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THERE, INCLOSED IN A PLASTER MADE IN THE FIGURE Neglect they do our circ'lar tables,


THRICE, royal sir, here I do you beseech,
Who art a lion, to hear a lion's speech.
A miracle; for, since the days of Æsop,
No lion till these times his voice dar'd raise up
To such a majesty: then, king of men,
The king of beasts speaks to thee from his den;
Who, though he now enclosed be in plaster,
When he was free, was Lithgow's wise schoolmaster.


A COUNTRY maid Amazon-like did ride,
To sit more sure, with leg on either side:
Her mother who her spied, said that ere long
She should just penance suffer for that wrong;
For when time should on her more years bestow,
That horse's hair between her thighs would grow.
Scarce winter twice was come, as was her told,
When she found all to frizzle there with gold;
Which first made her afraid, then turn'd her sick,
And forc'd her keep her bed almost a week.
At last her mother calls, who scarce for laughter
Could hear the pleasant story of her daughter;
But, that this phrenzy should no more her vex,
She swore thus bearded were their weaker sex;
Which when denied, "Think not," said she, "Iscorn;
Behold the place, poor fool, where thou wast born."
The girl that seeing cried, now void of pain,
"Ah! mother, you have ridden on the mane !"


GOD's judgments seldom use to cease, unless The sins which them procur'd men do confess. Our cries are Baal's priests, our fasting vain; Our pray'rs not heard, nor answer'd us again: Till perjury, wrong, rebellion, be confest, Think not on peace, nor to be freed of pest.


THE king gives yearly to his senate gold; Who can deny but justice then is sold?


HERE Rixus lies, a novice in the laws,

Who 'plains he came to Hell without a cause.

Scorn our acts and laws as fables;
Of our battles talk but meekly,
With four sermons pleas'd are weekly;
Swear king Charles is neither papist,
Arminian, Lutheran, or atheist.

But that in his chamber-pray'rs,
Which are pour'd 'midst sighs and tears,
To avert God's fearful wrath,
Threat'ning us with blood and death;
Persuade they would the multitude,
This king too holy is and good.
They avouch we'll weep and groan
When hundred kings we serve for one;
That each shire but blood affords,
To serve th' ambition of young lords;
Whose debts ere now had been redoubled,
If the state had not been troubled.

Slow they are our oath to swear,
Slower for it arms to bear:
They do concord love, and peace,
Would our enemies embrace,
Turn men proselytes by the word,
Not by musket, pike, and sword.
They swear that for religion's sake
We may not massacre, burn, sack :
That the beginning of these pleas,
Sprang from the ill-sped A B Cs,
For servants that it is not well
Against their masters to rebel.

That that devotion is but slight,

Doth force men first to swear, then fight.
That our confession is indeed

Not the apostolic creed;

Which of negations we contrive,

Which Turk and Jew may both subscrive.

That monies should men's daughters marry,
They on frantic war miscarry.
Whilst dear the soldiers they pay,
At last who will snatch all away.
And, as times turn worse and worse,
Catechise us by the purse.

That debts are paid with bold stern looks;
That merchants pray on their 'compt books;

That Justice dumb and sullen frowns,
To see in croslets hang'd her gowns;

That preachers' ordinary theme
Is 'gainst monarchy to declaim.

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That, since leagues we 'gan to swear,
Vice did ne'er so black appear;
Oppression, bloodshed, ne'er more rife,
Foul jars between the man and wife;
Religion so contemn'd was never,
Whilst all are raging in a fever,

They tell by devils, and some sad chance,
That that detested league of France,
Which cost so many thousand lives,
And two kings, by religious knives,
Is amongst us, though few descry;
Though they speak truth, yet say they lie.

He who says that night is night,
That cripple folk walk not upright,
That the owls into the spring
Do not nightingales out-sing,
That the seas we may not plough,
Ropes make of the rainy bow,
That the foxes keep not sheep,
That men waking do not sleep,

That all's not gold doth gold appear→
Believe him not, although he swear.

To such syrens stop your ear,

Their societies forbear.

Ye may be tossed like a wave,

Verity may you deceive;

Just fools they may make of you;

Then hate them worse than Turk or Jew.

Were it not a dangerous thing,

Should we again obey the king;
Lords lose should sovereignty,
Soldiers hast back to Germany;
Justice should in our towns remain,
Poor men possess their own again;
Brought out of Hell that word of plunder,
More terrible than devil, or thunder,
Should with the covenant fly away,
And charity amongst us stay;
Peace and plenty should us nourish,
True religion 'mongst us flourish?

