Ben: Ionson's execration against Vulcan· VVith divers epigrams by the same author to severall noble personages in this kingdome. Never published before.

Ben : Ionson's Execration against Vulcan . ANd why to me this ; ( thou lame god of fire ) What have I done that mght cal on thine ire ? Or urge thy greedy flames , thus to devoure So many my yeares labours in one houre ! I ne're attempted ought against thy life , Nor made lesse line of Love to thy loose wife : Or in remembrance of thy affront and scorne , With clowns & tradesmen kept thee close in horn : 'T was Iupiter that hurld thee head-long downe , And Mars that gave thee a Lanthorne for a Crowne . Was it because thou wert of old deny'd , By Iove , to have Minerva for thy Bride . That since thou tak'st all envious care and paine , To ruine every issue of her Braine ? Had I wrot Treason there , or Heresie , Impostures , Witchcraft , Charmes , or Blasphemy , I had deserv'd then thy consuming lookes , Perhaps to have beene burned with my books : But on thy Malice tell mee , didst thou spye Any least loose , or scurrill paper lye Conceal'd , or kept there ; that was fit to be , By thy owne vote , a Sacrifice to thee ? Did I there wound the honour of the Crowne ? Or taxe the glory of the Church , or Gowne ? Itch to defame the state , or brand the Times , And my selfe most in leaud selfe-boasting Rimes ? If none of these , why then this fire ? or find A cause before , or leave me one behind . Had I compil'd from Amadis de Gaule Th' Esplandians , Arthurs , Palmerins , and all The learned Library of Don Quixot , And so some goodlier Monster had begot : Or spunne out Riddles , or weav'd fifty Tomes Of Logogriphes , or curious Pallindromes ; Or pump'd for those hard trifles , Anagrams , Or Ecrosticks , or your finer flames Of Egges , and Halberds , Cradles and a Herse , A paire of sizers and a Combe in verse Acrosticks , and Tellesticks , or iumpe names , Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames , On such my serious follies : But thou 'lt say , There were some pieces of as base a Lay , And as false stampe there : parcells of a play Fitter to see the fire-light , than the day : Adulterate Monyes , such as would not goe , Thou shouldst have staid , till publick fame said so . She is the Iudge , thou Executioner : Or if thou needs will trench upon her power , Thou mightst have yet enioy'd thy cruelty , With some more thirst and more variety ! Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece , To light Tobacco , or save roasted Geese , Singe Capon , or crispe Pigge , dropping their eyes ▪ Condemn'd them to the Ovens with the Pies ; And so have kept me dying a whole age , Not ravish'd all hence in a minuits rage : But that s the mark whereof thy right doth boast , To sow Consumption every where thou go'st . Had I fore-knowne of this thy least desire , T' have held a triumph , or a feast of fire ; Especially in paper , that that steame Had tickled thy large Nostrills , many a Reame , To redeeme mine I had sent in ; enough Thou shouldst have cried , & all bin proper stuffe . The Talmond and the Alcaron had come With pieces of the Legend : the whole summe Of Errant Knight-hood , with their Dames & Dwarffs , The charmed Boats , and their inchanted Wharfes : The Tristeams , Lancelots , Turpins , and the Peeres , All the mad Rowlands , and sweet Olivers , With Merlins Marvailes , and his Caballs Losse , With the Chimera of the Rosie Crosse , Their Charmes , their Characters , Hermetticke Rings , Their Iems of Riches , and bright stone that brings Invisibility , and Strength , and Tongues , The art of kindling the true Cole by Lungs . With Nicholas Pasquills , meddle with your match , And the strong Lines that doe the times so catch : On Captaine Pamphlets Horse and Foot that salley , Vpon the Exchange still out of Popes head Alley , The weekly Currants , with Pauls Seale , and all The admir'd Discourses of the Prophet Baal , These ( hadst thou pleas'd either to dine or sup ) Had made a meate for Vulcan to lick up . But in my Deske , what was there to excite So ravenous and vast an appetite ? I dare not say a Body , but some parts There were of search and mistery in the Arts : And the old Venusine in Poetry , And lighted by the Staggerite could spy , Was there made English , with a Grammer too , To teach some that , their Nurses could not doe ; The purity of Language ; and ( among The rest ) my iourney into Scotland Sung , With all the adventures : three Books not afraid To speake the Fate of the Sycilian Maid For our owne Ladies : And in story there Of our fift Henry , eight of his nine yeare . In which was Oyle , besides the succours spent , Which Noble Cotton , Carew , Selden sent . And twice twelve years Stor'd-up-Humanity , And humble gleanings in Divinity , After the Fathers ; and those wiser guides , Whom Faction had not drawne to study sides . How in these ruines Vulcan dost thou lurke : All Soot and Embers , odious , as thy worke ? I now beginne to doubt , if ever grace , Or goddesse could be patient at thy face . Thou woe Minerva , or to wit aspire , 'Cause thou canst halt with us in Art and Fire . Sonne of the Winde ; for so thy Mother gone With Lust conceiv'd thee , Father thou hadst none : When thou wert born , & that thou lookst at best : She durst not kisse , but flung thee from her breast . And so did Iove , when neare meant thee his cup : No mar'le the Clowns of Lemnos took thee up . For none but Smiths would have made thee a god , Some Alchimist there may be yet , or odde : Squire of the Squibs against the Pageant day , May to thy Name a Vulcanale say , And for it lose his eyes by Gun-powder , As the other may his braines by Quick-silver : Well fare the wise men yet on the Banks-side , ( Our friends the Watermen ) they could provide Against thy fury , when to serve their needs , They made a Vulcan on a sheafe of Reeds . Whom they durst handle in their holy day coats , And safely trust to dresse , not burn their boats : But oh these Reeds , thy meere disdaine of them , Made thee beget that cruell stratagem : ( Which some are pleas'd to stile but thy mad prank ) Against the Globe , the glory of the banke , Which though it were the Fort of the whol parish , Fenc'd with a Ditch and forkt out of a Marish : I saw with two poore Chambers taken in , And rais'd ere thought could urge : this might have bin . See the worlds ruines , nothing but the piles . Left , and wit since to covet it with tiles The Brethren they straight nois'd it out for newes , 'T was verily some Relique of the Stewes : And this a sparkle of that fire let loose , That was rak'd up : the Winchestrian Goose Bred on the Banke in time of Popery , When Venus there maintain'd the mistery : But others fell with that conceite by th' eares , T was verily a threatning to the Beares ; And that accursed ground , the Paris Garden : Nay , ( sigh'd a sister ) 't was the Nun Kate Arden Kindled the fire : but then did one returne ; No foole would his owne Harvest spoile , or burn ; If that were so , thou rather wouldst advance The place that was thy wives inheritance . O no , cryed all , Fortune for being a whore , Scapt not his Iustice any iot the more . He burnt that Idoll of the Revells too : Nay let Whit●-hall with Revells have to doe , Though but in Dances ) it shall know thy power , There was a iudgement too shew'd in an houre ; He was right Vulcan still , hee did not spare Troy , though it were so much thy Venus care : Foole wilt thou let that in example come ? Did she not save from thence to build a Rome ? And what hast thou done in these petty spights , More then advanc'd the horses and their Rites , I will not argue thee from them of guilt , For they were burnt but to be better built : 'T is true , that in thy wish they were destroy'd , Which thou hast onely vented , not enioy'd . So wouldst th' have run upon the Roles by stealth , And didst invade part of the Common-wealth : In those Records ( which were our Chroniclers gone ) Would be remembred by sixe Clerkes to one . But say all sixe good men , what answer yee , Lies there no Writ out of the Chancerie Against this Vulcan ? no Iniunction ? No Orders ? no Decree ? though we be gone At Common Law , me thinkes in his dispight , A Court of Equity should doe us right . But to confine him to the Brew-houses , The Glasse-house , Die-fates , and their Furnaces : To live in Sea-coale , and goe out in Smoake , Or least that vapour might the City choake , Confine him to some Brickhills , or some Hill - Foote out in Sussex to an Iron-Mill : Or in small Faggots have him blaze about , Vile Tavernes , and the Drunkards pisse him out : Or in the Bell-mans Lanthorne , like a spye , Waste to a snuffe , and then stinke out and dye . I could invent a sentence yet more worse , But i 'le conclude all in a civill curse : Poxe on your flame-ship ( Vulcan ) if it be To all as fatall as t' hath beene to me ; And to Pauls Steeple , which had beene to us 'Bove all your fire-workes : had not Ephesus , Or Alexandria , which though a Divine Losse yet remaines as unrepaird as mine : Would you had kept your forge at Aetna still , And there made swords , bills , glaves , & arms your fill ; Maintain'd a trade at Bilbo , or elsewhere , Struck in at Millane with the Cutlers there : Or stai'd where the Fryer and you first met , That from the Devills Ars did Gunnes beget : Or fixt in the Low Countries , where you might On both sides doe your mischiefs with delight : Blow up and ruine , Mine , and Counter-mine , Vse your Petarres , and Granats , all your fine Engines of Murther , and inioy the praise Of massacring Man-kind so many wayes : We aske your absence here , we all love peace , And pray the fruits thereof and the increase , So doth the King , and most of the Kings men , That have good places : therefore once agen Poxe on thee Vulcan ; thy Pandora's Pox , And all the ills that flew out of her Box Light on thee : or if those plagues will not doe , Thy wives pox take thee , and Bess Braughtons too . Ben : Ionson .

