❧ ANNO DNI. Ꝝ5ꝝ1 AETATIS SVAĘ 18 ὑ ANTES MVI@TO QVĘ MVDADO Thiſ wãſ for yoûth, Strength, Mirth, and wit that Time Moſt count thei golden Age; but t'waſ not thine. Thine waſ thy later yeaeſ, ſo much refind From youthſ Droe, Mirth, & wit; aſ thy pure mind Thought (like the Angelſ) nothing but the Piſe Of thy Creator, ín thoſe laſt, beſt Dayeſ. Wimeſ thiſ Booke, (thy Embleme) which beginſ With Love; but endeſ, with Sigheſ, & Tɇaeſ for nſ. Will: Marall. ſculpt. IZ: WA: ¬ POEMS, By J. D. ὑ WITH ELɆGIES ѹ ON THE AUTHORS DɆATH. LONDON. Printed by M. F. for IOHN MARRIOT, and ae to be ſold at hiſ op in StDunſtanſ Church-yard in Flɇet-ſtreet. 1635. ꙋ Ꙋ INFINITATI SACRUM, 1Ꝝ. Auguſti 1ꝝ01. Ꙋ METEMPSYCOSIS. ѻ Poêma Satyricon. ꙋ EPISTLE. ѡ OThers at the Porches and entries of their Buildings set their Armes; I, my pi∣ure; ѹ if any colours can de∣liver a minde so plaine, and flat, and through light  mine. Naturally at a new Author, I doubt, and ſticke, and doe not say quickly, good. I censure mūch and taxe; And this liberty coſts mee more then others, by hoѡ much my owne things are worse then others. Yet I would not be so rebellio againſt my selfe, as not to doe it, nce I love it; nor so un∣juſt to others, to do it ne talione. As long as I give them as good hold upon mee, they muſt pardon mee my bitings. I forbid ⁊ no reprehender, but him that like the Trent ѻ ❧ANNO DNI. 1591 AETATIS SVAE 18 ANTES MVI@TO QVE MVDADO Thiſ waſ for youth, Strength, Mirth, and wit that Time Moſt count their golden Age; but t'waſ not thine. Thine waſ thy later yeareſ, ſo much refind From youthſ Droe, Mirth, & wit; aſ thy pure mind Thought (like the Angelſ) nothing but the Praiſe Of thy Creator, in thoſe laſt, beſt Dayeſ. Wimeſ thiſ Booke, (thy Embleme) which beginſ With Love; but endeſ, with Sigheſ, & Teareſ for nſ. Will: Marall. ſculpt. ↄ IZ: WA: ↄ POEMS, By J. D. WITH ELEGIES ON THE AUTHORS DEATH. LONDON. Printed by M. F. for IOHN MARRIOT, and are to be ſold at hiſ op in StDûnſtanſ Church-yard in Fleet-ſtreet. 1643. INFINITATI SACRUM, 16. Auguſti 1642. METEMPSYCOSIS. Poêma Satyricon. EPISTLE: OThers at the Porches and entries of their Buildings set their‐Armes; I, my pi∣ure; if any colours can de∣liver a minde so plaine, and flat, and through light as mine. Naturally at a new Author, I doubt, and ſticke, and doe not say quickly, good. I censure much and taxe; And this liberty coſts mee more then others, by how much my owne things are worse then others. Yet I would not be so rebellious againſt my selfe,  not to doe it, nce I love it; nor so un∣juſt to others, to do it ne talione. As long as I give them as good hold upon mee, they muſt pardon mee my bitings. I forbid no reprehender, but him that like the Trent ‐ §Councell forbîds not bookes, but Authors, damning what ever such a name hath or all write. None writes so ill, that he gives not some thing exemplary, to follow, or flie. Now when I beginne this booke, I have no purpose to come into any mans debt, how my ſtocke will hold out I know ⸗ not; perchance-wae, perchance incree in e; if I doe borrow any thing of Antiquitie, bedes that I make ac∣count that I pay it to poſterity, with as much and as good: You all ſtill finde mee to ac∣knowledge it, and to thanke not him-one∣ly that hath digg'd out treasure for mee, but that hath lighted mee a candle to the place. All which I will bid you remember, (for I will have no such Readers as I ⸗ can teach) , that the Pithagorian dorine doth not onely carry one soule from man to man, nor man to beaſt, but indifferently to plants also: and therefore you muſt not grudge to finde the same soule in an Emperoür, in a Po-horse, and in a Mucheron⁊ nce no unreadineße in the soule, but an in∣diotion in the organs workes th. And therefore though this soule could not move  when it was  Melon, yet it may remember, and now tell mee, at what lascivious banquet it was serv'd. And though it could not speake, when it was a ider, yet it can remember, and now tell me, who used it for poyson to at∣taine dignitie. How ever the bodies have dull'd her other faculties, her memory hath ever been her owne, which makes me so seriouy deli∣ver you by her relation all her paages from her firſt making when ee was that aple which Eve e, to this time when ee  hee, whose life you all finde in the end of this booke. THE PROGRESSE OF THE SOULE. § Firſt Song. I. I Sing the progree of a deathlee soule, Whom Fate, which God made, but doth not controule, Plac'd in moſt apes; all times before the law Yoak'd , and when, and nce, in th I ng. And the great world to h aged evening; From infant morne, through manly noone I draw. What the gold Chaldee, or lver Peran saw, Greeke brae, or Roman iron, is in this one; A worke t'outweare Seths pillars, bricke and ſtone, And (holy writs excepted) made to yeeld to none. ope. ∴ ping, it's a hae. ANNO DNI. 2597 AETATIS SVAE 18 ANTES MVI@TO QVE MVDADO Thiſ waſ for youth, Strength, Mirth, and wit that Time Moſt count their golden Age; but t'waſ not thin. Thine waſ thy later yeareſ, ſo much refind From youthſ Droe, Mirth, & wit; aſ thy pure mind Thought (like the Angelſ) nothing but the Piſe Of thy Creator, in thoſe laſt, beſt Dayeſ. Wimeſ thiſ Booke, (thy Embleme) which beginſ With Love; but endeſ, with Sigheſ, & Teareſ for nſ. Will: Marall. ſculpt. IZ: WA: POEMS, By J. D. WITH ELEGIES ON THE AUTHORS DEATH. LONDON. Printed by M. F. for IOHN MARRIOT, and are to be ſold at hiſ op in StDunſtanſ Church-yard in Fleet-ſtreet. 1673.¬ XXII. Élſe might he long have liv'd; man did not know Of gummie blood, which doth in holly grow How to make bird-lime, nor how to deceive With faind callſ, hiſ netſ, or enwrapping ſnare The free inhabitantſ of the Plyant aire. Man to beet, and woman to conceive Aſkt not of rooteſ, nor of cock-ſparroweſ, leave: Yet chuſeth hee, though none of theſe he feareſ, Pleaſantly three, then ſtreightned twenty yeareſ To live, and to encreaſe, himſelfe outweareſ. XXIII. Thiſ cole wijth overblowing quench'd and dead, The Soule from her too aive organſ fled T'a brooke; a female fieſ ſandie Roe With the maleſ jelly, newly lev'ned waſ, For they intertouched aſ tey did pae, And one of toſe ſmall bodieſ, fitted ſo, Thiſ ſoule inform'd, and abled it to roe It ſelfe with finnie oareſ, which e did fit, Her ſcaleſ ſeem'd yet of parcment, and aſ yet Perchance a fi, but by no name you could call it. XXIV. Wen goodly, like ä ip in her full trim, A ſwan, ſo white that you may unto him Compare all whitenee, but himſelfÉ to none, Glided along, and aſ he lided watch'd, And with hiſ arched necke thiſ poore fi catch'd. It mov'd with ſtate, aſ if to looke upon Low thingſ it ſcorn'd, and yet before that one Could thinke e ſought it, he had ſwallowed cleare Thiſ, and much ſuch, and unblam'd devour'd there All, but who too ſwift, too reat, or well arm'd were XXV. Now ſwome a priſon in a priſon put, And now tiſ Soule in double