The Cloud, and shew the Vniverse:
But at such distance as the eye,
May rather it adore than spie:
The Heavens design'd, draw next a Spring,
Withall that youth or it may bring:
Foure Rivers branching forth like Seas
And Paradise confinde in these.
Last draw the circle of this Globe,
And let there be a starry Robe,
Of Constillations 'bout her hurl'd,
And thou hast painted beauties world.
But Painter see you doe not sell
A coppy of this Peece, nor tell
Whose tis: But if it favour finde,
Next sitting we will draw her minde. B. I.
Painter y'are come, but may be gone,
Now I have better thought thereon,
This worke I can performe alone,
And give you reasons more than one.
Not that your Art I doe refuse,
But here I may no colours use,
Besides your hand will never hit
To draw the thing that cannot fit.
You could make shift to paint an eye,

An Eagle towring in the skie,
A Sunne, a Sea, a Sandlesse pit,
And these are like a minde, not it.
No, to expresse this minde to sence,
Would aske a heavens intelligence,
Since that nothing can report that flame,
But whats of kinne to whence it came:
Sweete mind, then speake your selfe, and say
As you goe on, by what brave way,
Our sence you doe with knowledge fill,
And yet remaine our wonder still.
I call you Muse: now make it true,
Hence forth may every line be you,
That all may say that see the frame,
This is no Picture but the same:
A minde so pure, so perfect fine,
As tis not radiant, but divine,
And so disdaining any tire,
Tis got where it can trie the fire.
There (high exalted in the Spheare,
As it another Nature were)
It moveth all, and makes a flight,
As circular as infinite,
Whose Notions when it would expresse
In speech, it is with that excesse,
Of grace and musicke to the eare,
As what it spake it planted there.
The voice so sweete, the words so faire,
As some soft chime had strok'd the Ayre,
And though the sound were parted thence,
Still left an Eccho in the sence,
But that a minde so rapt so high,

So swift, so pure should yet apply
It selfe to us, and come so nigh
Earths grossenesse, there's the how, and why?
Is it because it sees us dull
And stucke in clay here? it would pull
Vs forth by some Cœlestiall flight,
Vp to her owne sublimed height?
Or hath shee here upon the ground,
Some Paradise or Pallace found
In all the bounds of Beauty fit
For her t'inhabit? there is it,
Thrice happie house that hast receite,
For this so softly forme, so straite,
So polish'd, perfect, and so even,
As it slid moulded out of heaven.
Not swelling like the Ocean proud,
But stooping gently as a Cloud,
As smooth as Oyle powr'd forth, and calme,
As showers, and sweete as droppes of Balme,
Smooth, soft, and sweete, and all a flood,
Where it may runne to any good,
And where it stayes, it there becomes,
A nest of of odours, spice, and gummes.
In action winged as the winde,
In rest like spirits left behind,
Vpon a banke or field of flowers,
Begotten by the winde and showers.
In the faire mantion let it rest,
Yet know with what thou art possest,
Thou entertaining in thy breast,
But such a minde mak'st God a Guest. B. I.

The Sunne which doth the greatest comfort bring,
To absent friends, because the selfe same thing,
They know they see, how ever absent is,
Here our best Hay-maker, forgive me this;
It is our Country stile in this warme shine,
I lie and dreame of your full meremayd wine!
Oh we have water mixt with Clarret Lees,
Drinke apt to bring in dryer heresies,
Then beere, good onely for a Sonnet straine,
With fustion Metaphors to stuffe the braine;
So mixt, that given to the thirstiest one,
'Twill not prove Almes unlesse he have the stone:
Tis sold by Puritans, mixt with intent,
To make it serve for either Sacrament,
I thinke with one draught mans intention fades,
Two Cups had quite spoil'd Homers Illiads.
Tis liquor that will finde out Sutcliffs wit,
Lie where it will, and make him write worse yet?
Fill'd with such moisture in a grievous squalme,
Did Robert Wisedome write his singing Psalmes;
And so must I doe this, and yet I thinke,
It is a potion sent us downe to drinke,
By speciall providence, keepes us from fights,
Makes us not laugh, when we make legges to Knights:
Tis that which keepes our minds fit for our States,
A medicine to obey our Magistrates.
For we doe live more free than you, no hate,
No envie of anothers happy state

