Here zeal and love, grown one, all clouds digest,
And make our court an everlasting east.
And canst thou be from thence?

IDIOS.

No, I am there:

As Heav'n, to men dispos'd, is ev'ry where ;
So are those courts, whose princes animate,
Not only all their house, but all their state.
Let no man think, because he 's full, h' hath all,
Kings (as their pattern, God) are liberal
Not only in fulness but capacity,
Enlarging narrow men to feel and see,
And comprehend the blessings they bestow.
So reclus'd hermits oftentimes do know

More of Heav'n's glory, than a worldling can.
As man is of the world, the heart of man
Is an epitome of God's great book

Of creatures, and men need no further look;

So 's the country of courts, where sweet peace doth

As their own common soul, give life to both.
And am I then from court?

ALLOPHANES.

Dreamer, thou art.
Think'st thou, fantastic, that thou hast a part
In the Indian fleet, because thou hast
A little spice or amber in thy taste?
Because thou art not frozen, art thou warm?
Seest thou all good, because thou seest no harm?
The Earth doth in her inner bowels hold

Stuff well dispos'd, and which would fain be gold:
But never shall, except it chance to lie
So upward, that Heav'n gild it with his eye.
As for divine things, faith comes from above,
So, for best civil use, all tinctures move
From higher powers; from God religion springs;
Wisdom and honour from the use of kings:
Then unbeguile thyself, and know with me,
That angels, though on Earth employ'd they be,
Are still in Heav'n; so is he still at home
That doth abroad to honest actions come:
Chide thyself then, O fool, which yesterday
Might'st have read more than all thy books be-
Hast thou a history, which doth present
A court, where all affections do assent
Unto the king's, and that, that kings are just?
And where it is no levity to trust,
Where there is no ambition but t' obey,
Where men need whisper nothing, and yet may;
Where the king's favours are so plac'd, that all
Find that the king therein is liberal

[wray:

To them, in him, because his favours bend
To virtue, to the which they all pretend?
Thou hast no such; yet here was this, and more,
An earnest lover, wise then, and before.
Our little Cupid hath sued livery,
And is no more in his minority;
He is admitted now into that breast
Where the king's counsels and his secrets rest.
What hast thou lost, O ignorant man!

But, undiscerning Muse, which heart, which eyes,
In this new couple dost thou prize,
When his eye as inflaming is

As her's, and her heart loves as well as his?
Be tried by beauty, and then

The bridegroom is a maid, and not a man;
If by that manly courage they be try'd,
Which scorns unjust opinion; then the bride
Becomes a man: should chance on envy's art
Divide these two, whom Nature scarce did part,
Since both have the inflaming eye, and both the
loving heart.

III. RAISING OF THE BRIDEGROOM.

Though it be some divorce to think of you
Single, so much one are you two,
Let me here contemplate thee
First, cheerful bridegroom, and first let me see
How thou prevent'st the Sun,
And his red foaming horses dost outrun;
How, having laid down in thy sovereign's breast
All businesses, from thence to reinvest
Them, when these triumphs cease, thou forward art
To show to her, who doth the like impart,
The fire of thy inflaming eyes, and of thy loving

heart.

But now to thee, fair bride, it is some wrong,
To think thou wert in bed so long;
Since soon thou liest down first, 't is fit
Thou in first rising should allow for it.
Powder thy radiant hair,

Which if without such ashes thou would'st wear,
Thou who, to all which come to look upon,
Wert meant for Phœbus, would'st be Phaeton.
For our ease give thine eyes th' unusual part
Of joy, a tear; so quench'd, thou may'st impart,
To us that come, thy' inflaming eyes; to him, thy
loving heart.

Thus thou descend'st to our infirmity,

Who can the Sun in water see.

So dost thou, when in silk and gold

Thou cloud'st thyself; since we, which do behold,
Are dust and worms, 't is just

Our objects be the fruits of worms and dust.
Let every jewel be a glorious star;

Yet stars are not so pure as their spheres are.
And though thou stoop, t' appear to us in part,
Still in that picture thou entirely art, [ing heart.
Which thy inflaming eyes have made within his lov-

VI. GOING TO THE CHAPEL.

Now from your east you issue forth, and we,
As men, which through a cypress see
The rising Sun, do think it two;
So, as you go to church, do think of you:
But that vail being gone,

By the church rites you are from thenceforth one.
The church triumphant made this match before,
And now the militant doth strive no more.
Then, reverend priest, who God's recorder art,
Do from his dictates to these two impart
All blessings which are seen, or thought, by angel's
eye or heart.