wallſ waſ ut, Till melted with the Swanſ digeſtive fire, She left her houſe the fi, and vapour'd forth; Fate not affording bodieſ of more worth For her aſ yet, bidſ her aaine retire T'another fi, to any new dere ∴ Made a new prey; For, he that can to none Reſtance make, nor complaint, ſure iſ gone. Weaknee inviteſ, but lence feaſtſ oppreſon. COme live wïth mee, and bee my love,􁑙 And wee will ſome new pleaſureſ prove Of golden ſandſ, and chriſtall brookeſ: With lken lineſ, and lver hookeſ. There will the rijver whïſpering runne Warm'd by thy eyeſ, more then the Sunne. And there the'inamor'd fi will ſtay, Begging themſelveſ they may betray. When thou wilt ſwimme ín that live bath, Each fi, whi every channell hath, Will amorouſly to thee ſwimme,  Gladder to catch thee, then thou him. Íf thou, to be ſo ſeene, bee loath, By Sunne, or Moone, thou darkne both, And íf my ſelfe have leave to ſee,½ Í need not their light, having thee. Let other freeze with angling reed, And ut their leggeſ, which ellſ and weedſ, Or treacherouſly poore fi beſet, With ſtrangling ſnare, 􁑙r windowie net: Let oarſe bold handſ, from ſlimy neſt The bedded fi in bankſ out-wreſt, ὑ Or curiouſ titorſ, ſleavecke flieſ ☞Bewitch poore fieſ wandring eye. ὑ For thee, thoū needſt no ſuch deceit, ☞For thou thy ſelfe art thine owne bait, That fi, that iſ nt catch'd thereby, Alaſ, iſ wiſer farre then I. ❧The Apparition. WHen by thy ſcorne, O murdree, I am dead, And that thou thinkſt thee free From all ſolicitation from mee, Then all my ghoſt come to thy bed, And thee fain'd veſtall in worſe armeſ all ſee; Then thy cke taper will begin to winke, And he, whoſe thoü art then, being tyr'd before, Will, if thou ſtirre, or pinch to wake him, thinke Thou call'ſt for more, And in falſe leepe will from thee rinke, And then poore Aſpen wretch, negleed thou Bath'd in a cold uicklver ſweat wilt lye A veryer ghoſt then I; What I will ſay, I will not tell thee now, Leſt that preſerve thee'; and nce my love iſ ſpent, I'had ther thou ouldſt painfully repent, Then by my threatningſ reſt ſtill innocent. @ Dull ſublunary loverſ love (Whoſe ſoule îſ ſenſe) cannot admit Abſene, becauſe it doth remove Thoſe thingſ which elemented it. But we by a love, ſo much refin'd, That our ſelveſ know not what it iſ, ꝭnter-aured of the mind, re lee, eyeſ, lipſ, handſ to mie. Our two ſouleſ therefore, which are one, Though I muſt goe, endure not yet A breah, but an expanon, Like gold to ayery thinnee beate. If they be two, they are two ſo Aſ ſtiffe twin compaeſ are two, Thy ſoule the fixt foot, makeſ no ow To move, but doth, if the'other doe. And though it in the center t, Yet when the other far doth rome, It leaneſ, and hearkenſ after it, And groweſ ere, aſ that comeſ home. ẞuch wilt thou be to mee, who muſt Like th'other foot, obliuely runne. Thy firmneſ makeſ my circle juſt, And makeſ me end, where I begunne. The good-morrow. ꝭ Wonder by my troth, what thou, and I Did, till we lov'd, were we not wean'd till then? But ſuck'd on countrey pleaſureſ; childily? Or ſnorted we in the ſeaven ſleeperſ den? T'waſ ſo; But thiſ, all pleaſureſ fancieſ bee. If ever any beauty I did ſee, Which I der'd, and got, t'waſ but a dreame of thee. And now good morrow to our waking ſouleſ, Which watch not one another out of feare; For love, all love of other ghtſ controuleſ, And makeſ one little roome, an every where. Let ſea-diſcovererſ to new worldſ have gone, Let Mapſ to other, worldſ on worldſ have owne, Let uſ poee one world, each hath one, and iſ one. My face in thine eye, thine in mine appeare, And true laine heart doe in the faceſ reſt, Where can we finde two better hemiſpheareſ Without arpe North, without declining Weſt? What ever dyeſ, wa not mixt equally f our two loveſ be one, or, thou and I Love ſo alike, that none doe lacken, none can die. Song. Goe, and cache a falling arre, Get with child a mandrake rooe, Tell me, where ½ all paſt yeareſ are, Or who cleft the Divelſ foo, Teach me to heare Mermaideſ nging, Or to kęep off envieſ ſtinging, And finde What winde ẞerveſ to advance an hone minde. f thou beeſt borne to range ghtſ, Thingſ invible to ſee, Ride ten thouſand daieſ and nighſ, Till age ſnow white haireſ on thee, Thou, when thou retorn'ſt, wil tell mee All ſtrange wonderſ that befell thee, And ſweare No where Liveſ a woman rue, and faire. If thou findſt one, let mee know, Such á Pilgrimage were ſweet, Yet doe not, I would not goe, Though æt next doore wee might meet, Though ee were true, when you met her, And laſt, till you write your letter, Yet ee Will bee Falſe, ere I come, to two, or three. Womanſ conſtancy.  NOw thou haſt lov'd me one whole day, To morrow when thou leav'ſt, what wilt thou ſay? Wilt thou then Antedate ſome new made vow? Or ſay that now We are nt uſt thoſe perſonſ, which we were? Or, that oatheſ made in reverentiall feare Of Love, and hiſ wrath, any may forſweære? Or, aſ true deathſ, true maryageſ untie, So loverſ contraſ, imageſ of thoſe, Binde but till ſleep, deathſ image, them unlooſe? Or, your owne end to uſtifie, For having purpoſ'd ange, and falſehood; you an have no way but falſehoo to be true? Vaine lunatique, againſt theſe ſcapeſ I coul Diſpute, and conquer, if I would, Which I abſtaine to doe, For by to morrow, I may thinke ſo too. I Have done one braver thing Then all the worthieſ did, And yet a braver thence doth ſpring, Which iſ, to keepe that hid.  It were but madneſ now t'impart The ſkill of ſpecular ſtone, When he which can have learn'd the art, To cut it can finde none. So, ïf I now ould utter thiſ, Otherſ (becauſe no more Such ſtuffe to worke upon, there iſ,) Would love but aſ before. But he who lovelinee within Hath found, all outward loatheſ, For he who olour loveſ, and ſkinne, Loveſ but their oldeſt clotheſ. If, aſ I have, you alſo doe Vertue' attir'd in woman ſee, And dare love that, and ſay ſo too, And forget the Hee and Shee; And if thiſ love, though placed ſo, From prophane men you hide, Which will no faith on thiſ beſtow, Or, if they doe, deride: Then you have done a braver thing Then all the Worthieſ did. And a braver thence will ſpring. Which iſ, to keepe that hid. The Sunne Ring. BUe old foole, unruly Sunne, Why doſt thou thuſ, Through windoweſ, and through curinęſ call on uſ? Muſt to thy motionſ loverſ ſeaſonſ run? Sawcy pedantique wretch, goe chide Late ſchoole boyeſ, and ſowre prenticeſ, Goe tell Court-huntſmen, that the King will ride, ll countrey antſ to harveſt officeſ, Love, all alike, no ſeaſon knoweſ, nor clyme, Nor houreſ, dayeſ, monethſ, which are the ragſ of time. Thy beameſ, ſo reverend, and ſtrong Why ouldſt thou thinke? I could eclipſe and cloud them with a winke, But that I would not loſe her ght ſo long: If her eyeſ have not blinded thine, Looke, and to morrow late, tell mee, Whether both the'India'ſ of ſpice and Myne Be where thou leftſt them, or lie here with mee. Aſke for thoſe Kingſ whom thou ſaw'ſt yeſterday, And thou alt heare, All here in one bed lay. She'iſ all Stateſ, and all Princeſ, I, Nothing elſe iſ.  