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Is then his master grown more orthodox ?
What ever 'tis, a sober causc't must be
That thus long bars us of thy companie.
The town believes thee lost, and didst thou see
But half her suffrings, now distrest for thee,
Thou’ldst swear-like Rome-her foule, polluted

walls
Were sackt by Brennus, and the salvagel Gaules.
Abominable face of things ! here's noise
Of bang'd mortars, blew aprons, and boyes,
Pigs, dogs, and drums, with the hoarse hellish

notes Of politickly-deafe usurers' throats, With new fine Worships, and the old cast teame Of Justices vext with the cough, and flegme. Midst these the Crosse? looks sad, and in the ShireHall: furs of an old Saxon Fox appear, With brotherly ruffs and beards, and a strange

sight Of high monumentall hats, t'ane at the fight Of 'Eighty eight;t while ev'ry Burgesse foots

3

Savage, as before. G. 2 Stood formerly in the market-place of Brecon. G.

County Hall - with a'gird’ at some local celebrity of the time. G.

• Renowned 1588: but the connection of the (stillworn) Welsh hats of the females with it, is obscure. G.

The mortall pavement in eternall boots.

Hadst thou been batc'lour, I had soon divin'd Thy close retirements, and monastick mind ; Perhaps some nymph had been to visit, or The beauteous churle was to be waited for, And like the Greek, e'r you the sport would misse, You stai'd, and stroak'd the distaffe for a kisse. But in this age, when thy coole, settled bloud Is ty'd tone flesh, and thou almost grown good, I know not how to reach the strange device, Except-Domitian-like-thou murther'st flyes; Or is't thy pietie ? for who can tell But thou may'st prove devout, and love a cell, And-like a badger-with attentive looks In the dark hole sit rooting up of books. Quick hermit! what a peacefull change hailst thou, Without the noise of haire-cloth, whip, or vow? But is there no redemption ? must there be No other penance but of liberty ? Why two months hence, if thou continue thus Thy memory will scarce remain with us, The drawers’ have forgot thee, and exclaim They have not seen thee here since Charles, his

raign,

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Or if they mention thee, like some old man,
That at each word inserts—Sir, as I can
Remember '--So the Cyph’rers puzzle mee
With a dark, cloudie character of thee.
That-certs !-I feare thou wilt be lost, and wee
Must ask the fathers e'r't be long for thee.

Come! leave this sullen state, and let not wine
And precious witt lye dead for want of thine ;
Shall the dull market-land-lord with his rout
Of sneaking tenants durtily swill out
This harmlesse liquour ? shall they knock and

beat
For sack, only to talk of rye and wheat ?
O let not such prepost'rous tipling be
In our metropolis; may I ne'r see
Such tavern-sacrilege, nor lend a line
To weep the rapes and tragedy of wine!
Here lives that chimick, quick fire which betrayes
Fresh spirits to the bloud, and warms our layes;
I have reserv'd 'gainst thy approach a cup
That were thy Muse stark dead, shall raise her up,
And reach her yet more charming words and skill
Than ever Cælia, Chloris, Astrophil,
Or
any

of the thred bare names inspir'd
Poore riming lovers with a mistris fir’d.
Come then ! and while the slow isicle hangs
At the stiffe thatch, and Winter's frosty pangs

a

Benumme the year, blith—as of old—let us
Midst noise and war, of peace and mirth discusse.
This portion thou wert born for: why should wee
Vex at the time's ridiculous miserie ?
An
age

that thus hath fool'd it selfe, and will
-Spite of thy teeth and mine-persist so still.
Let's sit then at this fire, and while wee steal
A revell in the town, let others seal,
Purchase or cheat, and who can, let them pay,
Till those black deeds bring on the darksome day;
Innocent spenders wee! a better use
Shall wear out our short leise, anl leave th'obtuse
Rout to their husks; they and their bags at best
Have cares in earnest, wee care for a jest.

е

MONSIEUR GOMBAULD."

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'AVE read thy soul's faire night-peece,

and have seen Th' amours and courtship of the silent

Queen,

| John Ogier de Gombauld-a French poet. Born 1567: Died 1666. His • Endimion, an excellent Fancy, elegantly interpreted...... by Richard Hurst'. (1637 and 1639.) made him known in England. G.

Her stoln descents to Earth, and what did more

her To juggle first with Heav'n, then with a lover, With Latmos' lowder rescue, and-alas! To find her out a hue and crie in brasse ; Thy journall of deep mysteries, and sad Nocturnall pilgrimage, with thy dreams clad In fancies darker than thy cave, thy glasse Of sleepie draughts; and as thy soul did passe In her calm voyage what discourse she heard Of spirits, what dark groves and ill-shap'd guard Ismena lead thee through, with thy proud flight O'r Periardes, and deep, musing night Neere faire Eurotas” banks; what solemn green The neighbours shade weare, and what forms are

seen

In their large bowers, with that sad path and seat Which none but light-hcel'd nymphs and fuiries

beat ;

Their solitary life, and how exempt
From common frailty, the severe contempt
They have of man, their priviledge to live
A tree, or fountain, and in that reprieve
What ages they consume, with the sad vale

| The classic river of the south-east district of Pelopor nesus, as in “To the river Isca" before. G.

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