When you find these lying fellows,
Take and flower with them the gallows.
On others you may too lay hold,

In purse or chest, if they have gold.
Who wise or rich are in this nation,
Malignants are by protestation.



FROM Such a face, whose excellence
May captivate my sovereign's sense,
And make him (Phoebus like) his throne,
Resign to some young Phaëton,
Whose skilless and unstayed hand
May prove the ruin of the land,
Unless great Jove, down from the sky,
Beholding Earth's calamity,

Strike with his hand that cannot err
The proud usurping charioter;

And cure, though Phoebus grieve, our woe-
From such a face as can work so,

Wheresoever thou 'st a being,

Bless my sovereign and his seeing.


FROM jests prophane and flattering tongues,
From baudy tales and beastly songs,
From after-supper suits, that fear
A parliament or council's ear;
From Spanish treaties, that may wound
The country's peace, the gospel's sound;
From Job's false friends, that would entice
My sovereign from Heaven's paradise;
From prophets such as Achab's were,
Whose flatterings sooth my sovereign's ear;
His frowns more than his Maker's fearing,
Bless my sovereign and his hearing.


FROM all fruit that is forbidden,

Such for which old Eve was chidden;
From bread of labours, sweat and toil;
From the poor widow's meal and oil;

From blood of innocents oft wrangled

From their estates, and from that's strangled; From the candid poison'd baits

Of Jesuits, and their deceits;

Italian sallads, Romish drugs,

The milk of Babel's proud whore's dugs;
From wine that can destroy the brain;
And from the dangerous figs of Spain;

At all banquets, and all feasting,
Bless my sovereign and his tasting.


FROM prick of conscience, such a sting
As slays the soul, Heav'n bless the king;
From such a bribe as may withdraw
His thoughts from equity or law;
From such a smooth and beardless chin
As may provoke or tempt to sin;

From such a hand, whose moist palm may
My sovereign lead out of the way;
From things polluted and unclean,
From all things beastly and obscene;
From that may set his soul a reeling,
Bless my sovereign and his feeling.


WHERE myrrh and frankincense are thrown,
The altar's built to gods unknown,
O let my sovereign never dwell;
Such damn'd perfumes are fit for Hell.
Let no such scent his nostrils stain;
From smells that poison can the brain
Heav'ns still preserve him. Next I crave,
Thou wilt be pleas'd, great God! to save
My sov'reign from a Ganymede,
Whose whorish breath hath pow'r to lead
His excellence which way it list-
O let such lips be never kiss'd!
From a breath so far excelling,
Bless my sovereign and his smelling.



AND now, just God, I humbly pray, That thou wilt take the slime away

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In shells and gold pearls are not kept alone,
A Margaret here lies beneath a stone;

A Margaret that did excel in worth

All those rich gems the Indies both send forth;
Who, had she liv'd when good was lov'd of men,
Had made the Graces four, the Muses ten;
And forc'd those happy times her days that claim'd,
From her, to be the Age of Pearl still nam'd;
She was the richest jewel of her kind,
Grac❜d with more lustre than she left behind,
All goodness, virtue, bounty; and could cheer
The saddest minds; now Nature knowing here
How things but shown, then hidden, are lov'd best,
This Margaret 'shrin'd in this marble chest.


THIS beauty fair, which death in dust did turn,
And clos'd so soon within a coffin sad,
Did pass like lightning, like the thunder burn,
So little life, so much of worth it had.
Heav'ns, but to show their might, here made it shine;
And, when admir'd, then in the world's disdain,
O tears! O grief! did call it back again,
Lest Earth should vaunt she kept what was divine.
What can we hope for more, what more enjoy,
Sith fairest things thus soonest have their end;
And, as on bodies shadows do attend,
Sith all our bliss is follow'd with annoy?
She is not dead, she lives where she did love,
Her memory on Earth, her soul above.


WHO love enjoys, and placed hath his mind
Where fairer virtues fairest beauties grace;
Then in himself such store of worth doth find,
That he deserves to find so good a place;
Whose fears condemn his own, doubt others' worth?
To chilling fears how can he be set forth

Desire, as flames of zeal, fear, horrours meets,
They rise who fall of falling never prov'd.
Who is so dainty, satiate with sweets,
To murmur when the banquet is remov'd?
The fairest hopes time in the bud destroys,
When sweet are memories of ruin'd joys.

It is no hill, but Heaven where you remain ;
And whom desert advanced hath so high
To reach the guerdon of his burning pain,
Must not repine to fall, and falling die :
His hopes are crown'd. What years of tedious breath
Can them compare with such a happy death?


Of those rare worthies who adorn'd our north,
And shone like constellations, thou alone
Remainedst last, great Maitland! charg'd with worth,
Second, in virtue's theatre, to none.

