But my horse was so superstitious grown,
He would fall down, and worship every stone;
Nay, he in reverence to each holy place,
Was often seen to fall upon his face:
And had I been inclin'd to popishness,
I needed have no other cross but this.
Within a mile or two, without command,
Do what I could, this jade would make a stand.
I prais'd him, thinking glory were a spur
To prick him on; all would not make him stir.
All worldly things do post away, we know;
But yet my horse would neither run nor go.
What everlasting creature should this be,
That all things are less permanent than he!
So long I kick'd, the people did suppose
The armless man had beat a drum with's toes.
But though a march or an alar'm I beat,
The senseless horse took all for a retreat.
The people's jeers mov'd me to no remorse,
No more than all my kicks did move my horse.
Had Phaeton's horses been as mine is, they
Needed no reins, they'll never run away.
I wish'd for old Copernicus to prove,
That while we both stood still, the Earth would
Oh! for an earthquake, that the hills might meet,
To bring us home, tho' we mov'd not our feet.
All would not do: I was constrain❜d to be

[move.

The bringer up of a foot company.
But now in what a woeful case were I,
If like our horsemen I were put to fly!
I wish all cowards, (if that be too much)
Half of our horsemen, which I'll swear are such,
In the next fight, when they begin to flee,
They may be plagu'd with a tir'd horse, like me.

TO HIS FRIEND I. B.

THou think'st that I to thee am fully known,
Yet thou'lt not think how powerful I am grown.
I can work miracles, and when I do
Think on thy worth, think thee a wonder too.
Thy constant love, and lines in verse and prose,
Makes me think thee and them miraculous.
Myself am from myself, both here and there I
Suppose myself grown an ubiquitary.
We are a miracle, and 'tis with us
As with John Baptist and his Lazarus.
I thou, and thou art I, and 'tis a wonder
That we both live, and yet both live asunder.
Come, then, let's meet again; for until we
Unite, the times can't be at unity.
But if this distance must still interpose
Between my eye and thee, yet let us close
In mind; and tho' our necks bi-forked grown,
Spread eagle like, yet let our breasts be one.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

YOUR pardon, lady: by my troth I err,
I thought each face a painted sepulchre,
That wore but beauty on't: I did suppose
That outward beauty had been ominous;
And that 't had been so opposite to wit,
As it ne'er wisdom met, nor virtue it.
Your face confutes me, and I do begin
To know my errour, and repent my sin.
For on those rosy cheeks I plainly see
And read my former thought's deformity.

I could believe hyperboles, and think
That praise too low that flows from pen and ink;
That you're all angel: when I look on you,
I'm forc'd to think the rampant'st fictions true.
Nay, I dare swear (though once I did abhor it)
That men love women, and have reason for it.
The lapidaries now shall learn to set
Their diamonds in gold, and not in jet.

The proverb's crost, for now a man may find
"A beauteous face th' index of such a mind."
How I could praise you, and your worth display,
But that my ravish'd pen is forc'd to stay;
And when I think t' express your purer fashion,
My expressions turn to stupid admiration.
Nature's perfection! she, by forming thee,
Proves she has now intallibility.

You're an Enchiridion, whom Heav'n did print
To copy by, with no errata in't.
You're my Urania; nay, within you be
The Muses met in their tertrinity:
Else how could I turn poet, and retain
My banish'd Muse into my thoughts again!
See what your wit, see what your beauty can,
T" make a poet's more than t' make a man:
I've wit b' infusion; nay, I've beauty too;
I think I'm comely, if you think me so.
Add to your virtues love, and you may be
A wife for Jove: pray let that Jove be me.

ON THE TURN-COAT CLERGY.

THAT clergymen are changeable, and teach
That now 'gainst which they will to morrow preach,
Is an undoubted truth; but that in this
Their variation they do aught amiss,
I stedfastly deny the world, we see,
Preserves itself by mutability;
And by an imitation each thing in it
Preserves itself by changing every minute.
The heavenly orbs do move and change, and there's
The much admired music of the spheres.
The Sun, the Moon, the stars, do always vary;
The times turn round still, nothing stationary.
Why then should we blame clergymen, that do,
Because they're heavenly, like the Heavens go?
Nay, th' Earth itself, on which we tread, (they say)
Turns round, and's moving still; then why not
they?

Our bodies still are changing from our birth,
Till they return to their first matter, earth.
We draw in air and food; that air and food
Incorporates, and turns our flesh and blood.
Then we breathe out ourselves in sweat, and vent
Our flesh and blood by use and excrement,
With such continual change, that none can say,
He's the same man that he was yesterday.
Besides, all creatures cannot choose but be
By much the worse for their stability:
For standing pools corrupt, while running springs
Yield sweet refreshment to all other things.
The highest church-things oftenest change, we
know,

The weather-cock that stands o' th' top does so.
The bells when rung in changes best do please;
The nightingale, that minstrel of the trees,
Varies her note, while the dull cuckoo sings
Only one note, no auditory brings.

