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Pretty, white foole! why hast thou been Sulli'd with teares, and not with sin ? 'Tis true : thy teares, like polish'd skies, Are the bright rosials of thy eyes, But such strange fates do them attend, As if thy woes would never end. From drops to sighes they turn, and then Those sighes return to drops agen : But whiles thy silver torrent seeks Those flowrs that watch it in thy cheeks, The white and red Hyanthe weares, Turn to rose-water all her teares.
Have you beheld a Flame, that springs From incense, when sweet, curled rings Of smoke attend her last, weak fires, And shee all in perfumes expires ? So dy'd Hyanthe. Here-said sheeLet not this vial part from thee. It holds my heart, though now 'tis spill’d, And unto waters all distillid. 'Tis constant still : trust not false smiles ; Who smiles, and weeps not, she beguiles. Nay trust not teares : false are the few, Those teares are many, that are true. Trust mee, and take the better choyce, Who hath my teares, can want no joyes.
2. TO HIS BOOK. ND now my Book, let it not stop thy
flight, That thy just Author is not lord or
knight. I can define
self: and have the art Still to present one face, and still one heart. But for nine years, some great ones cannot see What they have been, nor know they what to bee. What though I have no rattles to my name, Dos't hold a simple honestie no fame? Or art thou such a stranger to the times, Thou canst not know my fortunes from my
crimes ? Goe forth, and fear not: some will gladly bee Thy learned friends, whom I did never see. Nor should'st thou fear thy welcom: thy small
price Cannot undo 'em, though they pay excise. Thy bulk's not great : it will not much distresse Their emptie pockets, but their studies lesse. Th’art no galeon, as books of burthen bee, Which can not ride but in a librarie. Th’art a fine thing and little: it may chance Ladies will buy thee for a new romance. Oh how I'le envy thee! when thou art spread In the bright sunshine of their eyes, and read With breath of amber, lips of rose, that lend
Perfumes unto thy leaves shal never spend :
plain. Last, my dear Book, if any looke on thee, As on three suns, or some great prodigie, And swear to a full point, I do deride All other sects, to publish my own pride; Tell such they lie, and since they love not thee, Bid them goe learn some high-shoe heresie. Nature is not so simple, but shee can Procure a solid reverence from man; Nor is my pen so lightly plum'd that I Should serve Ambition with her majestie.
'Tis truth makes me come forth, and having writ
IV. FROM "MAN-HOUSE" (1650.)
“For a close, I should say for custome, you fall on my person, and tell me I am a very unnaturall son to my mother Oxford. Do not
· In our copy of “Magia Adamica” bound up with the “Man Mouse", which came from the Marquis of Hastings Library and was formerly in the possession of OLIVER CROMWELL-whose book-plate from it is reproduced by us here (in 4to.) together with fac-simile of a Letter of his, as explained in our Memorial-Introduction (Vol. I. pp xxxviii-ix) – there are a number of marginal notes and corrections by the Author. I take the following from the margin opposite the last eleven lines, marks of reference a and b being placed after other sects' and they lie' in lines 10-11 respectively from end: “(a) Of vaine philosophers as peripateticks, &c.” “(6) in saying I doe it to publish mine owne pride, whereas it is out of loue which I beare to ye manifestation of ye truth.” Both books have deep-indented pencil marks all through, and I like to think they were made by the great Protector. G. thon prophane her nanie with thy rude, illiterate chops. I am thou know'st Mastix, a notable wag and a saucy boy, whom she hath sometimes dandi'd on her knees. She hath commanded me to be an enemie to thee, because thou art an enemie to Truth, but to my mother I am
a very naturall loving child. If thou canst but read, here are a few sighes I breath'd over her when thy father Presbyter destroy'd her.
RIE pumic statues ! can you have an eye,
hence A constellation, and your influence To all her woes had been a just relief, Because your life was argu'd by your grief. But you keep back those joges, which even Fate