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So may the king proclaime your conscience is
Law to his law; and thinke your enemies his :
So, from all sicknesse, may you rise to health,
The care and wish still of the publike wealth,
So may the gentler Muses, and good fame
Still flie about the odour of your name;
As with the safetie, and honour of the lawes,
You favour truth, and me, in this man's cause,

Against a multitude; and (with thy stile

[while

So brightly brandish'd) wound'st, defend'st! the
Thy adversaries fall, as not a word
They had, but were a reed unto thy sword.
Then com'st thou off with victorie and palme,
Thy hearers nectar, and thy clients balme,
The court's just honour, and thy judge's love.
And (which doth all atchievements get above)
Thy sincere practise breeds not thee a fame
Alone, but all thy ranke a reverend name.

ANOTHER TO HIM'.

THE judge his favour timely then extends,
When a good cause is destitute of friends,
Without the pompe of counsell, or more aide,
Then to make falshood blush, and fraud afraid :
When those good few, that her defenders be,
Are there for charitie, and not for fee.
Such shall you heare to day, and find great foes
Both arm'd with wealth and slander to oppose,
Who thus long safe, would gaine upon the times
A right by the prosperitie of their crimes;
Who, though their guilt and perjurie they know,
Thinke, yea and boast, that they have done it so
As, though the court pursues them on the sent,
They will come of, and scape the punishment:
When this appeares, just lord, to your sharp sight,
He does you wrong, that craves you to doe right.

AN EPIGRAM

TO THE COUNCELLOUR THAT PLEADED AND CARRIED THE CAUSE.

THAT I hereafter doe not thinke the barre,
The seat made of a more then civill warre;
Or the great hall at Westminster, the field
Where mutuall frauds are fought, and no side yeild;
That henceforth I beleeve nor bookes, nor men,
Who 'gainst the law weave calumnies, my-
But when I read or heare the names so rife
Of hirelings, wranglers, stitchers-to of strife,
Hook-handed harpies, gowned vultures, put
Upon the reverend pleaders; doe now shut
All mouthes, that dare entitle them (from hence)
To the wolves studie, or dogs eloquence;
Thou art my cause: whose manners since I knew,
Have made me to conceive a lawyer,new.
So dost thou studie matter, men, and times,
Mak'st it religion to grow rich by crimes!
Dar'st not abuse thy wisdome in the lawes,
Or skill to carry out an evill cause!

But first dost vexe, and search it! If not sound,
Thou prov'st the gentler wayes, to clense the wound,
And make the scarre faire; if that will not be,
Thou hast the brave scorne, to put back the fee!
But in a businesse, that will bide the touch,
What use, what strength of reason! and how much
Of bookes, of presidents, hast thou at hand?
As if the generall store thou didst command
Of argument, still drawing forth the best,
And not being borrowed by thee, but possest.
So com'st thou like a chiefe into the court
Arm'd at all peeces, as to keepe a fort

For a poore man.

AN

EPIGRAM.

TO THE SMALL POXE.

ENVIOUS and foule disease, could there not be
One beautie in an age, and free from thee?
What did she worth thy spight? were there not store
Of those that set by their false faces more
Then this did by her true? she never sought
Quarrell with Nature, or in ballance brought
Art her false servant; nor, for sir Hugh Plot,
Was drawne to practise other hue, then that
Her owne bloud gave her: she ne're had, nor hath
Any beliefe, in madam Baud-bee's bath,
Or Turner's oyle of talck. Nor ever got
Spanish receipt, to make her teeth to rot.
What was the cause then? thought'st thou, in dis-
Of beautie, so to nullifie a face,
[grace
That Heaven should make no more; or should amisse,
Make all hereafter, had'st thou ruin'd this?
I, that thy ayme was; but her fate prevail'd:
And scorn'd, thou'ast showne thy malice, but hast
fail'd.

AN EPITAPH.

WHAT beautie would have lovely stilde,
What manners prettie, nature milde,
What wonder perfect, all were fil'd
Upon record in this blest child.

And, till the comming of the soule
To fetch the flesh, we keepe the roll.

A SONG.

LOVER.

COME, let us here enjoy the shade,
For love in shadow best is made.
Though envie oft his shadow be,
None brookes the sun-light worse then he.

MISTRES.

