Cloak And many a beaker of bear in your Cloak And yet I stand in fear of your Cloak That I shall be nere the near for your Cloak Therefore good Sir forbear the Cloak For though I have worn bare the Cloak I had rather for to tear the Cloak Then see another wear the Cloak Your friend in truth till death me choak If you will let me have the Cloak Loves Courtship HArk my Flora Love doth call us To the strife that must befall us He hath rob'd his mothers Myrtles And hath puld her downy Turtles See our geniall posts are crownd And our beds like billowes rise Softer lists are no where found And the strife its selfe 's the prize Let not shades and dark affright thee Thy eyes have lustre that will light thee Think not any can surprize us Love himselfe doth now disguise us From thy wast that girdle throw Night and silence both wait here Words or actions who can know Where there 's neither eye nor eare Shew thy bosome and then hide it Licence touching and then chide it Profer something and forbear it Give a grant and then forswear it Ask where all my shame is gone Call us wanton wicked men Doe as Turtles kisse and grone Say thou nere shalt joy againe I can hear thee curse yet chase thee Drink thy tears and still embrace thee Easie riches are no treasure She that 's willing spoiles the pleasure Love bids learn the wrestlers slight Pull and struggle when we twine Let me use my force to night The next conquest shall be thine Vpon the death of the Lord Stafford the last of his name MUst then our loves be short still must we chuse Not to enjoy only admire loose Must axiomes hence grow sadly understood And we thus see t is dangerous to be good So books begun are broken off and we Receive a fragment for an History And as 't were present wealth what was but debt Lose that of which we are not owners yet But as in books that want the closing line We onely can conjecture and repine So must we here too onely grieve and guesse And by our fancy make what 's wanting lesse Thus when rich webs are left unfinished The spider doth supply them with her thred For tell me what addition can be wrought To him whose youth was even the bound of thought Whose buddings did deserve the robe whiles we In smoothnesse did the deeds of wrinkles see When his State-nonage might have been thought fit To break the custome and allowed to sit His actions veiled his age and could not stay For that we call ripenesse and just day Others may wait the staffe and the gray haire And call that wisdome which is onely fear Christen a coldnesse temperance and then boast Full and ripe vertue when all actions lost This is not to be noble but be slack A Stafford ne're was good by the Almanack He who thus stayes the season and expects Doth not gaine habits but disguise defects Here nature outslips culture he came tried Straight of himselfe at first not rectified Manners so pleasing and so handsome cast That still that overcame which was shewn last All minds were captived thence as if 't had been The same to him to have been loved and seen Had he not been snatch'd thus what drive hearts now Into his nets would have driven Cities too For these his essayes which began to win Were but bright sparks which shewed the mine within Rude draughts unto the Picture things we may Stile the first beams of the increasing day Which did but onely great discoveries bring As outward coolenesse shews the inward spring Nor were his actions to content the sight Like Artists pieces plac'd in a good light That they might take at distance and obtrude Something unto the eye that might delude His deeds did all most perfect then appear When you observ'd view'd close and did stand near For could there ought else spring from him whose line From which he sprung was rule and discipline Whose vertues were as books before him set So that they did instruct who did beget Taught thence not to be powerfull but know Shewing he was their blood by living so For whereas some are by their big-lip known Others by imprinted burning swords were shown So they by great deeds are from which bright fame Engraves free reputation on their name These are their native marks and it hath been The Staffords lot to have their signes within And though this firme hereditatry good Might boasted be as flowing with the blood Yet he ne're graspt this stay but as those who Carry perfumes about them still scarce doe Themselves perceive them though anothers sence Suck in the exhaling odour so he thence Ne're did perceive he carried this good smell But made new still by doing himselfe well To imbalme him then is vaine where spreading fame Supplies the want of spices where the name It selfe preserving may for ointment passe And he still seen lie coffind as in glasse Whiles thus his bud dims full flowers and his sole Beginning doth reproach anothers whole Coming so perfect up that there must needs Have been found out new titles for new deeds Though youth and lawes forbid which will not let Statues be rais'd or him stand brasen yet Our minds retaines this royalty of Kings Not to be bound to time but judge of things And worship as they merit there we doe Place him at height and he stands golden too A comfort but not equall to the crosse