The fly Ulyffes ftole in a fheep-fkin,
The well-greas'd wherry now had got between,
And bade her farewell fough unto the lurden:
Never did bottom more betray her burden;
The meat-boat of bear's-college, Paris-garden,
Stunk not fo ill; nor when the kifs'd Kate Arden.
Yet one day in the year, for fweet 'tis voic'd,
And that is when it is the Lord Mayor's foilt.

By this time had they reach'd the Stygian pool, By which the mafters fwear, when on the ftool Of worship, they their nodding chins do hit Against their breafts. Here lev'ral ghofts did flit About the fhore of farts, but late departed, White, black, blue, green, and in more forms outfarted,

Than all thofe Atomi ridiculous,

Whereof old Democrite, and Hill Nicholas,
One faid, the other swore, the world confifts.
Thefe be the caufe of thofe thick frequent mifts
Arifing in that place, through which who goes,
Must try th' unufed valour of a nofe:

And that ours did. For yet no nare was tainted,
Nor thumb, nor finger to the ftop acquainted,
But open, and unarni'd, encounter'd all:
Whether it languishing fluck upon the wall,
Or were precipitated down the jakes,
And after, fwam abroad in ample flakes,
Or that it lay heap'd like an ufurer's mafs,
All was to them the fame, they were to pass,
And fo they did, from Styx to Acheron :
The ever-boiling flood; whofe banks upon
Your Fleet-lane furies, and hot cooks do dwell,
That with fill-fcalding fteams, make the place hell.
The links ran greafe, and hair of weazled hogs,
The heads, houghs, entrails, and the hides of dogs:
For, to fay truth, what fcullion is fo nafty,
To put the fkius and offal in a pasty?
Cats there lay divers had been flea'd and roasted,
And after mouldy grown, again were toasted,
Then felling not, a difh was ta'en to mince 'em,
But ftill, it feem'd, the ranknefs did convince 'em.
For here they were thrown in with th' melted

pewter,

Yetdrown'd they not. They had five lives in future.

But 'mongst these tiberts, who do you think
there was?

Old Banks the jugler, our Pythagoras,
Grave tutor to the learned horfe. Both which,
Being beyond fea, burned for one witch;
Their fpirits tranfmigrated to a cat :
And now, above the pool, a face right fat,
With great grey eyes, are lifted up, and mew’d';
Thrice did it fpit; thrice div'd. At laft it view'd
Our braver heroes with a milder glare,
And in a piteous tune, began. How dare
Your dainty noftrils (in fo hot a feafon,
When every clerk eats artichokes and peason,
Laxative lettuce, and fuch windy meat),
Tempt fuch a paffage? When each privy's feat
Is fill'd with buttock? and the walls do fweat
Urine and plaifters? when the noile doth beat

» Cats.

Upon your ears, of difcords fo unsweet?
And outeries of the damned in the Fleet?
Cannot the plague-bill keep you back? nor bells
Of loud Sepulchre's, with their hourly knells,
But you will vifit grifly Pluto's hall?
Behold where Cerberus, rear'd up on the wall
Of Holborne (three ferjeants heads) looks o'er,
And stays but till you come unto the door!
Tempt not his fury, Pluto is away:
And Madam Cæfar, great Proferpina,
Is now from home. You lose your labours quite,
Were you Jove's fons, or had Alcides' might.
They cry'd our, Pe. He told them he was Banks,
That had fo often show'd 'em merry pranks.
They laugh'd at his laugh-worthy fate. And paft
The triple-head without a fop. At last,
Calling for Rhadamanthus, that dwelt by,
A foap-boiler; and acus him nigh,
Who kept an ale-house; with my little Minos,
An ancient pur-blind fletcher, with a high nofe;
They took 'em all to witnefs of their action:
And fo went bravely back without protraction.

In memory of which most liquid deed,
The city fince hath rais'd a pyramid.
And I could wish for their eterniz'd fakes,
My mufe had plough'd with his, that fung A-jaz.

CXXXVI. An Expoftulation with Inigo Jones.

MR. SURVEYOR, you that firft began
From thirty pounds in pipkins, to the man
You are from them leap'd forth an architect,
Able to talk of Euclid, and correct,
Both him and Archimede; damn Archytas,
The nobleft engineer that ever was:
Control Ctefippus overbearing us
With miftook names, out of Vitruvius;
Drawn Ariftotle on us, and thence shown
How much Architectonice is your own:
Whether the building of the ftage, or scene,
Or making of the properties it mean,
Something your fur-fhip doth not yet intend.
Vizors, or antics; or it comprehend
By all your titles, and whole ftyle at once,
Of tireman, mountebank, and Justice Jones,
I do falute you are you fitted yet?
Will any of thefe exprefs your place, or wit?
Or are you fo ambitious 'bove your peers,
You'd be an Affinigo by your years?
Why, much good do't you; be what part you will,
You'll be, as Langley said, "an Inigo still."
What makes your wretchedness to bray fo loud,
In town and court? are you grown rich, and
proud?