Where love doth shine, there needs no sunne,
All lights into his one doth run;
Without which all the world were darke;
Yet he himselfe is but a sparke.

ARBITER.

A sparke to set whole world a-fire,
Who more they burne, they more desire,
And have their being, their waste to see;
And waste still, that they still might be.

CHORUS.

Such are his powers, whom time hath stil❜d,'
Now swift, now slow, now tame, now wild;
Now hot, now cold, now fierce, now mild;
The eldest god, yet still a child.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

SIR, I am thankfull, first to Heaven, for you;
Next to your selfe, for making your love true:
Then to your love, and gift. And all's but due.

You have unto my store added a booke,
On which with profit I shall never looke,
But must confesse from whom what gift I tooke.

Not like your countrie-neighbours, that commit
Their vice of loving for a Christmasse fit ;
Which is indeed but friendship of the spit:

But, as a friend, which name your selfe receave,
And which you (being the worthier) gave me leave
In letters, that mixe spirits, thus to weave.

Which, how most sacred I will ever keepe,
So may the fruitfull vine my temples steepe,
And Fame wake for me, when I yeeld to sleepe.

Though you sometimes proclaime me too severe,
Rigid, and harsh, which is a drug austere

In friendship, I confesse: but deare friend, heare.

Little know they, that professe amitie,
And seeke to scant her comelie libertie,
How much they lame her in her propertie.

And lesse they know, who being free to use
That friendship which no chance but love did chuse,
Will unto licence that faire leave abuse.

It is an act of tyrannie, not love,
In practiz'd friendship wholly to reprove,
As flatt'ry, with friends' humours still to move.

From each of which I labour to be free,
Yet if with either's vice I teynted-be,
Forgive it, as my frailtie, and not me.
For no man lives so out of passion's sway,
But shall sometimes be tempted to obey
Her furie, yet no friendship to betray.

AN ELEGIE.

And fills my powers with perswading joy,
That you should be too noble to destroy.
There may some face or menace of a storme
Looke forth, but cannot last in such a forme.
If there be nothing worthy you can see
Of graces, or your mercie, here in me,

Spare your owne goodnesse yet; and be not great
In will and power, only to defeat.

God, and the good, know to forgive, and save;
The ignorant, and footes, no pittie have.
I will nor stand to justifie my fault,

Or lay the excuse upon the vintner's vault;
Or in confessing of the crime be nice,
Or goe about to countenance the vice,
By naming in what companie 'twas in,
As I would urge authoritie for sinne.
No, I will stand arraign'd, and cast, to be
The subject of your grace in pardoning me,
And (stil'd your mercie's creature) will live more
Your honour now, then your disgrace before.
Thinke it was frailtie, mistris, thinke me man,
Thinke that your selfe, like Heaven, forgive me can:
Where weaknessc doth offend, and vertue grieve,
There greatnesse takes a glorie to relieve.
Thinke that I once was yours, or may be now,
Nothing is vile, that is a part of you:
Errour and folly in me may have crost
Your just commands; yet those, not I, be lost.
I am regenerate now, become the child
Of your compassion; parents should be mild:
There is no father that for one demerit,
Or two, or three, a sonne will dis-inherit,
That is the last of punishments is meant ;
No man inflicts that paine, till hope be spent :
An ill-affected limbe (what e're it aile)

We cut not off, till all cures else doe faile:

And then with pause; for sever'd once, that's gone,
Would live his glory, that could keepe it on.
Doe not despaire my mending; to distrust
Before you prove a medicine, is unjust:
You may so place me, and in such an ayre,
As not alone the cure, but scarre be faire.
That is, if still your favours you apply,
And not the bounties you ha' done, deny.
Could you demand the gifts you gave, againe!
Why was't? did e're the cloudes aske back their raine?
The Sunne his heat and light? the ayre his dew?
Or winds the spirit, by which the flower so grew ?
That were to wither all, and make a grave
Of that wise Nature would a cradle have?
Her order is to cherish, and preserve,
Consumption's nature to destroy, and sterve.
But to exact againe what once is given,

Is nature's meere obliquitie! as Heaven
Should aske the blood, and spirits he hath infus'd
In man, because man hath the flesh abus'd.

O may your wisdome take example hence,
God lightens not at man's each fraile offence,

He pardons, slips, goes by a world of ills,
And then his thunder frights more then it kills.

