it define,

Will need one ten times more acute than mine;

Yet S1r 65

Yet rul’d ſo that its Vigour manag’d thus

Becomes at once graceful and generous;

Whoſe Honour has ſo delicate a Senſe,

Who always pardon, never give offence;

Who needing nothing, yet to all are kind,

Who have ſo large a Heart, ſo rich a Mind;

Whoſe Friendſhip ſtill’s of the obliging ſide,

And yet ſo free from Tyranny and Pride;

Who do in love like Jonathan deſcend,

And ſtrip your ſelf to cloath your happy friend;

Whoſe kindneſs and whoſe modeſty is ſuch,

T’expect ſo little and deſerve ſo much;

Who have ſuch candid worth, ſuch dear concern,

Where we ſo much may love, and ſo much learn;

Whoſe every wonder though it fills and ſhines,

It never to an ill exceſs declines;

But all are found ſo ſweetly oppoſite,

As are in Titians Pieces Shade and Light:

That he that would your great Deſcription try,

Though he write well, would be as loſt as I,

Who of injurious Zeal convicted ſtand,

To draw you with ſo bold and bad a hand;

But that, like other Glories, I preſume

You will enlighten, where you might conſume.

Parting with Lucaſia, A Song.


Well, we will do that rigid thing

Which makes Spectators think we part;

Though Abſence hath for none a ſting

But thoſe who keep each others heart.


And when our Senſe is diſpoſſeſt,

Our labouring Souls will heave and pant,

S And S1v 66

And gaſp for one anothers breaſt,

Since their Conveyances they want.


Nay, we have felt the tedious ſmart

Of abſent Friendſhip, and do know

That when we die we can but part;

And who knows what we ſhall do now?


Yet I muſt go: we will ſubmit,

And ſo our own Diſpoſers be;

For while we nobly ſuffer it,

We triumph o’re Neceſſity.


By this we ſhall be truly great,

If having other things o’recome,

To make our victory compleat

We can be Conquerors at home.


Nay then to meet we may conclude,

And all Obſtructions overthrow,

Since we our Paſſion have ſubdu’d,

Which is the ſtrongeſt thing I know.

Againſt Pleaſure. Set by Dr. Coleman.


There’s no ſuch thing as Pleaſure here,

’Tis all a perfect Cheat,

Which S2r 67

Which does but ſhine and diſappear,

Whoſe Charm is but Deceit:

The empty bribe of yielding Souls

Which firſt betrays, and then controuls.


’Tis true, it looks at diſtance fair;

But if we do approch,

The fruit of Sodom will impair,

And periſh at a touch:

In Being than in Fancy leſs,

And we expect more than poſſeſs.


For by our Pleaſures we are cloy’d,

And ſo Deſire is done;

Or elſe, like Rivers, they make wide

The Channel where they run:

And either way true bliſs deſtroys,

Making Us narrow, or our Joys.


We covet Pleaſure eaſily,

But it not ſo poſſeſs;

For many things muſt make it be,

But one may make it leſs.

Nay, were our ſtate as we could chuſe it,

’Twould be conſum’d by fear to loſe it.


What art thou then, thou winged Air,

More weak and ſwift than Fame?

Whoſe next ſucceſſor is Deſpair,

And its attendant Shame.

Th’Ex- S2v 68

Th’Experience-Prince then reaſon had,

Who ſaid of Pleaſure, It is mad.

A Prayer.

Eternal Reaſon, Glorious Majeſty,

Compar’d to whom what can be ſaid to be?

Whoſe Attributes are Thee, who art alone

Cauſe of all various things, and yet but One;

Whoſe Eſſence can no more be ſearch’d by Man,

Then Heav’n thy Throne be graſped with a Span.

Yet if this great Creation was deſign’d

To ſeveral ends fitted for every kind;

Sure Man (the World’s Epitome muſt be

Form’d to the beſt, that is, to ſtudy thee.

And as our Dignity, ’tis Duty too,

Which is ſumm’d up in this, to know and do.

Theſe comely rows of Creatures ſpell thy Name,

Whereby we grope to find from whence they came,

By thy own Chain of Cauſes brought to think

There muſt be one, then find that higheſt Link.

Thus all created Excellence we ſee

Is a reſemblance faint and dark of thee.

Such ſhadows are produc’d by the Moon-beams

Of Trees or Houſes in the running ſtreams.

Yet by Impreſſions born with us we find

How good, great, juſt thou art, how unconfin’d.

Here we are ſwallowed up and gladly dwell,

Safely adoring what we cannot tell.

All we know is, thou art ſupremely good,

And doſt delight to be ſo underſtood.

A ſpicy Mountain on the Univerſe,

On which thy richeſt Odours do diſperſe.

But as the Sea to fill a Veſſel heaves

More greedily than any Cask receives,

Beſieging round to find ſome gap in it,

Which will a new Infuſion admit:

So T1r 69

So doſt thou covet that thou mayſt diſpence

Upon the empty World thy Influence;

Lov’ſt to disburſe thy ſelf in kindneſs: Thus

The King of Kings waits to be graeicus.

On this account, O God, enlarge my heart

To entertain what thou wouldſt fain impart.

Nor let that Soul, by ſeveral titles thine,

And moſt capacious form’d for things Divine,

(So nobly meant, that when it moſt doth miſs,

’Tis in miſtaken pantings after Bliſs)

Degrade it ſelf in ſordid things delight,

Or by prophaner mixtures loſe its right.

Oh! that with fixt unbroken thoughts it may

Admire the light which does obſcure the day.

And ſince ’tis Angels work it hath to do,

May its compoſure be like Angels too.

When ſhall theſe clogs of Senſe and Fancy break,

That I may hear the God within me ſpeak?

When with a ſilent and retired art

Shall I with all this empty hurry part?

To the Still Voice above, my Soul, advance;

My light and joy plac’d in his Countenance.

By whoſe diſpence my Soul to ſuch frame brought,

May tame each trech’rous, fix each ſcat’ring thought;

With ſuch diſtinctions all things here behold,

And ſo to ſeparate each droſs from gold,

That nothing my free Soul may ſatisfie,

But t’imitate, enjoy and ſtudy thee.

To Mris. M.A. upon Abſence.


Tis now ſince I began to die

Four Months, yet ſtill I gaſping live;

Wrapp’d up in ſorrow do I lie,

Hoping, yet doubting, a Reprieve.

T Adam T1v 70

Adam from Paradiſe expell’d

Juſt ſuch a wretched Being held.


’Tis not thy Love I fear to loſe,

That will in ſpight of abſence hold;

But ’tis the benefit and uſe

Is loſt, as in impriſon’d Gold:

Which though the Sum be ne’re ſo great,

Enriches nothing but conceit.


What angry Star then governs me

That I muſt feel a double ſmart,

Priſoner to fate as well as thee;

Kept from thy face, link’d to thy heart?

Becauſe my Love all love excells,

Muſt my Grief have no Parallels?


Sapleſs and dead as Winter here

I now remain, and all I ſee

Copies of my wild ſtate appear,

But I am their Epitome.

Love me no more, for I am grown

Too dead and dull for thee to own.

To Mrs. Mary Awbrey.

Soul of my Soul, my joy, my crown, my Friend,

A name which all the reſt doth comprehend;

How happy are we now, whoſe Souls are grown

By an incomparable mixture one:

Whoſe well-acquainted Minds are now as near

As T2r 71

As Love, or Vows, or Friendſhip can endear?

I have no thought but what’s to thee reveal’d,

Nor thou deſire that is from me conceal’d.

Thy Heart locks up my Secrets richly ſet,

And my Breaſt is thy private Cabinet.

Thou ſhed’ſt no tear but what my moiſture lent,

And if I ſigh, it is thy breath is ſpent.

United thus, what Horrour can appear

Worthy our Sorrow, Anger, or our Fear?

Let the dull World alone to talk and fight,

And with their vaſt Ambitions Nature fright;

Let them deſpiſe ſo Innocent a flame,

While Envy, Pride and Faction play their game:

But we by Love ſublim’d ſo high ſhall riſe,

To pity Kings, and Conquerours deſpiſe,

Since we that Sacred Union have engroſt

Which they and all the factious World have loſt.

In Memory of Mr. Cartwright.

Stay, Prince of Phancie, ſtay, we are not fit

To welcome or admire thy Raptures yet:

Such horrid Ignorance benights the Times,

That Wit and Honour are become our Crimes.

But when thoſe happy Pow’rs which guard thy duſt

To us and to thy Mem’ry ſhall be juſt,

And by a flame from thy bleſt Genius lent

Reſcue us from our dull Impriſonment,

Unſequeſter our Fancies, and create

A Worth that may upon thy Glories wait:

We then ſhall underſtand thee and deſcry

The ſplendour of reſtored Poetry.

Till when let no bold hand profane thy ſhrine,

’Tis high Wit-Treaſon to debaſe thy coin.

Mr. T2v 72

Mr. Francis Finch, the Excellent Palæmon.

This is confeſt Preſumption, for had I

All that rich ſtock of Ingenuity

Which I could wiſh for this, yet it would be

Palæmon’s blot, a pious Injury.

But as no Votaries are ſcorn’d when they

The meaneſt Victim in Religion pay;

Not that the Pow’r they worſhip needs a Gum,

But that they ſpeak their thanks for all with ſome:

So though the moſt contemptible of all

That do themſelves Palæmon’s Servants call,

I know that Zeal is more than Sacrifice,

(For God did not the Widow’s Mite deſpiſe,)

And that Palæmon hath Divinity,

And Mercy is his higheſt property:

He that doth ſuch tranſcendent Merit own,

Muſt have imperfect Offerings or none.

He’s one rich Luſtre which doth Rayes diſpenſe,

As Knowledge will when ſet in Innocence.

For Learning did ſelect his noble breaſt,

Where (in her native Majeſty) to reſt;

Free from the Tyranny and Pride of Schools,

Who have confin’d her to Pedantick Rules;

And that gentiler Errour which does take

Offence at Learning for her Habit’s ſake:

Palæmon hath redeem’d her, who may be

Eſteem’d himſelf an Univerſity;

And yet ſo much a Gentleman, that he

Needs not (though he enjoys) a Pedigree.

Sure he was built and ſent to let us know

What man completed could both be and do.

Freedom from Vice is in him Nature’s part,

Without the help of Diſcipline or Art.

He’s his own Happineſs and his own Law,

Whereby he keeps Paſſion and Fate in awe.

Nor V1r 73

Nor was this wrought in him by Time and Growth,

His genius had anticipated both.

Had all men been Palæmons, Pride had ne’re

Taught one man Tyranny, the other Fear;

Ambition had been full as Monſtrous then

As this ill World doth render Worthy men.

Had men his Spirit, they would ſoon forbear

Groveling for dirt, and quarreling for air.

Were his harmonious Soul diffus’d in all,

We ſhould believe that men did never fall.

It is Palæmon’s Soul that hath engroſt

Th’ingenous candour that the World hath loſt;

Whoſe one mind ſeats him quiet, ſafe and high,

Above the reach of Time or Deſtiny.

’Twas he that reſcu’d gaſping Friendſhip when

The Bell toll’d for her Funeral with men:

’Twas he that made Friends more then Lovers burn,

And then made Love to ſacred Friendſhip turn:

’Twas he turn’d Honour inward, ſet her free

From Titles and from Popularity.

Now fix’d to Vertue ſhe begs Praiſe of none,

But’s Witneſs’d and Rewarded both at home.

And in his breaſt this Honour’s ſo enſhrin’d,

As the old Law was in the Ark confin’d:

To which Poſterity ſhall all conſent,

And leſs diſpute then Acts of Parliament.

He’s our Original, by whom we ſee

How much we fail, and what we ought to be.

But why do I to Copy him pretend?

My Rymes but libel whom they would commend.

’Tis true; but none can reach what’s ſet ſo high:

And though I miſs, I’ve noble Company:

For the moſt happy language muſt confeſs,

It doth obſcure Palæmon, not expreſs.

V To V1v 74

To Mrs. M.A. at parting.


I Have examin’d and do find,

Of all that favour me

There’s none I grieve to leave behind

But only only thee.

To part with thee I needs muſt die,

Could parting ſep’rate thee and I.


But neither Chance nor Complement

Did element our Love;

’Twas ſacred Sympathy was lent

Us from the Quire above.

That Friendſhip Fortune did create,

Still fears a wound from Time or Fate.


Our chang’d and mingled Souls are grown

To ſuch acquaintance now,

That if each would reſume their own,

Alas! we know not how.

We have each other ſo engroſt,

That each is in the Union loſt.


And thus we can no Abſence know,

Nor ſhall we be confin’d;

Our active Souls will daily go

To learn each others mind.

Nay, ſhould we never meet to Senſe,

Our Souls would hold Intelligence.

In- V2r 75


Inſpired with a Flame Divine

I ſcorn to court a ſtay;

For from that noble Soul of thine

I ne’re can be away.

But I ſhall weep when thou doſt grieve;

Nor can I die whil’ſt thou doſt live.


By my own temper I ſhall gueſs

At thy felicity,

And only like my happineſs

Becauſe it pleaſeth thee.

Our hearts at any time will tell

If thou, or I, be ſick, or well.


All Honour ſure I muſt pretend,

All that is Good or Great;

She that would be Roſania’s Friend,

Muſt be at leaſt compleat.

If I have any bravery,

’Tis cauſe I have ſo much of thee.


Thy Leiger Soul in me ſhall lie,

And all thy thoughts reveal;

Then back again with mine ſhall flie,

And thence to me ſhall ſteal.

Thus ſtill to one another tend;

Such is the ſacred name of Friend.

9. Thus V2r 76


Thus our twin-Souls in one ſhall grow,

And teach the World new Love,

Redeem the Age and Sex, and ſhew

A Flame Fate dares not move:

And courting Death to be our friend,

Our Lives together too ſhall end.


A Dew ſhall dwell upon our Tomb

Of ſuch a quality,

That fighting Armies, thither come,

Shall reconciled be.

We’ll ask no Epitaph, but ſay

Orinda and Rosania.

To my deareſt Antenor, on his Parting.

Though it be juſt to grieve when I muſt part

With him that is the Guardian of my Heart;

Yet by an happy change the loſs of mine

Is with advantage paid in having thine.

And I (by that dear Gueſt inſtructed) find

Abſence can do no hurt to Souls combin’d.

As we were born to love, brought to agree

By the impreſſions of Divine Decree:

So when united nearer we became,

It did not weaken, but encreaſe, our Flame.

Unlike to thoſe who diſtant joys admire,

But ſlight them when poſſeſt of their deſire.

Each of our Souls did its own temper fit,

And in the other’s Mould ſo faſhion’d it,

That now our Inclinations both are grown,

Like to our Intereſts and Perſons, one;

And X1r 77

And Souls whom ſuch an Union fortifies,

Paſſion can ne’re deſtroy, nor Fate ſurprize.

Now as in Watches, though we do not know

When the Hand moves, we find it ſtill doth go:

So I, by ſecret Sympathy inclin’d,

Will abſent meet, and underſtand thy mind;

And thou at thy return ſhalt find thy Heart

Still ſafe, with all the love thou didſt impart.

For though that treaſure I have ne’re deſerv’d,

It ſhall with ſtrong Religion be preſerv’d.

And beſides this thou ſhalt in me ſurvey

Thy ſelf reflected while thou art away.

For what ſome forward Arts do undertake,

The Images of abſent Friends to make,

And repreſent their actions in a Glaſs,

Friendſhip it ſelf can only bring to paſs,

That Magick which both Fate and Time beguiles,

And in a moment runs a thouſand miles.

So in my Breaſt thy Picture drawn ſhall be,

My Guide, Life, Object, Friend, and Deſtiny:

And none ſhall know, though they employ their wit,

Which is the right Antenor, thou, or it.

Engraven on Mr. John Collier’s Tomb-ſtone at Bedlington.

Here what remains of him doth lie,

Who was the World’s Epitome,

Religion’s Darling, Merchants Glory,

Mens true Delight, and Vertue’s Story;

Who, though a Priſoner to the Grave,

A glorious Freedom once ſhall have:

Till when no Monument is fit,

But what’s beyond our love and wit.

X On X1v 78

On the little Regina Collier, on the ſame Tomb-ſtone.

Virtue’s Bloſſom, Beauty’s Bud,

The Pride of all that’s fair and good,

By Death’s fierce hand was ſnatched hence

In her ſtate of Innocence:

Who by it this advantage gains,

Her wages got without her pains.


Let the dull brutiſh World that know not Love

Continue Hereticks, and diſapprove

That noble Flame; but the refined know

’Tis all the Heaven we have here below.

Nature ſubſiſts by Love, and they do tie

Things to their Cauſes but by Sympathy.

Love chains the different Elements in one

Great Harmony, link’d to the Heav’nly Throne.

And as on Earth, ſo the bleſt Quire above

Of Saints and Angels are maintain’d by Love;

That is their Buſineſs and Felicity,

And will be ſo to all Eternity.

That is the Ocean, our Affections here

Are but ſtreams borrow’d from the Fountain there.

And ’tis the nobleſt Argument to prove

A Beauteous mind, that it knows how to Love:

Thoſe kind Impreſſions which Fate can’t controul,

Are Heaven’s mintage on a worthy Soul.

For Love is all the Arts Epitome,

And is the Sum of all Divinity.

He’s worſe than Beaſt that cannot Love, and yet

It is not bought for Money, Pains or Wit;

For no chance or deſign can Spirits move,

But the Eternal deſtiny of Love:

And X2r 79

And when two Souls are chang’d and mixed ſo,

It is what they and none but they can do.

This, this is Friendſhip, that abſtracted flame

Which groveling Mortals know not how to name.

All Love is ſacred, and the Marriage-tie

Hath much of Honour and Divinity.

But Luſt, Deſign, or ſome unworthy ends

May mingle there, which are deſpis’d by Friends.

Paſſion hath violent extreams, and thus

All oppoſitions are contiguous.

So when the end is ſerv’d their Love will bate,

If Friendſhip make it not more fortunate:

Friendſhip, that Love’s Elixir, that pure fire

Which burns the clearer ’cauſe it burns the higher.

For Love, like earthly fires (which will decay

If the material fuel be away)

Is with offenſive ſmoke accompanied,

And by reſiſtance only is ſupplied:

But Friendſhip, like the fiery Element,

With its own Heat and Nouriſhment content,

Where neither hurt, nor ſmoke, nor noiſe is made,

Scorns the aſſiſtance of a foreign aid.

Friendſhip (like Heraldry) is hereby known,

Richeſt when plaineſt, braveſt when alone;

Calm as a Virgin, and more Innocent

Than ſleeping Doves are, and as much content

As Saints in Viſions; quiet as the Night,

But clear and open as the Summer’s light;

United more than Spirits Faculties,

Higher in thoughts than are the Eagle’s eyes;

What ſhall I ſay? when we true friends are grown,

W’are like —Alas, w’are like our ſelves alone.

The X2v 80

The Enquiry.


If we no old Hiſtorian’s name

Authentick will admit,

But think all ſaid of Friendſhip’s fame

But Poetry or Wit:

Yet what’s rever’d by Minds ſo pure

Muſt be a bright Idea ſure.


But as our Immortality

By inward ſenſe we find,

Judging that if it could not be,

It would not be deſign’d:

So here how could ſuch Copies fall,

If there were no Original?


But if Truth be in ancient Song,

Or Story we believe,

If the inſpir’d and graver Throng

Have ſcorned to deceive;

There have been Hearts whoſe Friendſhip gave

Them thoughts at once both ſoft and brave.


Among that conſecrated Few,

Some more Seraphick ſhade

Lend me a favourable Clew

Now miſts my eyes invade.

Why, having fill’d the World with Fame,

Left you ſo little of your flame?

Why Y1r 81


Why is’t ſo difficult to ſee

Two Bodies and one Mind?

And why are thoſe who elſe agree

So differently kind?

Hath Nature ſuch fantaſtick art,

That ſhe can vary every Heart?


Why are the bands of Friendſhip tied

With ſo remiſs a knot,

That by the moſt it is defied,

And by the reſt forgot?

Why do we ſtep with ſo light ſenſe

From Friendſhip to Indifference.


If Friendſhip Sympathy impart,

Why this ill-ſhuffled game,

That Heart can never meet with Heart,

Or Flame encounter Flame?

What does this Cruelty create?

Is’t the Intrigue of Love or Fate?


Had Friendſhip ne’re been known to Men,

(The Ghoſt at laſt confeſt)

The World had been a ſtranger then

To all that Heaven poſſeſt.

But could it all be here acquir’d,

Not Heaven it ſelf would be deſir’d.

Y To Y1v 82

To my Lucaſia, in defence of declared Friendſhip.


Omy Lucaſia, let us ſpeak our Love,

And think not that impertinent can be,

Which to us both doth ſuch aſſurance prove,

And whence we find how juſtly we agree.


Before we knew the treaſures of our Love,

Our noble aims our joys did entertain;

And ſhall enjoyment nothing then improve?

’Twere beſt for us then to begin again.


Now we have gain’d, we muſt not ſtop, and ſleep

Out all the reſt of our myſterious reign:

It is as hard and glorious to keep

A victory, as it is to obtain.


Nay to what end did we once barter Minds,

Only to know and to neglect the claim?

Or (like ſome Wantons) our Pride pleaſure finds

To throw away the thing at which we aim.


If this be all our Friendſhip does deſign,

We covet not enjoyment then, but power:

To our Opinion we our Bliſs confine,

And love to have, but not to ſmell, the flower.

Ah! Y2r 83


Ah! then let Miſers bury thus their Gold,

Who though they ſtarve no farthing will produce:

But we lov’d to enjoy and to behold,

And ſure we cannot ſpend our ſtock by uſe.


Think not ’tis needleſs to repeat deſires;

The fervent Turtles alwaies court and bill,

And yet their ſpotleſs paſſion never tires,

But does encreaſe by repetition ſtill.


Although we know we love, yet while our Soul

Is thus impriſon’d by the Fleſh we wear,

There’s no way left that bondage to controul,

But to convey tranſactions through the Ear.


Nay, though we read our paſſions in the Eye,

It will oblige and pleaſe to tell them too:

Such joys as theſe by motion multiply,

Were’t but to find that our Souls told us true.


Believe not then, that being now ſecure

Of either’s heart, we have no more to do:

The Spheres themſelves by motion do endure,

And they move on by Circulation too.

And Y2v 84


And as a River, when it once hath paid

The tribute which it to the Ocean owes,

Stops not, but turns, and having curl’d and play’d

On its own waves, the ſhore it overflows.


So the Soul’s motion does not end in bliss,

But on her ſelf ſhe ſcatters and dilates,

And on the Object doubles till by this

She finds new joys which that reflux creates.


But then becauſe it cannot all contain,

It ſeeks a vent by telling the glad news,

Firſt to the Heart which did its joys obtain,

Then to the Heart which did thoſe joys produce.


When my Soul then doth ſuch excurſions make,

Unleſs thy Soul delight to meet it too,

What ſatisfaction can it give or take,

Thou being abſent at the interview?


’Tis not Diſtruſt; for were that plea allow’d,

Letters and Viſits all would uſeleſs grow:

Love’s whole expreſſion then would be its cloud,

And it would be refin’d to nothing ſo.

If Z1r 85


If I diſtruſt, ’tis my own worth for thee,

’Tis my own fitneſs for a love like thine;

And therefore ſtill new evidence would ſee,

T’aſſure my wonder that thou canſt be mine.


But as the Morning-Sun to drooping Flowers,

As weary Travellers a Shade do find,

As to the parched Violet Evening-ſhowers;

Such is from thee to me a Look that’s kind.


But when that Look is dreſt in Words, ’tis like

The myſtick pow’r of Muſick’s uniſon;

Which when the finger doth one Viol ſtrike,

The other’s ſtring heaves to reflection.


Be kind to me, and juſt then to our love,

To which we owe our free and dear Converſe;

And let not tract of Time wear or remove

It from the privilege of that Commerce.


Tyrants do baniſh what they can’t requite:

But let us never know ſuch mean deſires;

But to be grateful to that Love delight

Which all our joys and noble thoughts inſpires.

Z A Z1v 86

A Reſvery.

Achoſen Privacy, a cheap Content,

And all the Peace a Friendſhip ever lent,

A Rock which civil Nature made a Seat,

A Willow that repulſes all the heat,

The beauteous quiet of a Summer’s day,

A Brook which ſobb’d aloud and ran away,

Invited my Repoſe, and then conſpir’d

To entertain my Phancie thus retir’d.

As Lucian’s Ferry-man aloft did view

The angry World, and then laugh’d at it too:

So all its ſullen Follies ſeem to me

But as a too-well acted Tragedy.

One dangerous Ambition doth befool,

Another Envies to ſee that man Rule:

One makes his Love the Parent of his Rage,

For private Friendſhip publickly t’engage:

And ſome for Conſcience, ſome for Honour die;

And ſome are meanly kill’d they know not why.

More different then mens faces are their ends,

Whom yet one common Ruine can make Friends.

Death, Duſt and Darkness they have only won,

And haſtily unto their Periods run.

Death is a Leveller; Beauty, and Kings,

And Conquerours, and all thoſe glorious things,

Are tumbled to their Graves in one rude heap,

Like common duſt as quiet and as cheap.

At greater Changes who would wonder then,

Since Kingdoms have their Fates as well as men?

They muſt fall ſick and die; nothing can be

In this World certain, but uncertainty.

Since Pow’r and Greatneſs are ſuch ſlippery things,

Who’d pity Cottages, or envy Kings?

Now leaſt of all, when, weary of deceit,

The World no longer flatters with the Great.

Though Z2r 87

Though ſuch Confuſions here below we find,

As Providence were wanton with Mankind:

Yet in this Chaos ſome things do ſend forth,

(Like Jewels in the dark) a Native worth.

He that derives his high Nobility,

Not from the mention of a Pedigree;

Who thinks it not his Praiſe that others know

His Anceſtors were gallant long ago;

Who ſcorns to boaſt the Glories of his blood,

And thinks he can’t be great that is not good;

Who knows the World, and what we Pleaſure call,

Yet cannot ſell one Conſcience for them all;

Who hates to hoard that Gold with an excuſe,

For which he can find out a nobler uſe;

Who dares not keep that Life that he can ſpend,

To ſerve his God, his Country, and his Friend;

Who flattery and falſehood doth ſo hate,

He would not buy ten Lives at ſuch a rate;

Whoſe Soul, then Diamonds more rich and clear,

Naked and open as his face doth wear;

Who dares be good alone in ſuch a time,

When Vertue’s held and puniſh’d as a Crime;

Who thinks dark crooked Plots a mean defence,

And is both ſafe and wiſe in Innocence;

Who dares both fight and die, but dares not fear;

Whoſe only doubt is, if his cauſe be clear;

Whoſe Courage and his Juſtice equal worn,

Can dangers grapple, overcome and ſcorn,

Yet not inſult upon a conquer’d foe,

But can forgive him and oblige him too;

Whoſe Friendſhip is congenial with his Soul,

Who where he gives a heart beſtows it whole;

Whoſe other ties and Titles here do end,

Or buried or completed in the Friend;

Who ne’re reſumes the Soul he once did give,

While his Friend’s Honeſty and Honour live;

And if his Friend’s content could coſt the price,

Would count himſelf a happy Sacrifice;

Whoſe Z2v 88

Whoſe happy days no Pride infects, nor can

His other Titles make him ſlight the man;

No dark Ambitious thoughts do cloud his brow,

Nor reſtleſs cares when to be Great, and how;

Who ſcorns to envy Wealth where e’re it be,

But pities ſuch a Golden Slavery;

With no mean fawnings can the people court,

Nor wholly ſlight a popular report;

Whoſe houſe no Orphan groans do ſhake or blaſt,

Nor any riot help to ſerve his taſte;

Who from the top of his Proſperities

Can take a fall, and yet without ſurprize;

Who with the ſame auguſt and even ſtate

Can entertain the beſt and worſt of Fate;

Whoſe ſuffering’s ſweet, if Honour once adorn it;

Who ſlights Revenge, yet does not fear, but ſcorn it;

Whoſe Happineſs in ev’ry Fortune lives,

For that no Fortune either takes or gives;

Who no unhandſome ways can bribe his Fate,

Nay, out of Priſon marches through the Gate;

Who loſing all his Titles and his Pelf,

Nay, all the World, can never loſe himſelf;

This Perſon ſhines indeed, and he that can

Be Vertuous is the great Immortal man.