Why then should we admire our Levites' change,
Since 'tis their natʼral motion? 'Tis not strange

To see a fish to swim, or eagle fly;
Nor is their Protean mutability

More worth our wonder; but 'tis so in fashion,
It merits our applause and imitation.
But I conclude, lest while I speak of change,
I shall too far upon one subject range;
And so become unchangeable, and by
My practice give my doctrine here the lie.

A SATIRE ON THE REBELLION.
URGE me no more to sing, I am not able
To raise a note: songs are abominable.
Yea, David's psalms do now begin to be
Turn'd out of church, by hymns extempore.
No accents are so pleasant now as those
That are cæsura'd through the pastor's nose.
I'll only weep our misery and ruth,
I am no poet, for I speak the truth.
Behold a self against itself doth fight,
And the left hand prevails above the right.
The grumbling guts, the belly of the state,
Unthankful for the wholesome food they ate,
Belch at their head, and do begin to slight
The cates, to which they had an appetite.
They long for kickshaws and new-fangled dishes,
Not which all love, but which each fancy wishes.
Behold a glorious Phoebus tumbling down,
While the rebellious bards usurp the crown.
Behold a team of Phaetons aspire

To guide the Sun, and set the world on fire.
All goes to wrack, and it must needs be so,
When those would run, that know not how to go.
Behold a lawful sovereign, to whose mind
Dishonesty's a stranger now confin'd,

To the anarchic pow'r of those, whose reason
Is flat rebellion, and their truth is treason.
Behold the loyal subjects pill'd and poll'd,
And from Algiers to Tunis bought and sold.
Their goods sequest'red by a legal stealth,
The private robb'd, t' uphold the commonwealth.
And those the only plunderers are growi
Of others' states, that had none of their own.
Robbers no more by night in secret go,
They have a licence now for what they do.
If any to the rulers do complain,
They know no other godliness but gain:
Nor give us any plaster for the sore
Of paying much, but only paying more.
Whate'er we do or speak, howe'er we live,
All is acquitted, if we will but give.
They sit in bulwarks, and do make the laws
But fair pretences to a fouler cause;
And, horse-leech like, cry "Give;" whate'er they
Or sing, the burthen of their song is "Pay." [say
How wretched is that state! how full of woe!
When those that should preserve, do overthrow!
When they rule us, and o'er them money reigns,
Who still cry" Give," and always gape for gains!
But on those judges lies a heavy curse,

That measure crimes by the delinquent's purse.
The time will come, when they do cease to live,
Some will ery" Take," as fast as they cry'd
"Give."

VOL. VI.

TO HIS REVEREND FRIEND DR. S.

ON HIS PIOUS AND LEARNED BOOK.

THE times are chang'd, and the misguided rout
Now tug to pull in what they tumbled out,
And with like eagerness. The factious crew,
Who ruin'd all, are now expos'd to view:
Their vizor's off, and now we plainly see
Both what they are, and what they aim'd to be,
And what they meant to do to us and ours,
If either ours or we were in their pow'rs.

That vip'rous brood of Levi, who gnaw'd through
Their mother's bowels, and their father's too,
To break a passage to their lewd designs,
Have found th' effects of all their undermines,
And see themselves out-acted in their show,
By sucking sprouts that out of them did grow.
They're now out-wink'd, out-fasted, and out-
tongu'd;
[dung'd:
Their pulpits reap those fields which they had
Who spht the church into so many schisms,
The zeal of these cais t'other's patriarchisms:
And, vermin-like, they do that corse devour,
Whose putrefaction gave them life and pow'r.
Now they repent, (though late) and turn to you
Of the old church, that's constant, pure, and true.
Thanks to such lights as you are, who have stay'd
In that firm truth, from which they fondly stray'd,
Endur'd reproach, and want, all violent shocks,
Which roll'd like billows, while you stood like
rocks,

Unmov'd by all their fury, kept your ground,
Fix'd as the poles, whiles they kept twirling round:
Submitted to all rage, and lost your all,
Yet ne'er comply'd with, or bow'd knee to Baal.
You preach'd for love of preaching, with desire
T' instruct, and to reform; while pay and hire,
Which made them preach, were ta'en away from

Who roll'd a stone upon your mouths, for fear
Truth would find out a resurrection there:
Then from the press you piously did show
What, why, and how, we should believe and know,
And pray and practise; made it out to us
Why our church-institutes were these and thus ;
And how we ought t' observe them, so that we
May find them that, which of themselves they be,
Commands and comforts: this, sir, we do find
Perform'd by this rare issue of your mind,
Your pious and your profitable lines,
Which can't be prais'd by such a pen as mine's,
But must b' admir'd and lov'd, and you must be
For ever thank'd and honour'd too by me,
And all that know or read you; since you do
Supply the pious and the learned too
So well, that both must say, to you they owe
What good they practise, and what good they
know.