Moves us! we are equall every whit
Of land that God gives men, here is their wit,
If we consider fully for our best,
And gravest man will with his maine house jest
Scarce please you! we want subtilty to doe
The Cittie trickes, lie, hate, aud flatter too:
Here are none that can beare a painted show,
Strike when you winke, and then lament the blow,
Who like Mills set the right way to grinde,
Can make there gaines alike with every winde:
Onely some fellow with the subtil'st pate,
Among'st us may perchance equivocate,
At selling of a horse, and thats the most,
Me thinkes the little wit I had is lost
Since I saw you, for wit is like a rest,
Held up at Tinnis, which men doe the best
With the best Gamesters, what things have wee seene,
Done at the Meeremaid, here words that have beene
So nimble, and so full of suttle flame,
As if that every one from whence they came,
Had ment to put his whole wit in a jest,
And had resolv'd to live a foole the rest,
Of his dull life, then when there has beene throwne,
Wit able enongh to justifie the Towne,
For three dayes past, wit that might warrant be,
For the whole Citie to talke foolishlie,
Till that were cancil'd, and when we were gone,
We left an Aire behinde us which alone,
Was able to make the three next companies,
Right witty, though downe right Cocknies:
When I consider this, and see that row,
The Country Gentlemen begin to allow

My wit for dry bobs, then I needs must cry,
I see my dayes of Ballating growes nigh.
I can already riddle, and can sing
Catches, sell bargaines, and I feare shall bring
My selfe to speake the hardest words I finde,
Over as oft as any with one winde
That takes no medicines, but one thought of thee,
Makes me remember all these things to be
The wit of our young men, fellowes that show,
No part of good, yet utter all they know,
Who like Trees and the Guard have growing soules,
Onely strong destiny which all controules,
I hope hath left a better Fate in store,
For me thy friend, then to live evermore
Banish'd unto this; home 'twill once againe,
Bring me to thee, who will make smooth and plaine
The way of Knowledge for me, and then I,
Who have no good in me, but simplicity;
Know that it will my greatest comfort be,
To acknowledge all the rest to come from thee. F. B.
Come then, and like two Doves of silver wings,
Let our soules fly to th'shades, where ever springs,
Sit smiling on the bankes, where Balme and Oyle,
Roses and Cassia crowne the untill'd soile:

Where no disease raignes, or infection comes,
To blast the Ayre, but Amber-greece and gummes:
This, that, and every thicket doth transpire,
More sweete than Spicknard through the hallow fire
Where every tree a fruitfull issue beares,
Of mellow Apples, ripened Plumbs and Peares,
And all the shrubs with sparkling spangles shew,
Like morning Sunshine tinselling the dew:
Here in greene medowes sits eternall May,
Purfling the margents, while perpetuall day,
So double guildes the Ayre, as that no night,
Can ever rust th'ennamell of the light:
Here handsome striplings, naked younglings run,
Their Goales for Virgin kisses, which when done,
Then unto dancing forth the learned Round,
So soone as each his dangling locks hath crown'd,
With Rosie Chaplets, Lillies, Pansies red,
Soft Saffron Circles to perfume the head.
And here weele sit on Primrose banks and see,
Loves Chorus led by Cupid, and weele be,
Two loving followers to the grove,
Where Poets sing the stories of their Love.
  There shalt thou here divine Museus sing,
Of Hero and Leander, then Ile bring
Thee to the stand where honour'd Homer reades,
His Odisses, and his heigh Illiades,
Vnto the Prince of Shades, whom once his Pen,
Entituled the Greecian Prince of men.
To Lynus, then to Pinder, thereupon
Ile bring thee (Hearicke) to Anacreon,
Quaffing his full crown'd Cups of burning wine,
And in his Raptures, speaking lines of thine,

Like to his subject, and as his franticke
Look es renders him, true Baccanahan-like,
Besmeer'd with grapes, welcome he will thee thether,
Where both may laugh, both drinke, both rage together,
  Then stately Virgil, witty Ovid by,
Whom faire Corinna stands, and doth comply
With Ivory wrists, his Laureat head, and steepes,
His eyes in dew of kisses while he sleepes.
Then soft Catullus, sharpe fang'd Martiall,
And towring Lncan, Horace, Iuvinall;
And snakie Perseus; these and those whom rage,
(Dropt from the Iarre of heaven) fill'd to enrage
All times unto their frensies, thou shalt there
Behold them in an Amphitheater.
Amongst which Synod crown'd with sacred bayes,
And flattering joy weele have to recite their playes.
Shakespeare and Beamond, Swannes to whom the Spheares
Listen, while they call backe the former yeare.
To teach the truth of Scenes, and more for thee,
There yet remaines brave soule than thou canst see
By glimmering of a fancie: doe but come,
And there Ile shew thee that illustrous roome,
In which thy father Iohnson shall be plac'd,
As in a Globe of radiant fire, and grac'd,
To be of that high Hyrarchy, where none
But brave soules take illumination:
Immediatly from heaven, but harke the Cocke,
(The Bell-man of the night) proclaimes the Clocke,
Of late strucke one, and now I feele the prime
Of day breake through the pregnant East, tis time
I vanish: more I had to say,
But night determines here, away.