A Country-life.

How Sacred and how Innocent

A Country-life appears,

How free from Tumult, Diſcontent,

From Flattery or Fears!

This was the firſt and happieſt Life,

When man enjoy’d himſelf;

Till Pride exchanged Peace for Strife,

And Happineſs for Pelf.

’Twas here the Poets were inſpir’d,

Here taught the multitude;

The Aa1r 89

The brave they here with Honour fir’d,

And civiliz’d the rude.

That Golden Age did entertain

No Paſſion but of Love;

The thoughts of Ruling and of Gain

Did ne’re their Fancies move.

None then did envy Neighbour’s wealth,

Nor Plot to wrong his bed:

Happy in Friendſhip and in Health,

On Roots, not Beaſts, they fed.

They knew no Law nor Phyſick then,

Nature was all their Wit.

And if there yet remain to men

Content, ſure this is it.

What Bleſſings doth this World afford

To tempt or bribe deſire?

Her Courtſhip is all Fire and Sword,

Who would not then retire?

Then welcome deareſt Solitude,

My great Felicity;

Though ſome are pleas’d to call thee rude,

Thou art not ſo, but we.

Them that do covet only reſt,

A Cottage will ſuffice:

It is not brave to be poſſeſt

Of Earth, but to deſpiſe.

Opinion is the rate of things,

From hence our Peace doth flow;

I have a better Fate then Kings,

Becauſe I think it ſo.

When all the ſtormy World doth roar

How unconcern’d am I?

I cannot fear to tumble lower

Who never could be high.

Secure in theſe unenvi’d walls

I think not on the State,

And pity no mans caſe that falls

From his Ambition’s height.

Aa Silence Aa1v 90

Silence and Innocence are ſafe;

A heart that’s nobly true

At all theſe little Arts can laugh

That do the World ſubdue.

While others Revel it in State,

Here I’le contented ſit,

And think I have as good a Fate

As Wealth and Pomp admit.

Let ſome in Courtſhip take delight,

And to th’ Exchange reſort;

Then Revel out a Winter’s night,

Not making Love, but Sport.

Theſe never know a noble Flame,

’Tis Luſt, Scorn, or Deſign:

While Vanity plays all their Game,

Let Peace and Honour mine.

When the inviting Spring appears,

To Hide-parke let them go,

And haſting thence be full of fears

To loſe Spring-Garden ſhew.

Let others (nobler) ſeek to gain

In Knowledge happy Fate,

And others buſie them in vain

To ſtudy ways of State.

But I, reſolved from within,

Confirmed from without,

In Privacy intend to ſpin

My future Minutes out.

And from this Hermitage of mine

I baniſh all wild toyes,

And nothing that is not Divine

Shall dare to tempt my Joyes.

There are below but two things good,

Friendſhip and Honeſty,

And only thoſe of all I would

Ask for Felicity.

In this retir’d and humble ſeat

Free from both War and Strife,

I Aa2r 91

I am not forc’d to make retreat

But chuſe to ſpend my Life.

To Mrs. Wogan, my Honoured Friend, on the Death of her Husband.

Dry up your tears, there’s enough ſhed by you,

And we muſt pay our ſhare of Sorrows too.

It is no private loſs when ſuch men fall,

The World’s concern’d, and Grief is general.

But though of our Misfortune we complain,

To him it is injurious and vain.

For ſince we know his rich Integrity,

His real Sweetneſs, and full Harmony;

How free his heart and houſe were to his Friends,

Whom he obliged without Deſign or Ends;

How univerſal was his courteſie,

How clear a Soul, how even, and how high;

How much he ſcorn’d diſguiſe or meaner Arts,

But with a native Honour conquer’d Hearts;

We muſt conclude he was a Treaſure lent,

Soon weary of this ſordid Tenement.

The Age and World deſerv’d him not, and he

Was kindly ſnatch’d from future Miſery.

We can ſcarce ſay he’s Dead, but gone to reſt,

And left a Monument in ev’ry breaſt.

For you to grieve then in this ſad exceſs,

Is not to ſpeak your Love, but make it leſs.

A noble Soul no Friendſhip will admit,

But what’s Eternal and Divine as it.

The Soul is hid in mortal fleſh we know,

And all its weakneſſes muſt undergo,

Till by degrees it does ſhine forth at length,

And gathers Beauty, Purity, and Strength:

But never yet doth this Immortal Ray

Put on full ſplendour till it put off Clay:

So Infant Love is in the worthieſt breaſt

By Aa2v 92

By Senſe and Paſſion fetter’d and oppreſt;

But by degrees it grows ſtill more refin’d,

And ſcorning clogs, only concerns the mind.

Now as the Soul you lov’d is here ſet free

From its material groſs capacity;

Your Love ſhould follow him now he is gone,

And quitting Paſſion, put Perfection on.

Such Love as this will its own good deny,

If its dear Object have Felicity.

And ſince we cannot his great Loſs Reprieve,

Let’s not loſe you in whom he ſtill doth Live.

For while you are by Grief ſecluded thus,

It doth appear your Funeral to us.

In memory of the moſt juſtly honoured, Mrs. Owen of Orielton.

As when the ancient World by Reaſon liv’d,

The Aſian Monarchs deaths were never griev’d:

Their glorious Lives made all their Subjects call

Their Rites a Triumph, not a Funeral:

So ſtill the Good are Princes, and their Fate

Invites us not to weep, but imitate.

Nature intends a progreſs of each ſtage

Whereby weak Man creeps to ſucceeding Age,

Ripens him for that Change for which he’s made,

Where th’active Soul is in her Centre ſtaid.

And ſince none ſtript of Infancy complain,

’Cauſe ’tis both their neceſſity and gain:

So Age and Death by ſlow approches come,

And by that juſt inevitable doom

By which the Soul (her cloggy droſs once gone)

Puts on Perfection, and reſumes her own.

Since then we mourn a happy Soul, O why

Diſturb we her with erring Piety?

Who’s ſo enamour’d on the beauteous Ground,

When with rich Autumn’s livery hung round,

As Bb1r 93

As to deny a Sickle to his Grain,

And not undreſs the teeming Earth again?

Fruits grow for uſe, Mankind is born to die;

And both Fates have the ſame neceſſity.

Then grieve no more, ſad Relatives, but learn;

Sigh not, but profit by your juſt concern.

Read over her Life’s volume: wiſe and good,

Not ’cauſe ſhe muſt be ſo, but ’cauſe ſhe wou’d.

To choſen Vertue ſtill a conſtant friend,

She ſaw the Times which chang’d, but did not mend.

And as ſome are ſo civil to the Sun,

They’d fix his beams, and make the Earth to run:

So ſhe unmov’d beheld the angry Fate

Which tore a Church, and overthrew a State:

Still durſt be Good, and own the noble Truth,

To crown her Age which had adorn’d her Youth.

Great without Pride, a Soul which ſtill could be

Humble and high, full of calm Majeſty.

She kept true ſtate within, and could not buy

Her Satisfaction with her Charity.

Fortune or Birth ne’re rais’d her Mind, which ſtood

Not on her being rich, but doing good.

Oblig’d the World, but yet would ſcorn to be

Paid with Requitals, Thanks or Vanity.

How oft did ſhe what all the World adore,

Make the Poor happy with her uſeful ſtore?

So general was her Bounty, that ſhe gave

Equality to all before the Grave.

By ſeveral means ſhe different perſons ty’d,

Who by her Goodneſs onely were ally’d.

Her Vertue was her Temper, not her Fit;

Fear’d nothing but the Crimes which ſome commit;

Scorn’d thoſe dark Arts which paſs for Wiſdom now;

Nor to a mean ignoble thing could bow.

And her vaſt Prudence had no other end,

But to forgive a Foe, endear a Friend:

To uſe, but ſlight, the World; and fixt above,

Shine down in beams of Piety and Love.

Bb Why Bb1v 94

Why ſhould we then by poor unjuſt complaint

Prove envious Sinners ’cauſe ſhe is a Saint?

Cloſe then the Monument; let not a Tear

That may prophane her Aſhes now appear:

For her beſt Obſequies are that we be

Prudent and Good, Noble and Sweet, as ſhe.

A Friend.


Love, Nature’s Plot, this great Creation’s Soul,

The Being and the Harmony of things,

Doth ſtill preſerve and propagate the whole,

From whence Mans Happineſs and Safety ſprings:

The earlieſt, whiteſt, bleſſedſt Times did draw

From her alone their univerſal Law.


Friendſhip’s an Abſtract of this noble Flame,

’Tis Love refin’d and purg’d from all its droſs,

The next to Angels Love, if not the same,

As ſtrong as paſſion is, though not ſo groſs:

It antedates a glad Eternity,

And is an Heaven in Epitome.


Nobler then Kindred or then Marriage-band,

Becauſe more free; Wedlock-felicity

It ſelf doth only by this Union ſtand,

And turns to Friendſhip or to Miſery.

Force or Deſign Matches to paſs may bring,

But Friendſhip doth from Love and Honour ſpring.

4. If Bb2r 95


If Souls no Sexes have, for Men t’exclude

Women from Friendſhip’s vaſt capacity,

Is a Deſign injurious or rude,

Onely maintain’d by partial tyranny.

Love is allow’d to us and Innocence,

And nobleſt Friendſhips do proceed from thence.


The chiefeſt thing in Friends is Sympathy:

There is a Secret that doth Friendſhip guide,

Which makes two Souls before they know agree,

Who by a thouſand mixtures are ally’d,

And chang’d and loſt, ſo that it is not known

Within which breaſt doth now reſide their own.


Eſſential Honour muſt be in a Friend,

Not ſuch as every breath fans to and fro;

But born within, is its own judge and end,

And dares not ſin though ſure that none ſhould know.

Where Friendſhip’s ſpoke, Honeſty’s underſtood;

For none can be a Friend that is not Good.


Friendſhip doth carry more then common truſt,

And Treachery is here the greateſt ſin.

Secrets depoſed then none ever muſt

Preſume to open, but who put them in.

They that in one Cheſt lay up all their ſtock,

Had need be ſure that none can pick the Lock.

8. A Bb2v 96


A breaſt too open Friendſhip does not love,

For that the others Truſt will not conceal;

Nor one too much reſerv’d can it approve,

Its own Condition this will not reveal.

We empty Paſſions for a double end,

To be refreſh’d and guarded by a Friend.


Wiſdom and Knowledge Friendſhip does require,

The firſt for Counſel, this for Company;

And though not mainly, yet we may deſire

Both complaiſance and Ingenuity.

Though ev’ry thing may love, yet ’tis a Rule,

He cannot be a Friend that is a Fool.


Diſcretion uſes Parts and beſt knows how;

And Patience will all Qualities commend:

That ſerves a need beſt, but this doth allow

The Weakneſſes and Paſſions of a Friend.

We are not yet come to the Quire above:

Who cannot Pardon here, can never Love.


Thick Waters ſhew no Images of things;

Friends are each others Mirrours, and ſhould be

Clearer then Cryſtal or the Mountain Springs,

And free from Clouds, Deſign or Flattery.

For vulgar Souls no part of Friendſhip ſhare:

Poets and Friends are born to what they are.

12. Friends Cc1r 97


Friends ſhould obſerve and chide each others Faults,

To be ſevere then is moſt juſt & kind;

Nothing can ’ſcape their ſearch who knew the thoughts:

This they ſhould give and take with equal Mind.

For Friendſhip, when this Freedom is deny’d,

Is like a Painter when his hands are ty’d.


A Friend ſhould find out each Neceſſity,

And then unask’d reliev’t at any rate:

It is not Friendſhip, but Formality,

To be deſir’d, for Kindneſs keeps no ſtate.

Of Friends he doth the Benefactour prove,

That gives his Friend the mean’s t’ expreſs his Love.


Abſence doth not from Friendſhip’s right excuſe:

Them who preſerve each others heart and fame,

Parting can ne’re divide, it may diffuſe;

As a far ſtretch’d out River’s ſtill the ſame.

Though Preſence help’d them at the firſt to greet,

Their Souls know now without thoſe aids to meet.


Conſtant and Solid, whom no ſtorms can ſhake,

Nor death unfix, a right Friend ought to be;

And if condemned to ſurvive, doth make

No ſecond choice, but Grief and Memory.

But Friendſhip’s beſt Fate is, when it can ſpend

A Life, a Fortune, all to ſerve a Friend.

Cc L’Accord Cc1v 98

L’Accord du Bien.


Order, by which all things are made,

And this great World’s foundation laid,

Is nothing elſe but Harmony,

Where different parts are brought t’agree.


As Empires are ſtill beſt maintain’d

Thoſe ways which firſt their Greatneſs gain’d:

So in this univerſal Frame

What made and keeps it is the ſame.


Thus all things unto peace do tend;

Even Diſcords have it for their end.

The cauſe why Elements do fight,

Is but their Inſtinct to Unite.


Muſick could never pleaſe the Senſe

But by United excellence:

The ſweeteſt Note which Numbers know,

If ſtruck alone, would tedious grow.


Man, the whole World’s Epitome,

Is by creation Harmony.

’Twas Sin firſt quarrell’d in his breaſt,

Then made him angry with the reſt.

6. But Cc2r 99


But Goodneſs keeps that Unity,

And loves its own ſociety

So well, that ſeldom we have known

One real Worth to dwell alone.


And hence it is we Friendſhip call

Not by one Vertue’s name, but all.

Nor is it when bad things agree

Thought Union but Conſpiracy.


Nature and Grace, ſuch enemies

That when one fell t’other did riſe,

Are now by Mercy even ſet,

As Stars in Conſtellations met.


If Nature were it ſelf a ſin,

Her Author (God) had guilty been,

But Man by ſin contracting ſtain,

Shall purg’d from that be clear again.


To prove that Nature’s excellent

Even Sin it ſelf’s an argument:

Therefore we Nature’s ſtain deplore,

Because it ſelf was pure before.

11: And Cc2v 100


And Grace deſtroys not, but refines,

Unveils our Reaſon, then it ſhines;

Reſtores what was depreſt by ſin,

The fainting beam of God within.


The main ſpring (Judgment) rectify’d,

Wi’l all the leſſer Motions guide,

To ſpend our Labour, Love and Care,

Not as things ſeem, but as they are.


’Tis Fancy loſt, Wit thrown away,

In trifles to imploy that Ray,

Which then doth in full luſtre ſhine

When both Ingenious and Divine.


To Eyes by Humours vitiated

All things ſeem falſly coloured:

So ’tis our prejudicial thought

That makes clear Objects ſeem in fault.


They ſcarce believe united good,

By whom ’twas never underſtood:

They think one Grace enough for one,

And ’tis becauſe their ſelves have none.

16. We Dd1r 101


We hunt Extreams, and run ſo faſt,

We can no ſteddy judgment caſt:

He beſt ſurveys the Circuit round

Who ſtands i’ th’ middle of the ground.


That happy mean would let us ſee

Knowledge and Meekneſs may agree;

And find, when each thing hath its name,

Paſſion and Zeal are not the ſame.


Who ſtudies God doth upwards flye,

And height ſtill leſſens to our eye;

And he that knows God, ſoon will ſee

Vaſt cauſe for his Humility.


For by that ſearch it will be known

There’s nothing but our Will our own:

And who doth ſo that ſtock imploy,

But finds more cauſe for Shame then Joy.


We know ſo little and ſo dark,

And ſo extinguiſh our own ſpark,

That he who furtheſt here can go,

Knows nothing as he ought to know.

Dd 21. It Dd1v 102


It will with the moſt Learned ſute

More to enquire then diſpute:

But Vapours ſwell within a Cloud;

’Tis Ignorance that makes us proud.


So whom their own vain Heart belies,

Like Inflammations quickly riſe:

But that Soul which is truly great

Is loweſt in its own conceit.


Yet while we hug our own miſtake,

We Cenſures, but not Judgments, make,

And thence it is we cannot ſee

Obedience ſtand with Liberty.


Providence ſtill keeps even ſtate;

But he can beſt command his Fate,

Whoſe Art by adding his own Voice

Makes his Neceſſity his Choice.


Rightly to rule ones ſelf muſt be

The hardeſt, largeſt Monarchy:

Whoſe Paſſions are his Maſters grown,

Will be a Captive in a Throne.

26. He Dd2r 103


He moſt the inward freedom gains,

Who juſt Submiſſions entertains:

For while in that his Reaſon ſways,

It is himſelf that he obeys.


But onely in Eternity

We can theſe beauteous Unions ſee:

For Heaven it ſelf and Glory is

But one harmonious conſtant Bliſs.

Invitation to the Country.

Be kind my dear Roſania, though ’tis true

Thy Friendſhip will become thy Penance too;

Though there be nothing can reward the pain,

Nothing to ſatisfie or entertain;

Though all be empty, wild, and like to me,

Who make new Troubles in my Company:

Yet is the action more obliging great;

’Tis Hardſhip only makes Deſert complete.

But yet to prove Mixtures all things compound,

There may in this be ſome advantage found;

For a Retirement from the noiſe of Towns,

Is that for which ſome Kings have left their Crowns:

And Conquerours, whoſe Laurel preſt the brow,

Have chang’d it for the quiet Myrtle-bow.

For Titles, Honours and the World’s Addreſs,

Are things too cheap to make up Happineſs:

The eaſie Tribute of a giddy race,

And pay’d leſs to the Perſon then the place.

So falſe reflected and ſo ſhort content

Is that which Fortune and Opinion lent,

That who moſt try’d it have of Fate complain’d,

With Titles burthen’d and to greatneſs chain’d.

For Dd2v 104

For they alone enjoy’d what they poſſeſt,

Who reliſht moſt and underſtood it beſt.

And yet that underſtanding made them know

The empty ſwift diſpatch of all below.

So that what moſt can outward things endear,

Is the beſt means to make them diſappear:

And even that Tyrant (Senſe) doth theſe deſtroy,

As more officious to our Grief then Joy.

Thus all the glittering World is but a cheat,

Obtruding on our Senſe things Groſs for Great.

But he that can enquire and undiſguiſe,

Will ſoon perceive the ſting that hidden lies;

And find no Joys merit eſteem but thoſe

Whoſe Scene lies only at our own diſpoſe.

Man unconcern’d without himſelf may be

His own both Proſpect and Security.

Kings may be Slaves by their own Paſſions hurl’d,

But who commands himſelf commands the World.

A Country-life aſſiſts this ſtudy beſt,

Where no diſtractions do the Soul arreſt:

There Heav’n and Earth lie open to our view,

There we ſearch Nature and its Author too;

Poſſeſt with Freedom and a real State

Look down on Vice, and Vanity, and Fate.

There (my Roſania) will we, mingling Souls,

Pity the Folly which the World controuls:

And all those Grandeurs which the World do prize

We either can enjoy, or will deſpiſe.

In Memory of Mrs. E. H.

As ſome choice Plant cheriſh’d by Sun and Air,

And ready to requite the Gard’ner’s care,

Bloſſoms and flouriſhes, but then we find

Is made the Triumph of ſome ruder Wind:

So thy untimely Grave did both entomb

Thy Sweetneſs now, and wonders yet to come.

Hung Ee1r 105

Hung full of hopes thou ſell’ſt a lovely prize,

Juſt as thou didſt attract all Hearts and Eyes.

Thus we might apprehend, for had thy years

Been lengthen’d to have paid thoſe vaſt arrears

The World expected, we ſhould then conclude,

The Age of Miracles had been renew’d.

For thou already haſt with eaſe found out

What others ſtudy with ſuch pains and doubt;

That frame of Soul which is content alone,

And needs no Entertainment but its own.

Thy even Mind, which made thee good and great,

Was to thee both a ſhelter and retreat.

Of all the Tumults which this World do fill

Thou wert an unconcern’d Spectatour ſtill:

And, were thy duty punctually ſupply’d,

Indifferent to all the World beſide.

Thou wert made up within reſolv’d and fix’d,

And wouldſt not with a baſe Allay be mix’d;

Above the World, couldſt equally deſpiſe

Both its Temptations and its Injuries;

Couldſt ſumme up all, and find not worth deſire

Thoſe glittering Trifles which the moſt admire;

But with a nobler aim, and higher born,

Look down on Greatneſs with contempt and ſcorn.

Thou hadſt no Arts that others this might ſee,

Nor lov’dſt a Trumpet to thy Piety:

But ſilent and retir’d, calm and ſerene,

Stol’ſt to thy bleſſed Haven hardly ſeen.

It were vain to deſcribe thee then, but now

Thy vaſt acceſſion harder is to know;

How full of light, and ſatisfi’d thou art,

So early from this treach’rous World to part;

How pleas’d thou art reflexions now to make,

And find thou didſt not things below miſtake;

In how abſtracted converſe thou doſt live,

How much thy Knowledge is intuitive;

How great and bright a glory is enjoy’d

With Angels, and with Myſteries employ’d.

Ee ’Tis Ee1v 106

’Tis ſin then to lament thy Fate, but we

Should help thee to a new Eternity;

And by ſucceſſive Imitation ſtrive,

Till Time ſhall die, to keep thee ſtill alive;

And (by thy great Example furniſh’d) be

More apt to live then write thy Elogy.

On Roſania’s Apoſtacy, and Lucaſia’s Friendſhip.

Great Soul of Friendſhip whither art thou fled,

Where doſt thou now chuſe to repoſe thy head?

Or art thou nothing but voice, air and name,

Found out to put Souls in purſuit of fame?

Thy flames being thought Immortal, we may doubt

Whether they e’re did burn that ſee them out.

Go weary’d Soul find out thy wonted reſt,

In the ſafe Harbour of Orinda’s breſt,

There all unknown Adventures thou haſt found

In thy late tranſmigrations expound;

That ſo Roſania’s darkneſs may be known

To be her want of Luſtre, not thy own.

Then to the Great Lucaſia have recourſe,

There gather up new excellence and force,

Till by a free unbyaſs’d clear Commerce,

Endearments which no Tongue can e’re rehearſe,

Lucaſia and Orinda ſhall thee give

Eternity, and make even Friendſhip live.

Hail Great Lucaſia, thou ſhalt doubly ſhine,

What was Roſania’s own is now twice thine;

Thou ſaw’ſt Roſania’s Chariot and her flight,

And ſo the double portion is thy right:

Though ’twas Roſania’s Spirit be content,

Since ’twas at firſt from thy Orinda ſent.

To Ee2r 107

To my Lady Elizabeth Boyle, Singing now affairs &c.

Subduing fair! what will you win

To uſe a needleſs Dart:

Why then ſo many to take in

One undefended heart?

I came expos’d to all your Charms,

’Gainſt which the firſt half hour

I had no will to take up Armes,

And in the next no Power.

How can you chuſe but win the Day,

Who can reſiſt your Siege,

Who in one action know the way

To Vanquiſh and Oblige?

Your Voice which can in melting ſtrains

Teach Beauty to be blind,

Confines me yet in ſtronger Chains,

By being ſoft and kind.

Whilſt you my trivial fancy ſing,

You it to wit refine,

As Leather once ſtamp’d by a King

Became a Current Coin.

By this my Verſe is ſure to gain

Eternity with men,

Which by your voice it will obtain,

Though never by my Pen.

I’d rather in your favour live

Then in a laſting name,

And much a greater rate would give

For Happineſs then Fame.

Submiſſion. Ee2v 108


Tis ſo, and humbly I my will reſign,

Nor dare diſpute with Providence Divine.

In vain, alas! we ſtruggle with our chains,

But more entangled by the fruitleſs pains.

For as i’ th’ great Creation of this All,

Nothing by chance could in ſuch order fall;

And what would ſingle be deform’d confeſt,

Grows beauteous in its union with the reſt:

So Providence like Wiſdom we allow,

(For what created once does govern now)

And the ſame Fate that ſeems to one Reverſe,

Is neceſſary to the Univerſe.

All theſe particular and various things,

Link’d to their Cauſes by ſuch ſecret Springs,

Are held ſo faſt, and govern’d by ſuch Art,

That nothing can out of its order ſtart.

The World’s God’s watch, where nothing is ſo ſmall,

But makes a part of what compoſes all:

Could the leaſt Pin be loſt or elſe diſplac’d,

The World would be diſorder’d and defac’d.

It beats no Pulſe in vain, but keeps its time,

And undiſcern’d to its own height doth climb;

Strung firſt, and daily wound up by his hand

Who can its motions guide and underſtand.

No ſecret cunning then nor multitude

Can Providence divert, croſs or delude.

And her juſt full decrees are hidden things,

Which harder are to find then Births of Springs.

Yet all in various Conſorts fitly found,

And by their Diſcords Harmony compound.

Hence is that Order, Life and Energy,

Whereby Forms are preſerv’d though Matters die;

And ſhifting dreſs keep their own living ſtate:

So that what kills this, does that propagate.

This Ff1r 109

This made the ancient Sage in Rapture cry,

That ſure the world had full Eternity.

For though it ſelf to Time and Fate ſubmit,

He’s above both who made and governs it;

And to each Creature hath ſuch Portion lent,

As Love and Wiſdom ſees convenient.

For he’s no Tyrant, nor delights to grieve

The Beings which from him alone can live.

He’s moſt concern’d, and hath the greateſt ſhare

In man, and therefore takes the greateſt care

To make him happy, who alone can be

So by Submiſſion and Conformity.

For why ſhould Changes here below ſurprize,

When the whole World its revolution tries?

Where were our Springs, our Harveſts pleaſant uſe,

Unleſs Viciſſitude did them produce?

Nay, what can be ſo weariſome a pain

As when no Alterations entertain?

To loſe, to ſuffer, to be ſick and die,

Arreſt us by the ſame Neceſſity.

Nor could they trouble us, but that our mind

Hath its own glory unto droſs confin’d.

For outward things remove not from their place,

Till our Souls run to beg their mean embrace;

Then doting on the choice make it our own,

By placing Trifles in th’Opinion’s Throne.

So when they are divorc’d by ſome new croſs,

Our Souls ſeem widow’d by the fatal loſs:

But could we keep our Grandeur and our ſtate,

Nothing below would ſeem unfortunate;

But Grace and Reaſon, which beſt ſuccours bring,

Would with advantage manage every thing;

And by right Judgment would prevent our moan

For loſing that which never was our own.

For right Opinion’s like a Marble grott,

In Summer cool, and in the Winter hot;

A Principle which in each Fortune lives,

Beſtowing Catholick Preſervatives.

Ff ’Tis Ff1v 110

’Tis this reſolves, there are no loſſes where

Vertue and Reaſon are continued there.

The meaneſt Soul might ſuch a Fortune ſhare,

But no mean Soul could ſo that Fortune bear.

Thus I compoſe my thoughts grown inſolent,

As th’Iriſh Harper doth his Inſtrument;

Which if once ſtruck doth murmur and complain,

But the next touch will ſilence all again.