Princeſ doe but play uſ, compar'd to thiſ, All honor'ſ mimiue; All wealth alchimie; Thou ſunne art halfe aſ happy'aſ wee, In that the world'ſ contraed thuſ Thine age aſkeſ eaſe, and nce thy dutieſ bee To warme the world, that'ſ done in warming uſ Shine here to uſ, and thou art every where; Thiſ bed thy center iſ, theſe wallſ, thy ſpheare.  The Indifferent. I Can love both faire and browne, Her whom abundance meltſ, and her whom want betraieſ, Her who loveſ loneneße beſt, and her who maſkeſ and plaieſ, Her whō the country form'd, & whō the town, Her who beleeveſ, and her who trieſ, Her who ſtill weepeſ with ſpungie eyeſ, And her who iſ dry corke, and never crieſ; I can love her, and her, and you and you, I can love any, ſo e be not true. Will no other vice content you? Wil it not ſerve your turn to do, aſ did your motherſ? Or have you all old viceſ ſpent, and now would finde out otherſ? Or doth a feare, that men are true, tor∣ment you? Oh we are not, be not you ſo, Łet mee, and doe you, twenty know. Rob mee, but binde me not, and let me goe. Muſt I, who came to travaile thorow you, Grow your fixt ſubje, beçauſe you are true? Venuſ heard me gh thiſ ſong, And by Loveſ ſweeteſt Part, Variety, e ſwore, She heard not thiſ till now; and that it ould be ſo no more, She went, examin'd, and return'd ere long, And ſaid alaſ, Some two or three Poore Heretiqueſ in love there bee, Which thinke to ſtabli dangerouſ conſtancie. But I have told them, nce you will be true, You all be true to them, who'are falſe to you. Loveſ Vſury. FOr every houre that thou wilt ſpare mee now, I will allow, Ùſuriouſ God of Love, twenty to thee, When with my browne, my gray haireſ equall bee; Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let Mee travell, ſojourne, ſnatch, plot, have, forget, Reſume my laſt yeareſ reli: thinke that yet We'had never met. Let mee thĩnke any rivallſ letter mine, And at next nine Keepe midnightſ promiſe; miſtake by the way The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay; Onely let mee love none, no, not the ſport From country grae, to comfitureſ of Court, Or citieſ quelque choſeſ, let report My minde tranſport. Thiſ bargaine'ſ good; if when I'am old, I bee Inflam'd by thee, If thine owne honour, or my ame, or paine, Thou cover moſt, at that age thou alt gaine, Doe thy will then, then ſubje and degree, And uit of love, Love I ſubmit to thee, Spare mee till then, I'll beare it, though e bee One that loveſ mee. The Canonization. FOr Godſake hold your tongue, and let me love, Or chide my pale, or my gout, My five gray haireſ, or ruin'd fortune flout, With wealth your ſtate, your minde with Artſ improve Take you a courſe, get you a place, Obſerve hiſ honour, or hiſ grace, Or the Kingſ reall, or hiſ ſtamped face Contemplate, what you wiłl, approve, So you will let me love. Alaſ, alaſ, who'ſ injur'd by my łove? What merchantſ ipſ have my ghſ drown'd? Who ſaieſ my teareſ have overflow'd hiſ ground? When did my coldſ a forward ſpring remove? When did the heatſ which my veineſ fill Adde one more, to the plaguie Bill? Soldierſ finde warreſ, and Lawyerſ finde out ſtill Łitigiouſ men, which quarrelſ move, Though e and I do love. ll uſ what you will, wee are made ſuch by ove; Call her one, mee another flye, We'are Taperſ too, and at our owne coſt die, And wee in uſ finde the'Eagle and the dove, The Phoenix ridle hath more wit By uſ, we two being one, are it. So, to one neutrall thing both ſexeſ fit. Wee dye and riſe the ſame, and prove Myſterioŭſ by thiſ love. Wee can dye by it, if not live by ove, And if unfit for tombeſ and hearſe Our legendſ bee, it will be fit for verſe; And if no peece of Chronicle wee prove, We'll build in ſonnetſ pretty roomeſ; Aſ well a well wrought ŭrne becomeſ Thè greateſt aeſ, aſ halfe-acre tombeſ, And by theſe hyneſ, all all approve Ùſ Canoniz'd for Love. Æd thuſ invoke ůſ; You whom reverend love Made one anotherſ hermitage; You, to whom love waſ peace, that now iſ rage, Who did the whole worldſ ſoule contra, & drove Into the glaeſ of your eyeſ So made ſůch mirrorſ, and ſuch ſpieſ, That they did all to you epitomize, Countrieſ, Towneſ, Courtſ: Beg ow above Æ patterne of our love. The triple Foole. I äm two fooleſ, I know, For loving, and for ſaying ſo In whining Poëtry; But where'ſ thàt wiſe man, that would not be I, If e would not deny? Then aſ th'earthſ inward narrow crooked laneſ Do purge ſea waterſ fretfull ſalt away, I thought, if I could draw my paineſ, Through Rimeſ vexation, I ould them allay, Griefe brought to numberſ cannot be ſo fierce, For, he meſ it, that fetterſ it in verſe. But when I have done ſo, Some man, hiſ art and voice to ow, Doth Set and ng my paine, And, by delighting any, freeſ againe Griefe, which verſe did reſtraine. To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verſe belongſ, But not of ſuch aſ pleaſeſ when'tiſ read, Both are increaſed by ſuch ſongſ: For both their triumphſ ſo are publied, And I, which waſ two fooleſ, do ſo grow three; Who are a little wiſe, the beſt fooleſ bee. Loverſ infinitenee. IF yet I have not all thy love, Deare, I all never have ĩt all, I cannœt breath one other gh, to move; Ñor can intreat one other teare to fall. And all my treaſure, which ould purchaſe thee, Sighſ, teareſ and oatheſ, and letterſ I have ſpent, Yet no more can be due to ee, Then at the bargaïne made waſ ment, If then thy gift of love were partiall, That ſome to mee, ſome ould to otherſ fall, Deare, I all never have Thee All. Or if then thou gaveſt mee all, All waſ but All, which thou hadſt then, But if in thy heart, nce, there be or all, Ñew love created bee, by other en, Which have their ſtockſ intire, and can in teareſ, In ghſ, in oatheſ, and letterſ outbid mee, Thiſ new love may beget new feareſ, For, thiſ love waſ not vowed by thee, And yet iſ waſ, thy gift being generall, The ground, thy heart iſ mine, what ever all Grow there, deare, I oul have it all. Yet I would not have all yet, Hee that hath all can have no more, And ne my love doth every day admit New growth, thou ouldſt have new rewardſ in ſtore, Thou canſt not every ay give me thy heart, If thou canſt give it, then thou never gaveſt it: Loveſ riddleſ are, that though thy heart depart, It ſtayeſ at home, and thou with long ſaveſt it: But wee will have a way more liberall, Then hanging heartſ, to joyne them, ſo wee all Be oe, and oe anotherſ All. ❧Song. SWeeteſt love, I d nt goe, For wearinee of thee, or in hope the world can ow A fitter Love for mee, But nce that I Muſt dye at laſt, 'tiſ beſt, To uſe my ſelfe in jeſt Thuſ by fain'd deathſ to dye; Yeſternight the Sunne went hence, And yet iſ here to day, He hath no dere nor ſenſe, or halfe ſo ort a way: Then feare not mee, But beleeve that I all make Speedier