'Tis true, I'm broke! vowes, oathes, and all I had He cannot angrie be, but all must quake,

Of credit lost. And I am now run madde:
Or doe upon my selfe some desperate ill;
This sadnesse makes no approaches, but to kill.
It is a darknesse hath blockt up my sense,
And drives it in to eat on my offence,

Or there to sterve it. Helpe, O you that may
Alone lend succours, and this furie stay.
Offended mistris, you are yet so faire,

As light breakes from you, that affrights despaire,

It shakes even him, that all things else doth shake.
And how more faire, and lovely lookes the world
In a calme skie; then when the heaven is horl'd
About in cloudes, and wrapt in raging weather,
As all with storme and tempest ran together.
O imitate that sweet serenitie

That makes us live, not that which calls to die.
In darke and sullen mornes, doe we not say,
This looketh like an execution day?

And with the vulgar doth it not obtaine

The name of cruell weather, storme, and raine?
Be not affected with these markes too much
Of crueltie, lest they doe make you such.
But view the mildnesse of your Maker's state,
As I the penitent's here emulate:
He, when he sees a sorrow such as this,
Streight puts off all his anger, and doth kisse
The contrite soule, who hath no thought to win
Upon the hope to have another sin
Forgiven him; and in that lyne stand I,
Rather then once displease you more, to die,
To suffer tortures, scorne, and infamie,
What fooles, and all their parasites can apply;
The wit of ale, and genius of the malt
Can pumpe for; or a libell without salt
Produce; though threatning with a coale, or chalke
On every wall, and sung where e're I walke.
I number these as being of the chore
Of contumelie, and urge a good man more
Then sword, or fire, or what is of the race
To carry noble danger in the face:
There is not any punishment, or paine,
A man should flie from, as he would disdaine.
Then, mistris, here, here let your rigour end,
And let your mercie make me asham'd t' offend.
I will no more abuse my vowes to you,
Then I will studie falshood, to be true.
O, that you could but by dissection see
How much you are the better part of me;
How all my fibres by your spirit doe move,
And that there is no life in me, but love.
You would be then most confident, that tho'
Publike affaires command me now to goe
Out of your eyes, and be awhile away;
Absence, or distance, shall not breed decay.
Your forme shines here, here, fixed in my heart;
I may dilate my selfe, but not depart.
Others by common stars their courses run,
When I see yon, then I doe see my sun,
Till then 't is all but darknesse, that I have;
Rather then want your light, I wish a grave.

AN ELEGIE.

To make the doubt cleare, that no woman's true,
Was it my fate to prove it full in you?
Thought I but one had breath'd the purer ayre,
And must she needs be false, because she's faire?
Is it your beautie's marke, or of your youth,
Or your perfection, not to studie truth?
Or thinke you Heaven is deafe? or hath no eyes?
Or those it has, winke at your perjuries?
Are vowes so cheape with women? or the matter
Whereof they are made, that they are writ in water,
And blowne away with wind? or doth their breath,
Both hot and cold at once, threat life and death?
Who could have thought so many accents sweet
Tun'd to our words, so many sighes should meet
Blowne from our hearts, so many oathes and teares
Sprinkled among, all sweeter by our feares,
And the devine impression of stolne kisses,
That seal'd the rest, could now prove emptie blisses?
Did you draw bonds to forfeit? signe, to breake?
Or must we read you quite from what you speake,
And find the truth out the wrong way? or must
He first desire you false, would wish you just?

O, I prophane! though most of women be
The common monster, love shall except thee,
My dearest love, how ever jealousie,
With circumstance might urge the contrarie.
Sooner I'le thinke the Sunne would cease to cheare
The teeming Earth, and that forget to beare;
Sooner that rivers would run back, or Thames
With ribs of ice in June would bind his streames:
Or Nature, by whose strength the world indures,
Would change her course, before you alter yours:
But, O, that trecherous breast, to whom weake you
Did trust our counsells, and we both may rue,
Having his falshood found too late! 'twas he
That made me cast you guiltie, and you me.
Whilst he, black wretch, betray'd each simple word
We spake, unto the comming of a third !
Curst may he be that so our love hath slaine,
And wander wretched on the Earth, as Cain.
Wretched as he, and not deserve least pittie;
In plaguing him let miserie be wittie;
Let all eyes shun him, and he shun each eye,
Till he be noysome as his infamie;
May he without remorse deny God thrice,
And not be trusted more on his soule's price;
And after all selfe-torment, when he dyes,
May wolves teare out his heart, vultures his eyes,
Swyne eat his bowels, and his falser tongue,
That utter'd all, be to some raven flung;
And let his carrion corse be a longer feast
To the king's dogs, then any other beast.
Now I have curst, let us our love receive;
In me the flame was never more alive.
I could begin againe to court and praise,
And in that pleasure lengthen the short dayes
Of my life's lease; like painters that doe take
Delight, not in made workes, but whilst they make.