2 Cor. 5. 19. God was in Chriſt Reconciling the World to himſelf.

When God, contracted to Humanity,

Could ſigh and ſuffer, could be ſick and die;

When all the heap of Miracles combin’d

To form the greateſt, which was, ſave Mankind:

Then God took ſtand in Chriſt, ſtudying a way

How to repair the Ruin’d World’s decay.

His Love, Pow’r, Wiſdom, muſt ſome means procure

His Mercy to advance, Juſtice ſecure:

And ſince Man in ſuch Miſery was hurl’d,

It coſt him more to ſave then make the World.

Oh! what a deſp’rate load of ſins had we,

When God muſt plot for our Felicity?

When God muſt beg us that he may forgive,

And dye himſelf before Mankind could live?

And what ſtill are we, when our King in vain

Begs his loſt Rebels to be Friends again?

What flouds of Love proceed from Heaven’s ſmile,

At once to pardon and to reconcile?

What God himſelf hath made he cannot hate,

For ’tis one act to Love and to Create:

And he’s too perfect full of Majeſty,

To need additions from our Miſery.

He hath a Father’s, not a Tyrant’s, joy;

Shews more his Pow’r to ſave, then to deſtroy.

Did there ten thouſand Worlds to ruine fall,

One Ff2r 111

One God could ſave, one Chriſt redeem them all.

Be ſilent then, ye narrow Souls, take heed

Leſt you reſtrain the Mercy you will need.

But, O my Soul, from theſe be different,

Imitate thou a nobler Precedent:

As God with open Arms the World does woo,

Learn thou like God to be enlarged too;

As he begs thy conſent to pardon thee,

Learn to ſubmit unto thy Enemy;

As he ſtands ready thee to entertain,

Be thou as forward to return again;

As he was Crucify’d for and by thee,

Crucifie thou what caus’d his Agony;

And like to him be mortify’d to ſin,

Die to the World as he dy’d for it then.

The World.

We falſly think it due unto our Friends,

That we ſhould grieve for their untimely ends.

He that ſurveys the World with ſerious eyes,

And ſtrips her from her groſs and weak diſguiſe,

Shall find ’tis Injury to mourn their Fate;

He only dies untimely who dies late.

For if ’twere told to Children in the Womb,

To what a Stage of Miſchiefs they muſt come;

Could they foreſee with how much toil and ſweat

Men court that guilded nothing, being Great;

What pains they take not to be what they ſeem,

Rating their bliſs by others falſe eſteem,

And ſacrificing their Content, to be

Guilty of grave and ſerious Vanity;

How each Condition hath its proper Thorns,

And what one man admires, another ſcorns;

How frequently their Happineſs they miſs,

So far even from agreeing what it is,

That the ſame Perſon we can hardly find,

Who Ff2v 112

Who is an hour together in one mind:

Sure they would beg a Period of their breath,

And what we call their Birth would count their Death.

Mankind is mad; for none can live alone,

Becauſe their Joys ſtand by compariſon:

And yet they quarrel at Society,

And ſtrive to kill they know not whom, nor why.

We all live by Miſtake, delight in Dreams,

Loſt to our ſelves, and dwelling in Extremes;

Rejecting what we have, though ne’re ſo good,

And prizing what we never underſtood.

Compar’d t’ our boiſterous inconſtancy

Tempeſts are calm, and Diſcords harmony.

Hence we reverſe the World, and yet do find

The God that made can hardly pleaſe our Mind.

We live by chance, and ſlip into Events;

Have all of Beaſts except their Innocence.

The Soul, which no man’s pow’r can reach, a thing

That makes each Woman Man, each Man a King,

Doth ſo much loſe, and from its height ſo fall,

That ſome contend to have no Soul at all.

’Tis either not obſerv’d, or at the beſt

By Paſſion fought withal, by Sin depreſt.

Freedom of Will (God’s Image) is forgot;

And if we know it, we improve it not.

Our Thoughts, though nothing can be more our own,

Are ſtill unguided, very ſeldom known.

Time ’scapes our hands as Water in a Sieve,

We come to die e’re we begin to live.

Truth, the moſt ſutable and noble prize,

Food of our Spirits, yet neglected lies.

Errour and Shadows are our choice, and we

Owe our perdition to our own decree.

If we ſearch Truth, we make it more obſcure;

And when it ſhines, cannot the light endure.

For moſt men now, who plod, and eat, and drink,

Have nothing leſs their bus’neſs then to think.

And thoſe few that enquire, how ſmall a ſhare

Of Gg1r 113

Of Truth they find, how dark their Notions are!

That ſerious Evenneſs that calms the Breaſt,

And in a Tempeſt can beſtow a Reſt,

We either not attempt, or elſe decline,

By ev’ry trifle ſnatch’d from our deſign.

(Others he muſt in his deceits involve,

Who is not true unto his own Reſolve.)

We govern not our ſelves, but looſe the Reins,

Counting our Bondage to a thouſand chains;

And with as many Slaveries content

As there are Tyrants ready to torment,

We live upon a Rack extended ſtill

To one Extreme or both, but always ill.

For ſince our Fortune is not underſtood,

We ſuffer leſs from bad then from the good.

The Sting is better dreſt and longer laſts,

As Surfeits are more dangerous then Faſts.

And to complete the miſery to us,

We ſee Extremes are ſtill contiguous.

And as we run ſo faſt from what we hate,

Like Squibs on Ropes, to know no middle ſtate;

So outward ſtorms ſtrengthned by us, we find

Our Fortune as diſordered as our Mind.

But that’s excus’d by this, it doth its part;

A trech’rous World befits a trech’rous Heart.

All ill’s our own, the outward ſtorms we loath

Receive from us their Birth, their Sting, or both.

And that our Vanity be paſt a doubt,

’Tis one new Vanity to find it out.

Happy are they to whom God gives a Grave,

And from themſelves as from his wrath doth ſave.

’Tis good not to be born; but if we muſt,

The next good is, ſoon to return to duſt.

When th’ uncag’d Soul fled to Eternity

Shall reſt, and live, and ſing, and love, and ſee.

Here we but crawl and grovel, play and cry;

Are firſt our own, then others, enemy:

But there ſhall be defac’d both ſtain and ſcore,

For Time, and Death, and Sin ſhall be no more.

Gg The Gg1v 114

The Soul.


How vain a thing is Man, whoſe nobleſt part,

That Soul which through the World doth rome,

Traverſes Heav’n, finds out the depth of Art,

Yet is ſo ignorant at home?


In every Brook or Mirrour we can find

Reflections of our face to be;

But a true Optick to preſent our Mind

We hardly get, and darkly ſee.


Yet in the ſearch after our ſelves we run,

Actions and Cauſes we ſurvey;

And when the weary Chaſe is almoſt done,

Then from our Queſt we ſlip away.


’Tis ſtrange and ſad, that ſince we do believe

We have a Soul muſt never die,

There are ſo few that can a Reaſon give

How it obtains that Life, or why.


I wonder not to find thoſe that know moſt,

Profeſs ſo much their Ignorance;

Since in their own Souls greateſt Wits are loſt,

And of themſelves have ſcarce a glance.

6. But Gg2r 115


But ſomewhat ſure doth here obſcurely lie,

That above Droſs would fain advance,

And pants and catches at Eternity,

As ’twere its own Inheritance.


A Soul ſelf-mov’d which can dilate, contract,

Pierces and judges things unſeen:

But this groſs heap of Matter cannot act,

Unleſs impulſed from within.


Diſtance and Quantity, to Bodies due,

The ſtate of Souls cannot admit;

And all the Contraries which Nature knew

Meet there, nor hurt themſelves, nor it.


God never Body made ſo bright and clean,

Which Good and Evil could diſcern:

What theſe words Honeſty and Honour mean,

The Soul alone knows how to learn.


And though ’tis true ſhe is impriſon’d here,

Yet hath ſhe Notions of her own,

Which Senſe doth only jog, awake, and clear,

But cannot at the firſt make known.

11. The Gg2v 116


The Soul her own felicity hath laid,

And independent on the Senſe,

Sees the weak terrours which the World invade

With pity or with negligence.


So unconcern’d ſhe lives, ſo much above

The Rubbiſh of a ſordid Jail,

That nothing doth her Energy improve

So much as when thoſe ſtructures fail.


She’s then a ſubſtance ſubtile, ſtrong and pure,

So immaterial and refin’d,

As ſpeaks her from the Body’s fate ſecure,

And wholly of a diff’rent kind.


Religion for reward in vain would look,

Vertue were doom’d to miſery,

All actions were like bubbles in a brook,

Were’t not for Immortality.


But as that Conquerour who Millions ſpent

Thought it too mean to give a Mite;

So the World’s Judge can never be content

To beſtow leſs then Infinite.

16. Treaſon Hh1r 117


Treaſon againſt Eternal Majeſty

Muſt have eternal Juſtice too;

And ſince unbounded Love did ſatisfie,

He will unbounded Mercy ſhew.


It is our narrow thoughts ſhorten theſe things,

By their companion Fleſh inclin’d;

Which feeling its own weakneſs gladly brings

The ſame opinion to the Mind.


We ſtifle our own Sun, and live in Shade;

But where its beams do once appear,

They make that perſon of himſelf afraid,

And to his own acts moſt ſevere.


For ways, to ſin cloſe, and our breaſts diſguiſe

From outward ſearch, we ſoon may find:

But who can his own Soul bribe or ſurpriſe,

Or ſin without a ſting behind?


He that commands himſelf is more a Prince

Then he who Nations keeps in awe;

Who yield to all that does their Souls convince,

Shall never need another Law.

Hh Happineſs. Hh1v 118


Nature courts Happineſs, although it be

Unknown as the Athenian Deity.

It dwells not in Man’s Senſe, yet he ſupplies

That want by growing fond of its diſguiſe.

The falſe appearances of Joy deceive,

And ſeeking her unto her like we cleave.

For ſinking Man hath ſcarce ſenſe left to know

Whether the Plank he graſps will hold or no.

While all the buſineſs of the World is this,

To ſeek that Good which by miſtake they miſs.

And all the ſeveral Paſſions men expreſs

Are but for Pleaſure in a diff’rent dreſs.

They hope for Happineſs in being Great,

Or Rich, or Lov’d, then hug their own conceit.

But the Good man can find this treaſure out,

For which in vain others do dig and doubt;

And hath ſuch ſecret full Content within,

Though all abroad be ſtorms, yet he can ſing.

His peace is made, all’s quiet in that place,

Where Nature’s cur’d and exercis’d by Grace.

This inward Calm prevents his Enemies,

For he can neither envy nor deſpiſe:

But in the beauty of his ordered Mind

Doth ſtill a new rich ſatisfaction find.

Innocent Epicure! whoſe ſingle breaſt

Can furniſh him with a continual feaſt.

A Prince at home, and Scepters can refuſe,

Valuing only what he cannot loſe.

He ſtudies to do good; (a man may be

Harmleſs for want of Opportunity:)

But he’s induſtrious kindneſs to diſpence,

And therein onely covets eminence.

Others do court applauſe and fame, but he

Thinks all that giddy noiſe but Vanity.

He Hh2r 119

He takes no pains to be obſerv’d or ſeen,

While all his acts are echoed from within.

He’s ſtill himſelf, when Company are gone,

Too well employ’d ever to be alone.

For ſtudying God in all his volumes, he

Begins the buſineſs of Eternity.

And unconcern’d without, retains a power

To ſuck (like Bees) a ſweet from ev’ry flower.

And as the Manna of the Iſraelites

Had ſeveral taſtes to pleaſe all Appetites:

So his Contentment is that catholick food,

That makes all ſtates ſeem fit as well as good.

He dares not wiſh, nor his own fate propound;

But, if God ſends, reads Love in every wound:

And would not loſe for all the joys of Senſe

The glorious pleaſures of Obedience.

His better part can neither change nor loſe,

And all God’s will can bear, can do, can chuſe.



How weak a Star doth rule Mankind,

Which owes its ruine to the ſame

Cauſes which Nature had deſign’d

To cheriſh and preſerve the frame!


As Commonwealths may be ſecure,

And no remote Invaſion dread;

Yet may a ſadder fall endure

From Traitors in their boſom bred:

3. So Hh2v 120


So while we feel no violence,

And on our active Health do truſt,

A ſecret hand doth ſnatch us hence,

And tumbles us into the duſt.


Yet careleſly we run our race,

As if we could Death’s ſummons wave;

And think not on the narrow ſpace

Between a Table and a Grave.


But ſince we cannot Death reprieve,

Our Souls and Fame we ought to mind,

For they our Bodies will ſurvive;

That goes beyond, this ſtays behind.


If I be ſure my Soul is ſafe,

And that my Actions will provide

My Tomb a nobler Epitaph,

Then that I onely liv’d and dy’d.


So that in various accidents

I Conſcience may and Honour keep;

I with that eaſe and innocence

Shall die, as Infants go to ſleep.

To Ii1r 121

To the Queen’s Majeſty, on her late Sickneſs and Recovery.

The publick Gladneſs that’s to us reſtor’d,

For your eſcape from what we ſo deplor’d,

Will want as well reſemblance as belief,

Unleſs our Joy be meaſur’d by our Grief.

When in your Fever we with terrour ſaw

At once our Hopes and Happineſs withdraw;

And every criſis did with jealous fear

Enquire the News we ſcarce durſt ſtay to hear.

Some dying Princes have their Servants ſlain,

That after death they might not want a Train.

Such cruelty were here a needleſs ſin;

For had our fatal Fears prophetick been,

Sorrow alone that ſervice would have done,

And you by Nations had been waited on.

Your danger was in ev’ry Viſage ſeen,

And onely yours was quiet and ſerene.

But all our zealous Grief had been in vain,

Had not Great Charles’s call’d you back again:

Who did your ſuff’rings with ſuch pain diſcern,

He loſt three Kingdoms once with leſs concern.

Lab’ring your ſafety he neglected his,

Nor fear’d he Death in any ſhape but this.

His Genius did the bold Diſtemper tame,

And his rich Tears quench’d the rebellious Flame.

At once the Thracian Hero lov’d and griev’d,

Till he his loſt Felicity retriev’d;

And with the moving accents of his wo

His Spouſe recover’d from the ſhades below.

So the King’s grief your threatned loſs withſtood,

Who mourn’d with the ſame fortune that he woo’d:

And to his happy Paſſion we have been

Now twice oblig’d for ſo ador’d a Queen.

But how ſevere a Choice had you to make,

Ii When Ii1v 122

When you muſt Heav’n delay, or Him forſake?

Yet ſince thoſe joys you made ſuch haſte to find

Had ſcarce been full if he were left behind,

How well did Fate decide your inward ſtrife,

By making him a Preſent of your Life?

Which reſcu’d Bleſſing he muſt long enjoy,

Since our Offences could it not deſtroy.

For none but Death durſt rival him in you;

And Death himſelf was baffled in it too.

Upon Mr. Abraham Cowley’s Retirement.



No, no, unfaithful World, thou haſt

Too long my eaſie Heart betray’d,

And me too long thy Foot-ball made:

But I am wiſer grown at laſt,

And will improve by all that I have paſt.

I know ’twas juſt I ſhould be practis’d on;

For I was told before,

And told in ſober and inſtructive lore,

How little all that truſted thee have won:

And yet I would make haſte to be undone.

Now by my ſuff’ring I am better taught,

And ſhall no more commit that ſtupid fault.

Go, get ſome other Fool,

Whom thou mayſt next cajole:

On me thy frowns thou doſt in vain beſtow;

For I know how

To be as coy and as reſerv’d as thou.


In my remote and humble ſeat

Now I’m again poſſeſt

Of Ii2r 123

Of that late fugitive, my Breaſt,

From all thy tumults and from all thy heat

I’le find a quiet and a cool retreat;

And on the Fetters I have worn

Look with experienc’d and revengeful ſcorn

In this my ſov’raign Privacy.

’Tis true I cannot govern thee,

But yet my ſelf I may ſubdue;

And that’s the nobler Empire of the two.

If ev’ry Paſſion had got leave

Its ſatisfaction to receive,

Yet I would it a higher pleaſure call,

To conquer one, then to indulge them all.


For thy inconſtant Sea, no more

I’le leave that ſafe and ſolid Shore:

No, though to proſper in the cheat,

Thou ſhouldſt my Deſtiny defeat,

And make me be Belov’d, or Rich, or Great:

Nor from my ſelf ſhouldſt me reclaim

With all the noiſe and all the pomp of Fame.

Judiciouſly I’le theſe deſpiſe;

Too ſmall the Bargain, and too great the Price,

For them to cozen twice.

At length this ſecret I have learn’d;

Who will be happy, muſt be unconcern’d,

Muſt all their Comfort in their Boſom wear,

And ſeek their treaſure and their power there.


No other Wealth will I aſpire,

But that of Nature to admire;

Nor envy on a Laurel will beſtow,

Whil’ſt I have any in my Garden grow.

And when I would be Great,

’Tis Ii2v 124

’Tis but aſcending to a Seat

Which Nature in a lofty Rock hath built;

A Throne as free from trouble as from guilt.

Where when my Soul her wings does raiſe

Above what Worldlings fear or praiſe,

With innocent and quiet pride I’le ſit,

And ſee the humble waves pay tribute to my feet.

O Life Divine, when free from joys diſeas’d,

Not always merry, but ’tis always pleas’d!


A Heart, which is too great a thing

To be a Preſent for a Perſian King,

Which God himſelf would have to be his Court,

Where Angels would officiouſly reſort,

From its own height ſhould much decline,

If this Converſe it ſhould reſign

(Ill-natur’d World!) for thine.

Thy unwiſe rigour hath thy Empire loſt;

It hath not onely ſet me free,

But it hath made me ſee,

They onely can of thy poſſeſſion boaſt,

Who do enjoy thee leaſt, and underſtand thee moſt.

For lo, the Man whom all Mankind admir’d,

(By ev’ry Grace adorn’d, and ev’ry Muſe inſpir’d)

Is now triumphantly retir’d.

The mighty Cowley this hath done,

And over thee a Parthian Conqueſt won:

Which future Ages ſhall adore,

And which in this ſubdues thee more

Then either Greek or Roman ever could before.

The Kk1r 125

The Iriſh Grey-hound.

Behold this Creature’s Form and ſtate,

Which Nature therefore did create;

That to the World might be expreſt

What meen there can be in a Beaſt.

And that we in this ſhape may find

A Lion of another kind.

For this Heroick beaſt does ſeem

In Majeſty to Rival him.

And yet vouchſafes, to Man, to ſhew

Both ſervice and ſubmiſſion too.

From whence we this diſtinction have,

That Beaſt is fierce, but this is brave.

This Dog hath ſo himſelf ſubdu’d,

That hunger cannot make him rude:

And his behaviour does confeſs

True Courage dwells with Gentleneſs.

With ſterneſt Wolves he dares engage

And acts on them ſucceſsful rage.

Yet too much courteſie may chance

To put him out of countenance.

When in his oppoſers blood,

Fortune hath made his vertue good;

This Creature from an act ſo brave

Grow’s not more ſullen, but more grave.

Mans Guard he would be, not his ſport,

Believing he hath ventur’d for’t;

But yet no blood or ſhed or ſpent

Can ever make him inſolent.

Few Men of him, to do greaat things have learn’d,

And when th’ are done, to be ſo unconcern’d.

Kk Song. Kk1v 126


To the tune of Sommes nous pas trop heureux.


How prodigious is my fate,

Since I can’t determine clearly,

Whether you’l do more ſeverely

Giving me your love or hate!

For if you with kindneſs bleſs me,

Since from you I ſoon muſt part;

Fortune will ſo diſpoſſeſs me,

That your Love will break my heart.


But ſince Death all ſorrow cures,

Might I chuſe my way of dying,

I could wiſh the arrow flying

From Fortunes Quiver, not from yours.

For in the ſad unuſual ſtory

How my wretched heart was torn,

It will more concern your glory,

I by abſence fell then ſcorn.

A Dialogue betwixt Lucaſia, and Roſania, Imitating that of Gentle Therſis.


My Lucaſi a, leave the Mountain tops,

And like a nearer air.


How ſhall I then forſake my Lovely Flocks

Bequeathed to my care?


Shepherdeſs, thy Flocks will not be leſs,

Although thou ſhould’ſt come hither.

Luc. Kk2r 127


But I fear, the World will be ſevere,

Should I leave them to go thither.


O! my friend, if you on that depend,

You’l never know content.


Rather I near thee would live and dye,

Would Fortune but conſent.


But did you ask leave to love me too,

That others ſhould deprive me?


Not all Mankind, a ſtratagem can find

Which from that heart ſhould drive me.


Better ’t had been, I thee had never ſeen,

Then that content to loſe.


Such are thy Charms, I’d dwell within thine arms

Could I my ſtation chuſe.


When Life is done, the World to us is gone,

And all our cares do end.


Nay I know there’s nothing ſweet below

Unleſs it be a Friend.


Then whilſt we live, this Joy lets take and give,

Since death us ſoon will ſever.


But I truſt, when crumbled into duſt,

We ſhall meet and love for ever.

Song to the Tune of Adieu Phillis.

Tis true, our Life is but a long diſeaſe

Made up of real pain and ſeeming eaſe.

You Stars, who theſe entangled fortunes give,

O tell me why

It is ſo hard to dye,

Yet ſuch a task to Live?

If with ſome pleaſure we our griefs betray,

It coſts us dearer then it can repay.

For time or Fortune all things ſo devours;

Our hopes are croſt,

Or elſe the object loſt,

E’re we can call it ours.

An Kk2v 128

An Epitaph on my Honoured Mother-in-Law Mrs. Phillips of Portheynon in Cardigan-ſhire, who dyed 1663-01-01Jan. 1. Anno 166⅔

Reader ſtay, it is but juſt;

Thou doſt not tread on common duſt.

For underneath this ſtone does lye

One whoſe Name can never dye:

Who from an Honour’d Linage ſprung,

Was to another matched Young;

Whoſe happineſs ſhe ever ſought;

One bleſſing was, and many brought.

And to her ſpouſe her faith did prove

By fifteen pledges of their Love.

But when by Death of him depriv’d,

An honourable Widow liv’d

Full four and twenty years, wherein

Though ſhe had much afflicted been,

Saw many of her Children fall,

And publick Ruine threaten all.

Yet from above aſſiſted, ſhe

Both did and ſuffer’d worthily.

She to the Crown, and Church adher’d,

And in their Sorrows them rever’d,

With Piety which knew no ſtrife,

But was as ſober as her life.

A furniſh’d Table, open door,

That for her Friends, this for the Poor

She kept; yet did her fortune find,

Too narrow for her nobler Mind;

Which ſeeking objects ro relieve,

Did food to many Orphans give,

Who in her Life no want did know,

But all the Poor are Orphans now.

Yet hold, her Fame is much too ſafe,

To need a written Epitaph.

Her Ll1r 129

Her Fame was ſo confeſs’d, that ſhe

Can never here forgotten be,

Till Cardigan it ſelf become,

To its own ruin’d heaps a Tomb.

Lucaſia, Roſania, and Orinda parting at a Fountain, 1663-07July 1663.


Here, here are our enjoyments done,

And ſince the Love and Grief we wear

Forbids us either word or tear,

And Art wants here expreſſion,

See Nature furniſh us with one.


The kind and mournful Nimph which here

Inhabits in her humble Cells,

No longer her own ſorrow tells,

Nor for it now concern’d appears,

But for our parting ſheds theſe tears.


Unleſs ſhe may afflicted be,

Leſt we ſhould doubt her Innocence;

Since ſhe hath loſt her beſt pretence

Unto a matchleſs purity;

Our Love being clearer far then ſhe.


Cold as the ſtreams that from her flow

Or (if her privater receſs

A greater Coldneſs can expreſs)

Ll Then Ll1v 130

Then cold as thoſe dark beds of Snow

Our hearts are at this parting blow.


But Time that has both wings and feet,

Our Suffering Minutes being ſpent,

Will Viſit us with new Content.

And ſure, if kindneſs be ſo ſweet,

’Tis harder to forget then meet.


Then though the ſad adieu we ſay,

Yet as the wine we hither bring,

Revives, and then exalts the Spring;

So let our hopes to meet allay,

The fears and Sorrows of this day.

A Farewel to Roſania.

My Dear Roſania, ſometimes be ſo kind,

To think upon the friend thou leav’ſt behind,

And wiſh Thee here, to make my joys compleat,

Or elſe me there, to ſhare thy bleſt Retreat.

But to the Heart which for thy Loſs doth mourn,

The kindeſt thought is that of quick return.

To my Lady Anne Boyle, ſaying I look’d angrily upon her.

Ador’d Valeria, and can you conclude,

Orinda loſt in ſuch Ingratitude?

And ſo miſ-ſpell the Language of my face,

When in my heart you have ſo great a Place?

Ah Ll2r 131

Ah be aſſur’d I could no look direct

To you, not full of paſſion and reſpect.

Or if my looks have play’d that treach’rous part,

And ſo much miſ-interpreted my heart,

I ſhall forgive them that one falſhood, leſs

Than all their folly, and their uglineſs,

And had much rather chuſe they ſhould appear

Always unhandſome, than once unſincere.

But I muſt thank your errour, which procures

Me ſuch obliging jealouſie as yours.

For at that quarrel I can ne’re repine,

Which ſhews your kindneſs, though it queſtions mine.

To your Concern I pardon your diſtruſt,

And prize your Love, ev’n when it is unjuſt.

On the Welch Language.

If Honour to an ancient Name be due,

Or Riches challenge it for one that’s new,

The Britiſh Language claims in either ſenſe,

Both for its Age, and for its Opulence.

But all great things muſt be from us remov’d,

To be with higher reverence belov’d.

So Landskips which in Proſpects diſtant lye,

With greater wonder draw the pleaſed Eye.

Is not great Troy to one dark ruine hurl’d?

Once the fam’d Scene of all the fighting world.

Where’s Athens now, to whom Rome Learning owes,

And the ſafe Lawrels that adorn’d her brows?

A ſtrange reverſe of Fate ſhe did endure,

Never once greater, than ſhe’s now obſcure.

E’ne Rome her ſelf can but ſome footſteps ſhow

Of Scipio’s times, or thoſe of Cicero.

And as the Roman and the Grecian State,

The Britiſh fell, the ſpoil of Time and Fate.

But though the Language hath the beauty loſt,

Yet ſhe has ſtill ſome great Remains to boaſt.

For Ll2v 132

For ’twas in that, the ſacred Bards of old,

In deathleſs Numbers did their thoughts unfold.

In Groves, by Rivers, and on fertile Plains,

They civiliz’d and taught the liſt’ning Swains;

Whilſt with high raptures, and as great ſucceſs,

Virtue they cloath’d in Muſick’s charming dreſs.

This Merlin ſpoke, who in his gloomy Cave,

Ev’n Deſtiny her ſelf ſeem’d to enſlave.

For to his ſight the future time was known,

Much better than to others is their own:

And with ſuch ſtate, Predictions from him fell,

As if he did Decree, and not Foretel.

This ſpoke King Arthur, who, if Fame be true,

Could have compell’d Mankind to ſpeak it too.

In this once Boadicca valour taught,

And ſpoke more nobly than her Souldiers fought:

Tell me what Hero could do more than ſhe,

Who fell at once for Fame and Liberty?

Nor could a greater Sacrifice belong,

Or to her Childrens, or her Countries wrong.