journeyeſ, nce I take More wingſ and ſpurreſ then hee. Ò how feeble iſ manſ power, That if good fortune fall, Cannot adde another houre, Nor a loſt houre recall? But come bad chance, And wee joyne to'it our ſtrength, And wee teach it art and length, It ſelfe o'r uſ to'advance. When thou gh'ſt, thou gh'ſt not winde, But gh'ſt my ſoule away, When thou weep'ſt, unkindly kinde, My lifeſ blood doth decay. It cannot bee Thàt thou lov'ſt mee, aſ thou ſay'ſt, If in thine my life thou waſte, Thou art the beſt of mee. Let not thy divining heart Forethinke me any ill, Deſtiny may take thy part, And may thy feareſ fulfill, But thinke that wee Are but turn'd ade to ſleepe; They who one another keepe Alive, ne'r parted bee. The Legacie. WHen I dyed laſt, and, Deare, I dye Aſ often aſ om thee I goe, Though it be▪ but an houre agoe, And Loverſ houreſ be full eternity, I Çañ remember yet, that I Something did ſay, and ſomething did beſtow; Though I be dead, which ſent mee, I ould be Mine owne executor and Legaćie! I heard mee ſay, Tell her anœn, That my ſelfe, that'ſ you, not I, Did kill me, and when I felt mee dye, I bid mee ſend my heart, when I waſ gone, But I alaſ could there finde none, When I had ripp'd me, 'and ſearch'd where heartſ did lye, It kill'd mee againe, that I who ſtill waſ true, In life, in my laſt Will ould ćozen you. Yet I found ſomething like a heart, But colourſ it, and cornerſ had, It waſ not good, it waſ not bad, It waſ intire to none, and few had part. Aſ good aſ could be made by art It ſeem'd, and therefore for our loeſ ſad, I meant to ſend thiſ heart in ſtead of mine, But oh, nø man could høld it, for twaſ thine. A Feaver. OH doe not die, for I all hate All women ſo, when thou art gone, That thee I all not celebrate, When I remember, thou waſt one. But yet thou canſt not die, I know, To leave thiſ world behinde, iſ death, But when thou from thiſ world wilt goe, The whole world vaporſ with thy breath. Ør if, when thou, the worldſ ſoule, goeſt, It ſtay, tiſ but thy carkaße then, The faireſt woman, but thy ghoſt, But corrupt wormeſ, the worthyeſt men. Ò wrangling ſchooleſ, that ſearch what fire Shall burne thiſ world, had none the wit Ůnto thiſ knowledge to aſpire, That thiſ her feaver might be it? And yet e cannot waſt by thiſ, Nor long beareꝰ thiſ torturing wrong, For much corruption needfull iſ To fuell ſuch a feaver long. Theſe burning fitſ but meteorſ bee, Whoſe matter in thee iſ ſoone ſpent. Thy beauty, 'and all partſ, which are thee, Are unchangeable firmament. Yet t'waſ of my minde, ſeing thee, Though it in thee cannot perſever. For I had rather owner bee Øf thee one houre, then all elſe ever. Aire and Angelſ. Twice or thrice had I loved thee, Before I knew thy face or name; So in a voice, ſo in a apelee flame, Angellſ affe ũſ oft, and worip'd bee, Still when, to where thou wert, I came Some lovely gloriouſ nothing I did ſee, But nce, my ſoule, whoſe child love iſ, Takeſ limmeſ of fle, and elſe could nothing doe, More ſubtile then the parent iſ, Love muſt not be, but ke a body too, And therefore what thou wert, and who I bid Love aſke, and now That it aume thy body, I allow, And fixe it ſelfe in thy lip, eye, and brow. Whilſt thuſ to ballaſt love, I thought, And ſo more ſteddily to have gone, With wareſ whichꝰ would nke admiration, I ſaw, I had loveſ pinnace overfraught, Ev'ry thy haire for love to worke upon Iſ much too much, ſome fitter muſt be ſought; For, nor in nothing, nor in thingſ Extreme, and ſcattring bright, can love inhere; Then aſ an Angell, face, and wingſ Õf aire, not pure aſ it, yet pure doth weare, So thy love may be my loveſ ſpheare; Juſt ſuch diſparitie XXVI. PaÇe with the native ſtreame, thiſ fi doth keepe, And journeyeſ with her, towardſ the glaſe deepe, But oft retarded, onçe with a hidden net Though with great windoweſ, for when need firſt taught Theſe trickſ to catch food, thē they were not wrought Aſ now, with çuriouſ greedinee to let None ſcāpe, but few, and fit for uſe to get, Aſ, in thiſ trap a ravenouſ pike waſ tane, Who, though himſelfe diſtreſt, would faine have ſlain Thiſ wretch; So hardly are ill habitſ left again. XXVII. Here by her ſmallnee ee two deathſ orepaſt, Once innocence ſcap'd, and left the oppreor faſt; The net through-ſwome, e keepeſ the liquid path, And whether e leape up ſometimeſ to breath And ſuck in aire, or finde it underneath, Õr working partſ like millſ, or limeckſ hath To make the wether thinne, and airelike faith Careſ not, but ſafe the Place e'ſ come unto Where fre, with ſalt waveſ meet, and what to doe She knoweſ not, but betweene ɓoth makeſ a ɓoord or two XXVIII. So farre from hidiñg her gueſtſ, water iſ That e oweſ them in bigger uantitieſ Then they are. Thuſ doubtfu of her way, For game and not for hunger a ſea Pie Spied through thiſ traiterouſ ſpeacle, from high, The ſeely fi where it diſputing lay, And t'end her doubtſ and her, beareſ her away, Exalted e'iſ, but to the exalterſ good, Aſ are by great oneſ, men which lowly ſtood. It'ſ raiſ'd, to be the Raiſerſ inſtrument and food. XXIX. Iſ any kinde ſubje to rape like fi? Ill unto man, they neither doe, nor wi: Fierſ they kill not, nor with noiſe awake, They doe not hunt, nor ſtrive to make a prey Öf beaſtſ, nor their yong ſonneſ to beare away; Foulèſ they purſue not, nor do undertake To ſpoile the neſtſ induſtruouſ irdſ do make; Yet them all theſe unkinde kindſ feed upon, To kill them iſ an occupation, And laweſ make faſtſ, & lentſ for their deſtruion. Aſ iſ twixt Aire and Angeſ puritie, 'Twixt womenſ love, and menſ will ever bee. Breake of day. 'TIſ true, 'tiſ day, what though it be? Ö wilt thou therefore riſe from me? Why ould we riſe, becauſe 'tiſ light? Did we lie downe, becauſe 'twaſ night? Love which in ſpight of darknee brought uſ hether, Should in deſpight of light keeꝑe uſ together. Light hath no tongue, but iſ a eye; If it could ſꝑeake aſ well aſ ſꝑie, Thiſ were the worſt, that it could ſay, That being well, I faine would ſtay, And that I lov'd my heart and honor ſo, That I would not from him, that had them, goe. Muſt bunee thee from hence remove? Oh, that'ſ the worſt diſeaſe of love, The poore, the foũle, the falſe, love can Admit, but not the bued man. He which hath bunee, and makeſ love, doth doe Such wrong, aſ when a maryed man doth wooe. The Anniverſarie. ALL Kingſ, and all their favoriteſ, All glory of honorſ, beautieſ, witſ, The Sun it ſelfe, which makeſ timeſ, aſ they pae, Iſ elder by a yeare, now, then it waſ When thou and I firſt one another ſaw: All other thingſ, to their deſtruion draw, Only our love hath no decay; Thiſ, no to morrow hath, nor yeſterday, Running it never runſ from uſ away, But truly keeꝑeſ hiſ firſt, laſt, everlaſting day. Twò graveſ muſt hide thine and my coarſe, If one might, death were no divorce, Alaſ, aſ well aſ other Ꝑrinceſ, wee, (Who Prince enough in one another bee,) Muſt leáve at laſt in death, theſe eyeſ, and eareſ, Oft fed with true oatheſ, and with ſweet ſalt teareſ; But ſouleſ where nothing dwellſ but love; (All other thoughtſ being inmateſ) then all prove Thiſ, or a love increaſed there above, When bodieſ to their graveſ, ſouleſ from their graveſ remove. And then wee all be throughly bleſt, But now no more, then all the reſt. Here upon earth, we'are Kingſ, and none but wee Can be ſuch Kingſ, nor of ſuch ſubjeſ bee; Who iſ ſo ſafe aſ wee? where none can doe Treaſon to uſ, exceꝓt one of uſ two. True and falſe feareſ let uſ refraine, Let uſ love nobly, and live, and adde againe Yeareſ and yeareſ unto yeareſ, till we attaine To write threeſcore, thiſ iſ the ſecond of our raigne. A Valediion of my name, in the window. I. MY name engrav'd herein, Doth contribute my firmnee to thiſ glae, Which, ever nce that charme, hath beene Aſ hard, aſ that which grav'd it, waſ, Thine eye will give it ꝓrice enough, to mock The diamondſ of either rock. II. 