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Disce aut Discede.
W. G. FORLORNE HOPE, SAY-
ling, and Salling forth, under the duskie
Colours of the envious universe.
March forward, Muse, thy Patronesse is great,
And if she prove as good, I feare no ill.
But spacious fields has Tares as well as wheat,
Besides the Dolphin, Sea has Crocodill.
If one Mecæne yet, under Heavens Cope
Thou findst; thart not a quite forlorne hope.
On Tricongius, who was made Consull by Ty-
berius Cæsar, only for his Drinking.
If that our Bibbers now a daies, should have
As large a Guerdon, as thou hadst of yore;
I thinke we should, of every Tankard slave,
Great Magistrats, then privat men, have more.
On conscionable Surdaster.
Thou sest, that all thy hearing thou hast lost,
Thats true; withall, I thinke, thy feeling too;
How then canst live? for this maintaineth most
Within us life, as often read we doe;
And yet thou livst tho quite without remorse,
So, many doe, to sin that nothing force,
On Lollus loftie Tombe.
What made thee build thy statue evn so hie?
Whereas thy stature low on ground did lie?
This was to grace a stupid, livelesse stone
More then thy selfe; t was well, for thou hadst none.
On Cherillus the Poet.
Pan is not dead, since Pas began to sing.
Who all excels in consorts jarring string.
To his loving, and beloved Cosen, M. J. Pralph Cler. of the
Sager, a Hill scituated in parish,
Moses, before the heavenly Canan saw,
Did first ascend the top of aNebos Mount;
Where from he might a vive description draw
Of Earthly Canan, the firsts Type in compte.
So maist thou climbe to Sagers loftie Hill,
And Canan vew as twere, a pleasant plaine;
To meditate of heavnly Canan twill
Thee instigate assured, as I faine.
Use to ascend this hill most pleasant, hie:
So, Heaven on earth thou maist see, yer thou die. 10
a Ult. Deut.
Nusquam tuta fides.
To Firmus, The Camelion.
I wonder, Firmus, why thy faith is fraile
To some? whose name approves a constancie;
Tis certs, because they be not head, and taile
Thine; both in falsehood, as in veritie.
To the Holy Well, on Maw-
We often read that Myracles haue ceast,
Which otherwise seemes by thy golden fame,
(Blazd farre and wide: almost to East and West)
Which curest all, the ulcrous, blind, and lame.
These myracles, God grant, they be not Mould
In the Popes forge; as Counterfeits of old.
To Mr. Heaven of Heaven, in the
Countie of Heref.
Thou happie seemst, two Heavens which possest,
Thy dwelling one, the other is thy name;
Strive to enjoy, (and sure thou shalt be blest)
The third, which was that aSaints, of greatest fame.
a 2. Cor. 12 4.
To the Ministers of Gods word.
This aphrase you use for your small Tithes by rate.
And for your greater too, you may use that.
On Cressas feminine flaterie.
Perfidious wretch, what made thee cracke thy faith?
Which once thou vowst for to observe and keepe:
But that is true, which the old Proverbe saith,
Beware a woman when she gins to weepe.
On aBarjesus, the Magician, and his Sectaries
Thy hatefull name agrees with thy black art;
Who urs it, barrs quite Jesus from his hart.
a Act. 13 6.
On the whore in Graine,
Helen of Greece.
One staine, we read, did staine thy sunnie face;
But thy staind life, thy corps did more disgrace.
This one spot did not more, thy sweet face marre,
Then thy lust Ilion did; in Trojan warre.
Thinke not therefore it shame to have a staine:
But count it shame, to be a whore in Graine.
To his lo. fr. M. W. Galloway, an Irish Gent. a student at
Grayes Inne, of his fortunate escape of shipwracke
The drowning waters, and the burning fire,
Are elements, sans mercy, as we say;
Whose foamers foming rage, thou didst admire,
When shipwrack thou sustaindst in aSillies Bay:
Yet mercifull was Neptunes God to thee,
Which Selde is cruell to Scholaritie.
a pro Rossillie.
Blind affections picture. To Dunce the Pesaunt.
What maks thee, Dunce, Dick Truncus to comend?
Of no Deserts a Boore, a Corridon;
Thou saist, because he is thy worships friend,
And, whome, the current of thy love runnes on.
But wherefore dost, Nick Laudus, so dispraise?
A Gentleman of fashion, and of sort.
Forsooth, thou saist, thou canst not brooke his way,
His comely carriage, or his seemely port.
See then affection, whether good, or ill:
Lauds or defames according to his will. 10
The Epitaph of Sir Will: Herbert of Swansey.
To his right Ho: brother, Sir John Herbert second
Secretary of state.
