Thus Cyrus tam'd the Macedon, a tombe
Checkt him, who thought the world too straight a

room.

Have I obey'd the powers of a face,

A beauty able to undoe the race

Of easie man? I look but here, and strait
I am inform'd, the lovely counterfeit

Was but a smoother clay. That famish'd slave

Begger'd by wealth, who

save,

starves that he may

Brings hither but his sheet; nay th' ostrich-man
That feeds on steele and bullet, he that can
Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough
To a kind word, as if his tongue were buffe,'
Is chap-faln here: wormes without wit, or fear
Defie him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear.
Thus could I run o'r all the pitteous score
Of erring men, and having done, meet more;
Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents,
Phantastick humours, perillous ascents,
False, empty honours, traiterous delights,
And whatsoe'r a blind conceit invites ;

But these and more which the weak vermin swell,
Are couch'd in this accumulative cell,

Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun

1 Buffe or buffle is to stutter or stammer. G.

Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone;

Day leaves me in a double night, and I

Must bid farewell to my sad library.

Yet with these notes: Henceforth with thought

of thee

I'le season all succeeding jollitie,

Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: Excesse hath nor religion, nor wit;

But should wild bloud swell to a lawless strain; One check from thee shall channel it again.

IN AMICUM FENERATOREM.

HANKS mighty Silver! I rejoyce to see How I have spoyl'd his thrift, by spending thee.

Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with

more,

His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore.
As lesser lode-stones with the North consent,
Naturally moving to their element;

As bodyes swarm to th' center, and that fire,
Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire;
So this vast crying summe drawes in a lesse,
And hence this bag more Northward layd I guesse,
For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere
Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear.

Prerogative of debts! how he doth dresse
His messages in chink? not an expresse
Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit,
For gold's the best restorative of wit;
Oh how he gilds them o'r! with what delight
I read those lines, which angels doe indite?

But wilt have money Og? must I dispurse? Will nothing serve thee but a Poet's curse? Wilt rob an altar thus ? and sweep at once What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones ? 'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peale In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves,1 or gaole,

I feare them not. I have no land to glutt
Thy durty appetite, and make thee strutt
Nimrod of acres; Il'e no speech prepare
To court the hopefull cormorant, thine heire.
For there's a kingdome, at thy beck, if thou
But kick this drosse: Parnassus flowrie brow
I'le give thee with my Tempe, and to boot
That horse which struck a fountain with his foot.
A bed of roses I'le provide for thee,

1 Sheriffs. G.

› Pegasus and Hippocrene (Anton: Lib. 9.)—the well of the Muses being hence called fons caballinus (Ovid Met. v. 256.) G.

And chrystal springs shall drop thee melodie;
The breathing shades wee'l haunt, where ev'ry
leafe

Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deafe;
Those waggish nymphs too which none ever yet
Durst make love to, wee'l teach the loving fit,
Wee'l suck the corall of their lips, and feed
Upon their spicie breath, a meale at need:
Rove in their amber-tresses, and unfold
That glist'ring grove, the curled wood of gold;
Then peep for babies, a new puppet play,
And riddle what their pratling eyes would say.
But here thou must remember to dispurse,
For without money all this is a curse :
Thou must for more bags call, and so restore
This iron-age to gold, as once before;
This thou must doe, and yet this is not all,
For thus the poet would be still in thrall,

Thou must then—if live thus-my neast of honey,
Cancell old bonds, and beg to lend more money.

TO HIS FRIEND

WONDER, James, through the whole

historie.

Of ages, such entailes of povertie

Are layd on Poets; lawyers-they say-have

found

A trick to cut them, would they were but bound To practise on us, though for this thing wee Should pay-if possible-their bribes and fee.

Search as thou canst- the old and moderne

store

Of Rome aud ours, and all the wittie score

Thou shalt not find a rich one; take each clime And run o'r all the pilgrimage of time

Thou❜lt meet them poor, and ev'ry where descrie
A thredbare, goldless genealogie.

Nature-it seems-when she meant us for Earth
Spent so much of her treasure in the birth
As ever after nigards her, and shee
Thus stor'd within, beggers us outwardly.
Wofull profusion! at how dear a rate

Are wee made up? all hope of thrift and state
Lost for a verse: When I by thoughts look back
Into the wombe of time, and see the rack
Stand useless there, untill we are produc'd
Unto the torture, and our soules infus'd
To learn affliction, I begin to doubt

That as some tyrants use from their chain'd rout
Of slaves, to pick out one whom for their sport
They keep afflicted by some lingring art;
So wee are meerly thrown upon the stage
The mirth of fooles, and legend of the age.
When I see in the ruines of a sute