This ſpoke Caractacus, who was ſo brave,

That to the Roman Fortune check he gave:

And when their Yoke he could decline no more,

He it ſo decently and nobly wore,

That Rome her ſelf with bluſhes did believe,

A Britain would the Law of Honour give;

And haſtily his chains away ſhe threw,

Leſt her own Captive elſe ſhould her ſubdue.

To the Counteſs of Thanet, upon her marriage.

Since you who Credit to all wonders bring,

That Lovers can believe, or Poets ſing;

Whoſe only ſhape and faſhion does expreſs,

Your Vertue is your nature not your dreſs;

In whom the moſt admir’d extreams appear,

Humble and Fair, Prudent and yet ſincere:

Whoſe Mm1r 133

Whoſe matchleſs worth tranſmits ſuch ſplendid raies,

As thoſe that envy it are forc’d to praiſe.

Since you have found ſuch an illuſtrious ſphere,

And are reſolv’d to fix your glories there;

A heart whoſe bravery to his Sex ſecures

As much Renown as you have done to yours;

And whoſe perfections in obtaining you,

Are both diſcover’d and rewarded too;

’Twere almoſt equal boldneſs to invent

How to increaſe your Merit, or Content.

Yet ſure the Muſes ſomewhat have to ſay,

But they will ſend it you a better way:

The Court, which ſo much to your luſtre owes,

Muſt alſo pay you its officious vows.

But whilſt this ſhews reſpect, and thoſe their art,

Let me too ſpeak the language of my heart;

Whoſe ruder Off’rings dare approach your ſhrine,

For you, who merit theirs, can pardon mine.

Fortune and Virtue with ſuch heat contend

(As once for Rome) now to make you their friend:

And you ſo well can this prefer to that,

As you can neither fear, nor mend your Fate:

Yet ſince the votes of joy from all are due,

A love like mine, muſt find ſome wiſhes too.

May you in this bright Conſtellation ſet,

Still ſhew how much the Good outſhine the Great:

May you be courted with all joies of ſenſe,

Yet place the higheſt in your innocence;

Whoſe praiſe may you enjoy, but not regard,

Finding within both motive and reward.

May Fortune ſtill to your commands be juſt,

Yet ſtill beneath your kindneſs or your truſt.

May you no trouble either feel or fear,

But from your pity for what others wear;

And may the happy owner of your breaſt,

Still find his paſſion with his joys encreas’d;

Whi’ſt every moment your concern makes known,

And gives him too, freſh reaſon for his own:

Mm And Mm1v 134

And from their Parents may your Off-ſpring have

All that is wiſe and lovely, ſoft and brave:

Or if all wiſhes we in one would give,

For him, and for the world, Long may you live.


On her Son H. P. at St. Syth’s Church where her body alſo lies Interred.

What on Earth deſerves our truſt?

Youth and Beauty both are duſt.

Long we gathering are with pain,

What one moment calls again.

Seven years childleſs, marriage paſt,

A Son, a ſon is born at laſt:

So exactly lim’d and fair,

Full of good Spirits, Meen, and Air,

As a long life promiſed,

Yet, in leſs than ſix weeks dead.

Too promiſing, too great a mind

In ſo ſmall room to be confin’d:

Therefore, as fit in Heav’n to dwell,

He quickly broke the Priſon ſhell.

So the ſubtle Alchimiſt,

Can’t with Hermes Seal reſiſt

The powerful ſpirit’s ſubtler flight,

But t’will bid him long good night.

And ſo the Sun if it ariſe

Half ſo glorious as his Eyes,

Like this Infant, takes a ſhrowd,

Buried in a morning Cloud.

On Mm2r 135

On the death of my Lord Rich, only Son to the Earl of Warwick, who dyed of the ſmall Pox, 16641664.

Have not ſo many lives of late

Suffis’d to quench the greedy thirſt of Fate?

Though to encreaſe the mournful purple Flood.

As well as Noble, ſhe drank Royal Blood;

That not content, againſt us to engage

Our own wild fury, and Uſurpers rage;

By ſickneſs now, when all that ſtorm is paſt,

She ſtrives to hew our Heros down as faſt?

And by the Prey ſhe chuſes, ſhews her Aim

Is to extinguiſh all the Engliſh Fame.

Elſe had this generous Youth we now have loſt,

Been ſtill his Friends delight, and Country’s boaſt,

And higher rais’d the Illuſtrious Name he bore,

Than all our Chronicles had done before.

Had Death conſider’d e’re he ſtruck this blow,

How many noble hopes ’twould overthrow;

The Genius of his Houſe (who did complain

That all her Worthies now dy’d o’re again)

His flouriſhing, and yet untainted years;

His Fathers anguiſh, and his Mothers tears;

Sure he had been perſwaded to relent,

Nor had for ſo much early ſweetneſs, ſent

That fierce Diſeaſe, which knows not how to ſpare

The Young, the Great, the Knowing, or the Fair.

But we as well might flatter every wind,

And court the Tempeſts to be leſs unkind,

As hope from churliſh Death to ſnatch his Prey,

Who is as furious and as deaf as they;

And who hath cruelly ſurpriz’d in him,

His Parents joy, and all the World’s eſteem.

Say treacherous hopes that whiſper in our ear,

Still to expect ſome ſteady comfort here,

And Mm2v 136

And though we oft diſcover all your Arts,

Would ſtill betray our diſappointed Hearts;

What new deluſion can you now prepare,

Since this pale object ſhews how falſe you are?

’Twill fully anſwer all you have to plead,

If we reply, Great Warwick’s Heir is dead:

Bluſh humane Hopes and Joies, and then be all

In ſolemn mourning at this Funeral.

For ſince ſuch expectations brittle prove,

What can we ſafely either Hope or Love?

The Virgin.

The things that make a Virgin pleaſe,

She that ſeeks, will find them theſe;

A Beauty, not to Art in debt,

Rather agreeable than great;

An Eye, wherein at once do meet,

The beams of kindneſs, and of wit;

An undiſſembled Innocence,

Apt not to give, nor take offence:

A Converſation, at once, free

From Paſſion, and from Subtlety;

A Face that’s modeſt, yet ſerene,

A ſober, and yet lively Meen;

The vertue which does her adorn,

By honour guarded, not by ſcorn;

With ſuch wiſe lowlineſs indu’d,

As never can be mean, or rude;

That prudent negligence enrich,

And Time’s her ſilence and her ſpeech;

Whoſe equal mind, does alwaies move,

Neither a foe, nor ſlave to Love;

And whoſe Religion’s ſtrong and plain,

Not ſuperſtitious, nor prophane.

Upon Nn1r 137

Upon the graving of her Name upon a Tree in Barnelmes Walks.

Alas how barbarous are we,

Thus to reward the courteous Tree,

Who its broad ſhade affording us,

Deſerves not to be wounded thus;

See how the Yielding Bark complies

With our ungrateful injuries.

And ſeeing this, say how much then

Trees are more generous then Men,

Who by a Nobleneſs ſo pure

Can firſt oblige and then endure.

To my deareſt friend Mrs. A. Owen, upon her greateſt loſs.

As when two ſiſter rivelets who crept

From that dark bed of ſnow wherein they ſlept,

By private diſtant currents under ground

Have by Mœanders eithers boſom found,

They ſob aloud and break down what withſtood,

Swoln by their own embraces to a flood:

So when my ſimpathy for thy dear grief

Had brought me near, in hope to give relief,

I found my ſorrow heightned when ſo joyn’d,

And thine increas’d by being ſo combin’d,

Since to the bleeding hopes of many years,

I could contribute nothing but my tears;

Fears which to thy ſad fate were juſtly due,

And to his loſs, by all who that loſs knew;

For thy Chariſtus was ſo much above

The Eloquence of all our grief and love,

That it would be Injurious to his Hearſe

To think to crowd his worth into a verſe.

Nn Could Nn1v 138

Could I (by miracle) ſuch praiſe indite,

Who with more eaſe and Juſtice weep then write,

He was all that which Hiſtory can boaſt,

Or bolder Poetry had ere engroſs’d.

So pious, juſt, noble, diſcreet, and kind,

Their beſt Idea knew not how to find.

His ſtrong Religion not on trifles ſpent,

Was uſeful, firm, early, and eminent,

Never betray’d to indigeſted heat,

Nor yet entic’d from what was ſafely great.

And this ſo ſoon, as if he had foreſight,

He muſt begin betimes whoſe noon is night.

His vertue was his choice, and not his chance,

Not mov’d by Age, nor born of Ignorance.

He well knew whom, and what he did believe,

And for his Faith did not diſpute, but live,

And liv’d juſt like his infant Innocence,

But that was crown’d with free obedience.

How did he ſcorn deſign, and equally

How much abhorr’d this Ages vanity!

He neither lik’d it’s tumults, nor its Joys,

Slighted alike Earths pleaſures, and her noiſe.

But unconcern’d in both, in his own mind

Alone could power and ſatisfaction find.

A treaſury of merit there lay hid,

Which though he ne’re confes’d, his actions did.

His modeſty unto his vertue lent

At once a ſhadow and an ornament.

But what could hide thoſe filial rites he paid;

How much he lov’d how prudently obey’d?

How as a Brother did he juſtly ſhare

His kind concern betwixt reſpect and care?

And to a wife how fully did he prove

How wiſely he could judge, how fondly love?

As Husbands ſerious, but as Lovers kind

He valu’d all of her, but lov’d her mind;

And with a paſſion made this Riddle true,

’Twas ever perfect, and yet ſtill it grew.

Such Nn2r 139

Such handſome thoughts his Breaſt did ever fill,

He durſt do any thing, but what was ill;

Unlike thoſe Gallants who ſo uſe their time,

As oppertunity to act their crime,

And loſt in wine or vanity when young

They dye too ſoon, becauſe they liv’d too long:

But he has hallowed ſo his early death,

’Tis almoſt ſhame to draw a longer breath.

I can no more, they that can muſt have learn’d

To be more eloquent, and leſs concern’d.

But all that Noble Juſtice to his Name

His own good Angel will commit to Fame.

Could grief recall this happineſs again,

Of thy dear ſorrow I would nere complain,

But ſuch an opportunity would take

To grieve an uſeleſs life out for thy ſake.

But ſince it cannot, I muſt pray thee live,

That ſo much of Chariſtus may ſurvive,

And that thou do no act ſo harſh to Love,

As that his glory ſhould thy ſorrow move:

Endure thy loſs till Heav’n ſhall it repay,

Upon thy laſt and glorious wedding-day,

When thou ſhalt know him more, and quickly find

The love increas’d by being ſo refin’d,

And there poſſeſs him without parting fears,

As I my friendſhip free from future tears.

Orinda to Lucaſia parting 1661-10October 1661 at London.

Adieu dear object of my Love’s exceſs,

And with thee all my hopes of happineſs,

With the ſame fervent and unchanged heart

Which did it’s whole ſelf once to thee impart,

(And which though fortune has ſo ſorely bruis’d,

Would ſuffer more, to be from this excus’d)

I to reſign thy dear Converſe ſubmit,

Since I can neither keep, nor merit it.

Thou Nn2v 140

Thou haſt too long to me confined been,

Who ruine am without, paſſion within.

My mind is ſunk below thy tenderneſs,

And my condition does deſerve it leſs;

I’m ſo entangl’d and ſo loſt a thing

By all the ſhocks my daily ſorrow bring,

That would’ſt thou for thy old Orinda call

Thou hardly could’ſt unravel her at all.

And ſhould I thy clear fortunes interline

With the inceſſant miſeries of mine?

No, no, I never lov’d at ſuch a rate

To tye thee to the rigours of my fate,

As from my obligations thou art free,

Sure thou ſhalt be ſo from my Injury,

Though every other worthineſs I miſs,

Yet I’le at leaſt be generous in this.

I’d rather periſh without ſigh or groan,

Then thou ſhoul’dst be condemn’d to give me one;

Nay in my ſoul I rather could allow

Friendſhip ſhould be a ſufferer, then thou;

Go then, ſince my ſad heart has ſet thee free,

Let all the loads and chains remain on me.

Though I be left the prey of ſea and wind,

Thou being happy wilt in that be kind;

Nor ſhall I my undoing much deplore,

Since thou art ſafe, whom I muſt value more.

Oh! mayſt thou ever be ſo, and as free

From all ills elſe, as from my company,

And may the torments thou haſt had from it

Be all that heaven will to thy life permit.

And that they may thy vertue ſervice do,

Mayeſt thou be able to forgive them too:

But though I muſt this ſharp ſubmiſſion learn,

I cannot yet unwiſh thy dear concern.

Not one new comfort I expect to ſee,

I quit my Joy, hope, life, and all but thee;

Nor ſeek I thence ought that may diſcompoſe

That mind where ſo ſerene a goodneſs grows.

I Oo1r 141

I ask no inconvenient kindneſs now,

To move thy paſſion, or to cloud thy brow;

And thou wilt ſatisfie my boldeſt plea

By ſome few ſoft remembrances of me,

Which may preſent thee with this candid thought,

I meant not all the troubles that I brought.

Own not what Paſſion rules, and Fate does cruſh,

But wiſh thou couldſt have don’t without a bluſh,

And that I had been, ere it was too late,

Either more worthy, or more fortunate.

Ah who can love the thing they cannot prize?

But thou mayſt pity though thou doſt deſpiſe.

Yet I ſhould think that pity bought too dear,

If it ſhould coſt thoſe precious Eyes a tear.

Oh may no minutes trouble, thee poſſeſs,

But to endear the next hours happineſs;

And maiſt thou when thou art from me remov’d,

Be better pleas’d, but never worſe belov’d:

Oh pardon me for pow’ring out my woes

In Rhime now, that I dare not do’t in Proſe.

For I muſt loſe whatever is call’d dear,

And thy aſſiſtance all that loſs to bear,

And have more cauſe than ere I had before,

To fear that I ſhall never ſee thee more.

On the 1657-01-011. of January 1657.

Th’ Eternal Centre of my life and me,

Who when I was not gave me room to be,

Hath ſince (my time preſerving in his hands)

By moments numbred out the precious ſand,

Till it is ſwell’d to ſix and twenty years,

Checquer’d by Providence with ſmiles and tears.

I have obſerv’d how vain all glories are,

The change of Empire, and the chance of War:

Seen Faction with its native venom burſt,

And Treaſon ſtruck, by what it ſelf had nurs’d.

Oo Seen Oo1v 142

Seen uſeleſs Crimes, whoſe owners but made way,

For future Candidates to wear the Bay.

To my Lady M. Cavendiſh, choſing the name of Policrite.

That Nature in your frame has taken care,

As well your Birth as Beauty do declare,

Since we at once diſcover in your Face,

The luſtre of your Eyes and of your Race:

And that your ſhape and faſhion does atteſt,

So bright a form has yet a brighter gueſt,

To future times authentick fame ſhall bring,

Hiſtorians ſhall relate, and Poets ſing.

But ſince your boundleſs mind upon my head,

Some rays of ſplendour is content to ſhed;

And leaſt I ſuffer by the great ſurprize,

Since you ſubmit to meet me in diſguiſe,

Can lay aſide what dazles vulgar ſight,

And to Orinda can be Policrite.

You muſt endure my vows and find the way

To entertain ſuch Rites as I can pay:

For ſo the pow’r divine new praiſe acquires,

By ſcorning nothing that it once inſpires:

I have no merits that your ſmile can win,

Nor offering to appeaſe you when I ſin;

Nor can my uſeleſs homage hope to raiſe,

When what I cannot ſerve, I ſtrive to praiſe:

But I can love, and love at ſuch a pitch,

As I dare boaſt it will ev’n you enrich;

For kindneſs is a Mine, when great and true,

Of nobler Ore than ever Indians knew,

’Tis all that mortals can on Heav’n beſtow,

And all that Heav’n can value here below.

Againſt Oo2r 143

Againſt Love.

Hence Cupid with your cheating Toies,

Your real Griefs and painted Joies,

Your Pleaſure which it ſelf deſtroies.

Lovers like men in Feavers burn and rave,

Only what will injure them do crave.

Mens weakneſs makes Love ſo ſevere,

They give him power by their fear,

And make the Shackles which they wear.

Who to another does his heart ſubmit,

Makes his own Idol, and then worſhips it.

Him whoſe heart is all his own,

Peace and liberty does crown,

He apprehends no killing frown.

He feels no raptures which are joies diſeas’d,

And is not much tranſported, but ſtill pleas’d.

A Dialogue of Friendſhip multiplyed.


Will you unto one ſingle ſenſe

Confine a ſtarry Influence?

Or when you do the raies combine,

To themſelves only make them ſhine?

Love that’s engroſs’d by one alone,

Is envy not affection.


No Muſidorus, this would be

But Friendſhips prodigality,

Union in raies does not confine,

But doubles luſtre when they ſhine,

And Oo2v 144

And ſouls united live above

Envy, as much as ſcattr’d Lover

Friendſhip (like Rivers) as it multiplies,

In many ſtreams, grows weaker ſtill and dies.


Rivers indeed may loſe their force,

When they divide or break their courſe,

For they may want ſome hidden Spring,

Which to their ſtreams recruits may bring;

But Friendſhip’s made of pureſt fire,

Which burns and keeps its ſtock entire.

Love, like the Sun, may ſhed his beams on all,

And grow more great by being general.


The purity of friendſhip’s flame

Proves that from ſimpathy it came,

And that the hearts ſo cloſe do knit

They no third partner can admit;

Love like the Sun does all inſpire,

But burns moſt by contracted fire.

Then though I honour every worthy gueſt,

Yet my Lucaſia only rules my breaſt.

Roſania to Lucaſia on her Letters.

Ah ſtrike outright, or elſe forbear,

Be more kind, or more ſevere;

For in this checquer’d mixture I

Cannot live, and would not die,

And muſt I neither? tell me why?

When thy Pen thy kindneſs tells,

My heart tranſported leaps and ſwells.

But Pp1r 145

But when my greedy eye does ſtray

Thy threat’ned abſence to ſurvey,

That heart is ſtruck and faints away.

To give me title to rich land,

And the fruition to withſtand,

Or ſolemnly to ſend the key

Of treaſures I muſt never ſee,

Would it contempt or bounty be?

This is ſuch refin’d diſtreſs,

That thy ſad Lovers ſigh for leſs,

Though thou their hopes haſt overthrown;

They loſe but what they ne’re have known,

But I am plunder’d from my own.

How canſt thou thy Roſania prize,

And be ſo cruel and ſo wiſe?

For if ſuch rigid policy

Muſt thy reſolves diſpute with me,

Where then is friendſhip’s victory?

Kindneſs is of ſo brave a make

’Twil rather death then bondage take,

So that if thine no power can have,

Give it and me one common grave,

But quickly either kill or ſave.

To my Antenor 1662-03-16March 16. 166½

My dear Antenor now give ore,

For my ſake talk of graves no more,

Death is not in our power to gain,

And is both wiſh’d and fear’d in vain.

Let’s be as angry as wee will,

Grief ſooner may diſtract then kill,

And the unhappy often prove

Pp Death Pp1v 146

Death is as coy a thing as Love.

Thoſe whoſe own ſword their death did give,

Afraid were or a ſham’d to Live;

And by an act ſo deſperate,

Did poorly run away from fate;

’Tis braver much t’ out-ride the ſtorm,

Endure its rage and ſhun his harm;

Affliction nobly undergone,

More Greatneſs ſhews then having none.

But yet the wheel in turning round,

At laſt may lift us from the ground,

And when our fortune’s moſt ſevere,

The leſs we have, the leſs we fear.

And why ſhould we that grief permit,

Which can nor mend nor ſhorten it?

Let’s wait for a ſucceeding good,

Woes have their Ebb as well as flood:

And ſince the Parliament have reſcu’d you,

Believe that Providence will do ſo too.

A Triton to Lucaſia going to Sea, ſhortly after the Queen’s arrival.


My Maſter Neptune took ſuch pains of late

To quiet the Commotions of his ſtate,

That he might give, through his fierce winds and Seas,

Safe paſſage to the Royal Portugueze,

That he e’re ſince at home has kept,

And in his Chryſtal pallace ſlept,

Till a ſwift wind told him to day

A ſtranger was to paſs this way,

Whom he hath ſent me out to view,

And I muſt tell him, Madam, it is you.

2. He Pp2r 147


He knowes you by an Honourable fame:

Who hath not heard Lucaſia’s worthy name?

But ſhould he ſee you too, I doubt he will

Grow amorous and here detain you ſtill:

I know his humor very well

So beſt can the event foretel,

But wiſhing you better ſucceſs,

And that my Maſters guilt be leſs,

I will ſay nothing of your form

Till you are paſt the danger of a ſtorm.


Fear nothing elſe, for eyes ſo ſweet as theſe,

No power that is Sea-born can diſpleaſe;

You are much more then Nymph or Goddeſs bright;

I ſaw’m all at ſupper t’other Night:

They with far leſs attraction draw,

They give us Love, you give us Law.

Your Charms the winds and ſeas will move,

But ’tis to wonder not to Love.

Your only danger is, leaſt they

Stiff with amazement ſhould becalm your way.


But ſhould they all want breath to make a gale,

What’s ſent in prayers for you will fill your ſail;

What brought you hither will your way ſecure,

Courage and kindneſs can no ſlip endure;

The winds will do as much for you.


Yet ſince our birth the Engliſh Ocean boaſts,

We hope ſometimes to ſee you on theſe Coaſts,

And we will order for you as you paſs,

Winds ſoft as Lovers vows, waves ſmooth as glaſs.

Each Pp2v 148

Each Deity ſhall you befriend,

And all the Sea-Nimphs ſhall attend;

But if becauſe a Ship’s too ſtraight,

Or elſe unworthy ſuch a freight,

A Coach more uſeful would appear,

That and ſix Daniſh Steeds you know are here.

Orinda upon little Hector Philips.


Twice forty months of Wedlock I did ſtay,

Then had my vows crown’d with a Lovely boy,

And yet in forty days he dropt away,

O ſwift Viſiſſitude of humane joy.


I did but ſee him and he diſ-appear’d,

I did but pluck the Roſe-bud and it fell,

A ſorrow unforeſeen and ſcarcely fear’d,

For ill can mortals their afflictions ſpell.


And now (ſweet Babe) what can my trembling heart

Suggeſt to right my doleful fate or thee,

Tears are my Muſe and ſorrow all my Art,

So piercing groans muſt be thy Elogy.


Thus whilſt no eye is witneſs of my mone,

I grieve thy loſs (Ah boy too dear to live)

And let the unconcerned World alone,

Who neither will, nor can refreſhment give.


An Off’ring too for thy ſad Tomb I have,

Too Qq1r 149

Too juſt a tribute to thy early Herſe,

Receive theſe gaſping numbers to thy grave,

The laſt of thy unhappy Mothers Verſe.

To the Lady E. Boyl.

Ah lovely Celimena why

Are you ſo full of charms,

That neither Sex can from them flie,

Nor take aginſt them arms.

Others in time may gain a part,

But you at once ſnatch all the heart.

Dear Tyrant why will you ſubdue

Orinda’s trivial heart,

Which can no triumph add to you,

Not meriting your dart.

And ſure you will not grant it one,

If not for my ſake for your own.

For it has been by tenderneſs

Already ſo much bruis’d,

That at your Altars I may gueſs

It will be but refus’d.

For never Deity did prize

A torn and maimed Sacrifice.

But oh what madneſs can or dare

Diſpute this noble chain,

Which ’tis a greater thing to wear,

Than Empires to obtain.

To be your ſlave I more deſign,

Than to have all the world be mine.

Thoſe glorious Fetters will create

A merit fit for them,

Repair the breaches made by Fate,

Qq And Qq1v 150

And whom they own redeem.

What thus ennobles and thus cures,

Can be no influence but yours.

Pardon th’Ambition of my aim,

Who love you at that rate,

That ſtory cannot boaſt a flame

So laſting and ſo great.

I can be only kind and true,

But what elſe can be worthy you.

To my Lord Duke of Ormond, upon the late Plot.

Though you, great Sir, be Heav’ns immediate care,

Who ſhew’d you danger, and then broke the snare;

And our firſt gratitude to that be due,

Yet there is much that muſt be paid to you:

For ’tis your Prudence Ireland’s peace ſecures,

Gives her her ſafety, and (what’s dearer) yours,

Whilſt your prevailing genius does diſpence,

At once its conduct, and its influence;

Leſs honour from a battel won is got,

Than to repel ſo dangerous a Plot;

Fortune with Courage may play booty there,

But ſingle vertue is triumphant here;

In vain the bold ingrateful Rebels aim

To overturn when you ſupport the ſame;

You who three potent Kingdoms late have ſeen

Tremble with fury, and yet ſtedfaſt been;

Who on afflicted Majeſty could wait,

When it was ſeemingly forſook by Fate;

Whoſe ſettled loyalty no ſtorms diſmaid,

Nor the more flattering miſchiefs could diſſwade:

And having ſcap’d ſo dangerous a coaſt,

Could you now fall expiring Treaſons boaſt?

Or was it hop’d by this contemned crew,

That you could Fortune, and not them, ſubdue.

But Qq2r 151

But whilſt theſe wretches at this impious rate,

Will buy the knowledge of your mighty fate;

You ſhall preſerve your Kings entruſted Crown,

Aſſiſted by his fortune and your own.

And whilſt his Sword Kingdoms abroad beſtows,

You with the next renown ſhall this diſpoſe.

To the Counteſs of Roſcomon, with a Copy of Pompey.

Great Pompey’s Fame from Egypt made eſcape,

And flies to you for ſuccour in this ſhape:

A ſhape, which, I aſſur’d him, would appear,

Nor fit for you to ſee, nor him to wear.

Yet he ſays, Madam, he’s reſolv’d to come,

And run a hazard of a ſecond doom:

But ſtill he hopes to bribe you, by that truſt

You may be kind, but cannot be unjuſt;

Each of whoſe favours will delight him more,

Than all the Lawrels that his temples wore:

Yet if his Name and misfortunes fail,

he thinks my interceſſion will prevail;

And whilſt my Numbers would relate his end,

Not like a Judge you’l liſten, but a friend;

For how can either of us fear your frown,

Since he and I are both ſo much your own.

But when you wonder at my bold deſign,

Remember who did that high task enjoin;

Th’illuſtrious Orrery, whoſe leaſt command,

You would more wonder if I could withſtand:

Of him I cannot which is hardeſt tell,

Or not to praiſe him, or to praiſe him well;

Who on that height from whence true glory came,

Does there poſſeſs and thence diſtribute fame;

Where all their Lyres the wiling Muſes bring,

To learn of him whatever they ſhall ſing;

Since all muſt yield, whilſt there are Books or Men,

The Qq2v 152

The Univerſal Empire to his Pen;

Oh! had that powerful genius but inſpir’d

The feeble hand, whoſe ſervice he requir’d

It had your juſtice then, not mercy pray’d,

Had pleas’d you more, and better him obey’d.

On the death of the truly honourable Sir Walter Lloid Knight.

At Obſequies where ſo much grief is due,

The Muſes are in ſolemn mourning too,

And by their dead aſtoniſhment confeſs,

They can lament this loſs, though not expreſs:

Nay if thoſe ancient Bards had ſeen this Herſe,

Who once in Britiſh ſhades ſpoke living Verſe,

Their high concern for him had made them be,

Apter to weep, than write his Elogy:

When on our Land that flood of woes was ſent,

Which ſwallow’d all things ſacred as it went,

The injur’d Arts and Vertues made his breaſt

The Ark wherein they did ſecurely reſt:

For as that old one was toſs’d up and down,

And yet the angry billows could not drown;

So Heav’n did him in this worſe deluge ſave,

And made him triumph o’re th’unquiet wave:

Who while he did with that wild ſtorm conteſt,

Such real magnanimity expresſ’d;

That he dar’d to be loyal, in a time

When ’twas a danger made, and thought a crime:

Duty, and not ambition, was his aim,

Who ſtudy’d Conſcience ever more than Fame,

And thought it ſo deſirable a thing,

To be prefer’d to ſuffer for his King,

That he all Fortunes ſpight had pardon’d her,

Had ſhe not made his Prince a ſufferer;

For whoſe lov’d cauſe he did both act and grieve,

And for it only did endure to live,

To Rr1r 153

To teach the world what man can be and do,

Arm’d by Allegiance and Religion too.