I could renew those times, when first I saw
Love in your eyes, that gave my tongue the law
To like what you lik'd, and at masques, or playes,
Commend the selfe-same actors, the same wayes;
Aske how you did, and often with intent
Of being officious, grow impertinent;
All which were such lost pastimes, as in these
Love was as subtly catch'd as a disease.
But, being got, it is a treasure, sweet,
Which to defend, is harder then to get;
And ought not be prophan'd on either part,
For though 'tis got by chance, 'tis kept by art.

AN ELEGIE.

THAT love's a bitter sweet, I ne're conceive
Till the sower minute comes of taking leave,
And then I taste it. But as men drinke up
In haste the bottome of a med'cin'd cup,
And take some sirrup after; so doe I,
To put all relish from my memorie
Of parting, drowne it in the hope to meet
Shortly againe, and make our absence sweet.
This makes me, mistris, that sometime by stealth
Under another name, I take your health;
And turne the ceremonies of those nights
I give, or owe my friends, into your rites,
But ever without blazon, or least shade
Of vowes so sacred, and in silence made;
For though love thrive, and may grow up with cheare
And free societie, he's born else-where,

And must be bred, so to conceale his birth,
As neither wine doe rack it out, or mirth.
Yet should the lover still be ayrie and light
In all his actions, rarified to spright:
Not like a Midas shut up in himselfe,
And turning all he toucheth into pelfe,
Keepe in reserv'd in his dark-lanterne face,
As if that ex'lent dulnesse were love's grace;
No, mistris, no, the open merrie man
Moves like a sprightly river, and yet can
Keepe secret in his channels what he breedes,
'Bove all your standing waters, choak'd with weedes.
They looke at best like creame-bowles, and you soone
Shall find their depth: they 're sounded with a
spoone.

They may say grace, and for Love's chaplaines passe;
But the grave lover ever was an asse;
Is fix'd upon one leg, and dares not come
Out with the other, for he's still at home;
Like the dull wearied crane that (come on land)
Doth while he keepes his watch, betray his stand:
Where he that knowes will like a lapwing flie
Farre from the nest, and so himselfe belie
To others, as he will deserve the trust
Due to that one, that doth believe him just.
And such your servant is, who vowes to keepe
The jewell of your name, as close as sleepe
Can lock the sense up, or the heart a thought,
And never be by time, or folly brought,
Weaknesse of braine, or any charme of wine,
The sinne of boast, or other countermine,
(Made to blow up love's secrets) to discover
That article, may not become our lover:
Which in assurance to your brest I tell,
If I had writ no word, but, deare, farewell.

AN ELEGIE.

SINCE you must goe, and I must bid farewell,
Heare, mistris, your departing servant tell
What it is like: and doe not thinke they can
Be idle words, though of a parting man;
It is as if a night should shade noone-day,
Or that the Sun was here, but forc't away;
And we were left under that hemisphere,
Where we must feele it darke for halfe a yeare.
What fate is this, to change men's dayes and houres,
To shift their seasons, and destroy their powers!
Alas I ha' lost my heat, my blood, my prime,
Winter is come a quarter e're his time;
My health will leave me; and when you depart,
How shall I doe, sweet mistris, for my heart?
You would restore it? no, that's worth a feare,
As if it were not worthy to be there:
O, keepe it still; for it had rather be
Your sacrifice, then here remaine with me.
And so I spare it, come what can become
Of me, I'le softly tread upon my tombe;
Or like a ghost walke silent amongst men,
Till I may see both it and you agen.

AN ELEGIE.

LET me be what I am, as Virgil cold,
As Horace fat, or as Anacreon old;
No poet's verses yet did ever move,

Whose readers did not thinke he was in love.