A faire remainder but not like the losse For he that last pledge being gone we doe Not onely loose the heir but the honour too Set we up then this boast against our wrong He left no other signe that he was young And spight of fate his living vertues will Though he be dead keep up the Barony still Vpon the same UNequall nature that dost load not pair Bodies with souls to great for them to bear As some put extracts that for soules may passe Still quickning where they are in frailer glasse Whose active generous spirits scorne to live By such weak means and slight preservative So high borne minds whose dawnings like the day In torrid climes cast forth a full-noon ray Whose vigorous brests inherit throngd in one A race of soules by long succession And rise in their descents in whom we see Entirely summ'd a new born ancestry These soules of fire whose eager thoughts alone Create a feaver or consumption Orecharge their bodies labring in the strife To serve so quick and more then mortall life Where every contemplation doth oppresse Like fits of the Calenture and kills no lesse Goodnesse hath its extreams as well as sin And brings as vice death and diseases in This was thy fate great Stafford thy fierce speed T' out-live thy years to throng in every deed A masse of vertues hence thy minutes swell Not to a long life but long Chronicle Great name for that alone is left to be
faire As time and age cannot impaire Hadst thou a prospective so cleare That thou couldst view my object there When thou her vertues didst espy thou dst wonder and confesse that I Had cause to like and learne from hence To love by judgement not by sence On the death of a faire Gentlewomans Robin-redbrest WHatsoere birds in groves are bred Provide your anthems Robins dead Poor Robin that was wont to nest In faire Siloras lovely brest And thence would peep into her eye To see what feather stood awry This pretty bird might freely sip The sugered Nectar from her lip When many love-burnt soules have pined To see their rivall so retained But what caused Robins death was this Robin sure surfeited with blisse Or else cause her faire cheek-possest A purer red then Robins brest Wherein consisted all his pride The little bird for envy dyed On the death of Sir Tho Pelham MEerely for death to grieve and mourne Were to repine that man was borne When weak old age doth fall asleep 'T were foul ingratitude to weep Those threds alone should force out tears Whose suddain crack breaks off some years Here 't is not so full distance here Sunders the cradle from the beere A fellow-traveller he hath bin So long with time so worn to'th skin That were it not just now bereft His body first the soule had left Threescore and ten is natures date Our journey when we come in late Beyond that time the overplus Was granted not to him but us For his own sake the Sun ne're stood But onely for the peoples good Even so he was held out by aire Which poor men uttered in their prayer And as his goods were lent to give So were his dayes that they might live So ten years more to him were told Enough to make another old Oh that death would still doe so Or else on goodmen would bestow That wast of years which unthrifts fling Away by their distempering That some might thrive by this decay As well as that of land and clay T was now well done no cause to mourne On such a seasonable stone Where death is but a guest we sinne Not bidding welcome to his Inne Sleep sleep goodman thy rest embrace Sleep sleep th' ast trod a weary race Of Musick WHen whispering straines with creeping wind Distill soft passion through the heart And whilst at every touch we find Our pulses beat and bear a part When threds can make Our heart-strings shake Philosophy can scarce deny Our soules consists in harmony When unto heavenly joyes we feigne What ere the soule affecteth most Which onely thus we can explaine By Musick of the winged host Whose rayes we think Make stars to wink Philosophy can scarce deny Our soules consist of harmony O lul me lul me charming aire My senses each with wonder sweet Like snow on wool thy fallings are Soft like spirits are thy feet Griefe who needs fear That hath an ear Down let him lie And slumbring dye And change his soule for harmony To his Mistresse I Le tell you how the Rose did first grow red And whence the Lillies whitenesse borrowed You blusht and streight the Rose with red was dight The Lillies kiss'd your hands and so grew white You have the native colour these the die And onely flourish in your livery Before that time each Rose was but one staine The lilly nought but palenesse did containe On a black Gentlewoman IF shadowes be a Pictures excellence And make it seem more glorious to the sence If stars in brightest day are lost for sight And seem more glorious in the mask of night Why should you think fair creature that you lack Perfection cause your eyes and haire are black Or that your beauty which so far exceeds The new-sprung Lillies in their maidenheads The rosie colour of your cheeks and lips Should by that darknesse suffer an ecclipse Rich Diamonds are fairer being set And compassed within a foileof jet Nor can it be dame nature should have made So bright a Sun to shine