His head and heart mutual aſſiſtance gave,

That being ſtill ſo wiſe, and this ſo brave,

That ’twas acknowledg’d all he ſaid and did,

From judgment, and from honour did proceed:

Such was the uſeful mixture of his mind,

’Twas at once meek and knowing, ſtout and kind;

For he was civil, bountiful, and learn’d,

And for his Friends ſo generouſly concern’d,

That both his heart and houſe, his hand and tongue,

To them, more than himſelf, ſeem’d to belong;

As if to his wrong’d party he would be

Both an Example and Apology:

For when both Swords and Pens ceas’d the diſpute,

His life alone Rebellion did confute.

But when his Vows propitious Heaven had heard,

And our unequal’d King at length appear’d,

As aged Simeon did his ſpirits yield,

When he had ſeen his deareſt hopes fulfil’d;

He gladly ſaw the morning of that day,

Which Charles his growing ſplendour did diſplay;

Then to Eternal joies made greater haſte,

Becauſe his preſent ones flow’d in ſo faſt;

From which he fled out of a pious fear,

Leſt he by them ſhould be rewarded here;

While his ſad Country by his death have loſt

Their nobleſt Pattern, and their greateſt boaſt.

Orinda to Lucaſia.


Obſerve the weary birds e’re night be done,

How they would fain call up the tardy Sun,

With Feathers hung with dew,

And trembling voices too.

Rr They Rr1v 154

They court their glorious Planet to appear,

That they may find recruits of ſpirits there.

The drooping Flowers hang their heads,

And languiſh down into their beds:

While Brooks more bold and fierce than they,

Wanting thoſe beams, from whence

All things drink influence,

Openly murmur and demand the day.


Thou my Lucaſia art far more to me,

Than he to all the under-world can be;

From thee I’ve heat and light,

Thy abſence makes my night.

But ah! my Friend, it now grows very long,

The ſadneſs weighty, and the darkneſs ſtrong:

My tears (its dew) dwell on my cheeks,

And ſtill my heart thy dawning ſeeks,

And to the mournfully it cries,

That if too long I wait,

E’vn thou may’ſt come too late,

And not reſtore my life, but cloſe my eyes.

To Celimena.

Forbear fond heart (ſay I) torment no more

That Celimena whom thou doſt adore,

And ſince ſo many of her Chains are proud,

How canſt thou be diſtinguiſh’d in the crowd:

But ſay, bold trifler, what doſt thou pretend?

Wouldſt thou depoſe thy Saint into thy Friend?

Equality in friendſhip is requir’d.

Which here were criminal to be deſir’d.

An Rr2r 155

An Anſwer to another perſwading a Lady to Marriage.


Forbear bold Youth, all’s Heaven here,

And what you do aver,

To others Courtſhip may appear,

’Tis Sacriledge to her.


She is a publick Deity,

And were ’t not very odd

She ſhould depoſe her ſelf to be

A petty Houſhold God?


Firſt make the Sun in private ſhine,

And bid the World adieu,

That ſo he may his beams confine

In complement to you.


But if of that you do deſpair,

Think how you did amiſs,

To ſtrive to fix her beams which are

More bright and large than this.

Lucaſia Rr2v 156

Lucaſia and Orinda parting with Paſtora and Phillis at Ipſwich.


In your converſe we beſt can read,

How conſtant we ſhould be,

But,’tis in loſing that, we need

All your Philoſphy.


How periſh’d is the joy that’s paſt,

The preſent how unſteady?

What comfort can be great, and laſt,

When this is gone already?


Yet that it ſubtly may torment,

The memory does remain;

For what was, when enjoy’d, content,

Is, in its abſence, pain.


If you’ll reſtore it, we’ll not grieve

That Fate does now us ſever;

’Tis better by your gift to live,

Than by our own endeavour.

Epitaph on my truly honoured Publius Scipio.

To the officious Marble we commit

A Name, above the art of time or wit;

’Tis Ss1r 157

’Tis righteous, Valiant Scipio, whoſe life we

Found the beſt Sermon, and beſt Hiſtory:

Whoſe Courage was no Aguiſh, bru’tiſh heat,

But ſuch as ſpoke him good, as well as great;

Which firſt Engaged his Arms to prop the State

Of the almoſt undone Palatinate,

And help the Nether-Lands to ſtem the tide

Of Romes ambition, and the Auſtrian Pride;

Which ſhall in every Hiſtory be fam’d,

Wherein Breda or Frankendale are nam’d.

And when forced by his Country’s angry Stars

To be a Party in her Civil Wars,

He ſo much conduct by his Valour taught,

So wiſely govern’d and ſo bravely Faught,

That the Engliſh Annals ſhall this Record bear,

None better could direct or further dare.

Form’d both for War and Peace, was brave in fight,

And in Debate judicious and upright:

Religion was his firſt and higheſt care,

Which rul’d his Heart in Peace, his Hand in War:

Which at the leaſt Sin made him tremble ſtill,

And rather ſtand a Breach, than act an Ill;

For his great Heart did ſuch a temper ſhow,

Stout as Rock, yet ſoft as melting Snow.

In him ſo prudent, and yet ſo ſinſere,

The Serpent much, the Dove did more appear:

He was above the little arts of ſtate,

And ſcorn’d to ſell his peace to mend his Fate,

Anxious of nothing, but an inward ſpot,

His hand was open, but his Conſcience not;

Juſt to his Word, to all Religions kind,

In duty ſtrict, in Bounty unconfin’d;

And yet ſo modeſt; ’twas to him leſs pain

To do great things, then hear them told again;

Perform ſad Stone thy honourable truſt,

Unto his memory and thy ſelf be juſt,

For his immortal name ſhall thee befriend,

And pay thee back more fame than thou canſt lend.

Ss To Ss1v 158

To Mr. Sam. Cooper, having taken Lucaſia’s Picture given 1660-12-14December 14. 1660.


If noble things can noble thoughts infuſe,

Your Art might even in me create a Muſe,

And what you did inſpire, you would Excuſe.


But if it ſuch a Miracle could do,

That Muſe would not return you half your due,

Since ’twould my thanks, but not the praiſe purſue.


To praiſe your Art is then it ſelf more hard,

Nor would it the Endeavour much regard,

Since it and Vertue, are their own reward.


A Pencil from an Angel newly caught,

And Colours in the Morning’s boſom ſought,

Would make no Picture, if by you not wrought.


But done by you it does no more admit

Of an Encomium from the higheſt Wit,

Then that another hand ſhould equal it.

Yet Ss2r 159


Yet whilſt you with creating power vye,

Command the very ſpirit of the Eye,

And then reward it with Eternity.


Whilſt your each touch does Life and Air convey,

Fetch the Soul out, like overcoming Day,

And I my friend repeated here Survey.


I by a Paſſive way may do you right,

Wearing in that what none could ere endite,

Your Panegyrick, and my own delight.

Parting with a Friend.


Whoever thinks that Joyes below,

Can laſting be and great,

Let him behold this parting blow,

And cure his own deceit.


Alas! how ſoon are pleaſures done

Where Fortune has a Power?

How like to the declining Sun,

Or to the Withered Flower.


A thouſand unconcerned Eyes

She’l ſuffer us to ſee,

But Ss2v 160

But of thoſe we chiefly prize,

We muſt deprived be.


But we may conquer if we will,

The wanton Tyrant teach,

That we have ſomething left us ſtill

Which grows not in her reach.


That unſeen ſtring which faſtens Hearts,

Nor time, nor chance e’re ty’d,

Nor can it be in either’s Arts

Their unions to divide.


Where ſympathy does Love convey,

It braves all other Powers;

Lucaſia, and Roſania, ſay,

Has it not formed ours?


If forty Weeks converſe has not

Been able yet to tye

Your Souls in that Myſterious Knot,

How Wretched then am I.


But if I read in eithers Mind,

As ſure I hope I do,

That each to other is combin’d,

Abſence will make it true.

9. No Tt1r 161


No accident will e’re ſurpriſe,

Or make your kindneſs ſtart;

Although you loſe each others Eyes,

You’l faſter keep the Heart.


Letters as kind as Turtle-Doves,

And undiſguis’d as thought,

Will entertain thoſe fervent Loves

Which have each other bought.


Till Fortune vexed with the ſight

Of Faith ſo free from ſtain,

Shall then grow weary of her ſpight,

And let you meet again.


Wherein may you that Rapture find,

That ſiſter Cherals have,

When I am in my Rocks confin’d,

Or ſeal’d up in my Grave.

To my deareſt Friend, upon her ſhunning Grandeur.

Shine out rich Soul! to greatneſs be,

What it can never be to thee,

An ornament; thou canſt reſtore

The luſtre which it had before

Theſe ruines, own it and ’twill live,

Thy favour’s more than Kings can give.

Tt Haſt Tt1v 162

Haſt more above all titles then

The bearers are above common men;

And ſo heroick art within,

Thou muſt deſcend to be a Queen.

Yet honour may convenient prove,

By giving thy Soul room to move:

Affording ſcene unto that mind,

Which is too great to be confin’d.

Wert thou with ſingle vertue ſtor’d,

To be approv’d, but not ador’d;

Thou mightſt retire, but who e’re meant

A Palace for a Tenement?

Heaven has ſo built thee, that we find

Thee buried when thou art confin’d:

If thou in privacy would’ſt live,

Yet luſtre to thy vertues give;

To ſtifle them for want of air,

Injurious is to Heavens care.

If thou wilt be immur’d, where

Shall thy obliging ſoul appear?

Where ſhall thy generous prudence be,

And where thy magnanimity?

Nay thy own Darling thou doſt hide,

Thy ſelf-denial is deny’d;

For he that never greatneſs tries,

Can never ſafely it deſpiſe.

That Antoninus writ well, when

He held a Scepter and Pen:

Leſs credit Solomon does bring

As a Philoſopher than King;

So much advantage flows from hence,

To write by our Experience.

Diogenes I muſt ſuſpect

Of envy, more than wiſe neglect,

When he his Prince ſo ill did treat,

And ſo much ſpurned at the great:

A cenſure is not clear from thoſe

Whom Fate ſubjects, or does depoſe;

Nor Tt2r 163

Nor can we greatneſs underſtand

From an oppreſt or fallen hand:

But ’tis ſome Prince muſt that define,

Or one that freely did reſign.

A great Almanzor teaches thus,

Or elſe a Dionyſius.

For to know Grandeur we muſt live

In that, and not in perſpective;

Vouchſafe the tryal then, that thou

May’ſt ſafely wield, yet diſallow

The World’s temptations, and be ſtill

Above whatever would thee fill.

Convince mankind, there’s ſomewhat more

Great than the titles they adore:

Stand neer them, and ’twill ſoon be known

Thou haſt more ſplendour of thy own;

Yield to the wanting Age, and be

Channel of true Nobility:

For from thy Womb ſuch Heros need muſt riſe,

Who Honours will deſerve, and can deſpiſe.

To Paſtora being with her Friend.


While you the double joy obtain

Of what you give, and what you gain:

Friendſhip who owes you ſo much Fame,

Commands my Tribute to your Name.


Friendſhip that was almoſt forlorn,

Sunk under every Critick’s ſcorn;

But that your genius her protects,

Had fled the World, at leaſt the Sex.


You have reſtored them and us,

Whence both are happy; Cæſar thus

Ow’d Tt2v 164

Ow’d Rome the glories of his Reign,

And Rome ow’d him as much again.


You in your friend thoſe Joys have found

Which all Relations can propound;

What Nature does ’mong them diſperſe,

You multiply in her Converſe.


You her Enjoyment have purſu’d

In Company, and Solitude;

And whereſoever ſhe’l retire,

There’s the Diverſion you deſire.


Your Joys by this are more immenſe,

And heat contracted grows intenſe;

And friendſhip to be ſuch to you,

Will make theſe Pleaſures, Honours too.


Be to each other that Content,

As to your Sex y’are Ornament;

And may your hearts by mixture loſt,

Be ſtill each others Bliſs and Boaſt.


Impoſſible your Parting be

As that you e’re ſhould diſagree;

And then even Death your friend will prove,

And both at once (though late) remove.


But that you may ſeverely live,

You muſt th’offending World forgive,

And to employ your Charity,

You have an Object now in me.


My Pen ſo much for you unfit

Preſents my Heart, though not my Wit;

Which Heart admires what you expreſs,

More than what Monarchs do poſſeſs

11. Fear Uu1r 165


Fear not infection from my Fate,

Though I muſt be unfortunate,

For having paid my Vows due, I

Shall ſoon withdraw, wither and die.

To my Lord and Lady Dungannon on their Marriage 1662-05-1111. May 1662.

To you, who, in your ſelves, do comprehend

All you can wiſh, and all we can commend;

Whom worth does guide and deſtiny obey,

What Offerings can the uſeleſs Muſes pay?

Each muſt at once ſuſpend her charming Lyre,

Till ſhe hath learnt from you what to inſpire:

Well may they wonder to obſerve a Knot,

So curiouſly by Love and Fortune wrought,

To which propitious Heaven did decree,

All things on earth ſhould tributary be;

By gentle, ſure, but unperceiv’d degrees,

As the Sun’s motion, or the growth of Trees,

Does Providence our wills to hers incline,

And makes all accidents ſerve her deſign:

Her Pencil (Sir) within your breſt did draw

The Picture of a Face you never ſaw,

With touches, which ſo ſweet were and ſo true,

By them alone th’original you knew;

And at that ſight with ſatisfaction yield

Your freedom which till then maintain’d the field.

’Twas by the ſame myſterious power too,

That ſhe has been ſo long reſerv’d for you;

Whoſe noble paſſion, with ſubmiſſive art,

Diſarm’d her ſcruples, and ſubdu’d her heart.

And now that at the laſt your Souls are ty’d,

Whom floods nor difficulties could divide,

Ev’n you that beauteous Union may admire,

Which was at once Heaven’s care, and your deſire.

Uu You Uu1v 166

You are ſo happy in each others love,

And in aſſur’d protection from above,

That we no wiſh could add unto your bliss,

But that it ſhould continue as it is.

O! may it ſo, and may the wheel of Fate

In you no more change than ſhe feels, create;

And may you ſtill your happineſſes find,

Not on your Fortune growing, but your mind,

Whereby the ſhafts of Chance as vain will prove,

As all things elſe did that oppos’d your Love.

Be kind and happy to that great degree,

As may inſtruct lateſt Poſterity,

From ſo rever’d a Preſident to frame

Rules to their duty, to their wiſhes aim.

May the vaſt Sea for your ſake quit his pride,

And grow ſo ſmooth, while on his breaſt you ride,

As may not only bring you to your Port,

But ſhew how all things do your vertues court.

May every object give you new delight,

May Time forget his Sythe, and Fate his Spight;

And may you never other ſorrow know,

But what your pity feels for others woe;

May your compaſſion be like that Divine,

Which relieves all on whom it does but ſhine,

Whilſt you produce a Race that may inherit

All your great ſtock of Beauty, Fame, and Merit.

To his Grace Gilbert Lord Arch-Biſhop of Canterbury, 1664-07-10July 10. 1664.

That private ſhade, wherein my Muſe was bred,

She alwaies hop’d might hide her humble head;

Believing the retirement ſhe had choſe

Might yield her, if not pardon, yet repoſe;

Nor other repetitions did expect,

Than what our Ecchoes from the Rocks reflect.

But hurry’d from her Cave with wild affright,

And Uu2r 167

And dragg’d maliciouſly into the Light.

(Which makes her like the Hebrew Virgin mourn

When from her face her Vail was rudely torn)

To you (my Lord) ſhe now for ſuccour calls,

And at your feet, with juſt Confuſion falls.

But ſhe will thank the wrong deſerv’d her Hate,

If it procure her that auſpicious Fate,

That the ſame wing may over her be caſt,

Where the beſt Church of all the World is plac’d,

Annd under which, when ſhe is once retir’d,

She really may come to be inſpir’d.

And by the Wonders which ſhe there ſhall view,

May raiſe her ſelf to ſuch a Theme as you,

Who were preſerv’d to Govern and Reſtore

That Church whoſe Confeſſour you were before;

And ſhew by your unweary’d preſent Care,

Your ſuff’rings are not ended, though hers are:

For whilſt your Croſier her defence ſecures,

You purchaſe her Reſt with the Loſs of yours,

And Heav’n who firſt refin’d your worth, and then,

Gave it ſo large and eminent a Scene,

Hath paid you what was many ways your due,

And done it ſelf a greater Right then you.

For after ſuch a rough and tedious Storm

Had torn the Church, and done her ſo much harm;

And (though at length rebuk’d, yet) left behind

Such angry reliques, in the Wave and Wind;

No Pilot could, whoſe skill and Faith were leſs,

Manage the ſhatter’d Veſſel with Succeſs

The Piety of the Apoſtles Times,

And Courage to reſiſt this Ages Crimes;

Majeſtick ſweetneſs, temper’d and refin’d,

In a Polite, and Comprehenſive Mind,

Were all requir’d her Ruines to repair,

And all united in her Primate are.

In your aſpect ſo Candid and Serene,

The Conſcience of ſuch Vertue may be ſeen,

As makes the ſullen Schiſmatick conſent,

A Uu2v 168

A Church-man may be Great and Innocent.

This ſhall thoſe men reproach, if not reduce,

And take away their fault or their excuſe,

Whilſt in your Life and Government appear

All that the Pious wiſh and Factious fear.

Since the prevailing Croſs her Enſigns ſpread,

And Pagan Gods from Chriſtian Biſhops fled,

Times curious Eye till now hath never ſpy’d

The Churches Helm ſo happily ſupply’d.

Merit and Providence ſo fitly met,

The Worthieſt Prelate in the higheſt Seat.

If Noble things can Noble Thoughts infuſe,

Your Life (my Lord) may, ev’n in me, produce

Such Raptures, that of their rich Fury proud,

I may, perhaps, dare to proclaim aloud;

Aſſur’d, the World that ardour will excuſe,

Applaud the Subject, and forgive the Muſe.

Tran- Xx1r 169


By K. Philips.

Xx Xx1v 170

La Solitude de St. Amant.


O! que j’aime la Solitude,

Que ces lieux ſacrez à la nuict,

Eloignez du monde & de bruit,

Plaiſent a mon inquietude.

Mon Dieu! que mes yeux ſont contens,

De voir ces Bois, qui ſe trouverent.

A la nativité du Temps,

Et que tous les Siecles reverent,

Eſtre encore auſſi beaux & vers,

Qu’aux premiers jours de l’Univers.


Un gay Zephire les careſſe,

D’un movement doux & flatteur,

Rien que leur extreme hauteur,

Ne fait remarquer leur vieilleſſe.

Jadi Pan, & ſes demi-dieux

Y vindrent chercher du refuge,

Quand Jupiter ouvrit les Cieux

Pour nous envoyer le deluge,

Et ſe ſauvans ſur leurs Rameaux,

A peine virent ils les Eaux.


Que ſur cette Eſpine fleurie,

Dont le printemps eſt amoreux,

Philomele au chant langoureux,

Entretient bien ma reſverie.

Que je prens plaiſir a voir

Ces Monts pendans en precipices,

Qui Xx2r 172

Qui pour les coups de deſeſpoir,

Sont aux Malheureux ſe propices,

Quand la cruauté de leur ſort

Les force a rechercher la Mort.


Que je trouve doux la ravage

De ces fiers torrens vagabonds,

Qui ſe precipitent par bonds,

Dans ce valon vert & ſauvage;

Puis gliſſans ſous les Arbriſſeaux

Ainſi que des Serpens ſur l’herbe,

Se changeant en plaiſans ruiſſeaux,

Ou quelque Nayade ſuperbe

Regne comme en ſon lict natal,

Deſſus un Throſne de Chriſtal.


Que j’aime ces Mareſts paiſibles,

Il eſt tout bordé déliziers,

D’Aulnes, de Saules, & d’Oſiers,

A qui le fer n’eſt point nuiſible.

Les Nimphes y cherchent le frais,

S’y viennent fournir de quenouvilles,

De pipeaux, de Ionce, & de glais,

Ou l’on voit ſauter les grenouilles,

Qui de frayeur s’y vont cacher,

Si toſt qu’on veut s’en approcher.


La cent mille oyſeaux aquatiques,

Vivent ſans craindre en leur repos,

Le Giboyeur fin & diſpos,

Avec ſes mortelles pratiques.

L’un Xx2v 174

L’un tout joyeux, d’un ſi beau jour,

S’amuſe a becquetter ſa Plume,

L’autre allentit le feu d’amour,

Qui dans l’eau meſme & conſume,

Et prennent tous innocemment

Leur plaſir en cet Element.


Jamais l’Eſte, ny la froidure,

N’ont reu paſſer deſſus cette Eau,

Nulle charette, ny batteau

Depuis qui l’on, & l’autre dure:

Jamais voyageur alteré,

N’y fit ſervir ſa main de taſſe,

Jamais cheureüil deſeſperé

N’y finit ſa vie à la chaſſe:

Et jamais le Traiſore hamecon

N’en fit ſortir aucun poiſſon.


Que j’aime a voir la decadence

De ces vieux chaſteaux ruinez,

Contre qui les uns Mutinez

Ont deployez leur inſolence,

Les Sorciers y font leur Sabat,

Les Demons follets s’y retirent,

Qui d’un malicieux etat,

Trompent nos ſens, & nos martirent;

La ſe nichent en mille troux

Les Couleuvres & les Hyboux.


L’Orfrage avec ſes cris functres,

Mortelles augures des deſtins.

Fait Yy1r 176

Fait rire & dancer les lutins,

Dans ces lieux remplis de benetres,

Sous un cheuron de bois maudit

Y branle le ſquelette horrible,

D’un pauvre amant qui ſe pendit,

Pour une Bergere inſencible,

Qui d’un ſeul regard de pitie,

Ne daigna voir ſon amitié.


Auſſi le Ciel juge equitable,

Qui maintient les loix en vigueur,

Prononca contre ſa rigueur

Une ſentence epouventable.

Autour de ces vieux oſſemens

Son ombre aux peines condamnée,

Lamente en long gemiſſemens

Sa malheureuſe deſtinée,

Ayant pour croiſtre ſon affroy,

Tous jours ſon crime devant ſoy.


Là ſe trouvent ſur quelques maſtres,

Des deviſes du temps paſſée,

Icy l’a age a preſque effacé

Des chiffres taillez ſur les aſtres.

La plancher du lieu le plus haut,

Eſt tombe juſque dans la Care,

Que la limace, & la crapout

Souillent de venin & de bare,

La lierre y croiſt au foyer,

A l’ombrage d’un grand Noyer.

La Yy1v 178


La deſſus s’eſtend une voute,

Si ſombre en un certain endroit,

Que quand Phœbus y deſcendroit,

Je penſe qu’il n’y verroit goute.

Le ſommeil aux peſans ſourcis,

Enchante d’un mome ſilence,

Y doit bien loin de tous ſoucis,

Dans les bras de la nonchalance,

Laſchement couché ſur le dos,

Deſſus des gertes de pavots.


Au creux de cette grotte freſche,

Où l’amour ſe pourroit geler,

Eccho ne ceſſe de braſler

Pour ſon Amant, froid & reveſche.

Je m’y coule ſans faire bruit,

Et par la celeſte harmonie

D’un doux Lut, aux charmes inſtruit,

Je flatte ſa triſte manie,

Faiſant repeter mes accords,

A la voix qui luy ſert de corps.


Tantoſt ſortant de ces ruines,

Je monte au haut de ce rocher,

Dont le ſommet ſemble chercher

En quel lieu ſe font les bruines:

Pais je deſcends tout a loiſir

Sous un falaize eſcarpée,

D’ou je regarde avec plaiſir

L’onde qui l’a preſque ſappée

Juſqu’aux ſeige de Palemon,

Fait d’eſponges & de Limon.

Que Yy2r 180


Que c’eſt une choſe agreable

D’eſtre ſur le bord de la Mer,

Quand elle vient a ſe calmer,

Apres quelque orage affroyable;

Et que les chevelas Tritons,

Haut ſur les vagues ſecoüées,

Trapent les airs d’eſtranges tons,

Avec leurs trompes enroüez,

D’ont l’eclat rend reſpectueux

Le vents les plus impetueux.


Tantoſt brouillant l’arene

Murmure & fremit de courroux,

Se roullant deſſous les Cailloux,

Qu’elle apporte & qu’elle r’entraine:

Tantoſt elle eſtale en ſes bords

Que l’ire de Neptune outrage,

Des gens noyez, des monſtres morts,

Des vaiſſeaux briſez du naufrage,

Des Diamans, de l’ambre Gris,

Et mille autres choſes de prix.


Tantoſt la plus clarre du Monde,

Elle ſemble un miroir flottant,

Et nous repreſente a l’inſtant

Encore d’autres Cieux ſous l’onde,

Le ſoleil s’y fait ſi bien voir,

Y contemplant ſon beau viſage,

Qu’on eſt quelques temps a ſcavoir

Si c’eſt luy meſme ou ſon image,

Et d’abord il ſemble a nos yeux,

Qu’il ſe laiſſe tomber des cieux.

Ber- Yy2v 182


Bernieres pour qui je me vante,

De ne rien faire que de beau,

Recoive ce fantaſque tableau

Fait d’une peinture vivante:

Je ne cherche que les deſers,

Où reſvant tout ſeul je m’amuſe,

A des diſcours aſſez diſers,

De mon Genie avec la Muſe,

Mais mon plus aimable entretien,

C’eſt le reſſouvenir du tien.


Tu vois dans cette Poeſie,

Pleine de licence & d’ardeur,

Les beaux rayons de la ſplendeur

Qui m’eſclaire la Fantaſie.

Tantoſt chagrin, tantoſt joyeux,

Selon que la fureur m’enflame,

Et que l’object s’offre a mes yeux,

Les propos me naiſſent en l’ame,

Sans contraindre la liberté

Du Demon, qui m’a tranſporté.


O! que j’aime la Solitude,

C’eſt l’Element des bons eſprits,

C’eſt par elle que j’ay compris,

L’art d’Apollon ſans nulle eſtude:

Je l’aime pour l’amour de toy

Connoiſsant que ton humeur l’aime,

Mais quand je penſe bien a moy,

Je la hay pour la raiſon meſme,

Car elle pourroit me ravir

L’heur de te voir, & de te ſervir.

Ten- Zz1r 171



O! Solitude my ſweeteſt choice,

Places devoted to the night,

Remote from tumult, and from noiſe,

How you my reſtless thoughts delight!

O Heavens! what content is mine

To ſee thoſe Trees which have appear’d

From the nativity of Time,

And which all Ages have rever’d,

To look to day as freſh and green

As when their beauties firſt were ſeen!


A chearful wind does court them ſo,

And with ſuch amorous breath enfold,

That we by nothing elſe can know,

But by their height that they are old.

Hither the demy-gods did flie

To ſeek a Sanctuary, when

Diſpleaſed Jove once pierc’d the skie,

To pour a deluge upon men,

And on theſe boughs themſelves did ſave,

Whence they could hardly ſee a wave.