VII. THE BENEDICTION.

Bless'd pair of swans, oh may you interbring
Daily new joys, and never sing:
Live, till all grounds of wishes fail,
Till honour, yea till wisdom grow so stale,
That new great heights to try,

It must serve your ambition, to die,
Raise heirs, and may here to the world's end live
Heirs from this king to take thanks, you, to give.
Nature and grace do all, and nothing art;
May never age or errour overthwart [this heart.
With any west these radiant eyes, with any north

VIII. FEASTS AND REVELS.

But you are over-bless'd. Plenty this day
Injures; it causeth time to stay;

The tables groan, as though this feast
Would, as the flood, destroy all fowl and beast.
And were the doctrine new

That the Earth mov'd, this day would make it true;
For every part to dance and revel goes,
They tread the air, and fall not where they rose.
Though six hours since the Sun to bed did part,
The masks and banquets will not yet impart
A sun-set to these weary eyes, a centre to this heart.

IX. THE BRIDE'S GOING TO BED.

What mean'st thou, bride, this company to keep?
To sit up, till thou fain would sleep?
Thou may'st nct, when thou 'rt laid, do so,
Thyself must to him a new banquet grow,
And you must entertain,

And do all this day's dances o'er again.
Know, that if Sun and Moon together do
Rise in one point, they do not set so too.
Therefore thou may'st, fair bride, to bed depart,
Thou art not gone being gone; where'er thou art,
Thou leav'st in him thy watchful eyes, in him thy
loving heart.

X.

THE BRIDEGROOM'S COMING.

As he that sees a star fall runs apace,

And finds a gelly in the place,

So doth the bridegroom haste as much,
Being told this star is fall'n, and finds her such.
And as friends may look strange

By a new fashion, or apparel's change:
Their souls, though long acquainted they had been,
These clothes, their bodies, never yet had seen.
Therefore at first she modestly might start,
But must forthwith surrender every part [or heart.
As freely, as each to each before gave either hand

XI. THE GOOD-NIGHT.

Now, as in Tullia's tomb one lamp burnt clear,
Unchang'd for fifteen hundred year,
May these love-lamps, we here enshrine,
In warmth, light, lasting, equal the divine.
Fire ever doth aspire,

And makes all like itself, turns all to fire,
But ends in ashes; which these cannot do,
For none of these is fuel, but fire too.

This is joy's bonfire then, where Love's strong arts
Make of so noble individual parts
[hearts.
One fire of four inflaming eyes, and of two loving

IDIOS.

As I have brought this song, that I may do A perfect sacrifice, I'll burn it too.

ALLOPHANES.

No, sir, this paper I have justly got,
For in burnt incense the perfume is not
His only, that presents it, but of all;
Whatever celebrates this festival

Is common, since the joy thereof is so.
Back to the court, and I will lay 't upon
Nor may yourself be priest: but let me go
Such altars, as prize your devotion.

EPITHALAMIUM

MADE AT LINCOLN'S INN.

THE sun-beams in the east are spread,
Leave, leave, fair bride, your solitary bed,
No more shall you return to it alone,
It nurseth sadness; and your body's print,
Like to a grave, the yielding down doth dint;
You and your other you meet there anon:
Put forth, put forth, that warm balm-breathing
thigh,
[smother,
Which when next time you in these sheets will
There it must meet another,

Which never was, but must be oft more nigh; Come glad from thence, go gladder than you came, To day put on perfection, and a woman's name.

Daughters of London, you which be

Our golden mines, and furnish'd treasury;

You which are angels, yet still bring with you Thousands of angels on your marriage days, Help with your presence, and devise to praise These rites, which also unto you grow due;

And you, frolic patricians,

Sons of those senators, wealth's deep oceans,

Ye painted courtiers, barrels of others' wits, Ye countrymen, who but your beasts love none, Ye of those fellowships, whereof he 's one,

Of study and play made strange hermaphrodits, Here shine; this bridegroom to the temple bring, Lo, in yon path which store of strow'd flow'rs graceth, The sober virgin paceth;

Except my sight fail, 't is no other thing. Weep not, nor blush, here is no grief nor shame, To day put on perfection, and a woman's name.

Thy two-leav'd gates, fair temple, unfold,
And these two in thy sacred bosom hold,

Till, mystically join'd, but one they be;
Then may thy lean and hunger-starved womb
Long time expect their bodies, and their tomb,
Long after their own parents fatten thee.
All elder claims, and all cold barrenness,
All yielding to new loves be far for ever,
Which might these two dissever,

Always all th' other may each one possess; For the best bride, best worthy of praise and fame, To day put on perfection, and a woman's name.