But finding all eccentric in our times,
Religion into superstition turn'd,
Justice silenc'd, exiled, or in-urn'd;
Truth, faith, and charity reputed crimes;
The young men destinate by sword to fall,
And trophies of their country's spoils to rear;
Strange laws the ag'd and prudent to appal,
And forc'd sad yokes of tyranny to bear;
And for no great nor virtuous minds a room-
Disdaining life, thou shroud'st into thy tomb.

When misdevotion every where shall take place,
And lofty orators, in thund'ring terms,
Shall move you, people, to arise in arms,
And churches hallow'd policy deface;
When you shall but one general sepulchre
(As Averroes did one general soul)
On high, on low, on good, on bad confer,
And your dull predecessors rites controul-
Ah! spare this monument, great guests! it keeps
Three great justiciars, whom true worth did raise;
The Muses' darlings, whose loss Phoebus weeps;
Best men's delight, the glory of their days.
More we would say, but fear, and stand in awe
To turn idolaters, and break your law.

Do not repine, bless'd soul, that humble wits
Do make thy worth the matter of their verse:
No high-strain'd Muse our times and sorrows fits;
And we do sigh, not sing, to crown thy hearse.
The wisest prince e'er manag'd Britain's state
Did not disdain, in numbers clear and brave,
The virtues of thy sire to celebrate,
And fix a rich memorial on his grave.
Thou didst deserve no less; and here in jet,
Gold, touch, brass, porphyry, or Parian stone,
That by a prince's hand no lines are set
For thee-the cause is, now this land hath none.
Such giant moods our parity forth brings,
We all will nothing be, or all be kings.



AITHEN, thy pearly coronet let fall; Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set The weeping cypress, or the sable jet.

Mourn this thy nurseling's loss, a loss which all Apollo's choir bemoans, which many years Cannot repair, nor influence of spheres.

Ah! when shalt thou find shepherd like to him, Who made thy banks more famous by his worth, Than all those gems thyrocks and streams send forth?

His splendour others glow-worm light did dim:
Sprung of an ancient and a virtuous race,
He virtue more than many did embrace.

He fram'd to mildness thy half-barbarous swains;
The good man's refuge, of the bad the fright,
Unparallell'd in friendship, world's delight!

For hospitality along thy, plains
Far-fam'd a patron; and a pattern fair
Of piety; the Muses' chief repair;

Most debonnaire, in courtesy supreme;
Lov'd of the mean, and honour'd by the great;
Ne'er dash'd by fortune, nor cast down by fate;
To present and to after times a theme.
Aithen, thy tears pour on this silent grave,
And drop them in thy alabaster cave,
And Niobe's imagery here become;

And when thou hast distilled here a tomb,
Enchase in it thy pearls, and let it bear,
"Aithen's best gem and honour shrin'd lies here."

FAME, register of time,

Write in thy scroll, that I,

Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy,
Was cropped in my prime;

And ripe in worth, though green in years, did die.

JUSTICE, Truth, Peace and Hospitality,
Friendship, and Love being resolved to die,
In these lewd times, have chosen here to have
With just, true, pious
their grave;
Them cherished he so much, so much did grace,
That they on Earth would chuse none other place.

WHEN Death, to deck his trophies, stopt thy breath,
Rare ornament and glory of these parts!
All with moist eyes might say, and ruthful hearts,
That things immortal vassal'd were to Death.
What good in parts on many shar'd we see,
From Nature, gracious Heaven, or Fortune flow;
To make a master-piece of worth below,
Heaven, Nature, Fortune gave in gross to thee.
In honour, bounty, rich—in valour, wit,
In courtesy; born of an ancient race;
With bays in war, with olives crown'd in peace;
Match'd great with offspring for great actions fit.
No rust of times, nor change, thy virtue wan
With times to change; when truth, faith,love,decay',
In this new age, like fate thou fixed staid,
Of the first world an all-substantial man.

As erst this kingdom given was to thy sire,
The prince his daughter trusted to thy care,
And well the credit of a gem so rare
Thy loyalty and merit did require.

Years cannot wrong thy worth, that now appears
By others set as diamonds among pearls:
A queen's dear foster, father to three earls,
Enough on Earth to triumph are o'er years.

Life a sea voyage is, death is the haven,
And freight with honour there thou hast arriv'd;
Which thousands seeking, have on rocks been driven:
That good adorns thy grave which with thee liv'd.
For a frail life, which here thou didst enjoy,
Thou now a lasting hast, freed of annoy.