Upon King CHARLES his Birth-day . THis is King Charles his birth day , speak it the Tower Vnto the Ships , and they from Tire to Tire , Discharging 'bout the Iland in an houre , As loud as Thunder , and as swift as fire . Let Ireland meet it out at Sea halfe way , Repeating all Great Brittaines ioy and more , Adding her owne glad accents to this day , Like eccho playing from another shore . What Drums , or Trumpets , or great Ordnance can , The Poetry of Steeples with the Bells . Three Kingdomes mirth in light and ayery man , Made loftier by the windes all noyses els . At Bone-fires , Squibs , and mirth , with all their shouts , That cry the gladnesse which their hearts would pray If they had leasure , at these lawfull routs , The often comming of this Holy day : And then noyse forth the burthen of their song . Still to have such a Charles , but this Charles long . B. Jonson .

To the Queene on her Birth-day . VP publicke ioy , remember The sixeteenth of November Some brave uncommmon way . And though the parish Steeple Be silent to the people , Ring thou it Holy day . What though the thirsty Towre , And Guns there spare to powre Their noyses out in thunder : As fearefull to awake The City , as to shake Their guarded Gates asunder . Yet let the Trumpets sound , And shake both aire and ground With beating of their Drums : Let every Lire be strung , Harpe , Lute , Theorbo sprung With touch of learned thumbs , That when the Quire is full , The harmony may pull The Angels from their Spheares : And each intelligence , May wish it selfe a sence , Whilst it the Ditty heares . Behold the royall Mary , The daughter of great Harry , And sister to iust Lewis , Comes in the pompe and glory Of all her Fathers story , And of her brothers Prowis . She shewes so farre above The feigned Queen of Love ; This Sea-girt ground upon , As here no Venus were But that she reigning here , Had put the Ceston on . See , see our active King , Hath taken twice the Ring Vpon the poynted Lance , Whilst all the ravish't rout Doe mingle in a shout , Hey for the flower of France . This day the Court doth measure Her ioy in state and pleasure : And with a reverend feare , The revells and the play Make up this Crowned day Her one and twenty yeare . B. Ionson .

On the Princes Birth-day . An Epigram . ANd art thou borne , brave Babe , blest be thy birth , That so hath crown'd our hopes , our spring on earth ; The bed of the chaste Lilly and the Rose , What month than May was fitter to disclose This Prince of flowers ? soone shoot thou up , and grow The same that thou art promis'd ; but be slow , And long in changing : let our Nephews see Thee quickly come , the gardens eye to be , And still to stand so : Haste now envious Moone , And interpose thy selfe , care not how soone , And threat the great Eclips two houres but runne , Sol will reshine , if not , Charles hath a Sonne . Non Displicuisse meretur Festinat Caesar , qui placuisse tibi . B. Ionson .

Another on the Birth of the Prince . ANother Phoenix , though the first is dead , A second 's flowne from his immortall bed , To make this our Arabia to be The nest of an eternall progeny . Choise Nature fram'd the former but to finde What error might be mended in Man-kinde : Like some industrious workman , which affect Their first endeavours onely to correct : So this the building , that the modell was , The type of all that now is come to passe : That but the shadow , this the substance is , All that was but the prophesie of this : And when it did this after birth fore-runne , 'T was but the morning starre unto this Sunne ; The dawning of this day , when Sol did think We having such a light , that he might wink , And we ne're misse his lustre : nay so soone As Charles was borne , he and the pale-fac'd Moon With envy then did copulate , to try If such a Birth might be produc'd i' th sky . What Heavenly favour made a starre appeare , To bid wise Kings to doe their homage here , And prove him truely Christian ? long remain On Earth , sweet Prince , that when great Charles shal reign In Heaven above , our little Charles may be As great on Earth , because as good as he . B. Ionson .

A Paralell of the Prince to the King . SO Peleus when he faire Thetis got , As thou thy Sea-Queene ; so to him she brought A blessed Babe , as thine hath done to thee : His worthiest prov'd of those times , ours may be Of these ; his had a Pallas for his guide , Thy wisedome will as well for ours provide : His Conquered Countries , Cities , Castles , Towers , A worthy foe ; hereafter so may ours . His all his time , but once Patroclus findes , But this of ours a world of faithfull friends : He 's vulnerable in no place but one , And this of ours ( we hope ) be hurt of none . His had his Phoenix , ours no teacher needs , But the example of thy Life and Deeds . His Nestor knew , in Armes his fellow was , But not in yeares , ( too soone runne out his Glasse ) Ours , though not Nestor knew , we trust , shall bee As wise in Armes , as old in yeares as hee . His after Death had Homer his reviver : And ours may better merit to live ever , By Deeds farre-passing : but ( oh sad dispaire ) No hope of Homer , his wit left no heire . B. Jonson .

