In several figures several regions are
Cast and describ'd, some round, some angular:
So Ireland's form is oval: Britain takes
The threat'ning semblance of a sharp'ned axe,-
Where-with large France seems hewn into a square:
And to an oxe's hyde we Spain compare :
But Nature well brave Italy doth shew,
Like a swift leg, that far with Fame doth go.
Much cracking hurts the teeth, but to the tongue
The bragging humour does a deeper wrong.
Who know not this brave sparke of Phoebus? Whose
Both life and learning might detraction pose,
Save only that he drank too greedily
O' th' Muses spring, and left the Sisters dry;
Who smiling therefore, gave the Fates command
His body to convert to pearly sand,
And strew it in their Fountain, there to shine
Like his clear thoughts, and make their draught divine.
To a Glazier shrewdly married.
Of glass and lead, woman and weighty care,
Thou hast enough, and some perhaps to spare;
Yet break thou wilt, nor can thy brittle trade
Long hold, now quarrels are so rashly made.
Those that make earth a living monster, whose
Breath moves the ocean, when it ebbs and flows,
Whose warts are rugged hills, whose wrinkles vales,
Whose ribs are rocks, and bowels, minerals,
What will they have so vast a creature eat,
Sith sea too salt, and aire's too windy meat?
Who only in his cups will fight, is like
A clock that must be oyl'd well, ere it strike.
An Epitaph on his Father and Mother, buried near together in Swarston Church.
Here lies a pair of peerless friends,
Whose goodness, like a precious chain,
Adorn'd their souls in lives and ends;
Whom when detraction self would staine,
She drops her tears instead of gall,
And helps to mourn their funerall.
James, thou and I did spend some precious years
At Katherine-Hall; since then, we sometime feel
In our poetick braines, as plaine appears,
A whirling trick, then caught from Katherine's wheel.
He puts forth money as the hangman sowes
His fatal hempe-seed, that with curses grows :
So grows
his damn'd wealth in the Devil's name,
That doth in Hell the harvest-home proclaim;
For which deep reason my poor Muse prefers
This suite, that Poets ne're prove usurers.
An Epitaph on Mistress Anne Knyveton.
Here hidden lies dear treasure under ground,
Blest Innocence, with budding virtue crown'd;
That like a taper on some altar fir'd,
Shone fairly forth, and sweetly so expir'd.
Expecting here, in darksome shade of night,
A rising sun, that brings eternal light.
Gentle friends, with tears forbear
To drown a wither'd flower here,
That, in spring of nature's pride,
Drank the morning dew and dy'd.
Death may teach you here to live,
And a friendly call doth give
To this humble house of mine :
Here's his inn, and this the sign.
To Thomas Pegge, Gentleman.
Methinks I may to sugar and to wine
Our loves compare, which kind discourses mixt:
Since when, that heart that totally was mine,
Hath in your bosom's paradise been fixt.
What wonder then my friendship's force doth last
Firm to your goodness? you have pegg'd it fast.
Thou still art wrestling, yet the fall dost get,
As ships that want their ballast, over-set.
Of all soule-sicknesses that mortals have,
This falls the heaviest, quenching many a brave
Young spark, yet kindling lust's unhallow'd fire.
Sweet friends, that to the two-topt mount aspire,
Of noble art and honour, to the ditch
Of base contempt, tumble this loathed witch,
That worse than Circe, with a cup doth sack
The fort of reason, and sound sences crack.
For who, not frantick, would diseases buy
At a lame rate, or thirst for poverty?"
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