Your trappings will not change you, change your mind;

No velvet fuit you wear will alter kind.
A wooden dagger is a dagger of wood,
Nor gold, nor ivory haft can make it good.
What is the cause you pomp it fo, I afk,
And all men echo, you have made a mafque;
I chime that too, and I have met with thofe
That do cry up the machine, and the shows;
The majesty of Juno in the clouds,
And pearing forth of Iris in the throuds

Th' afcent of lady Fame, which none could spy,
Not they that fided her, dame Poetry,
Dame Hiftory, dame Archite&ure too,
And goody Sculpture, brought with much ado
To hold her up: O fhows, fhows, mighty shows,
The eloquence of mafques! what need of profe,
Or verfe or profe, t' exprefs immortal you?
You are the fpectacles of ftate, 'tis true,
Court-hieroglyphics, and all arts afford,
In the mere perfpe&tive of an inch-board;
You ask no more than certain politic eyes,
Eyes, that can pierce into the mysteries
Of

many colours, read them, and reveal Mythology, there painted on flit-deal.

O, to make boards to speak! there is a task!
Painting and carpentry are the foul of masque.
Pack with your pedling poetry to the stage,
This is the money-got, mechanic age.

To plant the mufic, where no ear can reach,
Attire the perfons, as no thought can teach
Senfe, what they are; which by a specious, fine
Term of architects, is call'd defign;
But in the practis'd truth, destruction is
Of any art, befide what he calls his.
Whither, O whither will this tireman grow?
His name is Exnveroos, we all know,
The maker of the properties; in fum
The scene, the engine; but he now is come
To be the mufic-mafter; tabler too;
He is, or would be, the main Dominus De
All of the work, and so shall still for Ben,
Be Inigo, the whiftle, and his men.

He's warm on his feet, now he fays; and can
Swim without cork: why, thank the good Queen
Anne.

I am too fat to envy, he too lean

To be worth envy; henceforth I do mean
To pity him, as fmiling at his feat

Of Lantern-lerry, with fuliginous heat
Whirling his whimfies, by a fubtilty
Suck'd from the veins of shop-philofophy.
What would he do now, giving his mind that way,
In prefentation of fome puppet-play?
Should but the king his juttice-hood employ,
In fetting forth of fuch a folemn toy,
How would he firk, like Adam Overdo,
Up, and about; dive into cellars too,
Difguis'd, and thence drag forth enormity,
Discover vice, commit abfurdity:
Under the moral, fhow he had a pate
Moulded or ftrok'd up to furvey a state.
O wife furveyor, wifer architect,
But wifeft Inigo; who can reflect
On the new priming of thy old fign-posts,
Reviving with fresh colours the pale ghofts
Of thy dead standards; or with marvel fee
Thy twice conceiv'd, thrice paid for imagery;
And not fall down before it, and confels
Almighty architecture, who no lefs

A goddefs is, than painted cloth, deal board,
Vermilion, lake, or crimson can afford
Expreffion for, with that unbounded line,
Aim'd at in thy omnipotent defign.
What poely e'er was painted on a wall,
That might compare with thee; what fory fhall,

Of all the worthies, hope outlast thy own,
So the materials be of Purbeck ftone.
Live long the feafting-room, and e'er thou burn
Again, thy architect to ashes turn;
Whom not ten fires, nor a parliament, can
With all remonftrance, make an honeft man.

To a Friend, an Epigram of bim.

SIR, Inigo doth fear it, as I hear,

And labours to feem worthy of this fear; That I fhould write upon him fome sharp verfe, Able to eat into his bones, and pierce. The marrow. Wretch! I quit thee of thy pain, Thou'rt too ambitious, and doft fear in vain : The Lybian lion hunts no butterflies;

He makes the camel and dull afs his prize. If thou be fo defirous to be read,

Seek out fome hungry painter, that for bread, With rotten chalk, or coal, upon the wall,

Will well defign thee to be view'd of all, That fit upon the common draught or strand; Thy forehead is too narrow for my brand.

To Inigo Marquis Would-be. A Corollary.