without a shade It seems that nature when she first did fancy Your rare composure studied Negromancy And when to you these guifts she did impart She used altogether the Black Art She framed the Magick circle of your eyes And made those hairs the chains wherein she ties Rebellious hearts those vaines which doe appear Twined in Meanders about every sphear Mysterious figures are and when you list Your voyce commandeth like an exorcist Now if in Magick you have skill so far Vouchsafe to make me your familiar Nor hath kind nature her black art reveald By outward parts alone some are conceald As by the spring head men may easily know The nature of the streams that run below So your black eyes and haire doe give direction That all the rest are of the like complexion The rest where all rest lies that blesseth man That Indian mine that streight of Magellan The worlds dividing gulph through which who venters With hoised sailes and ravishd sences enters To a new world of blisse Pardon I pray If my rude muse presumes for to display Secrets forbid or hath her bounds surpast In praising sweetnesse which she nere did tast Starv'd men may talk of meat and blind men may Though hid from light yet know there is a day A rover in the mark his arrow sticks Sometimes as well as he that shoots at pricks And if I might direct my shaft aright The black mark would I hit and not the white On a Gentlewoman walking in the Snow I Saw faire Cloris walk alone When feathered raine came softly downe And Jove descended from his Tower To court her in a silver showre The wanton snow flew to her breast Like little birds into their nest And overcome with whitenesse there For griefe dissolv'd into a teare Which trickling down her garments hemme To deck her freezd into a gemme Vpon one dead in the snow WIthin a fleece of silent waters drownd Before I met with death a grave I found That which eâ—iled my life from her sweet home For griefe streight froze it selfe into a Tomb Onely one Element my fate thought meet To be my death grave tomb and winding sheet Phoebus himselfe my Epitaph had writ But blotting many ere he thought one fit He wrote untill my tomb and grave were gone And 't was an Epitaph that I had none For every man that pass'd along that way Without a sculpture read that there I lay Here now the second time inclosed I lye And thus much have the best of destiny Corruption from which onely one was free Devour'd my grave but did not seize on me My first grave took me from the race of men My last shall give me back to life agen On a woman dying in travell the child unborne WIthin this grave there is a grave intombd Here lies a mother and a child inwombd T was strange that nature so much vigour gave To one that nere was born to make a grave
next Bring better notes or chuse a fitter text On a Lady that dyed of the small pox O Thou deformed unwomanlike desease That plowest up flesh and blood and sowest there pease And leav'st such prints on beauty if thou come As clouted shoon doe in a floare of loame Thou that of faces honicombs dost make And of two breasts two cullinders forsake Thy deadly trade thou now art rich give ore And let our curses call thee forth no more Or if thou needs wilt magnifie thy power Goe where thou art invoked every hour Amongst the gamesters where they name thee thick At the last man or the last pocky nick Thou who hast such superfluous store of gaine Why strikst thou one whose ruine is thy shame O thou hast murdred where thou shouldst have kist And where thy shaft was needful there thou mist Thou shouldst have chosen out some homely face Where thy ill-favourd kindness might add grace That men might say how beautious once was she And what a curious piece was mard by thee Thou shouldst have wrought on some such Lady-mould That never loved her Lord nor ever could Untill she were deformed thy tyranny Were then within the rules of charity But upon one whose beauty was above All sorts of art whose love was more then love On her to fix thy ugly counterfeit Was to erect a Piramid of jet And put out fire to dig a turfe from Hell And place it where a gentle soule should dwell A soule which in the body would not stay When t was no more a body nor pure clay But a huge ulcer o thou heavenly race Thou soule that shunst the infection of thy case Thy house thy prison pure soule spotless faire Rest where no heat no cold no compounds are Rest in that country and enjoy that ease Which thy fraile flesh denied and thy disease Vpon the Kings Returne to the City of London when he came last thether from Scotland and was entertained there by the Lord Mayor SIng and be merry King Charles is come back Le ts drink round his health with Claret Sack The Scots are all quiet each man with his pack May cry now securely come see what you lack Sing and be merry boyes sing and be merry London's a fine Town so is London-Derry Great preparation in London is made To bid the King welcome each man gives his aide With thanksgiving cloths themselves they arrayd I should have said holy-day but I was afraid Sing c. They stood in a row for a congratulation Like a company of wild-geese in the old fashion Railes in the Church are abomination But Railes in the