Who shall forbid me then in rithme to be
As light and active as the youngest he
That from the Muses' fountaines doth indorse
His lynes, and hourely sits the poet's horse.
Put on my ivy garland, let me see
Who frownes, who jealous is, who taxeth me.
Fathers, and husbands, I doe claime a right
In all that is call'd lovely: take my sight
Sooner then my affection from the faire.
No face, no hand, proportion, line, or ayre
Of beautie, but the Muse hath interest in:
There is not worne that lace, purle, knot or pin,
But is the poët's matter: and he must,
When he is furious, love, although not lust.
But then content, your daughters and your wives
(If they be faire and worth it) have their lives
Made longer by our praises: or, if not,
Wish you had fowle ones, and deformed got;
Curst in their cradles, or there chang'd by elves,
So to be sure you doe enjoy your selves.
Yet keepe those up in sackcloth too, or lether,
For silke will draw some sneaking songster thither.
It is a ryming age and verses swarme
At every stall: the cittie cap's a charme.
But I who live, and have liv'd twentie yeare
Where I may handle silke, as free, and neere,
As any mercer, or the whale-bone man
That quilts those bodice I have leave to span ;
Have eaten with the beauties, and the wits,
And braveries of court, and felt their fits
Of love, and hate; and came so nigh to know
Whether their faces were their owne, or no:
It is not likely I should now looke downe
Upon a velvet petticote, or a gowne,
Whose like I'ave knowne the taylor's wife put on
To doe her husband's rites in, e're 'twere gone
Home to the customer: his letcherie
Being, the best clothes still to preoccupie.
Put a coach-mare in tissue, must I horse
Her presently? or leape thy wife of force,
When by thy sordid bountie she hath on
A gowne of that, was the caparison?
So I might dote upon thy chaires and stooles
That are like cloath'd. Must I be of those fooles
Of race accompted, that no passion have
But when thy wife (as thou conceiv'st) is brave?
Then ope thy wardrobe, thinke me that poore groome
That from the foot-man, when he was become
An officer there, did make most solemne love
To ev'ry petticote he brush'd, and glove
He did lay up, and would adore the shoe,
Or slipper was left off, and kisse it too,
Court every hanging gowne, and after that,
Lift up some one, and doe, I tell not what.
Thou didst tell me; and wert o're-joy'd to peepe
In at a hole, and see these actions creepe [prose,
From the poore wretch, which though he play'd in
He would have done in verse, with any of those
Wrung on the withers by lord Love's despight,
Had he had the facultie to reade, and write!
Such songsters there are store of; witnesse he
That chanc'd the lace laid on a smock to see,
And straight-way spent a sonnet; with that other
That (in pure madrigall) unto his mother
Commended the French hood and scarlet gowne
The lady mayresse pass'd in through the towne,
Unto the Spittle sermon. O, what strange
Varietie of silkes were on th' Exchange!

Or in Moore-fields! this other night, sings one:
Another answers, 'Lasse those silkes are none,

In smiling L'envoye, as he would deride
Any comparison had with his Cheap-side.
And vouches both the pageant, and the day,
When not the shops, but windowes doe display
The stuffes, the velvets, plushes, fringes, lace,
And all the originall riots of the place:
Let the poore fooles enjoy their follies, love
A goat in velvet; or some block could move
Under that cover; an old mid-wive's hat!
Or a close-stoole so cas'd; or any fat
Bawd in a velvet scabberd! I envy
None of their pleasures! nor will ask thee, why
Thou 'rt jealous of thy wife's, or daughter's case:
More then of either's manners, wit, or face!

AN EXECRATION UPON VULCAN.

AND why to me this, thou lame lord of fire,
What had I done that might call on thine ire?
Or urge thy greedie flame, thus to devoure
So many my yeares-labours in an houre?
I ne're attempted, Vulcan, 'gainst thy life;
Nor made least line of love to thy loose wife;
Or in remembrance of thy afront, and scorne,
With clownes, and tradesmen, kept thee clos'd in
horne.

