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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.

(pp 93-5)


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 :
When from their white hands they shall let thee

Into their bosomes, which I may not call
Ought of misfortune, thou do'st drop to rest
In a more pleasing place, and art more blest.
There in some silken, soft fold thou shalt lye,
Hid like their love, or thy own mysterie.
Nor shouldst thou grieve thy language is not fine,
For it is not my best, though it be thine.
I could have voyed thee forth in such a dresse,
The Spring had been a slut to thy expresse ;
Such as might file the rude, unpolish'd age,
And fix the reader's soule to ev'ry page :
But I have us’d a course, and homely strain,
Because it suits with truth, which should be

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.


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'Tis truth makes me come forth, and having writ
This her short scane, I would not stifle it :
For I have call'd it childe, and I had rather
Sec't torn by them, than strangl'd by the father.'

(pp. 139-140).

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.

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RIE pumic statues ! can you have an eye,
And have no teares, to see your mother

Were you not taught such numbers to rehearse,
Might make the marble weep, to bear your verse ?
Or those lesse polish'd quarries, where each part
Acts by infusèd malice of the heart ?
She heav'd your fancies higher than the pride
Of all her pinnacles, and would have dy'd
Blest in her martyrdome, had you but shed
A teare, to prove her children were not dead.
Such drops and pearls, had sent her sparkling

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

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