street are no innovation Sing c. My Lord Mayor himselfe on cock-horse did ride Not like a young Gallant with a sword by his side T was carried before him but there was espied The crosse-bar in the hilt by a Puritan eyed Sing c. Two dozen of Aldermen ride two by two Their Gowns were all scarlet but their noses were blew The Recorder made a speech if report it be true He promis'd more for them then ere they will do Sing c. They should be good subjects to the King and the State The Church they would love no Prelates would hate But methinks it was an ominous fate They brought not the King thorow Bishops-gate Sing c. The Citizens rod in their Golden Chaines Fetch'd from St. Martyns no region of Spaines It seems they were trobl'd with Gundamors pains Some held by their pummels and some by their manes Sing c. In Jackets of Velvet without Gown or Cloak Their faces were wainscot their harts were of oke No Trainbands were seen no drums beat a stroke Because City Captains of late have been broke Sing c. The King Queen and Prince the Palsgrave of Rhine With two branches more of the royal vine Rod to the Guild-Hall where they were to dine There could be no lack where the Conduits run wine Sing c. Nine hundred dishes in the bill of fare For the King and Nobles prepared there were There could be no lesse a man might well swear By the widgeons and woodcocks and geese that were there Sing c. Though the dinner were long yet the grace was but short It was said in the fashion of the English Court But one passage more I have to report Small thanks for my paines I look to have for t Sing c. Down went my Lord Mayor as low as his knee Then up went the white of an Aldermans eye We thought the Bishops grace enlarged should be Not the Arch-Bishops no such meanign had he Sing c. When 's Lordship kneeld down we lookd he should pray So he did heartily but in his own way The cup was his book the collect for the day Was a health to King Charles all out he did say Sing c. The forme of prayer my Lord did begin The rest of the Aldermen quickly were in One Warner they had of the greatnesse of the sin Without dispensation from Burton or Prin. Sing c. Before they had done it grew towards night I forget my Lord Mayor was made a Knight The Recorder too with another wight Whom I cannot relate for the torches are light Sing c. Up and away by St. Pauls they passe When a prickear'd brayd like a Puritan ass Some thought he had been scar'd with the painted glasse He swore not but cry'd high Popery by th' masse Sing c. The Quire with Musick on a Scaffold they see In Surplices all their Tapers burnt by An Anthem they sung most melodiously If this were Popery I confesse it was high Sing c. From thence to White Hall there was made no stay Where the King gave them thanks for their love that day Nothing was wanting if I could but say The House of Commons had met him half way Sing c. Vpon the Kings-Book bound up in a Cover coloured with His Blood LEt abler pens commend these leaves whose fame Spreads through all languages through time whose name Nor can those Tongues add glory to this book So great as they from the translation took Shine then rare piece in thine own Charls his ray Yet suffer me thy covering to display And tell the world that this plain sanguine vail A beauty far more glorious doth conceal Then masks of Ladies and although thou be A Book where every leafe's a Library Fil'd with choise Gems of th' Arts Law Gospel The chiefest Jewel is the Cabinet A shrine much holier then the Saint you may yet To this as harmelesse adoration pay As those that kneel to Martyrs tombs for know This sacred blood doth Rome a Relique show Richer then all her shrines and then all those More hallowed far far more miraculous Thus cloth'd go forth bless'd Book and yield to none But to the Gospel and Christs blood alone Thy Garments now like his so just the same As he from Bozra and the wine-presse came Both purpled with like
th' usuall place She hath the anagram of a good face When by the gam-ut some Musitians make A perfect song others will undertake By the same gam-ut chang'd to equall it Things simply good can never be unfit For one nights revells silk and gold we use But in long journies cloth and leather chuse Beauty is barren oft and husbands say There 's the best land where is the foulest way And what a soveraigne medicine will she be If thy past sins have taught thee jealousie Here needs no spies nor Eunuchs her commit Safe to thy foes yea to thy Marmoset When Belgias Cities th' ruind country drown That durty foulness armes and guards the Town So doth her face guard her and so for thee Which by occasion absent oft mayest be She whose face like the clouds turns day to night And mightier then the Sea makes Moors seem white Who though seven years she in the street hath laid A Nunnery durst receive and think a maid And though in child-bed-labour she did lie Midwives would swear 't were but a tympany If she accuse her selfe I 'le credit lesse Then witches which impossibles confesse Vpon Heavens best Image his faire and vertuous Mistresse M. S. THe most insulting tyrants can but be Lords of our bodies still our minds are free My Mistress thralls my soul those chains