LET holy David, Solomon the wise,
That king whose breast Egeria did inflame,
Augustus, Helen's son, great in all eyes,
Do homage low to thy mausolean frame;

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FOND wight, who dream'st of greatness, glory, state;
And worlds of pleasures, honours, dost devise;
Awake, learn how that here thou art not great
Nor glorious: by this monument turn wise.
One it enshrineth sprung of ancient stem,
And (if that blood nobility can make)

From which some kings have not disdain'd to take
Their prond descent, a rare and matchless gem.
A beauty here it holds by full assurance,
Than which no blooming rose was more refin'd,
Nor morning's blush more radiant ever shin'd;
Ah! too, too like to morn and rose at last!
It holds her who in wit's ascendant far
Did years and sex transcend; to whom the Heaven
More virtue than to all this age had given;
For virtue meteor turn'd, when she a star.
Fair mirth, sweet conversation, modesty,
And what those kings of numbers did conceive
By Muses nine, and Graces more than three,
Lie clos'd within the compass of this grave.
Thus death all earthly glories doth confound,
Lo! how much worth a little dust doth bound.

"FAR from these banks exiled be all joys,
Contentments, pleasures, music (care's relief)!
Tears,sighs,plaints, horrours, frightments,sad annoys,
Invest these mountains, fill all hearts with grief.
"Here, nightingales and turtles, vent your moans;
Amphrisian shepherd, here come feed thy flock,
And read thy hyacinth amidst our groans;
Plain, Echo, thy Narcissus from our rocks.

"Lost have our meads their beauty, hills their gems, Our brooks their crystal, groves their pleasant shade: The fairest flow'r of all our anadems

Death cropped hath; the Lesbia chaste is dead!" Thus sigh'd the Tyne, then shrunk beneath his urn; And meads, brooks, rivers, hills, about did mourn.

THE flow'r of virgins, in her prime of years,
By ruthless destinies is ta'en away,
And rap'd from Earth, poor Earth! before this day
Which ne'er was rightly nam'd a vale of tears.
Beauty to Heaven is fled, sweet modesty
No more appears; she whose harinonious sounds
Did ravish sense, and charm mind's deepest wounds,
Embalm'd with many a tear now low doth lie!
Fair hopes now vanish'd are. She would have grac'd
A prince's marriage-bed! but, lo! in Heaven
Blest paramours to her were to be given!
She liv'd an angel, now is with them plac'd.

Virtue is but a name abstractly trimm'd,
Interpreting what she was in effect;

A shadow from her frame which did reflect,
A portrait by her excellences limm'd.


Thou whom free-will or chance hath hither brought, And read'st, here lies a branch of Maitland's stem, And Seyton's offspring; know that either name Designs all worth yet reach'd by human thought.

Tombs elsewhere use life to their guests to give, These ashes can frail monuments make live.


LIKE to the garden's eye, the flow'r of flow'rs, With purple pomp that dazzle doth the sight; Or, as among the lesser gems of night, The usher of the planet of the hours; Sweet maid, thou shinedst on this world of ours, Of all perfections having trac'd the height; Thine outward frame was fair, fair inward pow'rs, A sapphire lanthorn, and an incense light. Hence the enamour'd Heaven, as too, too good On Earth's all-thorny soil long to abide, Where from thy Sun no cloud thee now can hide. Transplanted to their fields so rare a bud, Earth moan'd her loss, and wish'd she had the grace Not to have known, or known thee longer space.

HARD laws of mortal life!

To which made thralls we come without consent, Like tapers, lighted to be early spent,

Our griefs are always rife,

When joys but halting march, and swiftly fly,
Like shadows in the eye:

The shadow doth not yield unto the Sun,
But joys and life do waste c'en 'when begun.

WITHIN the closure of this narrow grave
Lie all those graces a good wife could have:
But on this marble they shall not be read,
For then the living envy would the dead.

THE daughter of a king of princely parts,
In beauty eminent, in virtues chief;
Loadstar of love, and loadstone of all hearts,
Her friends' and husband's only joy, now grief;
Is here pent up within a marble frame,
Whose parallel no times, no climates claim.

VERSES frail records are to keep a name, Or raise from dust men to a life of fame; The sport and spoil of ignorance; but far More frail the frames of touch and marble are, Which envy, avarice, time, ere long confound, Or misdevotion equals with the ground. Virtue alone doth last, frees man from death; Stands grav'n in angels' diamantine rolls, And, though despis'd, and scorned here beneath, Thou wast fair virtue's temple, they did dwell, And blazed in the courts above the poles. And live ador'd in thee; nought did excel, But what thou either didst possess or love, The Graces' darling, and the maids of Jove;

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