Sad Philomel upon this Thorn,

So curiouſly by Flora dreſt,

In melting notes, her caſe forlorn,

To entertain me, hath confeſs’d.

O! how agreeable a ſight

Theſe hanging Mountains do appear,

Which Zz1v 173

Which the unhappy would invite

To finiſh all their ſorrows here,

When their hard fate makes them endure

Such woes, as only death can cure.


What pretty deſolations make

Theſe torrents vagabond and fierce,

Who in vaſt leaps their ſprings forſake,

This ſolitary vale to pierce.

Then ſliding juſt as Serpents do

Under the foot of every Tree,

Themſelves are chang’d to Rivers too,

Wherein ſome ſtately Nayade,

As in her native bed, is grown

A Queen upon a Criſtal throne.


This Fen beſet with River-Plants,

(O! how it does my ſenſes charm!)

Nor Elders, Reeds, nor Willows want,

Which the ſharp Steel did never harm.

Here Nymphs which come to take the air,

May with ſuch Diſtaffs furniſh’d be,

As Flags and Ruſhes can prepare,

Where we the nimble Frogs may ſee.

Who frighted to retreat do flie,

If an approaching man they ſpie.


Here Water-fowl repoſe enjoy,

Without the interrupting care,

Leſt Fortune ſhould their bliſs deſtroy

By the malicious Fowlers Snare.

Yy Some Zz2r 175

Some raviſh’d with ſo bright a day,

their Feathers finely prune and deck,

Others their amorous heats allay,

Which yet the waters could not check,

All take their innocent content

In this their lovely Element.


Summer’s, nor Winter’s bold approach,

This Stream did never entertain,

Nor ever felt a Boat or Coach

Whilſt either ſeaſon did remain.

Nor thirſty Traveller came neer,

And rudely made his hand his cup,

Nor any hunted Hind hath here

Her hopeleſs life reſigned up,

Nor ever did the treacherous Hook

Intrude to empty any Brook.


What beauty is there in the ſight

Of theſe old ruin’d Caſtle walls,

On which the utmoſt rage and ſpight

Of times worſt inſurrection falls.

The Witches keep their Sabbath here,

And wanton Devils make retreat,

Who in malicious ſport appear,

Our ſence both to afflict and cheat,

And here within a thouſand holes

Are neſts of Adders and of Owles.


The Raven with his diſmal cries,

That mortal augury of Fate,

Thoſe Zz2v 177

Thoſe ghaſtly Goblins gratifies,

Which in theſe gloomy places wait.

On a curs’d Tree the wind does move

A Carcaſe which did once belong

To one that hang’d himſelf for love

Of a fair Nymph that did him wrong,

Who though ſhe ſaw his love and truth,

With one look would not ſave the Youth.


But Heaven which judges equally,

And its own Laws will ſtill maintain,

Rewarded ſoon her cruelty

With a deſerv’d and mighty pain:

About this ſquallid heap of bones,

Her wandring & condemned ſhade,

Laments in long and piercing grones

The deſtiny her rigour made,

And the more to augment her fright

Her crime is ever in her sight.


There upon Antique Marbles trac’d,

Devices of paſt times we ſee,

Here age hath almoſt quite defac’d

What Lovers carv’d on every Tree.

The Cellar, here, the higheſt Room,

Receives when its old rafters fail,

Soil’d with the venom and the foam

Of the Spider and the Snail:

And th’Ivy in the Chimney we

Find ſhaded by a Wall-nut Tree.

Zz Below Aaa1r 179


Below there does a Cave extend,

Wherein there is ſo dark a Grot,

That ſhould the Sun himſelf deſcend,

I think he could not ſee a jot.

Here ſleep within a heavy lid

In quiet ſadneſs locks up ſenſe,

And every care he does forbid,

Whilſt in the arms of negligence,

Lazily on his back he’s ſpread,

And ſheaves of Poppy are his Bed.


Within this cool and hollow Cave,

Where Love it ſelf might turn to Ice,

Poor Eccho ceaſes not to rave

On her Narciſſus wild and nice:

Hither I ſoftly ſteal a thought,

And by the ſofter Muſick made

With a ſweet Lute in charms well taught,

Sometimes I flatter her ſad ſhade,

Whilſt of my Chords I make ſuch choice,

They ſerve as body to her voice.


When from theſe ruines I retire,

This horrid Rock I do invade,

Whoſe lofty brow ſeems to enquire

Of what materials miſts are made:

From thence deſcending leiſurely

Under the brow of this ſteep hill,

It with great pleaſure I deſcry

By Waters undermin’d, until

They to Palæmon’s ſeat did climb,

Compos’d of Spunges and of Slime.

How Aaa1v 181


How highly is the fancy pleas’d

To be upon the Oceans ſhore,

When ſhe begins to be appeas’d,

And her fierce billows ceaſe to roar!

And when the hairy Tritons are

Riding upon the ſhaken wave,

With what ſtrange ſounds they ſtrike the air

Of their Trumpets hoarſe and brave,

Whoſe ſhrill report, does every wind

Unto his due ſubmiſſion bind!


Sometimes the Sea diſpels the Sand,

Trembling and murmuring in the Bay,

And rowles it ſelf upon the ſhells

Which it both brings and takes away.

Sometimes expoſes on the ſtrand,

Th’ effects of Neptune’s rage and ſcorn,

Drown’d Men, dead Monſters caſt on Land,

And Ships that were in Tempeſts torn,

With Diamonds and Ambergreece,

And many more ſuch things as theſe.


Sometimes ſo ſweetly ſhe does ſmile,

A floating mirrour ſhe might be,

And you would fancy all that while

New Heavens in her face to ſee:

The Sun himſelf is drawn ſo well,

When there he would his Picture view,

That our eye can hardly tell

Which is the falſe Sun, which the true;

And leſt we give our ſenſe the lye,

We think he’s fallen from the skye.

Aaa Ber- Aaa2r 183


Bernieres! for whoſe beloved ſake

My thoughts are at a noble ſtrife,

This my fantaſtick Landskip take,

Which I have copied from the Life.

I only ſeek the Deſarts rough,

Where all alone I love to walk,

And with diſcourſe refin’d enough,

My Genius and the Muſes talk;

But the converſe moſt truly mine,

Is the dear memory of thine.


Thou may’ſt in this Poem find,

So full of liberty and heat,

What illuſtrious rays have ſhin’d

To enlighten my conceit:

Sometimes penſive, ſometimes gay,

Juſt as that fury does controul,

And as the object I ſurvey,

The notionq grow up in my Soul,

And are as unconcern’d and free

As the flame which tranſported me.


O! how I Solitude adore,

That Element of nobleſt wit,

Where I have learnt Apollo’s lore,

Without the pains to ſtudy it:

For thy ſake I in love am grown

With what thy fancy does purſue;

But when I think upon my own,

I hate it for that reaſon too,

Becauſe it needs muſt hinder me

From ſeeing, and from ſerving thee.

Tendres Aaa2v 184

Tendres deſers out of a French proſe.

Go ſoft deſires, Love’s gentle Progeny,

And on the Heart of charming Sylvia ſieze,

Then quickly back again return to me,

Since that’s the only cure for my diſeaſe;

But if you miſs her breaſt whom I adore,

Then take your flight, and viſit mine no more.

Amanti ch’ in pianti &c.

Lovers who in complaints your ſelves conſume,

And to be happy once perhaps preſume;

Your Love and hopes, alike are vain,

Nor will they ever cure your pain.

They that in Love would joy attain,

Their paſſion to their power muſt frame;

Let them enjoy what they can gain,

And never higher aim.

Complaints and Sorrows, from me now depart,

You think to ſoften an ungentle Heart,

When it not onely wards ſuch blows,

But from your ſufferance prouder grows.

They that in Love would joy &c.

A Paſtoral of Monſ. de Scudery’s in the firſt volume of Almahide, Engliſhed.

Slothful deceiver, come away,

With me again the fields ſurvey;

And ſleep no more, unleſs it be

My Fortune thou ſhould’ſt dream of me.

The Bbb1r 185

The Sky, from which the Night is fled,

Is painted with a matchleſs Red,

’Tis day; the morning greets my Eyes:

Thou art my Sun, wilt thou not riſe.?

Now the black Shadows of the Night

From Heav’n and Earth, are put to Flight:

Come and diſpel each lingring ſhade,

With that Light which thy Eyes have made.

That Planet, which ſo like thee ſeems,

In his long and piercing beams,

At once illuminates and Guilds,

All theſe valleys, and theſe Fields.

The Winds do rather ſigh than blow,

And Rivers murmure as they go,

And all things ſeem to thee to ſay,

Riſe Fair one, ’tis a Lovely Day.

Come and the liquid Pearls deſcry,

Which glittering ’mong the flowers lye;

Day finds them wet, when it appears,

And ’tis too often with my Tears.

Hearken, and thou wilt much approve

The Warbling Conſort of this Grove;

Compleat the pleaſure of our Ears,

Mixing thy harmony with theirs.

Feather’d Muſician ſtep aſide,

Thy ſelf within theſe buſhes hide,

While my Aminta’s Voice affords

Her charming Notes to cloath my words.

Haſten to ſing them, then my fair,

And put this proud one to deſpair,

Bbb Whoſe Bbb1v 186

Whoſe Voice, the Baſe and Trebles part,

With ſo marvellous an Art.

Come Philomel, and now make uſe

Of all, thy practice can produce,

All the harmonious Secrets, thou

Canſt try, will do no ſervice now.

Thou muſt to her this Glory give,

For nothing can thy Fame relieve.

Then e’re thou doſt the Conqueſt try,

Chuſe to be ſilent here or dye.

Come my Shepherdeſs, ſurvey

(While a hundred pipes do play,)

From every Fold, from every Shed,

How the Herds and Flocks are fed.

Hear the pleaſing, harmleſs voice,

Of thy Lambs, now they rejoyce,

While with their bleating notes are mix’d,

Their pretty bounds, and leaps betwixt.

See, ſee, how from the Thatched Rooms

Of theſe our artleſs Cabbins, comes

A Ruſtick troop of Jolly Swains,

From every ſide, unto the Plains.

Their Sheep-hooks ſteel, ſo bright and clear,

How it ſhines, both far and near;

A Bag-pipe here, and there a Flute,

With merryer whiſtles do diſpute.

Hear thy flocks, which for thee bleat

In Language Innocent, and ſweet;

See here thy Shepherd who attends ’em,

And from the Ravenous Wolf defends ’em.

Thy Bbb2r 187

Thy Melampus, him endears,

And leaps, and ſports, when he appears,

He complains that thy ſloth is ſuch;

And my poor heart does that as much.

Among the reſt here’s a Ram, we

So white ſo blith, ſo merry ſee,

In all our Flocks, there is not one,

Deſerves ſuch praiſe, as he alone.

On the graſs he butts and leaps,

Flatters, and then away he skips;

So gentle, and yet proud is he,

That ſurely he hath learn’d of thee.

The faireſt Garlands we can find,

Unworthy are, his horns to bind;

But Flowers that death can never know,

Are fitteſt to adorn his Brow.

He is full of modeſt ſhame,

And as full of amorous flame;

Aſtrologers in heaven ſee,

A Beaſt leſs beautiful than he.

I have for thee a Sheep-hook brought,

On which thy Shepherd hard hath wrought,

Here he thy character hath trac’d;

Is it not neatly interlac’d?

To that a Scrip is ty’d for thee,

Which woven is ſo curiouſly,

That the Art does the ſtuff excell,

And Gold it ſelf looks not ſo well.

Here’s in a Cage that he did make,

All the Birds that he could take.

How glorious is their ſlavery,

If they be not deſpis’d by thee!

A Bbb2v 188

A Garland too for thee hath ſtaid;

And ’tis of Faireſt Flowers made:

Aurora had this offering kept,

And for its loſs hath newly wept.

A lovely Fawn he brings along,

Nimble, as thy ſelf, and young,

And greater preſents he would bring,

But that a Shepherd is no King.

Come away my Lovely bliſs,

To ſuch divertiſement as this,

And bring none to theſe Lovely places,

But onely Venus, and the Graces.

Whatever company were nigh,

Would tedious be, when thou art by;

Venus and Fortune would to me

Be troubleſome, if I had thee.

She comes! from far, the Lovely Maid

Is by her ſhining charms betray’d:

See how the Flowers ſprout up, to meet

A Noble ruine from her feet.

How Sprightly, and how Fair is ſhe!

How much undone then muſt I be?

My torment is, I know, ſevere,

But who can think on’t when ſhe’s near?

My heart leaps up within my breaſt,

And ſinks again with Joy oppreſt;

But in her ſight to yield my breath,

Would be an acceptable Death.

Come then, and in this ſhade, be ſure,

That thy fair Skin ſhall be ſecure;

For elſe the Sun would wrong, I fear,

The Colours which do flouriſh there.

His Ccc1r 189

His Flaming ſteeds do climb ſo faſt,

While they to our Horizon haſt,

That by this time his Radiant Coach,

Does to his higheſt houſe approach.

His fiercer Rays in heat, and length,

Begin to rob us of our ſtrength;

Directly on the Earth they dart,

And all the ſhadows are grown ſhort.

This Valley hath a private ſeat,

Which is a cool, and moiſt retreat,

Where the angry Planet which we ſpy,

Can ne’re invade us with his Eye.

Behold this freſh and florid Graſs,

Where never yet a foot did paſs,

A Carpet ſpreads for us to ſit,

And to thy Beauty offers it.

This delicate apartment is

Roof’d o’re with Aged ſtooping Trees,

Whoſe verdant ſhadow does ſecure

This Place a native furniture.

The Courts of Naiades are ſuch,

In ſhades like theſe, ador’d ſo much,

Where thouſand Fountains round about,

Perpetually guſh water out.

How finely this thick moſs doth look,

Which limits this tranſparent brook;

Whoſe ſportful wave does ſwell, and ſpread,

And is on flags and ruſhes ſhed!

Within this liquid Chryſtal, ſee

The cauſe of all my Miſery,

And judge by that, (fair Murthereſs)

If I could love thy beauty leſs.

Ccc Thy Ccc1v 190

Thy either Eye does Rays diſpence

Of modeſty and Innocence;

And with thy ſeriouſneſs, we find

The gladneſs of an Infant joyn’d.

Thy frowns delight, though they torment,

From thy looks Life and Death is ſent;

And thy whole air does on us throw

Arrows, which cureleſs wounds beſtow.

The ſtature of a Mountain Pine,

Is crooked, when compar’d to thine:

Which does thy ſex to envy move,

As much as it does ours to love.

From thy dividing lips do flye,

Thoſe pointed ſhafts that make us dye:

Nor have our Gardens e’re a Roſe,

That to thy cheeks we dare oppoſe.

When by a happy liberty,

We may thy lovely boſom ſee,

The whiteſt Curds, nor falling Snow,

Can any ſuch complexion ſhow.

Thyme and Majoram, whoſe ſcent,

Of all perfumes, moſt Innocent,

Leſs Fragrancy than thy breath have,

Which all our ſenſes does enſlave.

Even when thou ſcorneſt, thou can’ſt pleaſe,

And make us love our own diſeaſe.

The bluſhes that our cherrys wear,

Do hardly to thy lips come near.

When upon the ſmoother Plains,

Thou to dance wilt take the pains,

No Hind, when ſhe employs her feet,

Is half ſo graceful, or ſo fleet.

Of Ccc2r 191

Of thy garments fair and white,

The neatneſs gives us moſt delight,

And I had rather them behold,

Then clothes embroidered with Gold.

I nothing in the World can ſee

So rare as unadorned thee,

Who art (as it muſt be confeſs’d)

Not by thy clothes, but Beauty dreſs’d.

Thy Lovely hair thou up haſt ty’d,

And in an unwrought Veil doſt hide;

In the mean time thy ſingle Face,

All other beauties does diſgrace.

Yes, yes, thy negligence alone,

Does more than all their care hath done:

The Nymphs, in all their pompous dreſs;

Do entertain my fancy leſs.

A Noſegay all thy Jewel is,

And all thy Art conſiſts in this;

And what from this pure Spring does paſs

Is all thy paint, and all thy Glaſs.

Adored beauty, here may we

Our ſelves in lovely glaſſes ſee:

Come then, I pray thee, let us look,

I in thy Eyes, thou in the Brook.

Within this faithful Mirrour see

The object which hath conquer’d me,

Which though the ſtream does well impart,

’Tis better form’d here in my heart.

In th’ entertainment of thy Mind,

When ’tis to penſiveneſs inclin’d,

Count if thou canſt theſe Flowers, and thou

The ſum of my deſires wilt know.

Obſerve Ccc2v 192

Obſerve theſe Turtles, kind and true,

Hearken how frequently they woo:

They faithful Lovers are, and who

That ſees thee, would not be ſo too?

Of them my fair Aminta learn,

At length to grant me thy concern;

Follow what thou in them do’ſt ſee,

And thou wilt ſoon be kind to me.

Thoſe mighty Bulls are worth thy ſight,

Who on the plains ſo ſtoutly fight;

Fiercely each others brow they hit,

Where Beauty does with anger meet.

Love is the quarrel they maintain,

As ’t was the reaſon of their pain.

So would thy faithful Shepherd do,

If he ſhould meet his Rival too.

Thy Shepherd, fair, and cruel one,

In all theſe Villages is known:

Such is his Fathers herd and flock,

The Plain is cover’d with the ſtock.

He the convenient’ſt paſtures knows,

And where the wholſom water flows;

Knows where the cooleſt ſhadows are,

And well hath learn’d a Shepherds care.

Aſtrology he ſtudies too,

As much as Shepherds ought to do;

Nay Magick nothing hath ſo dim,

That can be long conceal’d from him.

When any do theſe Secrets dread,

He for himſelf hath this to plead;

That he by them ſuch herbs can pick,

As cure his ſheep when they are ſick.

He Ddd1r 193

He can foreſee the coming ſtorm,

Nor Hail, nor Clouds, can do him harm,

And from their injuries can keep,

Safely enough his Lambs and Sheep.

He knows the ſeaſon of the year,

When Shepherds think it fit to ſhear

Such inoffenſive ſheep as theſe,

And ſtrip them of their Silver fleece.

He knows the ſcorching time of day,

When he muſt lead his flock away

To Valleys which are cool and near,

To chew the Cud, and reſt them there.

He dares the Fierceſt Wolves engage,

When ’t is their hunger makes them rage;

The frighted dogs, when they retire,

He with new courage can inſpire.

He ſings and dances paſſing well,

And does in wreſtling too excel,

Yes fair Maid, and few that know him,

But theſe advantages allow him.

At our Feaſt, he gets the Praiſe,

For his enchanting Roundelayes,

And on his head have ofteneſt been

The Garlands, and the Prizes ſeen.

When the Skrip, and Crook he quits,

And free from all diſturbance ſits,

He can make the Bag-pipes ſwell,

And Oaten Reeds his paſſion tell.

When his flame does him excite,

In amorous ſongs to do thee right,

He makes the Verſes which he uſes,

And borrows none of other Muſes.

Ddd He Ddd1v 194

He neglects his own affairs,

To ſerve thee with greater cares,

And many Shepherdeſſes would

Deprive thee of him if they could.

Of Alceſte he could tell

And Silvia’s Eye, thou know’ſt it well:

But as his modeſty is great,

He bluſhes if he them repeat.

When in the Chryſtal ſtream he looks,

If there be any truth in Brooks,

He finds, thy ſcorn can never be

Excus’d by his deformity.

His Paſſion is ſo high for thee,

As ’twill admit no new degree.

Why wilt not thou his love requite,

Since Kindneſs gives ſo much delight?

Aminta hearkned all this while,

Then with a dext’rous, charming ſmile,

Againſt her will, ſhe let him ſee,

That ſhe would change his deſtiny.

I promiſe nothing, then ſaid ſhe,

With an obliging air, and free;

But I think, if you will try,

The Wolves are crueller than I.

When my Sheep unhealthy are,

I have compaſſion, I have care;

Nor pains, nor journeys then I grudge,

By which you may my Nature judge.

When any of them goes aſtray,

All the hamlets near us may

Perceive me, all in grief and fear,

Run and ſearch it every where.

And Ddd2r 195

And when I happen once to find;

The object of my troubled mind,

As ſoon as ever it I ſpy,

O! how over-joy’d am I!

I flatter her, and I careſs,

And let her ruffle all my dreſs;

The vagabond I kindly treat,

And Mint and Thyme, I make her eat.

When my Sparrow does me quit,

My throbbing heart makes after it;

And nothing can relief afford,

For my fair inconſtant bird.

When my Dog hath me diſpleas’d,

I am preſently appeas’d;

And a tear is in my Eye,

If I have but made him cry.

I never could a hatred keep,

But to the Wolf that kills my ſheep:

Gentle and kind, and ſoft I am,

And juſt as harmleſs as a Lamb.

Diſpel thy fear, ceaſe thy complaint,

O Shepherd timerous, and faint!

For I’me a Miſtreſs very good,

If you’l but ſerve me as you ſhould.

Words of a favourable ſtrain,

(Cry’d out that now tranſported ſwain,)

Which do in thy Leontius fate,

So glad and ſwift a change create.

But look about, for now I mark

The fields already growing dark,

And with thoſe ſhadows cover’d all,

Which from the neighbouring Mountains fall.

The Ddd2v 196

The winged Quire on every tree

By Caroling melodiouſly,

Do the declining Sun purſue,

With their laſt homage, and adieu.

From the next Cottages, I here

Voices well known unto my Ear,

They are of our Domeſticks who

Do pipe, and hollow for us too.

The Flocks and Heards do homwards go,

I hear them hither bleat and low,

Thy Eyes which mine ſo much admire,

Tell me ’tis time we ſhould retire.

Go then deſtroying, fair one go,

Since I perceive it muſt be ſo,

Sleep ſweetly all the night, but be,

At leaſt, ſo kind to dream of me.

Tranſlation of Thomas a Kempis into Verſe, out of Monſ. Cornielle’s lib. 3. Cap. 2. Engliſhed.

Speak, Gracious Lord, thy ſervant hears,

For I both am and will be ſo,

And in thy pleaſant paths will go

When the Sun ſhines, or diſappears.

Give me thy Spirit, that I may perceive,

What by my Soul thou would’ſt have done,

Let me have no deſire but one,

Thy will to practice and believe.

But yet thy Eloquence diſarm,

And as a whiſper to my heart,

Let it like dew plenty impart,

And like that let it freely charm.

The Eee1r 197

The Jews fear’d Thunder-bolts would fall,

And that thy words would Death procure,

Nor in the Deſart could endure

To hear their Maker ſpeak at all.

They court Moſes to declare thy will,

And begg’d to hear no more thy voice,

They could not ſtand the dreadful noiſe,

Leſt it ſhould both ſurpriſe and kill.

Without thoſe terrours, I implore,

And other favours I entreat,

With confident, though humble heat,

I beg what Samuel did of yore.

Though thou art all that I can dread,

Thy voice is muſick to my ears,

Speak Lord then, for thy Servant hears,

And will obey what thou haſt ſaid.

I ask no Moſes that for thee ſhould ſpeak,

Nor Prophet to enlighten me,

They all are taught and ſent by thee,

And ’tis thy voice I only ſeek.

Thoſe beams proceed from thee alone,

Which through their words on us do flow;

Thou without them canſt all beſtow

But they without thee can give none.

They may repeat the ſound of words,

But not confer their hidden force,

And without thee, their beſt diſcourſe,

Nothing but ſcorn to men affords.

Let them thy Miracles impart,

And vigorouſly thy will declare;

Their voice, perhaps, may ſtrike the Ear,

But it can never move the heart.

Eee Th’ 198 Eee1v

Th’ obſcure and naked Word they ſow,

But thou doſt open our dim Eye,

And the dead letter to ſupply,

The Living Spirit doſt beſtow.

Myſterious truth’s to us they brought,

But thou expound’ſt the Riddle too,

And thou alone, canſt make us do

All the great things that they have taught

They may indeed the way direct,

But thou inableſt us to walk;

I’th ear alone ſticks all they talk,

But thou doſt even the Heart deſſect.

They waſh the ſurface of the mind,

But all her fruit, thy Goodneſs claims,

All that e’re enlightens, or enflames,

Muſt be to that alone aſſign’d.




Printed for H. Herringman, and are to be sold at his
Shop, at the Blew-Anchor in the lower walk of
the new Exchange, 16671667.

Eee2v Fff1r

To the Right Honourable the Countess of Cork.


As some untimely Flower, whose bashful head

(Ready to drop into her humble Bed)

Is rescu’d by the Sun’s prevailing Ray,

To share that Light with which he guilds the Day;

So this Translation of strict Eyes afraid,

With conscious blushes, would have sought a shade,

When your resistless Power did Orders give,

Thus to recall the timerous Fugitive,

Which, to your breath, must all her being own,

Thrive when you smile, and wither if you frown.

Yet from submission this assurance grows,

That you’ll protect the Person you expose,

Who more delight from such a shelter draws,

Than to obtain, or to desire applause,

And your indulgence, would, much rather, chuse,

Than to be Favorite to every Muse.

For even they request to wait on you,

Who can best judge, and best reward them too;

You, who are more than Poets can invent,

Of most illustrious and most innocent,

Under your beams their faint Ideas sink,

And you more nobly live than they could think.

In you, the humble, and the brave, are met

To shew what’s truly, and what’s only great;

And all the Cliffords Fame in you does shine,

The greatest Honour of the Noblest Line:

Fff To Fff1v

To whom your debt of splendour you have paid,

And that (and more) to after times convey’d,

In such a Race, as must those wonders do,

That none could act but they, inspire but you.

But as your Merit does all Praise excel,

So does your Mercy all injurious zeal;

And you in that ador’d advantage live,

That nothing else is left you to forgive:

But ev’n your goodness will its self outshine,

If it can pardon this Address of mine.

So Altars once did Fire from Heaven enjoy,

Sent but to kindle what it might destroy.

The Fff2r

The Printer to the Reader.

Ihope you expect no Eloquence from a Printer, nor Regularity in a Preface, which hath nothing to say to you, but that Pompey being a Translation out of the French of Monsieur Corneille, the Hand that did it is responsible for nothing but the English, and the Songs between the Acts, which were added only to lengthen the Play, and make it fitter for the Stage, when those that could not be resisted were resolved to have it acted; and that no abuses of Transcribers (though they were numerous) could have prevailed to send it to the Press, if the Person most concern’d had not fear’d to disobey an excellent Lady, who commanded this publication, more than the severity of the Censorious World.

The Fff2v

The Persons of the Play.

Julius Cæsar.

Marcus Antonius.


Ptolomy, King of Ægypt.

Cleopatra, His Sister.

Photinus, His Governour.

Achillas, His Lieutenant General.

Septimius, A Romane Tribune in the Ægyptian Kings Army.

Achoreus, Cleopatra’s Gentleman Usher.

Charmion, Cleopatra’s Maid of Honour.

Cornelia, Pompey’s Widdow.

Philip, Pompey’s Freedman. Romans and Ægyptians.

The Scene Ptolomy’s Pallace in Alexandria.


For the Theatre at Dublin, written by the Earl of Roscomon.

The mighty Rivals, whose destructive Rage

Did the whole World in Civil Arms engage:

Are now agreed, and make it both their Choice,

To have their Fates determin’d by your Voice.

Cæsar from none but You, will hear his Doom,

He hates th’ obsequious Flatteries of Rome:

He scorns, where once he rul’d, now to be try’d,

And he hath rul’d in all the World beside.