BUT 'caufe thou hear'ft the mighty king of Spain Hath made his Inigo marquis, would't thou fain Our Charles fhould make thee fuch? 'twill not .become

All kings to do the felf-fame deeds with fome:
Befides, his man may merit it, and be

A noble honeft foul: what's this to thee?
He may have skill, and judgment to defign
Cities and temples, thou a cave for wine,
Or ale; he build a palace, thou the shop,
With fliding windows, and falfe lights a-top:
He draw a forum, with quadrivial frects;
Thou paint a lane where Tom Thumb Geffrey

meets.

He fome Coloffus, to beftride the feas,
From the fam'd pillars of old Hercules:
Thy canvas giant at fome channel aims,
Or Dowgate torrents falling into Thames;
And ftradling fhows the boys brown paper fleet
Yearly fet out there, to fail down the street:
Your works thus differing, much less fo your style,
Content thee to be Pancridge carl the while,
An earl of thow; for all thy worth is fhow:
But when thou turn't a real Inigo,

Or canft of truth the least entrenchment pitch,
We'll have thee styl'd the Marquis of Town-ditch.

Yet who dares offer a redoubt to rear?
To cut a dike? or ftick a ftake up here
Before this work? where envy hath not caft
A trench against it, nor a batt'ry plac'd'
Stay till fhe make her vain approaches; then,
If maimed the come off, 'tis not of men
This fort of fo impregnable accefs;

But higher pow'r, as fpight could not make lefs,
Nor flatt'ry; but fecur'd by th' author's name
Defies what's crofs to piety, or good fame :
And like a hollowed temple, free from taint
Of ethnicifm, makes his mufe a faint.

To Mr. John Fletcher, upon bi Fehful Shepherdess. THE wife and many-headed bench that fits Upon the life and death of plays and wits, (Compos'd of gamefter, captain, knight, knight's

man,

Lady or pucelle, that wears mask or fan,
Velvet, or taffeta cap, rank d in the dark
With the shop's foreman, or fome fuch brave fpark
That may judge for his fixpence) had, before
They faw it half, damn'd thy whole play and more:
Their motives were, fince it had not to do
With vices, which they look'd for, and came to.
I, that am glad thy innocence was thy guilt,
And with that all the mufes blood were spilt
In fuch a martyrdom, to vex their eyes,
Do crown thy murder'd poem: which fhall rife
A glorified work to time, when fire

Or moths fhall eat what all these fools admire.

Epitaph on the Countess of Pembroke, Sifter to Sir
Philip Sidney.

UNDERNEATH this marble herfe
Lies the fubject of all verfe,
Sidney's fifter, Pembroke's mother;
Death, ere thou haft flain another,
Learn'd and fair, and good as the,
Time fhall throw his dart at thee.

A Vision on the Mufes of bis Friend M. Drazten. IT hath been question'd, Michael, if I be A friend at all; or, if at all, to thee: Because who make the question, have not feen Thofe ambling vifits pafs in verfe between Thy mufe and mine, as they expect: 'tis true, You have not writ to me, nor I to you. And though I now begin, 'tis not to rub Haunch against haunch. or raife a rhyming club About the town; this reck'ning I will pay, Without conferring fymbols; this 's my day.

It was no dream! I was awake, and faw.
Lend me thy voice, O Fame, that I may draw
Wonder to truth, and have my vision hurl'd
Hot from thy trumpet round about the world.
I saw a beauty, from the fea to rise,

That all earth look'd on, and that carth all eyes!
It caft a beam, as when the cheerful fun
Is fair got up, and day fome hours begun :
And fill'd an orb as circular as heav'n!
The orb was cut forth into regions seven,
And thofe fo fweet, and well-proportion'd parts,
As it had been the circle of the arts:

, ར ་ཉན་ན་

When, by thy bright ideas ftanding by,
I found it pure and perfect poefy.
There read I, ftraight, thy learned legends three,
Heard the foft airs, between our fwains and thee,
Which made me think the old Theocritus,