I'th nonnage of a Winters day,
Lavinia glorious as May,
To give the morne an earlier birth,
Paced a mile of crusted earth,
When each place by which she came,
From her veines conceived flame.
The amorous plant began to strive,
Which should first be sinsitive,
Every hoary headed twigge,
Drop'd his Snowy Periwigge,
And each bough his Icy beard,
On either side his walkes was heard;
Whispers of decreped wood,
Calling to their rootes for blood:
The gentle Soyle did mildely greete,
The welcome kisses of her feete,
And to retaine such a Treasure,
Like waxe dissolving tooke her measure.
Lavinia stood amaz'd to see,
Things of yearely certaintie:
Thus to rebell against their Season,
And though a stranger to the Reason,
Backe retiring quench'd their heate,
And Winter tooke his former Seate.

I sent a Sigh unto my Mistresse Eare,
Which went her way and ne're came there,
I hasted after least some other faire,
Should mildly entertaine this travelling Ayre,
Each flowry garden I did search for feare,
It might mistake a Lilly for her Eare.
And having there tooke lodging, still might dwell,
Hous'd in the Concave of Christall Bell:
I sought amongst the Birds, thinking it might,
Resort for company the wing'd flight,
And so play Truant, but alas each note,
They merrily did warble in the throate;
Told me it was but the mirthy signe,
If one were there, I knew twas none of thine?
At last one frosty morning I did spie,
The subtill wanderer in the skie,
At sight of me it trembled, and for feare,
I bare it to my Saint, and pray'd her take,
This new borne off-spring for the Masters sake?
Which she perceiving granted me her lippe,
And so preferr'd it to her softer tippe.
And now this pendant burthen now doth heare,
Each thing thats whispr'd in her Eare.
I grieve, cause I have lost a teare, and she
With sorrow is more happier farre than me,
Yet there is remedy left to ease me,
Give me but one of hers, and so sheele please me.

Come you swarmes of thoughts, and bring,
    to this crazie Hive of mine,
Not your hony, but your sting,
  naked I my heart resigne,
    To your Lanclets therefore sticke,
    Every part and parsell thicke.
From the garden of her face,
  where these Bees were wont to finde,
Amber sweets in every place,
  scattered by a chiding winde.
    Hie you home, for now you are,
    Marchants turn'd to men of warre.
Some brought me incense from her breath,
  some the Velvet of her brow
Some a smile, some underneath
  tincture of lippe curroll, now
    Every one that thence doth flie,
    Brings a needle from her eye.
Register the breach of peace,
  for the time is not expir'd,
'Twas for life, but if it cease,
  (amity being still required)
    As yon write it on my heart,
    Print it with your little dart.
Leave not so but straight torment,
  Hope, whose chiefe adventures close,

And for more, though now content,
  to draw backwards and depose,
    And from all dominion fling,
    As a Drone, though once your King.
Let him bare his vast designes,
  to desires as vast as they,
High-roofe thoughts and spacious minds,
  are not for Cottages of clay,
    Monarchies will fit them best,
    Petty States affect but rest.
Keepe you in, for if you stray,
  from your holds, no other feares,
Neede afflict you night or day,
  but by scalding water teares,
    For she vowes in Loves defence,
    Love no more shall fire you hence,
All the doubt is as you grow
  Waspes, because your bagges are drie,
So as you your stings forgoe,
  you will turne to arrant Flies,
    And when Summer sets you free,
    Trouble her as well as me.
Yet beware, the baites are laid.
  nets are spread, the flames are high,
You had neede to be afraid,
  for there's lightning in her eye,
    Every hair's a sleeve of silke,
    And each breast a wave of milke.
Therefore circumspectly light,
  on her hand, for Suger growes
All the Countrey over quite,
Feed and say, but in the close,

    To the Waspe, the Bee, the Flie,
    All's provided for, but I. I. G.
Aske me why I send you here,
This firstling of the Winter yeere,
Aske me why I send to you,
This Primrose, all bepearl'd with dew;
I straight will whisper in your eares,
The sweets of Love, are wash'd with teares.
Aske me why this flower doth show,
So yellow, greene, and sickly too,
Aske me why the stalke is weake,
And bending yet it doth not breake.
I must tell you these discover,
What doubts and feares are in a Lover.
Goe thou gentle whispering winde,
Beare this Sigh, and if thou finde,

Where my cruell faire doth rest,
Cast it in her Snowy breast,
That inflam'd by my desire,
It may set her heart on fire.
Taste her lippe, and then confesse,
If Arabia doe possesse;
Or that hony Hybla Hill,
Sweets like those which thence distill:
Those sweete kisses thou shalt gaine,
Shall reward thee for thy paine.
Boldly light upon her lippe,
There sucke odours, and thence skippe,
To her bosome, lastly fall
Downe and wander over all.
Range about those Ivory hills,
From whose every part distills,
Amber dew these spices grow,
There pure streames of Nectar flow:
There perfume thy selfe and bring,
All those sweets upon thy wing:
As thou return'st change by thy power,
Every weede into a flower.
Turne every Thistle to a Vine,
And make the Bramble Eglantine:
For so rich a booty made,
Doe but this and I am paide.
Thou canst with thy powerfull blast,
Heate apace and coole as fast:
Thou canst kindle hidden flame,
And againe destroy the same;
Then for pitty either stirre
Vp the flames of love in her,