When he the Thames, the Danube, and the Nile

Had stain’d with Blood, Peace flourish’d in this Isle;

And you alone may Boast, you never saw

Cæsar ’till now, and now can give him Law.

Great Pompey too, comes as a suppliant here,

But sayes He cannot now begin to fear.

He knows your equal Justice, and (to tell

A Roman Truth) He knows himself too well.

Success, ’tis true, waited on Cæsar’s side,

But Pompey thinks he conquer’d when he dy’d.

His Fortune when she prov’d the most unkind,

Chang’d his Condition, but not Cato’s Mind.

Then of what Doubt can Pompey’s Cause admit,

Since here so many Cato’s Judging sit?

To the Ladies. But you bright Nymphs, give Cæsar leave to woo.

The greatest Wonder of the World but you.

And hear a Muse, who has that Hero taught

To speak as gen’rously, as e’re he fought.

Ggg Whoſe Ggg1v

Whose Eloquence from such a Theme deters

All Tongues but English, and all Pens but Hers.

By the just Fates your Sex is doubly blest.

You conquer’d Cæſar, and you praiſe him beſt.

To the Lord Lieutenant. And You (Illustrious Sir) receive as due,

A present Destiny reserv’d for You.

Rome, France, and England join their Forces here,

To make a Poem worthy of your Ear.

Accept it then, and on that Pompey’s Brow

Who gave so many Crowns, bestow one now.

Pom- Ggg2r


Act I. Scene I.

Ptolomy, Achillas, Photinus, Septimius.


Fate hath declar’d her self, and we may see

Th’ Intrigue of the great Rivals Destiny:

That quarrel which did all the Gods divide,

Pharsalia hath the Honour to decide.

Whose Rivers swelling with new bloody Tides

(Sent thither from so many Parricides)

The Horrour of torn Ensigns, Chariots, Shields,

Spread in Confusion o’re th’ infected Fields;

Those slaughter’d heaps whose shades no rest obtain’d

By Nature to their own revenge constrain’d,

(Their Putrefactions seeming to revive

The War, with those that do remain alive,)

Are dreadful rules by which the Sword thinks fit,

Pompey to cast, and Cæsar to acquit.

That distress’d Leader of the Juster Side,

Whose wearied Fortune hath all Help deny’d,

A terrible Example will create

To future times, of the Extreams of Fate:

He flies, whose happy Courage had, till now,

Confin’d the Bay to his Victorious Brow:

He in our Ports chuses his last Retreat;

And wanting Refuge from a Foe so great,

His bold Misfortune seeks it in abodes,

Which from the Titans once preserv’d the Gods;

And from so fam’d a Climate, doth expect

That it should Earth as well as Heav’n protect;

And lending his Despair a kind Effort,

It Ggg2v 2

It should the staggering Universe support:

Yes, the World’s Fortune Pompey with him brings,

And hopes a Land whose Fame such Wonder sings,

A Prop or Tomb might to her Freedom give,

And Pompey’s Fall attend, if not relieve.

This, Friends, the Subject is of our debate;

Our Triumphs he, or Ruine will create:

He hazards me, who did my Father save,

And does expose that Memphis which he gave:

We must now hasten, or prevent his Fate,

His Ruine hinder, or precipitate:

That is unsafe, and this ignoble is;

I dread injustice, or unhappiness;

And angry fortune each way offers me

Either much danger, or much infamy.

It is my part to chuse, yours to advise

What you believe to be most safe and wise:

Pompey’s concern’d; nay, we the fame shall get,

Cæsar’s success to trouble or compleat;

And never Monarchs Fortune did afford

So great a Subject for a Councel Board.


When things, Sir, are determin’d by the Sword,

Justice is nothing but an empty word;

And he who then Affairs would rightly weigh,

Must not his Reasons, but his power obey:

View your own strength, let Pompey be survey’d,

Whose Fortune Droops, and Valour is betray’d;

Who not from Cæsar only takes his flight,

But from the Senates just reproach and sight,

(Whose greater part were cheaply left a Prey

To the keen Vultures of Pharsalia)

He flies lost Rome, and every Roman now;

Who must to his defeat their Fetters owe.

He flies those Kings who would chastise his Guilt,

Of all the blood that in this cause was spilt.

Their Hhh1r 3

Their Kingdoms now of Men and Money void,

Their broken Scepters and their Thrones destroy’d,

As Author of all Woes, abhor’d by all,

He flies the whole World, shatter’d by his Fall.

Can you alone resist so many Foes?

His safety he did in himself Repose:

He falls, and you may yield without a Blush

To such a weight as Rome her self does Crush;

A weight which hath the Universe prest down,

And the yet greater Pompey overthrown.

He that will save, whom Heaven will have wrackt,

By too much Justice may a Guilt Contract.

And a fidelity so indiscreet

May a short Fame, but long Repentance meet:

He but a more illustrious wound will have,

Which will not smart the less for being brave:

Do not for Egypt Thunderbolts provide,

But chuse with Fortune and the Gods to side.

Believe not they can an injustice do,

But where they favour, pay your Homage too.

Whatever they decree for them declare,

And think it impious where they frown to spare;

With Divine Anger, Pompey now beset,

Comes to involve you too in his Defeat.

His Head, for which both Gods and Men do call,

Already shakes, and seeks but where to fall:

His coming hither an Offence does seem,

And shews his hatred rather than esteem.

He would his safety with your ruine buy,

And can you doubt, if he deserve to die?

Had he fulfill’d what we both wisht and thought,

And a victorious Navy hither brought,

We then should him a joyful welcom shew,

Who must the gods blame for his usage now.

I of his Fortune, not of him complain,

But with regret Act what the Gods Ordain,

And the same Ponyard, once for Cæsar meant,

Shall with a sigh to Pompey’s Heart be sent.

Hhh Nor Hhh1v 4

Nor can you at a less rate than his Head

Secure your own, and shun the storm you dread,

Let this be thought a Crime, if so it must,

’Tis not a States-man’s Virtue to be Just.

When Right and Wrong are in the Ballance laid,

The Interest of Kingdoms is betray’d,

Extreamest Rigour is the Right of Kings,

When Timerous Equity their Ruine brings,

Who fears a Crime shall ever be afraid,

But he’ll rule all, who all things dares invade,

Who dangerous virtue, as disgrace, does shun,

And to an useful Crime as swiftly run.

This is my Thought Sir, but Achillas may,

Or else Septimius chuse some other way.

But this I know, whatever others like,

They fear no Conqueror, who the conquer’d strike.


Photin saies true Sir, but though Pompey we

Devested of his of his former Grandeur see,

Yet that Blood Precious does to me appear

Which the Gods did in Thessaly revere.

Not that a crime of State should be refrain’d,

But ’tis not lawful, till it be constrain’d:

And what need is there of such Rigour here?

Who quits the conquer’d, needs no Conqueror fear.

You may be Neuter, as you were before:

And Cæsar may, if him you must adore;

But though you treat him as a Power Divine,

This is too great an Off’ring for his Shrine.

To Mars himself should this head offer’d be,

’Twould fix on yours too black an infamy:

Let him not be assisted nor destroy’d,

And such a Conduct will all blame avoid.

You owe him much Sir, for Rome, mov’d by him,

Help’d our last King his Scepter to redeem,

But Gratitude and Hospitality,

In Hhh2r 5

In Monarchs Breasts must regulated be,

Nor can a King Contract so great a debt,

But that his Subjects claim a greater yet.

And all Engagements are to Princes void,

To cancel which, their bloud must be imploy’d:

Consider too, what Pompey did expose,

When he your Father help’d against his Foes:

By that he made his Power the greater seem,

And rais’d his own Fame, by restoring him:

He did in serving him but language spend;

But Cæsar’s Purse appear’d the better Friend,

Had we not Cæsar’s thousand Talents seen,

Pompey’s Orations had small succours been.

Let him not then his verbal merits boast,

For Cæsar’s Actions have oblig’d you most.

But if a benefit to him be due,

Speak now for him, as he did once for you:

His kindness safely thus requite you may;

But here receiv’d, he will your Scepter sway:

This conquer’d Roman yet a King will brave,

And in your own Dominions you enslave.

Refuse him welcome then, but spare his Head;

But if’t must fall, this arm shall strike him dead:

I can obey (Sir) and should Jealous grow,

If any Hand but mine should strike the blow.


Sir, I’m a Roman, and these Hero’s know

Pompey needs aid, and from you seeks it now;

You are his fate, may his lost hopes revive,

Banish, or kill, or give him up alive:

The first would cost you much too dear a rate,

I’le only then the other three debate.

His exile draws on you enraged Pow’r,

And does but half oblige the Conquerour;

Since to a long suspense you will him leave,

What fate his future battels shall receive;

And Hhh2v 6

And both on you Revenge, when weary grown

The Ills, which but for you they had not known.

To render him to Cæsar were the same,

Who must forgive him to augment his Fame:

He will a brav’ry on himself impose,

And swell in that false mercy he bestows;

Glad if that way, he Pompey can o’recome,

And in the same Act please subjected Rome:

But whilst you him to this necessitate,

You’ll purchase his, as well as Pompey’s hate.

His danger and dishonour then prevent,

Both make him great, and keep him innocent;

Whilst Pompey’s Faction you in him destroy,

Let Cæsar, at your cost, the fruit enjoy:

By this advice, which you’l, I hope, allow,

You’l gain a Friend, and need not fear a Foe;

But if Achillas unsafe course you choose,

You neither gain, but both their Friendships lose.


Let us no more debate what’s Just and fit,

But to the Worlds vicissitude submit.

Your Major votes do with my thoughts agree,

Who in so great a change would active be,

Rome hath too long made an injurious Claim

That all men should adore the Roman Name:

Her lofty Freedom let us now throw down,

And all her scorn in Pompey’s Blood lets drown.

Cutting the Root by which that Pride does live,

To the Worlds Tyrants, let’s a Tyrant give;

Now Fate would chain an Arrogance, so fierce,

Let’s help her to revenge the Universe.

Rome, thou shalt serve, and Kings which alwaies yet,

Th’hast dar’d with so much insolence to treat,

Will Cæsar now, with less Regret obey,

Since thou shalt be enslav’d as well as they.

Achillas Iii1r 7

Achillas and Septimius lose no time,

But make us Deathless by this glorious Crime,

Of Heaven’s Resentment I’le the hazard run,

Who sent him hither sure to be undone.


A Kings Command must no dispute endure.


Go then, the Scepter which I bear, secure;

For you by this Commission are become

The Destinies of Egypt and of Rome.

Scen II.

Ptolomy, Photinus.


I am mistaken Photin, or by this

My Sister will her expectation miss,

Pompey my Father’s Will having secur’d,

Her Coronation she believe’s assur’d.

And she her self the Mistress does esteem,

Of that divided Scepter left by him.

Their Antient Friendship she depends upon,

And inwardly already shares my Throne.

Whence her Ambition is become so vain,

That from its Ashes it revives again.


Sir, ’Twas a motive I did not debate,

And yet which ought to hasten Pompey’s Fate.

He your Pretentions doubtless will decide,

And by your Father’s Will your Claims Divide.

To which great Trust of Friendship being true,

You know how much he disobliges you.

Nor that by this Discourse, I would remove

The Sacred Ciment of a Brothers Love,

Iii I Iii1v 2808

I banish her not from your Heart, but Throne,

For he Reigns not, that does not Reign alone.

Divided Empire all wise Kings avoid,

For Pow’r Communicated is Destroy’d;

And Policy.—But, Sir, she does appear.

Scene. III.

Ptolomy, Cleopatra, Photinus.


Pompey is come (Sir) and can you be here?


That mighty Warriour I at home attend,

And him Achillas and Septimius send.


What? such Embassadours as those to him?


You may go too, if they too little seem.


Is your own meeting him, too great a thing?


I must remember, that I am a King.


Can you reflect on that, and yet be slow

To kiss the hand of him, that made you so?

And pay you homage to a Man so great?


Did he that Title in Pharsalia get?


Though none did his misfortunes help afford,

Hee’s still that Pompey who your Crown restor’d.


Rather his shade, and but my Father Crown’d,

By whose Ghost, not by me, it should be own’d.

Let him, attend his Dust and be

To receive Thanks from his cold Monument.

Cleo- Iii2r 2909


Hath such a Benefit such usage met?


I both remember it and his Defeat.


You, do indeed but with a scornful Pride.


Time is the Standard by which things are Try’d;

You, that so prize him may his greatness Court,

But know, He yet may perish in the Port.


What, may his Shipwrack in the Port arrive?

And have dar’d his Ruine to contrive.


I have done only what the Gods inspir’d,

And what the safety of my State


I know but too much, Photin, and his Crew

Have with their wicked Councels poyson’d you:

Souls that are but of Natures Rubbish fram’d.


The Councel, Madam, will not be disclaim’d.


’Tis the King, Photin, I discourse with now;

Stay then, till I descend to take to you.


You must a little with her scorn dispense,

I know her hatred, and your innocence;

But she’s my Sister, give her humour vent.


Sir, If too late it be not to repent,

Shake off at length, a Yoke that is so vile.

And call your Virtue back from her exile:

That magnanimity so great, and good,

Which is convey’d to Princes, with their Blood.


Swell’d with a hope in vain by you foreseen,

You speak to me of Pompey, like a Queen:

Through Iii2v 10

Through your false zeal, flashes of Pride escape;

And Interest does act in Virtues shape:

Confess it then, you had been silent still,

Were it not for the King our Father’s Will;

You know who keep’s it?


And you shall Know too,

Virtue alone prompts me to what I do.

For if I did my own advantage seek,

I should for Cæsar, not for Pompey speak:

Receive a secret I conceal’d before,

And after that, never reproach me more.

When none that bold Rebellion could withstand,

Which rob’d our Father of his Crown and Land,

The injur’d King forsook his Native shore,

And Romes great Senate did for Aid Implore.

With him we went, their pitty to engage,

You very Young; but I was in an Age,

When Nature had supply’d my Eyes with Darts,

Already Active in subduing hearts.

Cæsar receiv’d, or else pretended love,

And by his Actions, would his Passion prove,

But since the Senat’s Pique to him he knew,

He their lov’d Pompey, to our party drew.

Whose high concern for us, on Cæsar’s score,

Was the last fruit their Friendship ever bore.

Of this you do inherit the event,

But such a Lover not with it content,

When by th’ of so great a Man,

In our behalf the Roman suffrage ran,

Resolving further Kindness to impart,

He gave his Treasure to attend his Heart:

And from the bounty of his growing flame,

Those sinews both of War and Power came:

Those thousand Talents which we owe him yet,

Forc’d our revolted Egypt to submit.

On this the King reflecting, when he dy’d

Betwixt us did his Dignity divide;

And Kkk1r 11

And by his Sovereign Right, on me bestow’d

A part of what, he to my Beauty ow’d:

Whilst you, who this great reason never knew,

Thought that his Favour, which was but my due;

And Your dread Father, partial dar’d to call,

Who gave me half, when yet he ow’d me all.


This Story, you with Art enough contrive.


I am assur’d, Cæsar will soon arrive.

And a few hours will such a change effect,

As your Dark Policy did least expect.

And shew you why I spoke so like a Queen,

Who the loth’d Object of your scorn have been.

You in the Throne, usurp’d my equal seat,

And as a Slave you did your Sister Treat;

Till I was forc’d to shun a ruder Fate,

To stoop and Court your Ministers of State.

Whose steel or poyson, I still fear’d: but Know

Pompey or Cæsar will secure me now;

And whatsoe’re your Sycophants Ordain,

I now am sure my Scepter to obtain:

Till when my Pride shall leave you, to divine

In this Contest, what could be my design.

Ptolomy, Photin.


What think you Photin, of this lofty Mind?


My spirit, Sir, to wonder is resign’d,

And nothing but amazement can express;

At such a secret as I nere could guess,

My thoughts are so unquiet and confus’d,

I scarce know what expedient should be us’d.


Shall we save Pompey?

Kkk Pho- Kkk1v 12


Had you that decreed,

Yet it were now convenient he should bleed.

Your Sister hates you, she is fair and fierce,

And if she such Victorious Charmes disperse;

The head of Pompey only can suffice

To win the heart of Cæsar from her Eyes.


This dangerous Woman hath a busie wit.


But such a service will out-ballance it.


But what if Cæsar still her Pow’r obey?


Then flatter her, yet mind not what I say,

Till first you ask, in an affair so Nice,

Achillas and Septimius best advice.


Lets from the Tow’r see them act Pompey’s doom,

And this Debate at their return, resume.

After the first Act of Pompey, the King and Photin should be discovered, sitting and hearkning to this Song.

Since affairs of the State, are already decreed,

Make room for Affairs of the Court,

Employment and Pleasure each other succeed,

Because they each other support.

Were Princes confin’d

From slackening their Mind,

When by Care it is rufled and Curl’d.

A Crown would appear

Too heavy to wear

And no Man would govern the World.

If the Gods themselves who have power enough,

In diversions are various, and oft

Since Kkk2r 13

Since the business of Kings is angry and rough,

Their Intervals ought to be soft.

Were Princes confin’d, &c.

To our Monarch we owe, whatsoer’e we enjoy:

And no grateful Subjects were those,

Who would not the safty, he gives them, employ

To contribute to his repose.

Were Princes confin’d, &c.

After which an Antick dance of Gypsies is presented.

Act. II Scen. I.

Cleopatera, Charmion.


I Love him, but a Flame so much refin’d,

How bright soever, dazles not my mind:

For Vertue makes my inclination know,

What Cæsars Mistress does to Pompey owe:

And none dare own a passion so sublime,

But she that scorn’s the shaddow of a crime.

I should but smal Respect to Cæsar pay,

To seek his in an unhandſom way.


Can you love Cæsar, Madam, and advise

That Egypt should in Armes against him rise?

That they should Pompey against him Protect?

And his Pharsalian Triumphs should be checkt,

Sure Love in you does little Empire shew,


This to their high extraction Princes owe,

That by th’ Assistance, of their Royal Blood,

Their Passions are more easily subdu’d.

Their honour still the Victory will have,

And whilst they trust themselves, they still are brave.

All Kkk2v 14

All the Disorders, which in Kings we see,

To others Councels must imputed be.

This I the cause of Pompey’s ruine Deem;

The King would help, but Photin murthers him.

Whose Councel hath his Masters faith o’rethrown,

Which still had sway’d, had he observ’d his own.


You then who Cæsar love, and yet oppose.


The Love I cherish no dishonour knows,

But worthy him.


Are you of his secur’d?


I think I am.


But are you well assur’d?


Know that a Princess by her glory mov’d,

No Love confesses till she be belov’d.

Nor the most noble passion ever shows,

When it shall her to a Contempt expose.

At Rome, I first did Cæsars Heart invade,

Where he the first expression of it made;

And ever since, he did to me renew,

The Tribute of his Vows and Laurels too.

He march’d through Italy, through Gaule and Spain,

With Love in’s Brest, and fortune in his Train:

Nor did he ever make so brave a Prize,

But he pay’d Homage for it to these Eyes.

With the same hand, which did that weapon quit

Wi’th’ Blood of Pompey’s party reeking yet,

He writ complaints, and put my fetters on,

Ev’n in the Field, which he had newly won.

Yes from Pharsalia his submissions came,

And if his speed be equal to his flame,

Or rather, if the Sea befriend his Fleet,

Egypt shall see him shortly at my feet.

He Lll1r 15

He comes my Charmion, and from me alone,

Seeks the reward of all that he hath done.

And all his glory to my Shrine he brings,

With the same hand that gives the law to Kings,

So that ev’n in his Triumphs, my disdain

Can make the Man, that rules the World complain.


Yet I dare swear, your charms a pow’r enjoy,

Which though they boast of, they will ne’re employ.

And the great Cæsar shall no trouble know,

If it can only from your rigour grow.

But what can you expect from Cæsar’s flames,

Wherein such right another Woman claims,

His freedom he by marriage hath resign’d,

And only to Calphurnia is confin’d.


But a Divorce, at Rome so common now,

May remove her, and my desires allow:

Cæsar’s Experience him to that may lead,

Since ’twas Calphurnia’s passage to his bed.


But the same way may you at length remove.


Perhaps I better shall secure his love,

Perhaps my passion may find out an Art

Better to manage that illustrious Heart.

But let’s to Heaven leave what may arrive,

And this Alliance (if we can) contrive.

Were it but one day, ’twere enough for me,

One day, the Mistress of the World to be.

I have Ambition, and be’t good or ill,

It is the only Sovereign of my Will.

And ’tis this noble passion sure, or none,

A Princess may without a blemish own.

But yet with Glory I would it enflame,

Nor would buy Greatness with the loss of Fame,

For I the brightest Crown can scorn to touch,

When ’tis attended with the least Reproach.

Lll Wonder Lll1v 16

Wonder not then, that I so much pursue

Pompey’s defence, and would my Duty do.

His injur’d vertue, since I cannot right,

My secret wishes must invoke his flight:

That some kind storm may so his Ships disperse,

As may preserve him from his Murtherers.

But faithful Achoreus comes, and he

Will quickly tell us Pompey’s Destiny.

Scen. II.

Cleopatra, Charmion, Achoreus


What, is it done, and hath some Treacherous hand

With that Rich bloud stain’d our unhappy strand?


By your commands, I to the shore did run,

And saw this Treason in its horrour done:

I saw the greatest Mortal lose his breath,

And though a sad, I saw a glorious death.

And since a story you require from me,

So much his Honour, and our Infamy:

Hear now his Fate, and wonder and bewail

His three Ships in the Harbour striking sail,

When to our ready Gallies he approach’d,

He thought the King, with his misfortunes touch’d,

By noble sense of Honour, did intend

With all his Court to meet so brave a friend.

But when he only saw a Squiff prepar’d,

And that too fill’d with Ruffians of his guard:

Th’ ingrateful Treachery did then appear,

And gave him some approaches of a fear:

But seeing arm’d Men on our Ships and Shore,

He blush’d his apprehensions were so Poor;

And when the Danger was so neer him brought,

He only on Cornelia’s safety thought.

“Let’s Lll2r 17

Let’s but expose, saies he,

this single head

To a Reception we may so much dread.

But whilst I only do the shock sustain,

Hasten thy flight, and my revenge obtain.

King Juba is more generously enclin’d,

Where thou thy Father, and my Sons shall find:

But if their Deaths should thee of them deprive,

Never despair while Cato is alive.

While their contest on this was sad and kind,

Achilla’s fatal boat their Vessel join’d:

Septimius then, to get him in his Pow’r,

I’th Roman Language call’d him Emperour;

And as deputed from th’ Egyptian Prince,

Let, Sir, says he, this Bark convey you hence;

The Shelfs and Sands which under water lye,

To greater Vessels an access deny.

The Hero saw, and smil’d at this abuse;

He then receiv’d his Wifes and Friends adieus,

Their stay commanded, and to death did go

With the same look, as he did Crowns bestow:

With the same Majesty writ in his Brow,

He sat unmov’d among his Murtherers now:

His stedfast Courage did his Conduct seem,

Philip his Freed-man only follow’d him,

Of whom, what I have told you, I did learn,

But saw the rest my self with sad concern:

And think (so mournful it to me appears)

Cæsar himself could not refuse it Tears.


But spare not mine, nor let them intercept

A story, which I have already wept.


Whilst toward Land they brought him, not a word

To the unhappy Pompey they afford:

In which contempt, he did foresee his end.

At length arriv’d, they ask him to descend,

He Lll2v 18

He rising, as Achillas stood behind

Drawing his Sword, for what they had design’d,

Septimius, and three Romans more embrew’d,

Their guilty hands in that heroick blood:

Till ev’n Achillas was with horrour strook,

Upon a Rage so barbarous to look.


You Gods who Nations do chastise with War,

When you revenge this death, our Cities spare!

And not the place, but Actors look upon,

The crime of Egypt was by Romans done.

But tell me what this Worthy said, and did.


With his Robes border he his visage hid,

Blindly his cruel destiny obey’d;

And would not see that Heav’n which him betray’d:

Lest any look of his, in such a stroke,

Should its assistance, or revenge invoke.

Not the least poor complaint fell from his Tongue,

Or ought that spoke him worthy of his wrong:

But that despising, made his last retreat

To all that in his life was good or great:

And held the treason, which the King had wrought,

Too much below him to employ his thought.

His Virtue, by their crime more brightly shone,

And his last gasp, was an illustrious one.

This great Soul fled, his body did expose

To th’ greedy Eyes of his inhumane Foes:

His head, which tumbled on the blushing Deck,

(By vile Septimius sever’d from his neck)

Upon Achillas Lance we fixed see,

As after Battels Trophies use to be:

And to conclude a Destiny so sad,

The Sea was all the Sepulchre he had.

To fortune now, his slaughter’d Corps resign’d,

Floats at the pleasure of the Wave and Wind,

The Poor Cornelia at the dreadful view.

Cleo- Mmm1r 19


O Gods! What could she either say or do!


By woful shrieks, she try’d his life to shield,

Then hopeless up to Heav’n her hands she held:

And by her mighty sorrow overthrown,

Fell either dead, or in a deadly swoon.

In this distress her Ships employ their Oars

To gain the Sea, and quit those horrid shores.

But infamous Septimius having thought

Cornelia’s flight, rob’d him of half his fault:

Has with six Ships hasten’d to her pursuit,

And the dead Pompey still does persecute.

But whilst to th’King Achillas brings the Prize,

The trembling People turn’d away their eyes.

One does with horrour on the guilt reflect,

And a revenging Earthquake does expect:

This hears it thunder, and that does believe

Nature a Revolution must receive.

Their Reason, troubled by the Crimes extent,

Cannot but dread as vast a punishment.

Philip mean while shews on the River side,

That his mean fortune a brave soul did hide:

He curiously examines every wave,

For that rich Pledge, which Treason to them gave:

That those lov’d bones he piously might burn,

And give him one, though an inglorious Urn.

And with a little Dust a Tomb erect

To him who did the Universe subject.

But whilst Cornelia they one way pursue,

Another we might Cæsar’s coming view,

A Navy which can hardly reckon’d be.


Ne’re doubt it, Achoreus, it is he;

Tremble bad men, at your approaching Doom,

My Breath is now your Destiny become.

Cæsar’s come, I’m a Queen, Pompey’s reveng’d,

Tyranny ruin’d, and the times are chang’d.

Mmm “But Mmm1v 20

But let’s with wonder on the Great reflect;

Pity their Fortune, and our own suspect:

He who we thought ev’n Fate her self had sway’d,

Who rul’d a Senate which the World obey’d:

Whom his own Rome saw (almost Deifi’d)

Over the World’s three Parts in Triumph ride;

And who in the last hazards of his Fate,

Saw both the Consuls on his Standards wait:

As soon as Fortune one unkindness shows,

Egyptian Monsters of his life dispose:

And a Photinus, or Septimius, can

Govern the Destiny of such a Man.

A King who owes him, ev’n the Crown he wears,

Exposing him to those base Flatterers.

So fell the mighty Pompey, and so may

Cæsar himself perhaps another day.

O may the Gods the Augury disprove!

And make his Fortune constant as my Love.


The King comes Madam, who may overhear.

Scen. III.

Ptolomy, Cleopatra.


Know you what happiness is drawing near?


Yes I have heard it, the great Cæsar’s come:

And Photin shall no more pronounce my Doom:


That faithful Subject you could ne’re endure.


No, but am from his Projects now secure.


Which of his Plots could you so much offend?

Cleo- Mmm2r 21


I’ve much endur’d, and more may apprehend:

For such a Polititian is not Nice,

And you are alwaies steer’d by his advice.