of Gold Her locks my very thoughts infetterd hold Then sure she is a Goddesse and if I Should worship her 't is no Idolary Within her cheeks a fragrant garden lies Where Roses mixt with Lillies feast mine eyes Here 's alwayes spring no winter to annoy Those heavenly flowers onely some tears of joy Doe water them and sure if I be wise This garden is another Paradice Her eyes two heavenly lamps whose orderd motion Swayes all my reason my sence my devotion And yet those beams did then most glorious shine When passions dark had maskd this soul of mine Now if the night her glory best declare What can I deem them but a staâ—ry paire Her brow is vertues court where she alone Triumphant sits in faultlesse beauties throne Did you but mark its purenesse you would swear Diana's come from Heaven to sojourne there Onely this Cynthia dims not even at noon There wants a man methinks in such a Moon Her breath is great Joves incense sweeter far Then all Arabian winds and spices are Her voyce the sphears best Musick and those twins Her armes a precious paire of Cherubs wings In briefe she is a map of Heaven and there O would that I a constellation were The black maid to the faire boy FAire boy alasse why fliest thou me That languish in such flames for thee I me black t is true why so is night And lovers in dark shades delight The whole world doe but close your eye Will be to you as black as I Or ope't and view how dark a shade Is by your own faire body made Which followes thee where ere thou goe O who allowed would not doe so Then let me ever live so nigh And thou shalt need no shade but I. His Answer BLack girle complaine not that I fly Since fate commands antipathy Prodigious must that union prove Where black and white together move And a conjunction of our lips Not kisses makes but an ecclipse In which the mixed black and white Pretends more terrour then delight Yet if my shadow thou wilt be Enjoy thy dearest wish but see Thou keep my shadows property And flee away when I come nigh Else stay till death hath blinded me And I le bequeath my selfe to thee Verses sent to a Lady which she sending back unread were returned with this inscription REead faire maid and know the heat That warmes these lines is like the beate Thy chast pulse keeps thy mornings thought Hath not more temper were there ought On this virgin paper shed That might to crimson turne thy red I should blush for thee but I vow T is all as spotlesse as thy brow Read then and know what art thou hast That thus canst make a Poet chast The Verses ON a day 't is in thy power To make me blesse or curse that hour I saw thy face they face then maskd Like Ivory in Ebon cask'd But that dark cloud once drawn away Just like the dawning of the day So brake thy beauty forth and I Grew sad glad neither instantly Yet through thy mercy or my chance Me thought I saw a pleasing glance Thou threwst on me a sugar smile Dimpled thy cheeks and all the while Mirth dancd upon thy brow to prove It came from kindnesse if not love Oh make it good in this let me Not Poet but a Prophet be And think not fairest that thy fame Is wrongd by a Poets Mistresse name Queens have been proud on 't for their Kiugs Are but our subjects nay all things Shall unto all posterity Appear as we will have them we Give men valour maids chastity And beauty too if Homer would Hellen had been an hag and-Troy had stood And though far humbler be my verse Yet some there will be will rehearse And like it too perhaps and then The life that now thou lendst my pen The world shall pay thee back agen The Nightingale MY limbs were weary and my head opprest With drowsinesse and yet I could not rest My bed was such no down nor feathers can Make one more soft though Jove again turn Swan No fear distracted thoughts my slumber broke I heard no screech-owle squeak nor raven croak Nay even the flea that proud insulting else Had taken truce and was asleep it selfe But 't was nights darling and the woods chiefe jewel The Nightingale that was so sweetly crewel And wooed my ears to rob my eyes of sleep That whilst she sung of Tereus they might weep And yet rejoyce the tyrant did her wrong Her cause of woe was burthen of her song Which whilst I listned too and greiv'd to hear T was such I could have wish'd my selfe all eare T is false the Poets feigne of Orpheus he Could neither move a stone a beast nor tree To follow him but wheresoere she flies She makes a grove where Satyrs and Fairies About her perch to daunce her roundelayes For she sings ditties to them whilst Pan playes Yet she sung better now as if in me She meant with sleep to try the mastery But whilst she chanted thus the Cock for spight Dayes hoarser herauld chid away the night Thus rob'd of sleep mine eyelids nightly guest Methought I lay content though not at rest Barclay his Epitaph HE that 's imprisoned in this narrow room Wer 't not for custome needs nor verse nor tomb Nor can there from these memory be lent To him who must be his tombs monument And by the vertue of his lasting name Must make his tomb live long not it his fame For when this gaudy pageantry is gone Children of the unborn world shall spy the stone That covers him and to their fellowes cry Just here