Or rural Virgil come to pipe to us.
But then thy Epiftolar Heroic Songs,
Their loves, their quarrels, jealoufies, and wrongs,
Did all fo ftrike me, as I cried, who can
With us be call'd the Nafo, but this man?
And looking up, I faw Minerva's fowl,
Perch'd over head, the wife Athenian owl:
I thought thee then our Orpheus, that would'ût try,
Like him, to make the air one volary.
And I had ftyl'd thee Orpheus, but before
My lips could form the voice, I heard that roar,
And roufe the marching of a mighty force,
Drums against drums, the neighing of the horse,
The fights, the cries, and wond'ring at the jars,
I faw and read it was the Barons Wars.
O how in thofe doft thou inftruct thefe times,
That rebels actions are but valiant crimes.
And carried, though with fhout and noife, confefs
A wild and an unauthoris'd wickedness!
Say'ft thou fo, Lucan? but thou scorn'ft to flay
Under one title: thou haft made thy way
And flight about the ifle, well near, by this
In thy admired Periegefis,
Or univerfal circumduction
Of all that read thy Poly-Olbion.
That read it; that are ravifh'd; fuch was I,
With every fong, I fwear, and fo would die.
But that I hear again thy drum to beat
A better caufe, and strike the bravest heat
That ever yet did fire the English blood,
Our right in France, if rightly understood.
There thou art Homer; pray thee ufe the style
Thou haft deferv'd, and let me read the while
Thy catalogue of ships, exceeding his,
Thy lift of aids and force, for fo it is:
The poet's act, and for his country's fake,
Brave are the mufters that the mufe will make.
And when he fhips them, where to use their

arms.

How do his trumpets breathe! what loud alarms.
Look how we read the Spartans were inflam'd
With bold Tyrtæus' verse, when thou art nam'd,
So fhall our English youth urge on, and cry
An Agincourt, an Agincourt, or die.
This book, it is a catechifm to fight,
And will be bought of every lord or knight
That can but read; who cannot, may in profe
Get broken pieces, and fight well by thole.
The miseries of Margaret the queen,
Of tender eyes will more be wept than feen.
I feel it by mine own, that overflow
And flop my fight in every line I go.
But then, refreshed by thy Fairy court,
I look on Cynthia, and Syrena's fport,
As on two flow'ry carpets, that did rife,
And with their graffy green reftór'd mine eyes.
Yet give me leave to wonder at the birth
Of thy ftrange Moon-calf, both thy strain of mirth
And goffip-got acquaintance, as to us
Thou haft brought Lapland, or old Cobalus,

Empufa, Lamia, or fome monfter more,
Than Afric knew, or the full Grecian store.
I gratulate it to thee, and thy ends,
To all thy virtuous and well-chofen friends;
Only my lofs is, that I am not there,
And till I worthy am to wish I were,

I call the world that envies me, to fee
If I can be a friend, and friend to thee.

On Michael Drayton, buried in Weflminfier-Abbey*.

Do, pious marble, let thy readers know
What they, and what their children owe
To Drayton's facred name; whose duft
We recommend unto thy trust.
Protect his memory, preserve his story,
And be a lafting monument of his glory.
And when thy ruins fhall difclaim,
To be the treafury of his name;
His name, which cannot fade, shall be
An everlasting monument to thee.

To the Memory of my beloved Mr. William Shak-
Speare, and what be bath left us.

To draw no envy, Shakspeare, on thy name,
Am I thus ample to thy book and fame :
While I confefs thy writings to be such,
As neither man nor mufe can praise too much.
'Tis true, and all men's fuffrage. But these ways
Were not the paths I meant unto thy praise,
For fillieft ignorance on these may light,
Which, when it founds at best, but echoes right;
Or blind affection, which doth ne'er advance,
The truth but gropes, and urgeth all by chance;
Or crafty malice might pretend this praife,
And think to ruin, where it seem'd to raise.
These are, as fome infamous bawd or whore,
Should praise a matron.
What could hurt her
more ?

But thou art proof against them, and indeed
Above th' ill fortune of them, or the need.
I therefore will begin : Soul of the age!

Th' applaufe! delight the wonder of our ftage!
My Shakspeare rife! I will not lodge thee by
Chaucer, or Spenfer, or bid Beaumont lie
A little further, to make thee a room:
Thou art a monument without a tomb,
And art alive ftill, while thy book doth live,
And we have wits to read, and praise to give.
That I not mix thee fo, my brain excufes,
I mean with great, but difproportion'd muses:

• This epitaph, which bas been given to Jonson, was written by Quarles.