That alike both flames may shine,
Or else quite extinguish thine.
Stay lusty blood, where canst thou seeke,
So blest a place? as in her cheeke?
How canst thou from that place retire,
Where beauty doth command desire?
But if thou canst not stay, then flow
Downe to her panting pappes below,
Flow like a deluge from her Breast
Where Venus Swans hath built their nest;
And so take glory to disdaine,
With Azure blew each swelling veine,
Then run boyling through each part,
Till thou hast warm'd her frozen heart;
If from love it would retire,
Martyr it with gentle fire:
And having search'd each secret place,
Fly thou backe into her face;
Where live blest in changing those,
White Lylly, to a Rose.

When Orpheus sweetly did complaine,
Vpon the Lute with heavie straine,
How his Eurydices was slaine;
  The trees to heare
  Obtaine an eare,
  And after left it off againe,
At every stroake and every stay,
The boughes kept time, and nodding lay,
And listned, bended, all one way,
  The Aspin Tree,
  As well as he,
  Began to shake and learne to play.
If wood could speake, a tree might heare,
If wood could sound true griefe to th'eare,
A tree might droppe an Amber teare:
  If wood so well,
  Could ring a knell,
The Cypresse might condole the Beere,
The standing Nobles of the Grove,
Hearing dead wood to speake and move,
The fatall Axe began to love,
  Thy envied death,
  That gave such breath,
As men alive doe Saints above.

Am I dispis'd because you say,
And I beleeve that I am gray?
Know Lady you have but your day,
  And night will come when men will sweare,
  Time hath spilt Snow on your haire?
Then when in your glasse you seeke,
But finde no Rose buds in your cheeke,
No nor the bed to give thee shew,
Where such a rare Cornation grew,
And such a smiling Tulippe too;
  O then too late in close your Chamber keeping,
    It will be told
    That you are old.
By those true teares y'are weeping.
Svre 'twas the Spring went by, for th'earth did waste,
Her long hid sweets at her approach, and plac'd,
Quicke pregnant flowers upon the verdant grasse,
To breath new freshnesse where she will'd to passe.
The tender blade vail'd as she trod and kist,

The foote that covered it, but when it mist,
Her gentle pressure (like a wife whose bed
Is scorn'd) it droopt, and since hung downe its head:
Till by a strength Love gave to entertaine,
Her wish'd returne it rear'd it selfe againe:
And now stands tall in pride; but had it seene
Her face (that court of beauty where the Queene
Of Love is alwayes resident) it would
When the Sunne dallies with it, weepe in cold
And pearled dew at noone, greev'd that her face
Might not as did her feete daigne equall grace
In moving neerer to it: what my happy eyes
Saw there (though from that houre their faculties
Are ever forfeit) this bright Vision yet,
Must needs ingage me in a further debt
To her, then there want quits, since what I see,
In being lesse faire, must be a losse to me.
Farewell (faire Saint) may not the Seas or winde,
Swell like the hearts and eyes you leave behinde,
But calme and gentle like the lookes you beare,
Smile in your face, and whisper in your eare.
Let no bold billow offer to arise,
That it may neerer looke upon your eyes,

Least winde and wave inamour'd on your forme,
Doe throng and croud themselves into a storme,
But if it be your fate vaste Sea's to Love,
Of my becalm'd heart, learne how to move.
Move then but in a gentle Lovers pace,
No wrinckles nor no sorrowes in your face:
And you fierce winds, see that you tell your tale
In such a breath as may but fill her Saile.
So whilst you court her, each your severall way,
You shall her safely to her Port convay,
And lose her in a noble way of wooing,
Whilst both contribute to your owne undoing.
Aske me no more where Iove bestowes,
When Iune is past, the fading Rose,
For in your beauties Orient deepe,
These flowers as in them Causes sleepe.
Aske me no more whether doe stray,
The golden Atomes of the day,
For in pure love heaven did prepare,
Those powders to enrich your haire.
Aske me no more whether doth haste,
The Nightingale when May is past,
For in your sweete dividing throate,
She winters and keepes warme her note.
Aske me no more where those starres light,
That downwards fall in dead of night,
For in your eyes they sit, and there,
Fixed become, as in their Spheare.

Aske me no more if East and West,
The Phœnixe builds her spiced nest,
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant bosome dies. FINIS.

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