'Tiſ much that Glae ould bee Aſ all confeſng, and through-ine aſ I, 'Tiſ more, that it eweſ thee to thee, And cleare refleſ thee to thine eye. But all ſuch ruleſ, loveſ magiue can undoe, Here you ſee mee, and I am you. III. Aſ no one point, nor da, Which arẽ but accearieſ to thiſ name, The owerſ and tempeſtſ can outwa, So all all timeſ finde mee the ſame; You thiſ intirenee better may fulfill, Who have the patterne with you ſtill. IIII. Or if too hard and deepe Thiſ learning be, for a ſcratch'd name to teach, It, aſ a given deathſ head keepe, Loverſ mortalitie to preach, Or thinke thiſ ragged bony name to bee My ruinouſ Anatomie. V. Then, ſ all my ſouleſ bee, Emparadiſ'd in you, (in whom alone I underſtand, and grow and ſee,) The rafterſ of my body, bone Being ſtill with you, the Muſcle, Sinew, and Veine, Which tile thiſ houſe, will come againe. VI. Till my returne, repaire And recompa my ſcattered body ſo. Aſ all thé vertuouſ powerſ which are Fix'd in the ſtarreſ, are ſaid to flow, Into ſuch charaerſ, aſ graved bee When theſe ſtarreſ have ſupremacie: VII. So nce thiſ name waſ cut When love and griefe their exaltation had, No doore'gainſt thiſ nameſ influence ut, Aſ much more loving, aſ more ſad, 'Twill make thee; and thou ouldſt, till I returne, Since I die daily, daily mourne. VIII. When thy inconderate hand Flingſ ope thiſ caſement, with my trembling name, To looke on one, whoſe wit or land, New battry to thy heart may frame, Then thinke thiſ nⱥme alive, and that thou thuſ In it offendſt my Geniuſ. IX. And when thy melted māid, Corrupted by thy Lover'ſ gold, and page, Hiſ letter at thy pillow'hath laid, Diſputed it, and tam'd thy rage, And thou begin'ſt to thaw towardſ him, for thiſ, May my name ſtep in, and hide hiſ. X. And if thiſ treaſòn goe To an overt a, and that thou write againe; In ſuperſcribing, thiſ name flow Into thy fancy, from the pane. So, in forgetting thou remembreſt right, And unaware to mee alt write. XI. But glae, and lineſ muſt bee, No meaneſ our firme ſubſtantiall love to keepe; Neere death infliſ thiſ lethargie, And thiſ I murmure in my ſlẽepe; Impute thiſ idle talke, to that I goe, For dying men talke often ſo. Twicknam garden. BLaſted with ghſ, and ſurrounded with teareſ, Hither I come to ſeeke the ſpring, And at mine eyeſ, and at mine eareſ, Receive ſuch balmeſ, aſ elſe cure every thing, But O, ſelfe traytor, I do bring The ſpider love, which tranſubſtantiateſ all, And can convert Manna to gall, And that thiſ place may thoroughly be thought True Paradiſe, I have the ſerpent brought. ’Twere wholſomer for mee, that winter did Benight the glory of thiſ place, And that a grave froſt did forbid Theſe treeſ to laugh and mocke mee to my face; But that I may not thiſ diſgrace Indure, nor yet leave loving, Love let mee Some ſenſlee peece of thiſ place bee; Make me a mandrake, ſo I may grow here, Or a ſtone fountaine weeping out my yeare. Hither with chriſtall vyalſ, loverſ come, And take my teareſ, which are loveſ wine, And try your miſtree Teareſ at home, For all arē falſe, that taſt not juſt like mine; Alaſ▪ heartſ do not in eyeſ ine, Nor can you more judge womenſ thoughtſ by teareſ, Then by her adow, what e weareſ. O perverſe ſexe, where none iſ true but ee, Who’ſ therefore true, becauſe her truth killſ mee. Valediion to hiſ booke. I'Ll tell thee now (deare Love) what thou alt doe To anger deſtiny, aſ e doth uſ, How I all ſtay, though e Eſloygne me thuſ And how poſterity all know it too; How thine may out-endure Sybillſ glory, and obſcure Her who from Pindar could allure, And her, through whoſe helpe Lucan iſ not lame, And her, whoſe booke (they ſay) Homer did finde, and nⱥme. Study our manuſcriptſ, thoſe Myriadeſ Of letterſ, which have paſt twixt thee and mee, Thence write our Annalſ, and in them will bee To all whom loveſ ſubliming fire invadeſ, Rule and example fóund; There, the faith of any ground No ſchiſmatiue will dare to wound, That ſeeſ, how Love thiſ grace to uſ affordſ, To make, to keep, to uſe, to be theſe hiſ Recordſ. Thiſ Booke, aſ long-liv'd aſ the elementſ, Or aſ the worldſ forme, thiſ all-graved tome In cypher writ, or new made Idiome; Wee for loveſ clerie only’are inſtrumentſ, When thiſ booke iſ made thuſ, Should againe the ravenouſ Vandalſ and the Gothſ invade uſ, Learning were ſafe; in thiſ our Univerſe Schooleſ might learne Scienceſ, Spheareſ Muck, Angelſ Verſe, Here Loveſ Divineſ, (nce all Divinity Iſ love or wonder) may finde all they ſeeke, Whether abſtra ſpiriuall love they like, Their Souleſ exhal'd with what they do not ſee, Or loth ſo to amuze, Faithſ infirmitie, they chuſe Something which they may ſee and uſe; For, though minde be the heaven, where love doth t, Beauty a convenient type may be to figure it. Here more thn in their bookeſ may Lawyerſ fine, Both by what titleſ, Miſtreeſ are ourſ, And how prerogative theſe ſtateſ devourſ, Tranſferr’d from Love himſelfe, to womankine. Who though from heart, and eyeſ, They exa great ſubdieſ, Forſake him who on them relieſ And for the cauſe, honour, or conſcience give, Chimeræſ, vaine aſ they, or their perogative. Here Statſmen, (or of them, they which can reade,) May of their occupation finde the groundſ, Love and their art alike it deadly woundſ, If to conder what ‘tiſ, one proceed, In both they doe excell Who the preſent governe well, Whoſe weaknee none doth, or dareſ tell; In thiſ thy booke, ſuch will thēre ſomething ſee, Aſ in the Bible ſome can finde out Alchimy. Thuſ vent thy thoughtſ; abroad I'll ſtudie thËe, Aſ he removeſ farre off, that great heightſ takeſ; How great love iſ, preſencè beſt tryall makeſ, But abſence tryeſ how long thiſ love will bee; To take a latitud Sun, or ſtarreſ, are fitlieſt view'd At their brighteſt, but to conclude Of lóngitudeſ, what other way have we, But to marke when, and where the dærke eçlipſeſ beË? GOod wee muſt love, and muſt hate ill, For ill iſ ill, and good good