When riotous sinfull plush, and tell-tale spurs

Walk Fleet street, and the Strand, when the soft

stirs

Of bawdy, ruffled silks, turn night to day;

And the lowd whip, and coach, scolds all the way;
When lust of all sorts, and each itchie bloud
From the Tower-wharfe to Cymbeline, and Lud,'
Hunts for a mate, and the tyr'd footman reeles
'Twixt chaire-men, torches, and the hacking
wheels:

Come, take the other dish; it is to him
That made his horse a senatour:2 each brim
Looke big as mine: the gallant, jolly beast
Of all the herd-you'le say—was not the least.

1 Cymbeline and Lud were statues or images of ancient kings of those names, which formerly occupied niches in the old Lud-Gate. They were not removed until the gate was taken down in 1761-2. The gate stood on Ludgate Hill, betweene the London Tavern and the Church of St. Martin's, Ludgate. Lud was king of Britain and (so the veracious legend runs) built this gate B.c. 66, Cunobelin or Kimbeline was king, 26 B.c. and died 17 A.D. Tower wharf was the eastern limit of old walled London and Ludgate the western. G.

2 Caligula made his horse Incitatus his colleague in the consul-ship, and therefore a senator (Suetonius). If it had been an 'ass' instead, the colleague-ship had been fitting. G.

Now crown the second bowle, rich as his worth, I'le drinke it to he, that like fire broke forth Into the Senate's face, crost RUBICON,

And the State's pillars, with their lawes thereon: And made the dull gray beards, and furr'd gowns fly

Into BRUNDUSIUM to consult, and lye :1

This, to brave Sylla! why should it be sed, We drinke more to the living then the dead? Flatt'rers, and fooles doe use it: Let us laugh At our owne honest mirth; for they that quaffe To honour others, doe like those that sent Their gold and plate to strangers to be spent:

:

Drink deep this cup be pregnant: and the wine Spirit of wit, to make us all divine,

That big with sack and mirth we may retyre
Possessours of more soules, and nobler fire ;
And by the influxe of this painted skie,
And labour'd formes, to higher matters flye;
So, if a nap shall take us, we shall all,
After full cups have dreames poeticall.
Let's laugh now, and the prest grape drinke,
Till the drowsie day-starre winke;

And in our merry, mad mirth run
Faster, and further then the sun;

1 Julius Cæsar. G.

And let none his cup forsake,

Till that starre againe doth wake;
So we men below shall move
Equally with the gods above.

TO AMORET,

OF THE

DIFFERENCE

'TWIXT HIM AND OTHER LOVERS, AND WHAT TRUE LOVE IS.

JARKE, when the Evening's cooler wings
Fanne the afflicted ayre, how the faint

M

sunne,

Leaving undone,

What he begunne,

Those spurious flames suckt up from slime, and

earth

To their first, low birth,

Resignes, and brings.

They shoot their tinsill beames, and vanities, Thredding with those false fires their way; But as you stay

And see them stray,

You loose the flaming track, and subt'ly they
Languish away,

And cheate your eyes.

Just so base, sublanarie lovers' hearts

Fed on loose prophane desires,

May for an eye,

Or face comply:

But those removed, they will as soone depart,

And shew their art,

And painted fires.

Whilst I by pow'rfull Loue, so much refin'd,
That my absent soule the same is,

Carelesse to misse,

A glance or kisse,

Can with those elements of lust and sence,
Freely dispence,

And court the mind.

Thus to the North the loadstones move,

And thus to them th' eanmour'd steel aspires:
Thus, Amoret

I doe affect;

And thus by winged beames, and mutuall fire,

Spirits and stars conspire:

And this is Love.

TO AMORET WEEPING.

EAVE Amoret, melt not away so fast

Thy eyes' faire treasure, Fortune's

wealthiest cast

Deserves not one such pearle: for these well spent,

Can purchase starres, and buy a tenement

For us in Heaven: though here the pious streames
Availe us not; who from that clue of sunbeams
Could ever steale one thread? or with a kinde
Perswasive accent charme the wild, lowd winde ?
Fate cuts us all in marble, and the Booke
Forestalls our glasse of minutes; we may looke
But seldom meet a change; thinke you a teare
Can blot the flinty volume? shall our feare,
Or grefe adde to their triumphes? and must wee
Give an advantage to adversitie ?

Deare, idle prodigall! is it not just

We beare our stars? What though I had not dust
Enough to cabinet a worme? nor stand
Enslav'd into a little durt, or sand?
I boast a better purchase, and can shew
The glories of a soule that's simply true.

But grant some richer planet at my birth Had spyed me out, and measur'd so much earth Or gold unto my share: I should have been Slave to these lower elements, and seen

My high borne soule flagge with their drosse, and lye

A pris'ner to base mud, and alchymie;

I should perhaps eate orphans, and sucke up
A dozen distrest widowes in one cup;

Nay further, I should by that lawfull stealth,