Winter days bring much delight,

Not for themselves, but for they soon bring night;
Other sweets wait thee than these diverse meats,
Other disports than dancing jollities,
Other love tricks than glancing with the eyes,

But that the Sun still in our balf sphere sweats;
He flies in winter, but he now stands still,
Yet shadows turn; noon point he hath attain'd,
His steeds will be restrain'd,

But gallop lively down the western hill; Thou shalt, when he hath run the Heav'ns' half frame, To night put on perfection, and a woman's name.

The amorous evening star is rose,

Why then should not our amorous star enclose
Herself in her wish'd bed? release your strings,
Musicians, and dancers, take some truce
With these your pleasing labours, for great use
As much weariness as perfection brings.
You, and not only you, but all toil'd beast
Rest duly; at night all their toils are dispens'd;
But in their beds commenc'd

Are other labours, and more dainty feasts.
She goes a maid, who, lest she turn the same,
To night puts on perfection, and a woman's name,

Thy virgin's girdle now untie,

And in thy nuptial bed (Love's altar) lie

A pleasing sacrifice; now dispossess

Thee of these chains and robes, which were put on
T' adorn the day, not thee; for thou alone,
Like virtue and truth, art best in nakedness:
This bed is only to virginity

A grave, but to a better state a cradle ;
Till now thou wast but able

To be what now thou art; then that by thee
No more be said, "I may be," but "I am,"
To night put on perfection, and a woman's name.

Ev'n like a faithful man, content,
That this life for a better should be spent ;

So she a mother's rich style doth prefer, And at the bridegroom's wish'd approach doth lie, Like an appointed lamb, when tenderly

The priest comes on his knees t'embowel her. Now sleep or watch with more joy; and, O light Of Heav'n, to morrow rise thou hot and early, This sun will love so dearly

Her rest, that long, long we shall want her sight. Wonders are wrought; for she, which had no name, To night puts on perfection, and a woman's name.

SATIRES.

SATIRE I.

AWAY, thou changeling motley humourist,
Leave me, and in this standing wooden chest,
Consorted with these few books, let me lie
In prison, and here be coffin'd, when I die:
Here are God's conduits, grave divines; and here
Is Nature's secretary, the philosopher;
And wily statesmen, which teach how to tie
The sinews of a city's mystic body;
Here gathering chroniclers, and by them stand
Giddy fantastic poets of each land.
Shall I leave all this constant company,
First swear by thy best love here, in earnest,
And follow headlong wild uncertain thee?
(If thou, which lov'st all, canst love any best)
Thou wilt not leave me in the middle street,
Not though a captain do come in thy way [meet;
Though some more spruce companion thou dost
Bright parcel gilt, with forty dead men's pay;
Not though a brisk perfum'd pert courtier
Deign with a nod thy courtesy to answer;
Nor come a velvet justice with a long
Great train of blue-coats, twelve or fourteen strong,
Wilt thou grin or fawn on him, or prepare
A speech to court his beauteous son and heir?
For better or worse take me, or leave me:

To take and leave me is adultery.
Oh! monstrous, superstitious puritan
Of refin'd manners, yet ceremonial man,
That, when thou meet'st one, with inquiring eyes
Dost search, and, like a needy broker, prize
The silk and gold he wears, and to that race,
So high or low, dost raise thy formal hat;
That wilt consort none, till thou have known
What lands he hath in hope, or of his own;
As though all thy companions should make thee
Jointures, and marry thy dear company.
Why should'st thou (that dost not only approve,
But in rank itchy lust, desire and love,
The nakedness and barrenness t' enjoy

Of thy plump muddy whore, or prostitute boy;)
Hate Virtue, though she naked be and bare?
At birth and death our bodies naked are;
And, till our souls be unapparelled

Of bodies, they from bliss are banished:
Man's first bless'd state was naked; when by sin
He lost that, he was cloth'd but in beast's skin,
And in this coarse attire, which I now wear,
With God and with the Muses I confer.

But since thou, like a contrite penitent,
Charitably warn'd of thy sins, dost repent
These vanities and giddinesses, lo

I shut my chamber door, and come, let's go.
But sooner may a cheap whore, who hath been
Worn out by as many several men in sin,
As are black feathers, or musk-coloured hose,
Name her child's right true father 'mongst all
those:

Sooner may one guess, who shall bear away
The infantry of London hence to India;
And sooner may a gulling weather-spy,
By drawing forth Heav'n's scheme, tell certainly
What fashion'd hats, or ruffs, or suits, next year
Our giddy-headed antic youth will wear,