An Elegy on the Lady Jane Paulet , Marchionesse of Winchester . What goodly Ghost besprint with Aprill dew , Halls me so solemnly to yonder Yeugh ? And beckoning wooes me from the fatall tree , To plucke a Garland for her selfe , or me . I doe obey you beauty ; for in death You seeme a faire one ; O that I had breath To give your shade a name ! stay ! stay ! I feele A horror in me , all my blood is steele Stiffe stark ; my ioynts 'gainst one another knock : Whose daughter ? ha ? great Savage of the Rock ! He 's good , as great ! I am almost a stone , And ere I can aske more of her she 's gone ! Alas I am all Marble : write the rest , Thou wouldst have written fame upon my breast , It is a large faire Table , and a true , And the disposure will be somewhat new : When I who would her Poet have become , At least may beare th' inscription to her Tombe : She was the Lady Iane , and Marchionesse Of Winchester , the Heralds can tell this : Earle Rivers grand-child , serve not titles , Fame Sound thou her vertues , give her soule a name . Had I a thousand mouths , as many tongues , And voyce to raise them from my brasen Lungs , I durst not aime at , the Dotes thereof were such , No Nation can expresse how much Their Charact was : I or my trump must breake , But rather I , should I of that part speake , It is too neare of kin to God the soule To be describ'd , Fames fingers are too foule To touch those misteries ; we may admire The heate and splendor , but not handle fire : What she did by great example well , T' inlive posterity , her fame may tell ; And calling truth to witnesse , make it good From the inherint graces in her blood . Else who doth prayle a person by a new , But a feign'd way doth spoyle it of the true : Her sweetnesse , softnesse , her faire courtesie , Her wary guards , her wise simplicity , Were like a ring of vertues 'bout her set , And Piety the center where all met : A reverend state she had , an awfull eye , A darling , yet inviting Maiesty ; What Nature , Fortune , Institution , Fact , Could heape to a perfection , was her act : How did she leave the world , with what contempt ? Iust as she in it liv'd , and so exempt From all affection : when they urg'd the Cure Of her disease , how did her soule assure Her sufferings , as the Body had bin away : And to the torturers her Doctors say , Sticke on your Cupping-glasses , feare not , put Your hottest Causticks to burne , lance , or cut : T is but a body which you can torment , And I into the world , with my soule was sent . Then comforted her Lord , and blest her sonne , Chear'd her faire sisters in her race to runne . Which gladnesse temper'd her sad parents teares , Made her friends ioyes to get above their feares . And in her last act taught the standers by , With admiration and applause to dye : Let Angels sing her glories , who did call Her spirit home to her originall , That saw the way was made it , and were sent To carry and conduct the complement 'Twixt death and life : where her mortality Became her birth-day to eternity ! And now through circumfused lights she lookes On Natures secrets there as her owne bookes ; Speakes heavens language , and discourses free To every Order , every Hierarchy . Beholds her Maker , and in him doth see What the beginning of all beauties be , And all beatitudes that thence doth flow , Which the Elect of God are sure to know . Goe now her happy parents and be sad , If yee not understand what child you had ; If you dare quarrell heaven , and repent To have paid againe a blessing was but lent , And trusted so as it deposited lay At pleasure to be cald for every day . If you can envy your owne daughters blisse ; And wish her state lesse happy than it is ; If you can cast about your either eye , And see all dead here , or about to dye . The Stars that are the iewells of the night , The day deceasing with the Prince of light The Sun . Great Kings & mightiest kingdoms fal , Whole nations ; nay , man-kind , the world , & all That ever had beginning to have end ; With what iniustice can one soule pretend T' escape this common knowne necessity , When we were all borne we beganne to dye : And but for that brave contention and strife , The Christian hath t' enioy a future life ; He were the wretched'st of the race of men , But as he soares at that , he bruiseth then The Serpents head ; gets above Death and Sinne ▪ And sure of heaven rides triumphing in . B. Jonson .

