Ours is the sky,
Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall fly.

Nor will we spare
To hunt the crafty fox, or timorous hạre;

But let our hounds run loose
In any ground they'll choose :

The buck shall fall,

The stag and all : Our pleasures must from their own warrants be.

For to my Muse, if not to me,

I'm sure all game is free; Heav'n, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
And drink by stealth
A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,

I'll take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody,

Which he that hears

Lets through his ears
A madness to distemper all the brain.

Then I another pipe will take,

And Doric music make,
To civilize with greater notes our wits again.


MUSE! be a bridemaid : dost not hear How honour'd Hunt, and his fair Deer, This day prepare their wedding cheer?

The swiftest of thy pinions take,
And hence a sudden journey make
To help 'em break their bridal cake.

Haste 'em to church: tell 'em, love says,
Religion breeds but fond delays
To lengthen out the tedious days.

Chide the slow priest, that so goes on
As if he fear'd he should have done
His sermon ere the glass be run:

Bid him post o'er his words as fast
As if himself were now to taste
The pleasure of so fair a waist.

Now lead the blessed couple home,
And serve a dinner up for some;
Their banquet it as yet to come.

Maids ! dance as nimbly as your blood,
Which I see swell a purple flood,
In emulation of that good

The bride possesseth : for I deem
What she enjoys will be the theme,
This night, of every virgin's dream.

But envy not their blest content,
The hasty night is almost spent,
And they of Cupid will be shent.

The sun is now ready to ride ;
Sure, 'twas the morning I espied,
Or 'twas the blushing of the bride,

See how the lusty bridegroom's veins
Swell, 'till the active torrent strains
To break those o'erstretch'd azure chains !

And the fair bride, ready to cry
To see her pleasant loss so nigh,
Pants like the sealed pigeon's eye!

Put out the torch. Love loves no lights:
Those that perform his mystic rites
Must pay their orisons by nights,

Nor can that sacrifice be done
By any priest or nun alone,
But when they both are met in one.

Now, you that taste of Hymen's cheer,
See that your lips do meet so near
That cockles might be tutor'd there.

And let the whisperings of your love
Such short and gentle murmurs prove,
As they were lectures to the dove.

And in such strict embraces twine,
As if

read unto the vine, The ivy, and the columbine.

Thence may there spring many a pair
Of sons and daughters strong and fair.-
How soon the gods have heard my pray'r!

Methinks already I espy
The cradles rock, the babies cry,
And drowsy nurses lullaby.


Published “ Choice Poems of several sorts, with three new

“ Plays,” 1667, duodecimo; (Vide Gentleman's Magazine for 1797) a volume of more than 600 pages, which may perhaps be consulted with advantage by those who search after anecdotes of contemporary characters, or pictures of their manners. The following appeared the most advanta

geous specimen of his poetry. He was born at Ashbourn in the Peak of Derbyshire, 1608;

educated at both the Universities, especially Cambridge; and having continued for some time at the Inns of Court for fashion's sake, (says Wood) travelled with Sir. K. Digby; and married on his return. He lived a studious life in the country, and, having suffered in the king's cause, died at Derby, 1683.


Away, fond thing ! tempt me no more!
I'll not be won with all thy store !
I can behold thy golden hair,
And for the owner nothing care:
Thy starry eyes can look upon,
And be mine own when I have done:

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