For if I thought my judgment were of years,
I fhould commit thee furely with thy peers,
And tell how far thou didst our Lily outshine,
Or fporting kid, or Marlow's mighty line.
And though thou hadft small Latin and lefs Greek,
From thence to honour thee, I will not feek
For names; but call forth thund'ring Efchylus,
Euripides, and Sophocles to us,

Pacuvius, Accius, him of Cordova dead,
To live again, to hear thy bufkin tread,
And shake a stage: or when thy focks were on,
Leave thee alone for the comparison

Of all, that infolent Greece, or haughty Rome
Sent forth, or fince did from their ashes come,
Triumph, my Britain, thou haft one to fhow
To whom all fcenes of Europe homage owe.
He was not of an age, but for all time!
And all the mufes ftill were in their prime,
When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm
Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm!
Nature herself was proud of his defigns,
And joy'd to wear the dreffing of his lines!
Which were fo richly fpun, and woven fo fit,
As, fince fhe will vouchfafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Ariftophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not please;
But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of nature's family.
Yet muft I not give nature all: thy art,
My gentle Shakspeare, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion. And that he
Who cafts to write a living line, muft sweat,
(Such as thine are) and ftrike the fecond heat
Upon the mufes anvil; turn the fame,
And himself with it, that he thinks to frame;
Or for the laurel, he may gain a scorn,
For a good poet's made, as well as born.
And fuch wert thou. Look how the father's face
Lives in his iffue, even fo the race

Of Shakspeare's mind and manners brightly shines
In his well-turned, and true filed lines:
In each of which he feems to shake a lance,

As brandifh'd at the eyes of ignorance.
Sweet fwan of Avon! what a fight it were
To fee thee in our water yet appear,
And make thofe flights upon the banks of Thames,
That fo did take Eliza, and our James!
But stay, I fee thee in the hemisphere
Advanc'd, and made a conftellation there!
Shine forth, thou flar of poets, and with rage,
Or influence, chide, or cheer the drooping stage,
Which, fince thy flight from hence, hath mourn'd
like night,

And defpairs day, but for thy volumes light.
Mm iiij

1. Why I write not of Love.

SOME act of Love's bound to rehearse,
I thought to bind him in my verse :
Which when he felt away, (quoth he)
Can poets hope to fetter me?
It is enough they once did get
Mars and my mother in their net:
I wear not thefe my wings in vain,
With which he fled me; and again,
Into my rhymes could ne'er be got
By any art. Then wonder not,
That fince my numbers are fo cold,
When love is fled, and I grow old.

11. To Penfourft.

Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious fhow
Of touch or marble; nor canft boast a row
Of polifh'd pillars, or a roof of gold:

Thou haft no lantern, whereof tales are told; Or ftair, or courts; but ftand'ft an ancient pile, And thele grudg'd at, are reverenc'd the while. Thou joy'ft in better marks, of foil, of air,

Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair. Thou haft thy walks for health, as well as fport: Thy mount to which thy Dryads do refort, Where Pan and Bacchus their high feafts have made,

The painted partridge lies in ev'ry field;
And for thy mefs is willing to be kill'd.
And if the high-fwoll'n Medway fail thy difh,
Thou haft thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fi
Fat aged carps, that run into thy net,

And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loth the fecond draught, or caft to ilay,
Officiously at first themselves betray.
Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flow's,
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The early cherry, with the later plum,

Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth

come:

The blushing apricot, and woolly peach

Hang on thy walls, that ev'ry child may reach, And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan; [down; There's none that dwell about them with them But all come in, the farmer and the clown; And no one empty handed, to falute

Thy lord and lady, though they have no fuit. Some bring a capon, fome a rural cake, [make

Some nuts, fome apples; fome that think they The better cheefes, bring 'em; or else send

By their ripe daughters, whom they would

commend

That taller tree, which of a nut was fet,

At his great birth, where all the mufes met. There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names. Of many a Sylvan, taken with his fames, And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke

The lighter Fawns, to reach thy lady's oak. Thy cople too, nam'd of Gamage, thou haft there, That never fails to ferve thee feafon'd deer, When thou wouldst feaft, or exercife thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy fheep, thy bullocks, kire, and calves do feed; The middle grounds thy mares, and horfes breed, Each bank doth yield thee cories; and the tops Fertile of wood, Athore and Sydneys cople, To crown, thy open table doth provide

The purpled pheafant, with the fpeckled fide:

An emblem of themselves in plum or pear. But what can this (more than exprefs their love) Add to thy free provisions, far above The need of fuch? whofe liberal board doth flow, With all that hofpitality doth know! Where comes no gut it, but is allow'd to eat,

Without his fear, and of thy lord's own meat: Where the fame beer and bread, and self fame wine That is his lordfhip's, fhall be alfo mine. And I not fain to fit (as fome this day,

At great mens tables) and yet dine away. Here no man tells my cups; nor standing by, A waiter, doth my gluttony envy: But gives me what I call, and lets me eat, He knows, below, he fhall find plenty of meat;