ODE PINDARICK On the the Death of Sir Hen. Morison . BRave Infant of Saguntum cleare , Thy comming forth in that great yeare , When the prodigious Hanibal did Crowne His rage , with razing your immortall Town . Thou looking then about , Ere thou wert halfe got out : Wise Child didst hastily returne , And madst thy Mothers wombe thine Vrne , How sum'd a Circle didst thou leave mankind , Of deepest lore could wee the center find . The Counter-turne . Did wiser Nature draw thee backe , From out the horrour of that sack ? Where shame , faith , honour , and regard of right Lay trampled on the deeds of death and night . Vrg'd , hurried forth , and hurld Vpon th' affrighted world : Sword , fire , famine , with full fury met , And all on utmost ruine set : As could they but lives miseries fore-see , No doubt all Infants would returne like thee . The Stand . For what is Life , if measur'd by the space , Not by the Act ? Or masked man , if valued by his face , Above his Fact ? Here 's one out-liv'd his Peeres , And told forth fourescore yeeres , He vexed time , and busied the whole State , Troubled both foes and friends , But ever to no ends : What did this stirrer but dye late ? How well at twenty had he falne or stood , For three of his fourescore he did no good . The Turne . He entred well by vertuous parts , Got up and thriv'd with honest Arts , He purchas'd friends , and fame , and honors then , And had his Noble Name advanc'd with men . But weary of that flight , He stoop'd in all mens sight To sordid flatteries , acts of strife , And sunke in that dead Sea of life Too deepe : as he did then Deaths waters sup , But that the Corke of Title Boy'd him up . The Counter-turne . Alas but Morison fell young ; He never fell , thou tripst my tongue : He stood a Souldier to the last night end , A perfect Patriot , and a noble friend . But most a vertuous Sonne , All offices were done By him so ample , full , and round , In weight , and measure , number sound , As though his Age imperfect might appeare , His life was of Humanity the Spheare . The Stand . Goe now and tell out dayes , sum'd up with fears , And make them yeares : Produce thy masse of miseries on the Stage , To swell thine Age , Repeate of things a throng , To shew thou hast beene long , Not liv'd : for life doth her great actions spell , By what was done , and wrought In season , and so brought To light : her measures are how well : Each sillib ' answer'd , and was form'd how faire ; These make the lines of life , and that 's her aire . The Turne . It is not growing , like a Tree , In bulke , doth make man better be , Or standing long an Oake , three hundued yeare , To fall a log at last , dry , bald , and seare : A Lilly of a day , Is fairer farre in May , Although it fall and dye at night , It was the plant and flower of light ; In small proportions we iust beauty see , And in short measures life may perfect be . The Counter-turne . Call Noble Lucius then for wine , And let thy looks with gladnesse shine , Accept this Garland , plant it on thy head , And thinke , nay know thy Morison's not dead . He leap'd the present age , Possest with holy rage , To see the bright eternall day , Of which we Priests and Poets say Such truths as wee expect for happy men , And there he lives with memory : and Ben The Stand . Ionson ! who sung this of him e're he went Himselfe to rest , Or taste a part of that full ioy he meant To have exprest , In this bright Asterisme , Where it was friendships schisme , Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry , To separate these twi - Lights , the Dioscuri , And keepe the one halfe from his Harry ; But Fate doth so alternate the designe , Whilst that in heaven , this light on earth must shine . The Turne . And shine as you exalted are , Two names of friendship , but one starre Of hearts the union : and those not by chance , Made or indentur'd , or leas'd out to advance The profits for a time , No pleasures vaine did chime Of Rimes , or ryots at your feasts , Argues of Drinke , or feign'd protests , But simple Love , of greatnesse and of good , That knits brave minds , and manners more than blood . The Counter-turne . This made you first to know the why You lik'd : then after to apply That likening ; and approach so one to th' other , Till either grew a portion of the other , Each stiled by his end , The coppy of his friend ; You liv'd to be the great sirnames , And titles by which all made claimes Vnto the vertue : nothing perfect done , But as a Cary or a Morison . The Stand . And such a force the faire example had , As they that saw The good , and durst not practise it , were glad That such a Law Was left yet to man-kind , Where they might read , and find Friendship indeed was written not in words : And with the Heart , not Pen , Of two so earely men , Whose Lines her Rowles were , and records Who e're the first downe ; bloomed on the Chin , Had sowed these fruits , and got the harvest in . B. Jonson .

To Hierome Lord Weston vpon his returne from his Embassy . SVch pleasures as the teeming earth Doth take in easie Natures birth , When she puts forth the life of every thing , And in a dew of sweetest raine , She lyes deliver'd without paine , Of the prime beauty of the yeare and spring . That Rivers in their shores doe runne , The Clouds racke cleare before the Sunne , The rudest winds obey the calmest aire ; Rare plants from every banke doe rise , And every plant the sence surprise , Because the order of the whole is faire . The very verdure of her nest , Wherein she sits so richly drest , As all the wealth of season there were spread , Have shew'd the graces and the houres , Have multiply'd their arts and powers , In making soft her stromaticke bed . Such ioyes , such sweets doth your returne , Bring all your friends , faire Lord , that burne With ioy to heare your modesty relate The businesse of your blooming wit , With all the fruits that follow it , Both to the honour of the King and state . O how will the Court be pleas'd , To see great CHARLES of travell eas'd , When he beholds a graft of his owne hand , Spring up an Olive , fruitfull , faire , To be a shadow of the Aire ; And both a strength and beauty to the Land . B. I.

To the right Honourable the L. Treasurer . An Epigram . IF to my mind , great Lord , I had a state , I would present you with some curious Plate Of Norimberg , or Turkie hang your rooms , Not from the Arras , but the Persian Looms . I would ( if price or prayer ) could them get Send in what or Romano , Tintaret , Titian , or Raphaell , Michaell Angelo , Have left in Fame to equall , or out-goe The old Greeke hands , in picture , or in stone , This would I doe , could I thinke Weston one Catch'd with these Arts , wherein the Iudge is wife , As farre as sence , and onely by his eyes . But you I know , my Lord , and know you can Discerne betweene a Statue , and a man : Can doe the things that Statue doe deserve , And act the businesse which these paint or carve . What you have studied are the Arts of Life , To compose men and manners , stint the strife Of froward Citizens ; make Nations know , What world of Blessings to good Kings they owe ; And mightiest Monarchs feele what large increase Of Fame and Honour you possesse by peace . These I looke up at with a measuring eye , And strike Religion in the standers by . Which , though I cannot , like as an Architect , In glorious Piles and Pyramides erect Vnto your Honour ; I can voyce in song Aloud ; and ( haply ) it may last as long . B. Ionson .

To Mr. Ionson upon these Verses . YOur Verses were commended , as 't is true , That they were very good , I meane to you : For they return'd you Ben I have beene told , The seld seene summe of forty pound in gold . These Verses then , being rightly understood , His Lordship , not Ben : Ionson , made them good . I. E.