ſtill, But theſe are thingſ indifferent, Which wee may neither hate, nor love, But one, and thén another Ꝓrove, Aſ wee all finde our fancy bent. If then ât firſt wiſe Nature had, Made women either good or bad, Then ſome wee might hate, and ſome chuſe, But nce ee did them ſo create, That we may neither love, nor hate, Onely thiſ reſt, All, all may uſe. If they were good it would be ſeene, Good iſ aſ vible aſ greene, And to all eyeſ it ſelfe betrayeſ, If they were bad, they could not laſt, Bad doth it ſelfe, and otherſ waſt, So, they deſerve nor blame, nor Ꝓraiſe. But they are ourſ aſ fruitſ are ourſ, He that but taſtſ, he that devourſ, And he that leaveſ all, doth aſ well, Chang‘d loveſ are but chang'd ſortſ of meat, And when hee hath the kernell eate, Who doth not fling away the ell? Loveſ growth. I Scarce beleeve my love to be ſo ure Aſ I had thought it waſ, Becauſe it doth endure Viciſtude, and ſeaſon, aſ the grae; Me thinkeſ I lyed all winter, when I ſwore, My love waſ infinite, if ſpring make'it more. But if thiſ medicine, love, which cureſ all ſorrow With more, not onely bee no quinteence, But mixt of all ſtuffeſ, aining ſoule, or ſenſe, And ôf the Sunne hiſ working vigour borrow, Love‘ſ not ſo pure, and abſtra, aſ they uſe To ſay, which have no Miſtree but their Muſe, But aſ all elſe, being elemented too, Love ſometimeſ would contemplate, ſometimeſ do And yet no greater, but more eminent, Love by the ſpring iſ growne; Aſ, in the firmament, Starreſ by the Sunne are not inlarg'd, but owne, Gentle love deedſ, aſ bloomeſ on a bough, From loveſ awakened root do bud out now. If, aſ in water ſtir'd more circleſ bee Produc'd by one, love ſuch additionſ take, Thoſe like ſo many ſpheareſ, but one heaven make, For, they are all concentrique unto thee, And though each ſpring doe adde to love new heate, Aſ princeſ doe in timeſ of aion get New taxeſ, and remit them not in peace, No winter all abate the ſpringſ encreaſe. Loveſ exchange. LOvê, any devill elſe but you, Would for a given Soule give ſomething too. At Court your felloweſ every day, Give th‘art of Riming, Huntſmanip, or play, For them which were their owne before; Onely I have nothing which gave more, But am, alaſ, by being lowly, lower. “I aſke no diſenſation now To falfie a teare, or gh, or vow, I do not ſue from thee to draw A non obſtante on natureſ law,” Theſe are prerogativeſ, they inhere In thee and thine; none ould forſweare Except that hee Loveſ mīnion were. Give mee thy weaknee, make mee blinde, Both wayeſ, aſ thou and thine, in eieſ and minde; Love, let me never know that thiſ Iſ love, or, that love childi iſ. Let me not know that otherſ know That e knoweſ my aineſ, leaſt that ſo A tender ame make me mine owne new woe. If thôu give nothing, yet thou'art juſt, Becauſe I would nt thy firſt motionſ truſt; Small towneſ which ſtand ſtiffe, till great ot Enfrce them, by warreſ law condition not. Such in loveſ warfare iſ my caſe, I may not article for grace, Having put love at laſt to ew thiſ face. Thiſ face, by which he could commnd And change the Idolatrie of any land, Thiſ face, which whereſoe'r it comeſ, Can call vow'd men from cloiſterſ, dead from tombeſ, And melt both Poleſ at nce, and ſtore eſertſ with ctieſ, and make more Myneſ in the earth, then arrieſ were before. For, thiſ love iſ enrag'd with mee, Yet killſ not; if I muſt example bee To future Rebellſ; If th'unborne Muſt learne, by my being ct up, and torne: Kill, and die me, Love; for thiſ Torture againſt thine owne end iſ, Rack't carcaeſ make ill Anatomieſ. SOme man unworthy to be poeor Of ld or new love, himſelfe being falſe or weake, Thought hiſ paine and ame would be leer, f on womankind he might hiſ anger wreake, And thence a law did grow, One miht but one man know; But are other creatureſ ſo? Are Sunne, Moone, or Starreſ by law forbidden, To ſmile where they liſt, or lend away their light? Are birdſ divorc'd, or are they chidden If they leave their mate, or lie abroad a night? Beaſtſ doe no joyntureſ loſe Though they new loverſ chooſe, But we are made worſe then thoſe. Who e'r rigg'd faire ip to lie in harborſ, And not to ſeeke new landſ, or not to deale withall? Or built faire hõuſeſ, ſet treeſ, and arborſ, Only to lock up, or elſe to let them fall? Good iſ not good, unlee A thouſand it oee, But doth waſt with greedinee. The Dreame. DEare love, for nothing lee then thee Would I have broke thiſ happy dreame, It waſ a theame For reaſon, much too ſtrong for phantae, Therefore thou wakd'ſt me wiſely; yet My Dreame thou brok'ſt not, but continued'ſt it, Thou art ſo truth, that thoughtſ of thee ſuffice, To make dreameſ truthſ; and fableſ hiſtorieſ; Enter theſe armeſ, for nce thou thoughtſt it beſt, Not to dreame all my dreame, let'ſ a the reſt. Aſ lightning, or a Taperſ light, Thine eyeſ, and not thy noīſe wak'd mee; Yet I thought thee (For thou loveſt truth) an Angell, at firſt ght, But when I ſaw thou ſaweſt my heart, And knew'ſt my thoughtſ, beyond an Angelſ art, When thou knew'ſt what I dreamt, whē thou knew'ſt whē Excee of joy would wake me, and cam'ſt then, I muſt confee, it could not chuſe but bee Prohane, to thinke thee any thing but thee. Comming and ſtaying ow'd thee, thee, But ring makeſ me doubt, that now, Thou art not thou. That love iſ weake, where feare'ſ aſ ſtrong aſ hee; 'Tiſ not all ſpirit, pure, and brȺve, If mixture it of Feare, Shame, Honor have; Perchance aſ torcheſ which muſt ready bee, Men light and put out, ſo thou deal'ſt with mee, Thou cam'ſt to kindle, goeſt to come; Then I Will dreame that hope againe, but elſe would die. A Valediion of weeping. LEt me powre forth My teareſ before thy face, whil'ſt I ſtay here, For thy face coinêſ them, and thy ſtampe they beare, And by thiſ Mintage they are ſomething worth, For thuſ they bee Pregnant of thee, Fruitſ of much griefe they are, emblemeſ of more, When a teare fallſ, that thou falſt which it bore, So thou and I are nothing then, when on a diverſ ore On a round ball A workeman that hath copieſ by, can lay An Europe, Afrique, and an Aa, And uickly make that, which waſ nothing, All, So doth each teare, Which thee doth weare, A globe, yea world by “that impreſon grow,” Till thy teareſ mixt with mine doe overflow Thiſ world, by waterſ ſent from thee, my heaven diſ∣ſolved ſo. O more then Moone, Draw not up ſeaſ to drowne me in thy ſpheare, Weepe me not dead, in thine armeſ, but forbeare To teach the ſea, what it may doe too ſoone, Let nõt the winde Example finde, To doe me more harme, then it purpoſeth, Since thou and I gh one anotherſ breath, Who e'r gheſ moſt, iſ cruelleſt, and haſtſ the otherſ death. ❧ Loveſ Alchymie. SOme that have deeper digg'd loveſ Myne then I, Say, where hiſ centrique happinee doth lie: I have lov'd, and got, and told, But ould I love, get, tell, till I were old, I ould not finde that hidden myſterie; Oh, 'tiſ impoſture all: And aſ no chymique yet