THE HAG.

THE hag is astride,
This night for to ride,
The devill and shee together;
Through thick and through thin,
Now out, and then in,
Though ne'r so foule be the weather.

A thorn or a burr

She takes for a spurre;

With a lash of a bramble she rides now, Through brakes and through bryars, O're ditches and mires,

She followes the spirit that guides now.

No beast, for his food,

Dares now range the wood,
But husht in his laire he lies lurking;
While mischeifs, by these,

On land and on seas,

At noone of night are a working,

The storme will arise,

And trouble the skies,

This night; and, more for the wonder,
The ghost from the tomb

Affrighted shall come,

Cal'd out by the clap of the thunder.

UPON AN OLD MAN, A RESIDENCIARIE.
TREAD, sirs, as lightly as ye can
Upon the grave of this old man.

Twice fortie, bating but one year,
And thrice three weeks, he lived here;
Whom gentle fate translated hence
To a more happy residence.

Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,
Which from his ghost a promise is,
If here ye will some few teares shed,
He'l never haunt ye now he's dead.

UPON TEARES.

TEARES, though th'are here below the sinner's brine, Above they are the angels spiced wine.

PHYSITIANS.

PHYSITIANS fight not against men, but these
Combate for men, by conquering the disease.

THE PRIMITIE TO PARENTS.

OUR household gods our parents be,
And manners good require, that we
The first fruits give to them, who gave
Us hands to get what here we have.

UPON COB. EPIG.

COB clouts his shooes, and as the story tells,
His thumb-nailes par'd afford him sperrables.

UPON LUCIE. EPIG.

SOUND teeth has Lucie, pure as pearl, and small, With mellow lips, and luscious therewithall.

UPON SKOLES. EPIG.

SKOLES stinks so deadly, that his breeches loath His dampish buttocks furthermore to cloath; Cloy'd they are up with arse, but hope one blast Will whirle about, and blow them thence at last.

TO SILVIA.

I AM holy while I stand

Circum-crost by thy pure hand;
But when that is gone, again
I, as others, am prophane.

TO HIS CLOSET GODS.

WHEN I goe hence, ye closet gods, I feare
Never againe to have ingression here;
Where I have had, what ever things co'd be
Pleasant and precious to my muse and me.

Besides rare sweets, I had a book which none
Co'd reade the intext but my selfe alone;
About the cover of this book there went
A curious comely clean compartlement;
And in the midst, to grace it more, was set
A. blushing pretty-peeping rubelet ;

But now 'tis clos'd; and being shut and seal'd,
Be it, O be it never more reveal'd!

Keep here still, closet gods, 'fore whom I've set

Oblations oft of sweetest marmelet.

ト

A BACCHANALIAN VERSE.

FILL me a mighty bowle

Up to the brim;

That I may drink

Unto my Johnson's soule.

Crown it agen, agen;

And thrice repeat

That happy heat,

To drink to thee, my Ben.

Well I can quaffe, I see,

To th' number five,
Or nine, but thrive

In frenzie ne'r like thee.

LONG LOOKT FOR COMES AT LAST.

THOUGH long it be, yeeres may repay the debt; None loseth that which he in time may get.

TO YOUTH.

DRINK wine, and live here blithefull while ye may; The morrowe's life too late is; live to-day.

NEVER TOO LATE TO DYE.

No man comes late unto that place, from whence Never man yet had a regredience.

A HYMNE TO THE MUSES.

O, you the virgins nine,

That doe our soules encline

To noble discipline,

Nod to this vow of mine:
Come then, and now enspire
My violl and my lyre
With your eternall fire,
And make me one entire
Composer in your quire:
Then I'le your altars strew
With roses sweet and new;
And ever live a true

Acknowledger of you.