Than thou, when thou depart'st from me, can show

Whither, why, when, or with whom, thou would'st go.
But how shall I be pardon'd my offence,
That thus have sinn'd against my conscience?
Now we are in the street; he first of all,
Improvidently proud, creeps to the wall;
And so imprison'd, and hemm'd in by me,
Sells for a little state his liberty;

Yet though he cannot skip forth now to greet
Every fine silken painted fool we meet,
He them to him with amorous smiles allures,
And grins, smacks, shrugs, and such an itch en-
dures,

As 'prentices or school-boys, which do know
Of some gay sport abroad, yet dare not go.
And as fiddlers stoop lowest at highest sound,
So to the most brave stoops he nigh'st the ground.
But to a grave man he doth move no more
Than the wise politic horse would heretofore,
Or thou, O elephant, or ape, wilt do,
When any names the king of Spain to you.
Now leaps he upright, jogs me, and cries, "Do you

That dances so divinely."-" Oh," said I,
"Stand still, must you dance here for company?"
He droop'd; we went, till one (which did excel
Th' Indians in drinking his tobacco well)
Met us they talk'd; I whisper'd, "Let us go,
'T may be you smell him not, truly I do,”
He hears not me, but on the other side
A many-colour'd peacock having spy'd,
Leaves him and me; I for my lost sheep stay;
He follows, overtakes, goes on the way,
Saying, "Him, whom I last left, all repute
For his device, in handsoming a suit,

To judge of lace, pink, panes, print, cut, and plait,
Of all the court to have the best conceit."
"Our dull comedians want him, let him go;
But oh! God strengthen thee, why stoop'st thou so?"
'Why, he hath travail'd long; no, but to me
Which understood none, he doth seem to be
Perfect French and Italian." I reply'd,
"So is the pox." He answer'd not, but spy'd
More men of sort, of parts, and qualities;
At last his love he in a window spies,
And like light dew exhal'd he flings from me
Violently ravish'd to his lechery.

SATIRE II.

SIR, though (I thank God for it) I do hate
Perfectly all this town, yet there 's one state
In all ill things so excellently best,

That hate towards them breeds pity towards the rest.
Though poetry indeed be such a sin,

As I think that brings dearth and Spaniards in:
Though like the pestilence and old fashion'd love,
Ridlingly it catch men, and doth remove
Never, till it be starv'd out, yet their state
Is poor, disarm'd, like papists, not worth hate:
One (like a wretch, which at bar judg'd as dead,
Yet prompts him, which stands next, and cannot
And saves his life) gives idiot actors means, [read,
(Starving himself) to live by 's labour'd scenes.
As in some organs puppets dance above
And bellows pant below, which them do move.
One would move love by rhymes; but witchcraft's
charms,

Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms.
Rams and slings now are silly battery,
Pistolets are the best artillery.

And they who write to lords, rewards to get,
Are they not like singers at doors for meat?
And they who write, because all write, have still
Th' excuse for writing, and for writing ill.
But he is worst, who (beggarly) doth chaw
Others wit 's fruits, and in his ravenous maw
Rankly digested, doth those things out-spew,
As his own things; and they 're his own, 't is true,
For if one eat my meat, though it be known
The meat was mine, th' excrement is his own.
But these do me no harm, nor they which use
******* and out-usure Jews,
T' out-drink the sea, t' out-swear the litany,
Who with sin's all kinds as familiar be
As confessors, and for whose sinful sake
Schoolmen new tenements in Hell must make :
Whose strange sins canonists could hardly tell
In which commandment's large receit they dwell.
But these punish themselves. The insolence
Of Coscus, only, breeds my just offence,
Whom time (which rots all, and makes botches pox,
And plodding on must make a calf an ox)
Hath made a lawyer; which, alas! of late
But scarce a poet; jollier of this state,
Than are new benefic'd ministers, he throws
Like nets or lime-twigs, wheresoe'er he goes,
His title of barrister, on every wench,
And woos in language of the pleas and bench.
A motion, lady: speak, Coscus. "I have been
In love e'er since tricesimo of the queen.
Continual claims I 've made, injunctions got
To stay my rival's suit, that he should not
Proceed; spare me, in Hillary term I went ;
You said, if I return'd next 'size in Lent,
I should be in remitter of your grace;
In th' interim my letters should take place
Of affidavits." Words, words, which would tear
The tender labyrinth of a maid's soft ear
More, more than ten Sclavonians scolding, more
Than when winds in our ruin'd abbies roar.
When sick with poetry, and possess'd with Muse
Thou wast and mad, I hop'd; but men, which choose
Law practice for mere gain, bold souls repute
Worse than imbrothel'd strumpets prostitute.
Now like an owl-like watehman he must walk-
His hand still at a bill, now he must talk