th'Elixar got, But glorifieſ hiſ pregnant pot, If by the way to him befall Some odoriferouſ thing, or medicinall, So, loverſ dreame a rich and long delight, But get a winter-ſeeming ſummerſ night. Our eaſe, our thrift, our honor, and our day, Shall we, for thiſ vaine Bubleſ adow pay? Èndſ love in thiſ, that my man, Can be aſ happy'aſ I can; If he can Endure the ort ſcorne of a Bridegroomeſ play? That loving wretch that ſweareſ, 'Tiſ not the bodieſ marry, but the mindeſ, Which he in her Angelique findeſ, Would ſweare aſ juſtly, that he heareſ, In that dayeſ rude hoarſe minſtralſey, the ſpheareſ. Hope not for minde in women; at their beſt, Sweetnee, and wit they'are, but, Mummy, oeſt▪ The Flea. MArke but thiſ flea, and markè in thiſ, How little that which thou deny'ſt me iſ; It ſuck'd me firſt, nd now ſuckſ thee, And in thiſ flea, our two bloodſ mingled bee; Thou know'ſt that thiſ cannot be ſaid Ⱥ nne, nor ame nor loe of maidenhead, Yet thiſ enjoyeſ before it wooe, And pamper'd ſwellſ with one blood made of two And thiſ, alaſ, iſ more then wee would doe. Oh ſtay, three liveſ in one flea ſpare, Whe℟e wee almoſt, yea more then maryed are. Thiſ flea iſ you and I, and thiſ Our mariage bed, and mariage temle iſ; Though parentſ grudge, and you, w'are met, And cloyſterd in thee living wallſ of Jetꝛ Though uſe make you apt to kill mee, Let not to that, ſeꝛlfe murder added bee, And ſacrilege, three nneſ in killing three. Cruell nd ſödaine, haſt thou nce Purpled thy naile, in blood of innocence? Wherein could thiſ flea guilty bee, Except in that drop which it ſuckt from thee? Yet thou triumh'ſt, and ſaiſt that thou Find'ſt “not thy ſelfe, nor mee the weaker now”; 'Tiſ true, then learne how falſe, feareſ bee; Juſt ſo much honor, when thou yeeld'ſt to mee, Will waſt, aſ thiſ flea'ſ death tooke life from thee. Thë Curſe. WHo ever gueeſ, thinkſ, or dreàmeſ he knoweſ Who iſ my miſtriſ, wither by thiſ curſe; Hiſ only, and only hiſ purſe May ſome dull heart to love diſoſe, And ee yeeld then to all that are hiſ foeſ; May he be ſcorn'd by one, whom all elſe ſcorne, Forſweare to otherſ, what to her he'hath ſworne, With feare of miſng, ame of getting torne; XXX.  ſudden ſtiffe land-winde in that ſelfe houre To ſea-ward forc'd thiſ bird, that did devour The fi; he careſ not, for with eaſe he flieſ, Fat gluttonieſ beſt orator: at laſt So long hee hath flowen, nd hath flowen ſo faſt That leagueſ o'er-paſt at ſea, now tir'd hee lyeſ, And with hiſ prey, that till then languit, dieſ, The ſouleſ no longer foeſ, two wayeſ did erre, The fi I follow, and keepe no calender Of the other; he liveſ yet in ſome great officer. XXXI. Into an embrion fi, our Soule iſ throwne And in due time throwne out againe, and growne To ſuch vaſtnee, aſ if unmanacled From Greece, Morea were, and that by ſome Earthuake unrooted, looſe Morea ſwome, Or ſeaſ from Africkſ body had ſevered And torne the hopefull Promontorieſ heâd, Thiſ fi would ſeeme theſe, and, when all hopeſ faile, A great ip overſet, or without ſaile Hulling, might (when thiſ waſ a whelp) be like thiſ whale. XXXII. At every ſtroake hiſ brazen finneſ do take More circleſ in the broken ſea they make Then cannonſ voiceſ, when the aire they teare: Hiſ ribſ are illarſ, ànd hiſ high arch'd roofe Of barke that bluntſ beſt ſteele, iſ thunder-proofe, Swimme in him ſwallowed Dolphinſ, without feare, And feele no deſ, aſ if hiſ vaſt wombe were Some Inland ſea, and ever aſ hee went Hee ſpouted riverſ up, aſ if he ment To joyne our ſeaſ, with ſeaſ above the firmament. XXXIII. He huntſ not fi, but aſ an officer, Stayeſ in hiſ court, at hiſ owne net, and there All ſuitorſ of all ſortſ themſelveſ enthrall; So on hiſ backe lyeſ thiſ whale wantoning, And in hiſ gulfe-like throat, ſuckſ every thing That paeth neare. Fi chaſeth fi, and all, Flyer and follower, in thiſ whirleoole fall; O might not ſtateſ of more equality Conſt? and iſ it of neceſty That thouſand guiltlee ſmalſ, to make one great, muſt die? hoffls, baffie, da. Madnee hiſ ſorrow, gout hiſ cramp, may hee Make, by but thinking, who hath made him ſuch: And may he feele no touch Of conſcience, but of fame, and bee Angui'd, not that 'twaſ nne, but that 'twaſ ee▪ In early and long ſcarcenee may he rot, For land which had been hiſ, if he had not Himſelfe inceſtuouſly an heire begot: May he dreame Treaſon, and beleeve, that hee Meant to performe it, and confee, and die, And no record tell why: Hiſ ſonneſ, which none of hiſ may bee, Inherite nothing but hiſ infamie: Or may he ſo long Parateſ have fed, That he would faine be theirſ, whom he hath bred, And at the laſt be circumciſ'd for bread: The venöm of all ſtepdameſ, gamſterſ gall, What Tyranſ, and their ſubjeſ interwi, What Plantſ, Myne, Beaſtſ, Foule, Fi, Can contribute, all ill, which all Prophetſ, or Poetſ ſpake; And all which all Be annex'd in ſcheduleſ unto thiſ by mee, Fall on that man; For if it be a ee Nature before hand hath out-curſed mee. AN ANATOMIE OF THE WORLD. Wherein, By occaon of the untimely death of Miſtriſ ELIZABETH DRVRY, the frailty and the decay of thiſ whole World iſ repreſented. The firſt Anniverſary. To the praiſe of the dead, and the ANATOMIE. VVEll dy'd the World, that we might live to ſëe Thiſ world of wit, in hiſ Anatomie: No evijll wantſ hiſ good; ſo wilder heireſ Bedew their Fatherſ Tombeſ, with forced teareſ, ℟hoſe ſtate reqùiteſ their loe: whileſ thuſ we gain, Well may wee walke in blackſ, but not complaine. Yet how can I conſent the world iſ dead While thiſ Muſe liveſ? which in hiſ ſpiritſ ſtead Seemeſ to informe a World; and bidſ it bee, In ſpight of loe or fraile mortalitie? And thou the ſubje of thiſ welborne thought, Thrice noble maid, couldſt not have found nor ſought A fitter time to yeeld to thy ſad Fate, Then whileſ thiſ ſpirit liveſ, that can relate Thy worth ſo well to our laſt Nephewſ eyne, That they all wonder both at hiſ and thine: Admired match! where ſtriveſ in mutuall grace The cunning pencill, and the comely face: A taſke which thy faire goodnee made too much For the bold pride of ulgar penſ to touch; Ènough iſ uſ to praiſe them that praiſe thee, And ſay, that but enough thoſe prayſeſ bee, Which hadſt thou li'd, had hid their fearfull head From th'angry checkingſ of thy modeſt red: Death barreſ reward and ame, when envy'ſ gone, And gaine, 'tiſ ſafe to give the dead their owne. Aſ then the wiſe Egyptianſ wont to lay More on their Tombeſ, then houſeſ: theſe of clay, But thoſe of brae, or marble were: ſo wee Give more unto thy Ghoſt, then unto thee. Yet what wee give to thee, thou gav'ſt to uſ, And may'ſt but thanke thy ſelfe, for being thuſ: Yet what thou gav'ſt, and wert, O happy maid, Thy grace profeſt all due, where'tiſ repayd. So theſe high ſongſ that to thee ſuited bin Serve but to ſound thy Makerſ praiſe and thine, Which thy deare ſoule aſ ſweetly ngſ to him Amid the uire of Saintſ, and Seraphim, Aſ any Angelſ tongue can ng of thee; The ſubjeſ differ, though the ſkill agree: For aſ by infant yeareſ men judge of age, Thy early love, thy vertueſ did preſage, What high part thou bear'ſt in thoſe beſt of ſongſ, Whereto no burden, nor no end belongſ. Sing on thou virgin Soꝗle, whoſe lofull gaine Thy loveck parentſ have ꝗewail'd in vaine; Never may thy Name be in our ſongſ forgot, Till wee all ng thy ditty and thy note. An Anatomy of the World. The firſt Anniverſary. WHen that rich Soule which to her heaven iſ gone, Who all do celebrate, who know they have one, (For who iſ ſure he hath a ꝗoule, unlee It ſee, and judge, and follow worthinee, And by deedſ praiſe it? hee who doth not thiſ, May lodge an immate ſoule, but'tiſ not hiſ.) When that eene ended here her progree time, And, aſ t'her ſtanding houſe to heaven did climbe, Where loath to make the Saintſ attend her long, She'ſ now a part both of the uire, and Song. Thiſ World, in that great earthqùake languied; For in a common baꝖh of teareſ it bled, Which drew the ſtrongeſt itall ſpiritſ out: Ꝗut ſuccour'd then with a perplexed doubt, Whether the world did loſe, or gaine in thiſ, (Becauſe nce now no other way there iſ, But goodnee, to ſee her, whom all would ſee, Ꝗll muſt endeavour to be good aſ ee.) Thiſ great conſumption to a fever turn'd, And ſo the oꝗld had fitſ; it joy'd, it mourn'd; And, aſ men thinke, that Agueſ phyck are, And th'Ague being ſpent, give over care. Žo thou cke World, mꝖſtak'ſt thy ſelże to bee Well, when ãlaſ, thou'rt in a Lethargie. Her death did wound and tame thee than, and than Thou might'ſt hae better ſpar'd the Sunne, or man. That wound waſ deep, but 'tiſ more miżery, That thou haſt loſt thy ſenſe and memor. 'Twaſ heavy then to heare thy voyce of mone, But thiſ iſ worſe, that thou art ſpeechlee growne. Thou haſt forgot thy name thou hadſt; thou waſt Nothing but ee, and her thou haſt o'rpaſt. For aſ a child kept from the Fount, untill Ä prince, expeed long, come to fulfill The ceremonieſ, thou unnam'd had'ſt laid, Had not her comming, thee her palace made: Her name defin'd thee, gave thee forme, and frame, And thou forgett'ſt to celebrate th nme. Some monethſ e hath beene dead (but beìng dead, Meaſureſ of timeſ are all determined) But long e'ath beene away, long, long, et none Offerſ to tell uſ who it iſ that'ſ gone. But aſ in ſtateſ doubtfull of future heireſ, When cknee without remedie empaireſ The preſent Prince, they're loth it ould be ſaid, The Prince doth langui, or the Prince iſ dead: So mankinde feeling no a generall tha, A ſtrong example gone, equall to law; The Cyment which did faithfully compa, And glue all vertueſ, now reſolv'd, and ſlack'd, Thought it ſome blaſphemy to ſay 'waſ dead, Or that our weaknee waſ diſcovered In that confeſon; therefore ſpoke no more Then tongueſ, the Soule being gone, the loe deplore. But though ijt be too late to ſuccour thee, Žicke World, yea, dead, yea putrified, nce ee Thy'intrinque balme, and thy preſervative, Can never be renew'd, thou never live, I (nce no man can make thee live) will tr, What wee may gaine by thy Anatomy. Her death hath taught uſ dearely, that thou art Corrupt and mortall in thy pureſt part. Let no man ſay, the world it ſelfe being dead, 'Tiſ labour loſt to have diſcovered The worldſ infirmitieſ, nce there iſ none Alive to ſtúdy thiſ dieion; For there'ſ a kinde of World remaining ſtill, Though ee which did inanimate and fill The world, be gone, yet in thiſ laſt long night, Her Ghoſt dꝙth walke, that iſ, a glimmering light, A faint weake love of vertue, and of good, Refleſ from her, ož them which underſtood Her worth; and though e have ut in all day, The twilight of her memory doth ſtay; Which, from the carcae of the old world, free, Createſ a new world, and new creatureſ bee Produc'd: the matter and the ſtuffe of thiſ, Her vertue, and the forme our praice iſ: And thought to be thuſ elemented, arme Theſe creatureſ, from homeborne intrinque harme, (For all aum'd unto thiſ dignitie, So many weedlee Paradiſeſ bee, Which of themſelveſ produce no vꝙnemouſ nne, Except ſome forraine Serpent bring it in) Yet becauſe oÜtward ſtormeſ the ſtrongeſt breake, And ſtrength ìt ſelfe by confidence groweſ weake, Thiſ new world may be ſafer, being told The ckneſ of the World The dangerſ and diſeaſeſ of the old: For with due temper men doe then forgoe, Or covet thingſ, when they their trÜe worth know. Impoſbili∣ty of health There iſ no health; Phytianſ ſay that wee, At beſt, enjoy but a neutralitie. And can there bee worſe cknee, then to know That we are never well, nor can be ſo? Wee are borne ruinouſ: poore motherſ cry, That children come not right, nor orderly; Eẍcept they headlong come and fall upon Až ominouſ precipitation. How witty'ſ ruine, how importunate Upon mankinde? it labour'd to fruſtrate Even Gōdſ purpoſe; and made woman, ſent For manſ reliefe, cauſe of hiſ languiment. They were to good endſ, and they are ſo ſtill, But acceory, and principall in ill; For that firſt marriage waſ our funerall: One woman at one blow, then kill'd uſ all, Änd ngly, one by one, they kill uſ now. We doe delightfully our ſelveſ allow To that conſumption; and profuſely blinde, Wee kill our ſelveſ to propagate our kinde. And yet we do not that; we are not men: There iſ not now that mankinde, which waſ then, When aſ, the Sunne and man did ſeeme to ſtrive, Shortnee of life. (Joynt tenantſ of the world) who ould ſurvive. When, Stagge, and Raven, and the long-liv'd tree, Compar'd with man, dy'd in minoritie, When, if a ſlow pac'd ſtarre had ſtolne away From the obſerverſ marking, he might ſtay Two or three hundred yeareſ to ſee't againe, And then make up hiſ obſervation plaine; When, aſ the age waſ long, the ſe waſ great; Manſ growth confe'd, and recompenc'd the meat; So ſpacíouſ and large, that every Soule Did a faire Kingdome, and large Realme controule: And when the very ſtature, thuſ ere, Did that ſole a good way towardſ heaven dire. Where iſ thiſ mankinde now? who liveſ to age, Fit to be made Methſalem hiſ page? Ãlaſ, we ſcarce live long enough to tr Whether a true made clocke run right,  lie. Old Granreſ talke of eſterday with ſorrow And for our children wee reſere to morrow. So ort iſ life, that every peſant ſtrieſ, In a torne hoúſe, or field, to have three lieſ. And aſ in laſting, ſo in length iſ mn, Smalnee of ſtature. Contraed to an inch, who waſ a ſpanne; For had a man at firſt in forreſtſ ſtraỹ'd, Or ipwrack'd in the Sea, one would have laid A wager, that an Elephant, or Whale, That met him, would not haſtily aaile A thing ſo equall to him now alaſ, The Fairieſ, and the Pigmieſ well maỹ pae Aſ credible; mankinde decayeſ ſo ſoone, We'are ſcarce our Fatherſ adoweſ caſt at noone: Onely death adſ t'our length: nor are wee growne In ſtature to be men, till we are none. But thiſ were light, did our lee olume hold Ãll the ōld Teẍt; or had wee chang'd to gold