If I believe him, I his prudence see.


And I who fear him, know his cruelty.


For a Crown’s safety all things just appear.


That kind of equity creates my fear,

My share of Power hath been by it lost,

And now it has the head of Pompey cost.


Never a game of State was more advis’d,

For else by Cæsar we had been surpris’d:

You see his speed, and we had been subdu’d,

Before we could in our defence have stood.

But now I to a Conquerour so great,

Your Heart may offer, and my Royal seat.


Make your own Presents, I’le dispose of mine,

Nor others Interests with yours combine.


Our Blood’s the same, uniting me and you.


You might have said, our Rank unites us too.

We both are Sovereigns, yet ’twill be confest,

There is some difference in our interest.


Yes, Sister, for my Heart is well content

Only with Egypts narrow Continent.

But now your Beauty, Cæsar’s heart does wound,

Tagus and Ganges must your Empire bound.


I have ambition, but it is confin’d,

It may surprize my Soul, but never blind.

T’up- Mmm2v 22

T’upbraid me with those bounds there is no need.

I know my reach, and shall not that exceed.


Your Fortune smiles and you th’advantage use.


You may revile me, if I that abuse.


I hope the best, Love no ill Fruit can bear.


You seem to hope, what really you fear.

But though the gods my just pretensions Crown,

You need not doubt, I’le ask but what’s my own.

You ne’re shall anger from your Sister find,

Though you’re a cruel Brother, I’le be kind.


But yet methinks you do discover pride.


Time is the Standard whereby things are try’d.


Your present carriage that doth plainly shew.


Cæsar is come and you’ve a Master now.


I made him mine who the Worlds Master is.


Pay him your homage, while I look for his.

In this Address you may your self be seen,

But I’le remember that I am a Queen.

Photin will help you to receive him now,

Advise with him, he’ll tell you what’s to do.

Act. Nnn1r 23

Act. II. Scen. IV.

Ptolomy, Photinus.


I have observ’d thy Counsel, but find since

To flatter her, but swells her insolence.

For with her Pride she did affront me so,

That I at last fell into Passion too.

This Arm enrag’d by her, could scarce forbear

(Without a Thought that Cæsar was so near)

Dispatching her (as safe as she does seem)

To have complain’d to Pompey, not to him.

She talks already at that haughty rate,

That if great Cæsar please her Pride and Hate,

And she o’re him her boasted Empire have,

Her Brother and her King must be her Slave.

No, no, we needs must Frustrate that intent,

Nor poorly wait the Ills we may prevent.

Let’s spoil her of her Power to disdain,

And break those Charmes whereby she hopes to reign;

Nor after such indignities let’s brook,

That she should buy my Scepter with a look.


Do not for Cæsar, Sir pretence provide

That Egypt should be to his Triumphs ty’d:

For this Ambitious Man which through the world,

Hath War and Slavery together hurl’d;

Swell’d with his Conquest, and a Rage so smart,

As such a loss writes in a Lovers Heart:

Though you but act, what Equity approves,

Will thence ground his revenge for what he loves:

As for a crime, Hee’l you to Bondage bring,

Though you did only what became a King.


If Cleopatra sees him shee’s a Queen.

Nnn Pho- Nnn1v 24


But if she dye your Ruine is foreseen.


Who ruines me should on my fall attend.


To ruine her you must your self befriend.


What? must my Crown upon her Temples shine?

No, if my Scepter I must needs resign,

The Conquerour shall rather it command.


You’l sooner force it from a Sisters hand.

How great soever now his flames appear,

He must be gone, and leave You Master here.

Love in such Men, seldom that room can find,

Which to their Interest will not be resign’d.

With Juba, Scipio, and with Pompey’s Sons,

Spain, to Revenge, he knows, with Affrick runs:

And while that Party are not yet o’rethrown,

He cannot safely call the World his own.

Cæsar’s too great a Captain, to o’resee

The Pursuit of Pharsalia’s Victory:

And leave such fierce Hearts on revenge intent,

To rise from their so late Astonishment.

If he his ends Obtain, and them o’recome,

He his gain’d Empire must secure at Rome:

And there the fruit of his success enjoy,

Whilst he at pleasure does her laws Destroy.

Judge in that time, what great things you may do,

See Cæsar then, and strive to please him too.

Resign him all, but yet this Rule intend,

That future things on accidents Depend.

Your Throne and Scepter give into his hand,

And without murmur yield to his Command:

He will believe that Justice he shall do

If he your Father’s Testament pursue;

Besides this signal service you have done;

Will give you still some Title to your Throne.

Entire Nnn2r 25

Entire submission to his Orders shew,

Applaud his Judgment, but then let him go.

That time for our Revenge will be most fit

When we can Act, as well as think of it.

With temper let these Passions then be born,

Which were excited by your Sisters scorn.

Boasts are but Air, and he revenges best,

Who Acts his braver Thoughts, yet talks the least.


O thy Advice my greatest Comfort brings,

A Prudent Counsellour’s the bliss of Kings.

Come dear Supporter of my Throne, let’s go,

And to save all, on Cæsar all bestow.

His Pride let’s flatter with an empty State,

And with our whole Fleet on him hither Wait.

After the second Act, this Song is to be sung by two Egyptian Priests on the stage.


See how Victorious Cæsar’s Pride

Does Neptune’s Bosom sweep!

And with Thessalian Fortune ride

In Triumph o’re the Deep.


What Rival of the Gods is this

Who dare’s do more then they?

Whose Feet the Fates themselves do kiss

And Sea and Land obey.


What can the Fortunate withstand?

For this resistless He,

Rivers of Blood brings on the Land,

And Bulwarks on the Sea.


Since Gods as well as Men submit,

And Cæsar’s favour woe,

Virtue Nnn2v 26

Virtue her self may think it fit

That Egypt court him too.


But Pompey’s Head’s a rate too dear,

For by that impious price

The God less Noble will appear

Than do’s the Sacrifice.


If Justice be a thing divine,

The Gods should it maintain,

For us t’ attempt what they decline,

Would be as rash as vain.


How desperate is our Princes Fate?

What hazzard doe’s he run?

He must be wicked to be great,

Or to be just, undone.

Act. III. Scen. I.

Charmion, Achoreus.


Yes, whilst the King himself is gone to meet

Cæsar, and lay his Scepter at his Feet,

To her Appartment Cleopatra went,

And there unmov’d expects his Complement.

What words have you to cloath this Humour in?


’Tis Noble Pride and worthy of a Queen.

Who with Heroick courage does make good

The Honour of her Rank, and of her Blood.

May I speak to Her?

Char- Ooo1r 27


No, but she hath sent

Me to enquire this meetings great event.

How Cæsar on this Gift himself explain’d,

Whether it were acknowledg’d or disdain’d.

If he the fierce takes, or the gentler way,

And what he to our Murtherers could say.


The head of Pompey hath already cost,

More than they will have any cause to boast:

For whether Cæsar be or seem severe,

Yet I for them have ground enough to fear.

If they lov’d Ptolomy, they serv’d him ill,

You saw him part, and I pursu’d him still.

When from the City his well order’d Fleet,

Advanc’d a League, that they might Cæsar meet,

He with spread Sails arriv’d, and as in Wars

He still had been the Favourite of Mars:

So Neptune to his Navy was so kind,

His Fortune was not fairer than his Wind.

Our Prince was so astonish’d when they met,

As if he did his Crowned head forget.

Through his false joy his terrour he confess’d,

And all his Actions his low Thoughts express’d.

I my self blush’d as at a shameful thing,

There to see Ptolomy, but not the King;

Cæsar who saw his Courage thus expire,

In pity flatter’d him to raise it higher.

He with low voice offering his fatal gift,

Now Sir, says he, you have no Rival left.

What in Thessalia, not the gods could do,

I give you Pompey and Cornelia too.

Here’s one, and though the other flight did take,

Six ships of mine will quickly bring her back.

Achillas then the great Head did expose,

Which still to speak it self seem’d to dispose.

At this new injury some warm remain

Did in imperfect groans seem to complain.

Ooo I Ooo1v 28

I thought his open mouth and ghastly look,

Recall’d the Soul which scarce her leave had took;

And his last anger seem’d with dying breath,

To charge the gods with his Defeat and Death.

Cæsar seem’d Thunder-stricken at this view,

As not resolv’d what to believe or do.

Immoveably on that sad Object ty’d;

He long from us his inward thought did hide,

And I would say, if I durst make a guess,

By what our Nature uses to express:

Some such malignant pleasure he enjoy’d,

As his offended honour scarce destroy’d.

That the whole World now in his power lies,

Could not but bring some flattering surprize.

But though a while this conflict he endur’d,

Yet his great Soul it self soon re-assur’d.

Though he loves Power, yet he Treason hates,

Himself he judges, on himself debates.

Each joy and grief at Reason’s Bar appears,

At length resolv’d, he first let fall some Tears.

His Virtues Empire he by force regains,

And noblest thoughts by that weak sign explains.

The horrid present from his sight expell’d,

His Eyes and Hands he up to Heaven held.

In a few words their insolence repress’d,

And after did in pensive silence rest.

Nor even to his Romans could reply,

But with a heavy sigh and furious eye.

At last with thirty Cohorts come to Land,

To seize the Gates and Ports he does command.

The Guards he set, and secret Orders sent,

Shew his distrust as well as discontent.

Egypt he speaks of as a Province won,

And now calls Pompey not a Foe, but Son.

This I observ’d.


By which the Queen may find

The just Osiris of her Vows inclin’d:

Whilst Ooo2r 29

Whilst with this happy News to her I flye,

Do you preserve her your Fidelity.


Ne’re doubt it; but here Cæsar comes, go then

Describe the Consternation of our Men:

And whatsoever proves to be their Fate;

I’le first observe, and then to her relate.

Scen. II.

Cæsar, Ptolomy, Lepidus, Photinus, Achoreus, Roman and Egyptian Souldiers.


Great Sir, ascend the Throne, and govern Us.


Do you know Cæsar, and speak to him thus?

What worse could envious Fortune offer me?

Who alike hate a Crown and Infamy.

This to accept, would all my boast confute,

That Rome did me unjustly persecute:

Rome, who both scorns, & gives Crowns every where,

And nothing sees in Kings to love or fear;

Nay, at our Birth does all our Souls enflame,

To slight the Rank, and to abhor the Name.

This truth you might have learn’d from Pompey, who

If he such Offers lik’d, could shun them too.

Both Throne and King had honour’d been, t’afford

Service to him who had them both restor’d:

So glorious had been even ill success,

In such a Cause, that Triumphs had been less:

And if your Fortune safety had deny’d,

To have bestow’d it, had been Cæsar’s pride:

But though you would not own so brave a strife,

What right had you to that illustrious Life?

Who that rich blood to wash your hands allow’d,

That to the meanest Roman should have bow’d?

Was Ooo2v 30

Was it for you Pharsalia’s Field I won,

Wherein so many Nations were undone?

And did I purchase at so high a rate,

That you should be the Arbiters of Fate?

If I in Pompey that could ne’re admit,

Shall you escape o’re him assuming it?

How much is my success abus’d by you,

Who attempt more than ever I durst do?

What Name, think you, will such a blow become,

Which has usurp’d the Soveraignty of Rome?

And in one Person did affront her more,

Than could the Asian Massacre before.

Do you imagine I shall e’re agree

You would have been more scrupulous for me?

No, had you Pompey here Victorious seen,

My Head to him had such a Present been:

I to my Conquest your Submissions owe,

When all wrongs had pursu’d my Overthrow.

You do adore the Conqueror, not me;

I but enjoy it by Felicity.

Dangerous Friendship! Kindness to be fear’d!

Which turns with Fortune, and by her is steer’d.

But speak; this silence does encrease your sin.


Never hath my Confusion greater been;

And I believe, Sir, you’l allow it me,

Since I, a King born, now a Master see:

Where at my frown, each man did trembling stand,

And every word of mine was a Command;

I see a new Court, and another sway,

And I have nothing left, but to obey:

Your very look abates my spirits force,

And can it be regain’d by your Discourse?

Judge how I can from such a Trouble cease,

Which my Respects create, and Fears encrease:

And what can an astonisht Prince express,

Who anger sees in that Majestick Dress?

And whose Amazements do his Soul subdue,

That Ppp1r 31

That Pompey’s Death should be reveng’d by You.

Yet I must say, whatever he bestow’d,

We owe you more, then ever him we ow’d:

Your Favour was the first to us exprest,

And all he did, was done at your Request;

He did the Senate move for injur’d Kings,

And them that Prayer to our Assistance brings:

But all that He for Egypt could obtain,

Without your Mony, Sir, had been in vain:

By that his Rebels our late King subdu’d,

And you have Right to all our Gratitude:

We Pompey as your Friend and Son rever’d,

But when he your Competitour appear’d,

When of your Fortune he suspicious grew,

Tyranny sought and dar’d to fight with you—


Forbear, your hatreds Thirst his Blood supplies,

Touch not his Glory, let his Life suffice;

Say nothing here that Rome still dares deny,

But plead your Cause without a Calumny.


Then let the Gods be Judges of his Thought;

I only say, that in the Wars last fought,

To which so many Wrongs did you perswade,

Our Vows for your success were only made:

And since he ever sought your Blood to spill,

I thought his Death a necessary Ill.

For as his groundless Hatred daily grew,

He would, by all ways, the Dispute renew;

Or if at length, he fell into your Hand,

We fear’d your Mercy would your Right withstand:

For to that Pitch your sense of Honour flies,

As would to Fame your Safety sacrifice;

Which made me Judge, in so extream an Ill,

We ought to serve you, Sir, against your will;

My forward Zeal th’ occasion did embrace,

Without your leave, and to my own disgrace:

And this you as a Crime in me disclaim,

Ppp But Ppp1v 32

But nothing done for you deserves that Name:

I stain’d my Hands, your Danger to remove,

Which Act you may enjoy, and disapprove;

Nay by my Guilt, my Merit higher grows;

Since I my Glory gave for your Repose,

And by that greatest Victim have procur’d

Your Glory and your Power to be assur’d.


You employ, Ptolomy, such crafty Words,

And weak Excuses as your Cause affords;

Your Zeal was false, if ’twere afraid to see

What all Mankind beg’d of the Gods should be:

And did to you such subtleties Convey,

As stole the Fruit of all my Wars away;

Where Honour me engag’d, and where the end

Was of a Foe subdu’d, to make a Friend;

Where the worst Enemies that I have met,

When they are conquer’d I as Brothers treat:

And my Ambition only this Design’d,

To kill their Hate, and force them to be kind;

How blest a Period of the War ’t had been,

If the glad World had in one Chariot seen

Pompey and Cæsar at once to have sate

Triumphant over all their former Hate!

These were the Dangers you fear’d should befal;

O fear Ridiculous, and Criminal!

You fear’d my Mercy, but that trouble quit,

And wish it rather; you have need of it.

For I am sure strict Justice would consent

I should appease Rome with your punishment.

Not your Respects, nor your Repentance now,

No nor your Rank, preserves you from that Blow:

Ev’n on your Throne I would revenge your Guilt,

But Cleopatra’s Blood must not be spilt:

Wherefore your Flatterers only I condemn;

And must expect you’l do me Right on them:

For what in this I shall observe you do,

Must be the Rule of my Esteem for you:

To Ppp2r 33

To the great Pompey Altars now erect,

And to him pay, as to the Gods, Respect.

By Sacrifices your Offence expel,

But have a Care you chuse your Victims well.

Go then, and whilst you do for this prepare,

I must stay here about another Care.

Scen. III.

Cæsar, Antonius, Lepidus.


Antonius, have you this bright Princess seen?


Yes, Sir, I have, and shee’s a matchless Queen;

With such proportion Heaven never yet

All Beauties both of Mind and Body knit;

So sweet a Greatness in her Face does shine,

The Noblest Courage must to it resign;

Her Looks and Language with such ease subdue,

If I were Cæsar, I should love her too.


How was the Offer of my Love receiv’d?


As doubted, and yet inwardly believ’d:

She modestly declin’d her highest aims,

And thinks she merits, what she most disclaims.


But can I hope her love?


Can she have yours?

As that your Joys, so this her Crown secures.

To gain that Heart can you believe it hard,

Whose kindness you with Empire can reward?

Then let your Passion all its Doubts disband,

For what can Pompey’s Conquerour withstand?

But yet her Fear to her remembrance brings,

How Ppp2v 34

How little, Rome hath ever valu’d Kings;

And more then that, she dreads Calphurnia’s Love;

But both these Rubs your presence will remove,

And your successful Hope all Mists will break,

If you vouchsafe but for your Self to speak.


Let’s go then, and these needless scruples quit,

Shewing my Heart to Her that wounded it:

Come let us stay no longer.


But first know,

Cornelia is within your Power now:

Septimius brings her, boasting of his Fault,

And thinks by that he hath your Favour bought.

But once ashore your Guards (by Orders taught)

No notice took, but hither both have brought.


Then let her enter: Ah unwelcome News!

Which my Impatience does so roughly use!

O Heaven! and am I not allow’d to pay

My love this small remainder of one day?

Scen. IV.

Cæsar, Cornelia, Antonius, Lepidus, Septimius




Go Septimius for your Master look,

Cæsar a Traytors presence cannot brook;

A Roman, who to serve a King could be

Content, when he had Pompey serv’d, and me.

Exit Septimius.


Cæsar, that envious Fate which I can brave,

Makes me thy Prisoner, but not thy Slave:

Expect Qqq1r 35

Expect not then my Heart should ere afford

To pay thee Homage, or to call thee Lord:

How rude soever Fortune makes her blow,

I Crassus Widow once, and Pompey’s now;

Great Scipio’s Daughter, (and what’s higher yet)

A Roman, have a Courage still more great;

And of all strokes her cruelty can give,

Nothing can make me blush, but that I live,

And have not follow’d Pompey when he dy’d;

For though the means to do it were deny’d,

And cruel Pity would not let me have

The quick assistance of a Steel or Wave,

Yet I’m asham’d, that after such a woe,

Grief had not done as much as they could do:

Death had been glorious, and had set me free,

As from my Sorrow then, so now from thee.

Yet I must thank the gods, though so severe,

That since I must come hither, thou art here:

That Cæsar reigns here, and not Ptolomy;

And yet, O Heaven! what Stars do govern me?

That some faint kind of satisfaction ’tis,

To meet here with my greatest Enemies;

And into their hands that I rather fall,

Than into his that ow’d my Husband all.

But of thy Conquest, Cæsar, make no boast,

Which to my single Destiny thou ow’st;

I both my Husbands Fortunes have defac’d,

And twice have caus’d th’whole World to be disgrac’d;

My Nuptial Knot twice ominously ty’d,

Banish’d the Gods from the uprighter side;

Happy in misery I had been, if it,

For Romes advantage, had with thee been knit;

And on thy House that I could so dispense

All my own Stars malignant influence:

For never think my hatred can grow less,

Since I the Roman Constancy profess;

And though thy Captive, yet a heart like mine,

Can never stoop to hope for ought from thine:

Qqq Com- Qqq1v 36

Command, but think not to subject my will,

Remember this, I am Cornelia still.


O Worthy Widow of a Man so brave!

Whose Courage, Wonder, Fate does pity crave;

Your generous Thoughts do quickly make us know

To whom your Birth, to whom your Love you owe;

And we may find by your hearts glorious frame,

Both to, and from what Families you came;

Young Crassus Soul, and noble Pompey’s too,

Whose Vertues Fortune cheated of their due:

The Scipio’s Blood, who sav’d our Deities,

Speak in your Tongue, and sparkle in your Eyes;

And Rome her self hath not an ancient Stem,

Whose Wife or Daughter hath more honour’d them:

Would to those Gods your Ancestors once sav’d,

When Hannibal them at their Altars brav’d,

That your dear Hero had declin’d this Port,

And better known a false Barbarians Court;

And had not his uncertain Honour try’d,

But rather on our ancient love rely’d;

That he had suffered my successful Arms,

Only to vanquish his unjust Allarms;

Then he without distrusting me, had stay’d

Till he had heard what Cæsar could have said;

And I, in spight of all our former strife,

Would then have beg’d him to accept of life;

Forget my Conquest, and that Rival love,

Who fought, but that I might his Equal prove:

Then I, with a content entirely great,

Had pray’d the gods to pardon his Defeat;

And giving me his Friendship to possess,

He had pray’d Rome to pardon my success.

But since Fate, so ambitious to destroy,

Hath rob’d the World and Us, of so much Joy,

Cæsar must strive t’acquit himself to you,

Of what was your illustrious Husbands due:

Enjoy your self then with all freedom here,

Only Qqq2r 37

Only two days my Prisoner appear;

And witness be, how after our debate,

I shall revere his Name, revenge his Fate;

You this account to Italy may yield,

What Pride I borrow from Thessalia’s Field.

I leave you to your self, and shall retire;

Lepidus, furnish her to her desire;

As Roman Ladies have respected been,

So honour her, (that is) above a Queen.

Madam, command; all shall your Orders wait.


O Gods! How many Virtues must I hate!

After the third Act, to Cornelia asleep on a Couch, Pompey’s Ghost sings this in Recitative Air.

From lasting and unclouded Day,

From joys refin’d above allay,

And from a spring without decay.

I come, by Cynthia’s borrow’d beams

To visit my Cornelia’s Dreams,

And give them yet sublimer Theams.

Behold the Man thou lov’dst before,

Pure streams have wash’d away his Gore,

And Pompey now shall bleed no more.

By Death my Glory I resume;

For ’twould have been a harsher doom

T’outlive the Liberty of Rome.

By me her doubtful fortune try’d,

Falling, bequeaths my Fame this Pride,

I for it liv’d, and with it Dy’d.

Nor shall my vengeance be withstood

Or unattended with a Flood,

Of Roman and Egyyptian Blood.

Cæsar Qqq2v 38

Cæsar himself it shall pursue,

His daies shall troubled be and few,

And he shall fall by Treason too.

He, by severity Divine

Shall be an offering at my Shrine;

As I was his, he must be mine.

Thy stormy Life regret no more,

For Fate shall waft thee soon a shore,

And to thy Pompey thee restore.

Where past the fears of sad removes

We’ll entertain our spotless Loves,

In beauteous and immortal Groves.

There none a guilty Crown shall wear,

Nor Cæsar be Dictator there,

Nor shall Cornelia shed a Tear.

After this a Military Dance, as the continuance of her Dream, and then Cornelia starts up, as wakened in amazement, saying.

What have I seen? and whither is it gone?

How great the Vision! and how quickly done!

Yet if in Dreams we future things can see,

There’s still some joy laid up in Fate for me.

Act. Rrr1r 39

Act IV. Scen. I.

Ptolomy, Achillas, Photinus.


What? with that Hand, and with that Sword which had

A Victim of th’ unhappy Pompey made,

Saw you Septimius, fled from Cæsar’s hate,

Give such a bloody period to his Fate?


He’s dead, Sir, and by that you may collect,

What shame (foreseen by him) you must expect:

Cæsar you may by this slow anger know,

The violent does quickly come and go:

But the consider’d indignation grows

Stronger by age, and gives the fiercer blows;

In vain you hope his fury to asswage,

Who now secure, does politickly rage;

He safely for his Fame concern’d appears,

Pompey alive abhor’d, he dead reveres:

And of his Slaughter by this Art doth chuse,

To act the vengeance, and yet make the use.


Had I believ’d thee, I had never known

A Master here, nor been without a Throne:

But still with this imprudence Kings are curst,

To hear too much Advice and chuse the worst;

At the Pits brink Fate does their Reason blind;

Or if some hint they of their danger find,

Yet that false light amiss their Judgment steers

Plunges them in, and then it disappears.


I must confess I Cæsar did mistake,

Since such a Service he a Crime does make:

But yet his side hath streams, and those alone

Can expiate your fault, and fix your Throne.

Rrr I Rrr1v 40

I no more say, you silently should bear,

And your Revenge, till he be gone, defer:

No, I a better Remedy esteem,

To justifie his Rivals death on him.

When you the first Act by the last make good,

And Cæsar’s shed, as well as Pompey’s Blood,

Rome will no difference in her Tyrants know,

But will to you, from both, her Freedom owe.


Yes, yes, to this all Reasons do perswade;

Let’s fear no more the greatness we have made:

Cæsar shall still from Us receive his Doom,

And twice in one day we’ll dispose of Rome;

As Bondage first, let’s Freedom next bestow;

Let not thy Actions, Cæsar, swell thee so;

But call to mind what thou hast seen me do,

Pompey was mortal, and so thou art too;

Thou envy’dst him, for his exceeding thee,

And I think thou hast no more lives than he;

Thy own compassion for his Fate, does shew

That thy heart may be penetrable too:

Then let thy Justice threaten as it please,

’Tis I, must with thy Ruine, Rome appease;

And of that cruel mercy vengeance take,

Which spares a King, but for his Sisters sake.

My Life and Power shall not exposed be

To her Resentment, or thy Levity;

Lest thou, to morrow, should’st at such a rate

Reward her Love, or else revenge her Hate:

More noble Maximes shall my fears expel;

Thou bad’st me once to chuse my Victims well,

And my Obedience thou in this shalt see,

Who know no Victim worthier than thee,

Nor th’ Immolation of whose Blood will draw,

Better acceptance from thy Son in law.

But vainly, friends, we thus foment our Rage,

Unless we knew, what strength we could engage;

All this may be unprofitable heat,

The Rrr2r 41

The Tyrants Forces being here so great;

But of our Power let us be first agreed,

And in what time and method to proceed.


We may do much, Sir, in our present State,

Two miles from hence, six thousand Souldiers wait;

Which I, foreseeing some new Discontents,

Have kept in readiness for all Events;

Cæsar with all his Arts, could not foresee

That underneath this Town a Vault should be,

By which this night we to the Palace may

Our Men with Ease, and without noise convey;

T’ assault his life by open force alone,

Would be the only way to lose your own:

We must surprize him, and act our design,

When he is Drunk with Pleasure, Love, and Wine.

The People are all ours, for when he made

His entry, horrour did their Souls invade;

When with a Pomp so arrogantly grave,

His Fasces did our Royal Ensigns brave;

I mark’d what Rage at that injurious view,

From their incensed Eyes, like sparkles flew;

And they so much did with their fury strive,

That your least Countenance may it revive.

Septimius Souldiers fill’d with greater hate,

Struck with the terrour of their Leader’s Fate,

Seek nothing but revenge on him, who them

Did, in their Captains Person, so contemn.


But what way to approach him can be found!

If at the Feast his Guards do him surround?


Cornelia’s Men, who have already known

Among your Romans Kindred of their own,

Seem to perswade us they would help afford

To Sacrifice their Tyrant to their Lord;

Nay have assur’d it, and much better may

Than we, to Cæsar the first stabs convey;

His Rrr2v 42

His Clemency (not only false but vain)

Which courts Cornelia, that he Rome may gain,

Will to his Person, give them such access,

As may assure our Plot of a success.

But Cleopatra comes; to her appear

Only possess’d with weakness, and with fear:

Let us withdraw, Sir, for you know that we

Are Objects she will much abhor to see.


Go wait me.――

Scen. II.

Ptolomy, Cleopatra.


Brother, I have Cæsar seen,

And have to him your intercessour been.


I never could expect an act less kind

From you who bear so generous a Mind.

But your great Lover quickly from you went.


’Twas to the Town, t’appease some discontent,

Which he was told had newly raised been

Betwixt the Souldier and the Citizen:

Whilst I with joyful haste come to assure

You, that your life and Kingdom were secure;