Y y

Their bloody pow'r to drown this boisterous world. They've but chang'd throne for throne, and crown for crown;

You took a glorious, laid a thorny down.
You sit among your peers with saints and kings,
View how we shoot for sublunary things,
And labour for our ruin: you did fall,
Just like our Saviour, for the sins of all,
And for your own; for in this impious time
Virtue's a vice, and piety's a crime.

The sum of all whose faults being understood,
Is this, we were too bad, and you too good.

ON THE KING'S DEATH.

WHAT means this sadness? why does every eye
Wallow in tears? what makes the low'ring sky
Look clouded thus with sighs? Is it because
The great defender of the faith and laws

Is sacrificed to the barbarous rage

Of those prodigious monsters of our age?

A prey to the insatiate will of those

That are the king's and kingdom's cursed foes! 'Tis true, there's cause enough each eye should be A torrent, and each man a Niobe.

To see a wise, just, valiant, temperate man, Should leave the world, who either will or can Abstain from grief? To see a father die, And his half-self, and orphans weeping by: To see a master die, and leave a state Unsettled, and usurpers gape to ha't: To see a king dissolve to's mother dust, And leave his headless kingdom to the lust And the ambitious wills of such a route, Which work its end, to bring their own about: 'Tis cause of sorrow; but to see these slain, Nay, murder'd too, makes us grieve o'er again. But to be kill'd by servants, or by friends, This will raise such a grief as never ends. And yet we find he, that was all these things, And more, the best of Christians and of kings, Suffer'd all this and more, whose sufferings stood So much more great than these, as he more good. Yet 'tis a vain thing to lament our loss; Continued mourning adds but cross to cross. What's pass'd can't be recall'd: our sadness may Drive us to him, but can't bring him away; Nor can a kingdom's cues restate the crown Upon his head, which their sins tumbled down. Rest then, my soul, and be contented in Thy share of sufferings, as well as sin. I see no cause of wonder in all this, But still expect such fruits of wickedness. Kings are but earth refin'd; and he that wears A crown, but loads himself with griefs and fears. The world itself to its first nothing tends; And things that had beginnings, must have ends. Those glorious lamps of Heav'n, that give us light, Must at the last dissolve to darkness quite.

If the celestial architectures go
To dissolution, so must earthy too.
If ruin seize on the vast frame of Nature,
The little world must imitate the greater.
I'll put no trust in wealth, for I do see
Fate can take me from it, or it from me.
Trust not in honour, 'tis but people's cry, [high.
Who'll soon throw down whate'er they mounted
Nor trust in friends: he that's now hedg'd about,
In time of need can hardly find one out.
Nor all in strength or power; for sin will be
The desolation of my strength and me.
Nor yet in crowns and kingdoms: who has all,
Is expos'd to a heavy though a royal fall.
Nor yet in wisdom, policy, or wit:

It cannot keep me harmless, or I it.
He that had all man could attain unto,
He that did all that wit or power could do,

Or
grace or virtue prompt, could not avoid
That sad and heavy load our sins have laid
Upon his innocent and sacred head, but must
Submit his person to bold rebels' lust,
And their insatiate rage, who did condemn
And kill him, while he pray'd and dy'd for them.
Our only trust is in the King of kings,
To wait with patience the event of things:
He that permits the father's tumbling down,
Can raise, and will, the son up to the crown.
He that permits those traitors' impious hands
To murther his anointed, and his lands
To be usurp'd. can, when he sees it fit,
Destroy those monsters which he did permit ;
And by their headlong and unpitied fall,
Make the realm's nuptial of their funeral.
Meantime that sainted martyr, from his throne,
Sees how these laugh, and his good subjects groan
And hugs his blessed change, whereby he is
Rob'd into a crown, and murder'd into a bliss.

g

A FUNERAL ELEGY ON MR. AUBREY.
GONE are those halcion days, when men did dare
Do od for love, undrawn by gain or fear!
Gone are our heroes, whose vast souls did hate
Vice, thought were cloth'd in sanctity or state!
Gone is our Aubrey, who did then take's time
To die, when worthy men thought ife a crime!
One whose pure soul with nobleness was fill'd,
And scorn'd to live, when Peace and Truth were
kill'd.

One, who was worthy by desent and birth,
Yet would not live a burthen on the Earth,
Nor raw his honour from his gandsire's name,
Unless is progeny might do he sanie.
No gilded Mammon, yet had eigh to spend,]
To feed the 70r and entertain his friend.
No gaping miser, waese lesire was more
T' enrich himself, by making's neighbour poor,
Than to lay out himself, his wealth and bealth,
To buy his country's good and commonwealth.
Religion was his great delight and joy,
Not, as 'tis now, to plunder and destroy:
His lean'd on those two pillars, faith and reason,
Not faise hypocrisy, nor headlong treason.
His piety was with him bred and grown;
He'd build ten churches, ere he'd pull down one.
Made his worth sin, and his pure virtues crimes,
Constant to's principles; and though the times