If home-bred knowledge, or yet foreigne skill,
If sundry tongues, or Physickes Princely art,
If noble carriage, eloquence at will,
Could thee have kept from Deaths pale-Ebone dart,
Thou yet hast livd, a glory to thy name,
The poore mans prop, and eke thy countries fame.
To our wise Brittish Barde, Mr W: Mathew,
Esquire; for wit, and judgement
I wote not which thy outward sense, thy eare,
Or inward els, thy braine, doth most excell;
For, as we say, the former is the chaire
Of Judgement, th other is inventions cell.
Thy braine, doth thine owne litterature invent,
Thy eare, on others labours, doth comment.
Which most excells I cannot well impart
But leave it thee, the fitst for Logicks Art.
To his lo: Cosin H. Price, of Nep-
If thou art sicke, and wouldst a vomit take;
If thou art well, and willing wouldst be sicke.
The Sea for both will thee a medcine make,
Killing the whole, the dead reviving quicke.
This brackish purge excells farre Hellobore,
For nought, besides perbraking, paist therefore.
The Papists, and Anabaptists
Through Imitation, the Anabaptists say
Their sinnes proceed, from their forefathers old:
The Papists eke their sinfull sect obey:
Because their Sires were hattcht in the same fold.
To his old friend and Schoolefellow, Mr D. Jenkins,
a worthy Barrister in the Lawes.
Our famous Ploydon we as yet Embrace,
Since thou dost live to plead grave Ploydons case
Patience is a Vertue.
To his lo: Cosin, and deere alisman,
Patience endures the Brunt of all assaults.
For frowning fortune can it nought displease;
Nor, can it grieve base feigned friendships faults,
Nor yet, being wrongd, from constancie will cease,
Therefore, a peerelesse vertue, patience is,
Whereto nothing, at no time, comes amisse.
Of the wonder, in Herefordshire; being a
Peece of ground, that movd of
Philosophers, for truth doe testifie,
Our Mother earth immovable to be;
But thy selfe motion strange Philosophie,
These Sages wise, proves liers, as we see.
If this thy motion had continud ay,
Our aAristotle we might just gainesay.
a Est Aristotelus.
To his lo: and constant friend Mr Moore
Altho athy name might thee unconstant prove;
The contrary we finde in thy firme love.
On Mysa and Mopsa, two Honest Scoulds.
Yow both togither
Farre should be rather
Birds of one feather.
Since your pure living,
Joind in one trading:
Your Mates defaming.
Semel insanivimus omnes.
To his Cosin, Mr J. P.
The Proverbe ses, that all the best of any
Hath once bin mad; that once is certs too many;
But, after once, we come to perfect wit,
Worth small dispraise, I deeme that franticke fit.
To the best Indenture drawer, Titubus, the night-
walker of Fleetstreet.
What maks thee walke so late against the law?
Kinde Mr Chach, I do Endendures Draw:
Indentures drawe, in the darke, gloomy night?
Whose Manuscript requires a brighter light.
You are mistake, we seld use light or hand:
We write ere Best, when scarse we see, or stand.
To the everliving, and never dying memory of the most
Reverend father in God, Jo: Whitgift,
late Archbishop of Canterbury.
Right reverend Prelate of our Church divine,
Strong, sollid Piller of Gods holy Arke,
Bright Beacon, which in continence didst shine,
Sole, chiefest Scholars comfortable Marke.
Thy name Whitgift, for nought was sure not hight:
For both in life, and lore thy Gifts were Whit:
On the most ho: and worthy lo: Lord Viscount
de Lisles Posie.
Quo me fata vocant.
Thy splendent Posie, well agrees with thee,
Renowned Lord, bright Sydneys shining Lampe:
For where so ere thart calld by Destenie,
Thou ready art for Court, or els for Campe.
In one, or both thy praise doth most surpasse;
Such ever, Sydneys Trophies noble, was.
To the Malevolent, and Taxing Censurer,
of his Epigrammes.
If thou of glory vaine wilt me accuse,
These worthlesse lines in promulgating out;
Beleeve it then, I will not, Mome, refuse
The lye to give thee, if a Souldier stout.
Twas friends, not Fame that these made publik then:
In Lethes lake, els drench had bene my pen.
To his friend the Printer of his booke.
Some volumes bring in Folio to thy Presse,
In Quarto some, according to their lore;
Mongst all the learned, I which am the lesse,
One in octavo bring thee, all my store.
Ile it not fould in sexto decimo,
Least, as the Tome, his count, as little, grow.
Respect the paper, though a pen worth small;
Twill sixe for one certs yeeld thee at thy stall.
On the Authors uneven period of his
Thy hopelesse name, stiles thee with no good hap,
Thy Numbers odds approves thee happy yet:
For joy therefore thy Plaudities forth clap;
Thy one and thirty, right the Game has hit.
Disce, aut Discede.