To my Detractor . MY Verses were commended , thou didst say , And they were very good ; yet thou thinkst nay . For thou obiectest , as thou hast beene told , Th' envy'd returne of forty pound in gold . Foole do not rate my rimes , I have found thy vice Is to make cheap the Lord , the Lines the Price : But bark thou on ; I pitty thee poore Cur , That thou shouldst lose thy noise , thy foame , thy stur , To be knowne what thou art , thou blatent beast ; But writing against me , thou thinkst at least I now would write on thee : no wretch , thy name Cannot worke out unto it such a Fame : No man will tarry by thee as he goes To aske thy name , if he have halfe a nose ; But flye thee like the Pest. Walke not the streete Out in the Dog-dayes , least the Killer meet Thy Noddle with his Club ; and dashing forth Thy dirty brains , men see thy want of worth . B. Ionson .

To William Earle of New-Castle on the Backing of his Horse . WHen first , my Lord , I saw you backe your Horse , Provoke his mettle , and command his force To all the uses of the field and race , Me thought I read the ancient Art of Thrace , And saw a Centaure past those tales of Greece ; So seem'd your Horse and You , both of a peece : You shew'd like Perseus upon Pegasus , Or Castor mounted on his Cillarus : Or what we heare our home-borne Legend tell , Of bold Sir Bevis , and his Arundell , And so your seate his beauties did endorse , As I began to wish my selfe a horse . And surely had I but your Stable seene Before , I thinke my wish absolv'd had beene : For never saw I yet the Muses dwell , Nor any of their Houshold halfe so well . So well ! as when I saw the floore and roome , I look'd for Hercules to be the Groome . And cry'd away with the Caesarian Bread , At these immortall Mangers Virgil fed . B. Jonson .

To William Earle of New-Castle . An Epigram on his Fencing . THey talke of Fencing , and the use of Armes , The Art of urging , and avoyding harmes ; The Noble Science , and the Mastring skill , Of making iust approaches , how to kill , To hit in Angles , and to clash with time , As all defence , or offence , were a chime . I hate this measur'd : give me metled fire , That trembls i'th'blaze , but then mounts higher , A swift and darling motion , when a paire Of men doe meete like rarified aire : Their weapons darted with that flame and force , As they out-did the lightning in the course : This were a spectacle , a sight to draw Wonder to valour : no , it is a Law Of daring , not to doe a wrong : t is true , Next to dispise it being done to you : To know all heads of danger ; where 't is fit To bend , to breake , provoke , or suffer it : And this my Lord is valour : this is yours , And was your Fathers , and your Ancestors ; Who durst live great , when death appear'd , or bands , And valiant were with , or without , their hands . B. Jonson .

To Sir Kenelme Digby . An Epigram . THough happy Muse thou know my Digby wel , Yet take him in these Lines : he doth excell In Honours , Courtesie , and all the parts Court can call hers , or man would call his Arts : He 's prudent , valiant , iust , and temperate , In him all action is beheld in state . And he is built , like some Imperiall roome , For those to dwell in , and be still at home . His breast is a brave Pallace , a broad street , Where all Heroicke ample thoughts doe meet ; Where Nature such a large surveigh hath tane , As others soules , to his , dwell in a lane : Witnesse his birth-day , the eleventh of Iune , And his grat action done at Scanderoone . That day ; which I predestin'd am to sing , For Brittains honour , and to Charles , my King : Goe Muse in , and salute him , say he be Busie , or frowne at first , when he sees thee , He wil chear up his fore-head , think thou bring'st Good Fortune to him in the Note thou sing'st : For he doth love my Verses , and will looke Vpon them , next to Spencers Noble Booke ; And praise them too : O what a Fame 't will bee ? What reputation to my Lines and me , When he doth read them at the Treasurers board , The knowing Weston , and that learned Lord Allowes them ? then what Coppies will be had ? What transcripts made ? how cri'd up , & how glad Wilt thou be Muse , when this shal then befall , Being sent to one , they will be read of all . B. Ionson .

His Mistresse Drawne . SItting , and ready to be drawne , What make these Velvets , Silks , and Lawne ? Imbroderies , Feathers , Fringe , and Lace , When every Limbe takes like a face ? Send these suspected helps to aide , Some forme defective , and decai'd : This beauty without falsehood faire , Needs nought to cloath it but the Aire : Yet something to the Painters view , Were fitly interposed , so new He shall ( if he can understand ) Worke by my fancy with his hand . Draw first a Cloud , all save her necke , And out of that make day to breake : Till like her face it doe appeare , And men may thinke all light rose there . Then let the beames of that disperse The Cloud , and shew the Vniverse : But at such distance , as the eye May rather it adore than spye : The Heavens design'd , draw next a Spring , With all that youth , or it may bring : Foure Rivers , branching forth like seas , And Paradise confin'd in these . Last draw the Circle of this Globe , And let there be a starry Robe Of Constillations 'bout her hurl'd , And thou hast painted beauties world . But Painter see you doe not sell A Coppy of this Piece , nor tell Whose 't is : but if it favour finde , Next sitting wee will draw her minde . B. Jonson .