'Twas Jupiter that hurl'd thee headlong downe,
And Mars that gave thee a lanthorne for a crowne:
Was it because thou wert of old denied
"By Jove to have Minerva for thy bride,
That since thou tak'st all envious care and paine,
To ruine any issue of the braine?
Had I wrote treason there, or heresie,
Imposture, witchcraft, charmes, or blasphemie,
I had deserv'd then thy consuming lookes,
Perhaps, to have beene burned with my bookes.
But, on thy malice, tell me, didst thou spie
Any, least loose, or scurrile paper lie
Conceal'd, or kept there, that was fit to be,
By thy owne vote, a sacrifice to thee?
Did I there wound the honours of the crowne?
Or taxe the glories of the church, and gowne?
Itch to defame the state? or brand the times?
And my selfe most, in some selfe-boasting rimes?
"If none of these, then why 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 librarie of Don Quixote;
And so some goodlier monster had begot,
Or spun out riddles, and weav'd fiftie tomes
Of logogriphes, and curious palindromes,
Or pump'd for those hard trifles anagrams,
Or eteostichs, or those finer flammes
Of egges, and halberds, cradles, and a herse,
A paire of scisars, and a combe in verse;
Acrostichs, and telestichs, on jumpe names,
Thou then hadst had some colour for thy flames,
On such my serious follies: but, thou 'It say,
There were some pieces of as base allay,
And as false stampe there; parcels of a play,
Fitter to see the fire-light, then the day;
Adulterate moneys, such as might not goe:
Thou should'st have stay'd, till publike fame said so.
She is the judge, thou executioner;

Or if thou needs would'st trench upon her power,
Thou mightst have yet enjoy'd thy crueltie
With some more thrift, and more varietie :

Thou mightst have had me perish piece by piece,
To light tobacco, or save roasted geese,
Sindge capons, or poore pigges, dropping their eyes;
Condemn'd me to the ovens with the pies;
And so, have kept me dying a whole age,
Not ravish'd all hence in a minute's rage.
But that's a marke, whereof thy rites doe boast,
To make consumption, ever 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 your large nosthrill: many a reame
To redeeme mine, I had sent in enough, [stuffe.
Thou should'st have cry'd, and all beene proper
The Talmud, and the Alcoran had come,
With pieces of the legend; the whole summe
Oferrant knight-hood, with the dames, and dwarfes;
The charmed boates, and the enchanted wharfes,
The Tristrams, Lanc'lots, Turpins, and the Peers,
All the madde Rolands, and sweet Oliveers;
To Merlin's marvailes, and his Caball's losse,
With the chimæra of the Rosie-crosse,
Their seales, their characters, hermetique rings,
Their jemme of riches, and bright stone, that brings
Invisibilitie, and strength, and tongues;
The art of kindling the true coale by luugs;
With Nicholas Pasquill's Meddle with your match,
And the strong lines, that so the time doe catch,
Or captaine Pamplet's horse and foot, that sallie
Upon th' Exchange, still out of Pope's-head-alley.
The weekly Corrants, with Paul's Seale; and all
Th' admir'd discourses of the prophet Ball:
These, had'st thou pleas'd either to dine or sup,
Had made a meale for Vulcan to lick up.
But in my deske, what was there to accite
So ravenous, and vast an appetite?

I dare not say a body, but some parts
There were of search, and mastry in the arts.
All the old Venusine, in poëtrie,

And lighted by the Stagerite, could spie,
Was there mad English: with the grammar too,
To teach some that, their nurses could not doe,
The puritie of language; and among
The rest, my journey into Scotland song,
With all th adventures; three bookes not afraid
To speake the fate of the Sicilian maid
To our owne ladyes; and in storie there
Of our fift Henry, eight of his nine yeare;
Wherein was oyle, beside the succour spent,
Which noble Carew, Cotton, Selden lent:
And twice-twelve years stor'd up humanitie,
With humble gleanings in divinitie,
After the fathers, and those wiser guides
Whom faction had not drawne to studie sides.
How in these ruines Vulcan, thou dost lurke,
All soote, and embers! odious, as thy worke!
I now begin to doubt, if ever grace,
Or goddesse, could be patient of thy face.
Thou woo Minerva! or to wit aspire!
'Cause thou canst halt with us in arts, and fire!
Sonne of the wind! for so thy mother, gone
With lust, conceiv'd thee; father thou hadst none.
When thou wert born, and that thou look'st at best,
She durst not kisse, but flung thee from her brest.
And so did Jove, who ne're meant thee his cup :
No mar'le the clownes of Lemnos tooke 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;

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