What is 't to me whether the French Designe
Be, or be not, to get the Val-telline?

Or the States Ships sent forth belike to meet
Some hopes of Spaine in their West-Indian Fleet?
Whether the Dispensation yet be sent,

Or that the Match from Spaine was ever meant?
I wish all well, and pray high heaven conspire
My Princes safetie, and my Kings desire,
But if for honour, we must draw the Sword,

And force back that, which will not be restor'd, I have a body, yet, that spirit drawes

To live, or fall, a Carkasse in the cause. So farre without inquirie what the States,

Brunsfield, and Mansfield doe this yeare, my fates Shall carry me at Call; and I 'le be well,

Though I doe neither heare these newes, nor tell
Of Spaine or France; or were not prick'd downe one
Of the late Mysterie of reception,

Although my Fame, to his, not under-heares,
That guides the Motions, and directs the beares.
But that's a blow, by which in time I may
Lose all my credit with my Christmas Clay,
And animated Porc'lane of the Court,

I, and for this neglect, the courser sort
Of earthen Jarres, there may molest me too:
Well, with mine owne fraile Pitcher, what to doe
I have decreed; keepe it from waves, and presse;
Lest it be justled, crack'd, made nought, or lesse:
Live to that point I will, for which I am man,
And dwell as in my Center, as I can

Still looking too, and ever loving heaven;

With reverence using all the gifts then given.
'Mongst which, if I have any friendships sent
Such as are square, wel-tagde, and permanent,
Not built with Canvasse, paper, and false lights
As are the Glorious Scenes, at the great sights;

nd that there be no fev'ry heats, nor colds, Oylie Expansions, or shrunke durtie folds, ut all so cleare, and led by reasons flame, As but to stumble in her sight were shame. "hese I will honour, love, embrace, and serve: And free it from all question to preserve. So short you read my Character, and theirs I would call mine, to which not many Staires Are asked to climbe. First give me faith, who know My selfe a little. I will take you so,

As

you have writ your selfe. Now stand, and then Sir, you are Sealed of the Tribe of Ben.

The Dedication of the

Kings new Cellar.

To Bacchus.

SINCE, Bacchus, thou art father
Of Wines, to thee the rather
We dedicate this Cellar,

Where new, thou art made Dweller;

And seale thee thy Commission:
But 'tis with a condition,

That thou remaine here taster

Of all to the great Master.
And looke unto their faces,
Their Qualities, and races,
That both, their odour take him,
And relish merry make him.

For Bacchus thou art freer
Of cares, and over-seer,
Of feast, and merry meeting,
And still begin'st the greeting:
See then thou dost attend him
Lyæus, and defend him,

J.

By all the Arts of Gladnesse
From any thought like sadnesse.
So mayst thou still be younger
Then Phoebus; and much stronger
To give mankind their eases,
And cure the Worlds diseases:
So may the Muses follow
Thee still, and leave Apollo

And thinke thy streame more quicker
Then Hippocrenes liquor:
And thou make many a Poet,
Before his braine doe know it;
So may there never Quarrell
Have issue from the Barrell;
But Venus and the Graces
Pursue thee in all places,
And not a Song be other
Then Cupid, and his Mother.

That when King James, above here
Shall feast it, thou maist love there
The causes and the Guests too,
And have thy tales and jests too,
Thy Circuits, and thy Rounds free
As shall the feasts faire grounds be.
Be it he hold Communion
In great Saint Georges Union;
Or gratulates the passage
Of some wel-wrought Embassage:
Whereby he may knit sure up
The wished Peace of Europe:
Or else a health advances,
To put his Court in dances,
And set us all on skipping,
When with his royall shipping
The narrow Seas are shadie,

And Charles brings home the Ladie.

Accessit fervor Capiti, Numerusque Lucernis.

An Epigram

on

The Court Pucell.

DO'S the Court-Pucell then so censure me,
And thinkes I dare not her? let the world see.
What though her Chamber be the very pit

Where fight the prime Cocks of the Game, for wit?
And that as any are strooke, her breath creates
New in their stead, out of the Candidates ?
What though with Tribade lust she force a Muse,
And in an Epicæne fury can write newes
Equall with that, which for the best newes goes
As aërie light, and as like wit as those?
What though she talke, and cannot once with them,
Make State, Religion, Bawdrie, all a theame.
And as lip-thirstie, in each words expence,

Doth labour with the Phrase more then the sense? What though she ride two mile on Holy-dayes

To Church, as others doe to Feasts and Playes,
To shew their Tires? to view, and to be view'd?
What though she be with Velvet gownes indu'd,
And spangled Petticotes brought forth to eye,
As new rewards of her old secrecie!

What though she hath won on Trust, as many doe,
And that her truster feares her? Must I too?
I never stood for any place: my wit

Thinkes it selfe nought, though she should valew it. I am no States-man, and much lesse Divine

For bawdry, 'tis her language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the Idolatrie

To stuffes and Laces, those my Man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In Contract twice, what can shee perjure more?

Indeed, her Dressing some man might delight,
Her face there's none can like by Candle light.
Not he, that should the body have, for Case
To his poore Instrument, now out of grace.
Shall I advise thee Pucell? steale away

From Court, while yet thy fame hath some small day; The wits will leave you, if they once perceive

You cling to Lords, and Lords, if them you leave For Sermoneeres: of which now one, now other, They say you weekly invite with fits o' th' Mother, And practise for a Miracle; take heed

This Age would lend no faith to Dorrels Deed; Or if it would, the Court is the worst place,

Both for the Mothers, and the Babes of grace, For there the wicked in the Chaire of scorne, Will cal 't a Bastard, when a Prophet 's borne.

THE Wisdome Madam of your private Life,
Where with this while you live a widowed wife,
And the right wayes you take unto the right,
To conquer rumour, and triumph on spight;
Not only shunning by your act, to doe

Ought that is ill, but the suspition too,

Is of so brave example, as he were

No friend to vertue, could be silent here.

The rather when the vices of the Time

Are growne so fruitfull, and false pleasures climbe

By all oblique Degrees, that killing height

From whence they fall, cast downe with their owne weight.