Her Minde . PAynter y' are come , but may be gone , Now I have better thought thereon , This worke I can performe alone , And give you reasons more than one , Not that your Art I doe refuse , But here I may no Colours use ; Besides your hand will never hit To draw the thing that cannot sit . You could make shift to paint an eye , An Eagle towring in the skye , A Sun , a Sea , a Sandlesse pit , And these are like a Minde , not it . No , to expresse this Mind to sence , Would aske a heavens intelligence , Since that nothing can report that flame , But what 's of kinne to whence it came : Sweet mind , then speak your self , and say As you goe on , by what brave way , Our sence you doe with knowledge fill , And yet remaine our wonder still . I call you Muse , now make it true , Hence forth may every line be you , That all may say that see the frame , This is no Picture , but the same : A mind so pure , so perfect fine , As 't is not radiant , but divine , And so disdaining any tire , 'T is got where it can trye the fire . There ( high exalted in the Spheare , As it another Nature were ) It moveth all , and makes a flight , As circular as infinite , Whose Notions when it would expresse In speech , it is with that excesse , Of grace and musick to the eare , As what it spake it planted there . The voyce so sweet , the words so faire , As some soft chime had strok'd the ayre , And though the sound were parted thence , Still left an Eccho in the sence , But that a minde so rapt so high , So swift , so pure should yet apply It selfe to us , and come so nigh Earths grossenesse , there 's the how , and why ? Is it because it sees us dull And stuck in Clay here , it would pull Vs forth by some Coelestiall slight , Vp to her owne sublimed height ? Or hath shee here upon the ground , Some Paradise or Pallace found In all the bounds of Beauty fit For her t' inhabite ? there is it . Thrice happy house that hast receite , For this so softly forme , so straite , So polish'd , perfect , and so even , As it slid moulded out of Heaven . Not swelling like the Ocean proud , But stooping gently as a Cloud , As smooth as Oyle powr'd forth , and calme As showres , and sweet as drops of Balme , Smooth , soft , and sweet , and all a flood , Where it may runne to any good , And where it stayes it there becomes , A nest of odours , spice , and gummes . In action winged as the Wind ▪ In rest like spirits left behind , Vpon a Banke or field of flowres , Begotten by the wind and showers , In the faire mansion let it rest , Yet know with what thou art possest , Thou entertaining in thy breast , But such a minde mak'st God a Guest . B. Ionson .

Sir WILLIAM BVRLASE The Painter , to the Poet . TO Paint thy worth , if rightly I did know it , And were but Painter , halfe like thee a Poet , Ben : I would shew it . But in this Art , my unskilfull Pen will tire ; Thou , and thy worth , will still be found farre higher , And I a lyer . Then what a Painter's here ? and what an eater Of great attempts ? whereas his skill 's no greater , And he a Cheater . Then what a Poet 's here , whom by Confession Of all with me , to Paint without digression , There 's no expression .

An Epigram to the Queens Health . HAyle MARY , full of grace , it once was said , And by an Angel , to the Blessed Maid , The Mother of our Lord : why may not I , Without prophannesse , as a Poet , crie Haile Marry full of Honours , to my Queene , The Mother of our Prince ? when was there seene ( Except the ioy that the first Mary brought , Whereby the safety of the world was wrought ) So generall a gladnesse to an Isle , To make the hearts of a whole Nation smile , As in this Prince ? let it be lawfull so To compare small with great , as still we owe Our thankes to God : then haile to Mary , spring Of so much health , both to our Land and King . Ben. Ionson .

ODE To himselfe . I. COme leave the loathed Stage , And the more loathsome Age , Where pride and impudence in faction knit , Vsurpe the Chaire of wit : Inditing and arraigning every day , Something they call a Play . Let their fastidious vaine Commission of the braine , Runne on , and rage , sweat , censure , and condemn , They were not made for thee , lesse thou for them . II. Say that pour'st 'hem wheat , And they would Akornes eat : T were simple fury , still thy selfe to wast On such as have no taste : To offer them a surfeit of pure bread , Whose appetites are dead : No give them Graines their fill , Huskes , Draffe to drinke , and swill : If they love Lees , and leave the lusty Wine , Envy them not , their pallat 's with the Swine , III. No doubt a mouldy Tale , Like Pericles , and Stale As the Shrives crusts , and nasty as his Fish , Scraps out of every Dish , Throwne forth and rak'd into the common Tub , May keep up the play Club . Broomes sweepings doe as well There , as his Masters meale : For who the relish of these guests will fit , Needs set them but the Almes-basket of wit . IV. And much good do 't yee then , Brave Plush and Velvet men Can feed on Orts ; and safe in your scoene cloaths , Dare quit upon your Oathes The Stagers , and the stage-writes too ; your Peers , Of stuffing your large eares With rage of Commicke socks , Wrought upon twenty Blocks ; Which if they 're torne , and foule , and patch'd enough , The Gamsters share your gilt , and you their stuffe . V. Leave things so prostitute , And take th' Alcaike Lute ; Or thine owne Horace , or Anacreons Lyre ; Warme thee by Pindars fire : And though thy Nerves be shrunke , and blood be cold , Ere yeares have made thee old , Strike that disdainfull heat Throughout , to their defeat : As curious fooles , and envious of thy straine , May blushing sweare , no Palsi 's in thy braine . VI . But when they heare thee sing The glories of thy King ; His zeale to God , and his iust awe of men , They may be blood-shaken , then Feele such a flesh-quake to possesse their powers , That no tun'd Harpe like ours , In sound of Peace or Warres , Shall truely hit the Starres : When they shall read the Acts of Charles his Reigne , And see his Chariot triumph 'bove his Waine . B J.

BEN : JONSON The Poet , to the Painter . WHy though I seem of a prodigious waste , I am not so voluminous and vast , But there are lines wherewith I might b'embrast . T is true ; as my womb swells , so my back stoops , And the whole part grows round , deform'd & droops , But yet the Tun at Heidleberg had hoops . You were not ty'd by any Painters Law , To square my Circle , ( I confesse ) but draw My Superficies , that was all you saw . Which if in compasse of no Art it came , To be discrib'd by a Monogram , With one great Blot y' had form'd me as I am . But since you curious were to have it bee An Archetipe for all the World to see , You made it a brave piece , but not like me . O had I now your Manner , Maiesty , Might , Your power of handling , shadow , aire , & sprite , How I could draw , and take hold , and delight ! But you are he can Paint , I can but write , A Poet hath no more than blacke and white , Ne knowes he flattering Colours , or false Light . But when of friendship I would draw the face , A letter'd minde , and a large heart would place , To all posterity , I would write Burlase . B. Ionson .

Upon my Picture left in Scotland . I Now thinke Love is rather deafe than blind , For else it could not bee That shee Whom I adore so much , should so slight me , And cast my suit behind . I 'me sure my Language to her was as sweet , And every close did meet , In sentence of as subtle feet , As hath the wisest he , That sits in shadow of Apollo's tree . O but my conscious feares , that flie my thoughts between , Tells me that she hath seene My hundreds of gray haires , Told sixe and forty yeares , Read so much wast , as she could not imbrace My Mountaine belly , and my Rocky face . And all these through her eyes have stopt her eares . B. Jonson .

On a Gentlewoman , working by an Houre-Glasse . DOe but consider this small dust , Here running in the Glasse , By Atomes mov'd : Would you beleeve that it the body was Of one that lov'd ? And in his Mistris flames , playing like a Flye , Was turned into Cynders by her eye ? Yes ; as in life , so in their deaths unblest : A Lovers ashes never can find rest . B. I.

To the Ladies of the Court . An Ode . COme Noble Nymphes , and doe not hide The ioyes for which you so provide ; If not , to mingle with us men What doe you here ? goe home agen : Your dressings doe confesse , By what we see , so curious Arts , Of Pallas , and Arachnes Arts , That you could meane no lesse . Why doe you weare the Silke-wormes toyles ? Or glory in the Shell-fish spoyles ? Or strive to shew the graines of Ore , That you have gathered long before , Whereof to make a stocke , To graft the greene Emrald on , Or any better water'd Stone , Or Ruby of the Rocke ? Why doe you smell of Ambergreece ? Whereof was formed Neptunes Neece , The Queen of Love , unlesse you can , Like Sea-borne Venus , love a man ? Try , put your selves unto 't : Your lookes , your smiles , and thoughts that meet : Ambrosian hands , and silver feet , Doe promise you will do 't . B. J.

A Sonnet . THough I am young , and cannot tell Either what Death , or Love is well , Yet I have heard they both beare Darts , And both doe aime at humane hearts . And then againe I have beene told , Love wounds with heat , and death with cold , So that I feare they doe but bring Extreams , to touch and meane one thing . As in a ruine we it call , One thing to be blowne up and fall , Or to our end like way may have By a flash of lightning , or a wave : So Loves inflamed shaft , or band , Will kill as soone as Deaths cold hand : Except Loves fires the vertue have

To Mr. Ionson . BEn : the world is much in debt , & though it may Some petty reck'nings to small Poets pay : Pardon if at thy glories Summe they stick , Being too large for their Arithmaticke . If they could prize the genius of a Scene , The learned sweat that makes a language cleane , Or understand the faith of ancient skill , Drawn from the Tragicke , Comoecke , Lyricke , quill : The Greek and Roman denison'd by thee , And both made richer in thy Poetrie . This they may know , & knowing this stil grudge That yet they are not fit of thee to iudge . I prophesie more strength to after time , Whose ioy shall call this Isle the Poets clime , Because 't was thine , and unto thee return The borrowed flames , with which thy Muse shall burn . Then when the stocke of others Fame is spent , Thy Poetry shall keepe its owne old rent . Zouch Tounley . FINIS .