Please you walk out and fee the Caftle, come,
The Owner faith, it is a Scholar's home;
A Place of Strength and Health; in the fame Fort
You would conceive a Caftle and a Court;
The Orchards, Gardens, Rivers and the Air,
May with the Trenches, Rampiers, Walls compare:
It seems no Art, no Force can intercept it,
As if a Lover built, a Soldier kept it:
Up to the Tower, though it be fteep and high,
We do not climb, but walk; and tho' the Eye
Seem to be weary, yet our Feet are still
In the fame Pofture, coufned up the Hill;
And thus the Workman's Art deceives our Senfe,
Making those Rounds of Pleasure and Defence,
As we defcend, the ‡ Lord of all this Frame,
The Honourable Chancellor to us came;
Above the Hill there blew a gentle Breath;
But now we feel a fweeter Gale beneath;
The Phrafe and Welcome of this Knight did make
The Place more elegant: Each Word he spake
Was Wine and Mufick, which he did expose
To us, if all our Art could cenfure thofe :
With him there was a ↑ Prelate, by his place
Arch-deacon to the Bishop, by his Face
A greater Man, for that did counterfeit
Lord Abbot of fome Convent ftanding yet,
A corpulent Relique, marry and 'tis fin,
Some Puritan get not that Face call'd in;
Amongst lean Brethren it may scandal bring,
To look for Parity in ev'ry thing:
For us let him enjoy all that God fends,
Plenty of Flesh, of Livings, and of Friends.
Imagine us here ambling down the Street,
Circling in Flower, and making both Ends meet,
* Warwick Castle. Sir Fulke Grevile. Arch. Deacon Burton.
Where we fare well four Days, and did complain
Like Harveft-folks of Weather and of Rain;
And on the Feast of Bartholmew we try
What Revels that Saint keeps at ‡ Banbury.
I' th' Name of God Amen! First to begin,
The Altar was converted to an Inn;
We lodged in the Chappel by the Sign,
But in a Bankrupt Tavern by the Wine;
Befides, our Eorfes ufage makes us think
'Twas ftill a Church, for they in
As if 'twere congruous, that the ancient'ft lye
Close by thofe Altars in whose Faith they die:
Now you believe the Church hath great variety
Of Monuments, when Inns have such Society;
But nothing less, there's no Infcription there,
But the Church-wardens of the last past Year;.
Inftead of Saints in Windows, and in Walls,
Here Buckets hang, and there a Cobweb falls :
Would you not think they love Antiquity,
Who brush their Quire for perpetuity,
Whilft all the other Pavements and the Floor
Are fupplicant to the Surveyors Power
Of the High-ways, that he would gravell'd keep
Them, or in Winter fure they will be deep;
If not for God's, for Mafter Wheatley's fake,
Level the Walks; fuppose these Pit-falls make
Him sprain a Lecture, or misplace a Joint
In his long Prayer, or in his feventeenth Point,
Think you the Daws and Stares can set him right?
Surely this Sin upon your Heads will light;
And fay, Beloved, what unchriftian Charm
Is this, you have not left a Leg or Arm
Of an Apostle? Think you if those were whole,
They would arife at laft t' affume a Soul?
Banbury, at the Sign of the Altar-stone.
Which ferve for Troughs in the Back-fide.
If not, 'tis plain all the Idolatry
Lyes in your Folly, not the Imag'ry.
'Tis well the Pinacles are faln in twain,
For now the Devil, should he tempt again,
Hath no advantage of a place fo high:
Fools! he can dash you from your Gallery,
Where all your Medly meets, and do compare
Not what you learn, but who was longeft there;
The Puritan, the Anabaptift, Brownist,
Like a Grand Sallad; Tinkers, What a Town is't?
The Croffes alfo like old Stumps of Trees,
Or Stools for Horfemen that have feeble Knees,
Carry no Heads above Ground: Thofe which tell
That Chrift hath ne'er descended into Hell,
But to the Grave, his Picture buried have
In a far deeper Dungeon than a Grave;
That is, defcended to endure what Pains
The Devil can think, or fuch Difciples Brains.
No more my Grief, in fuch prophane Abuses,
Good Whips make better Verfes than the Mufcs:
Away, and look not back; away, while yet
The Church is ftanding, while the benefit
Offeeing it remains, fo long you shall
Have that rackt down, and call'd Apocryphal;
And in fome Barn hear cited many an Author,
Kate Stubs, Anne Afcue, or the Lady's Daughter,
Which shall be urg'd for Fathers: Stop Diídain,
When Oxford once appears, Satan refrain.
Neighbours, how hath our Anger thus out-gon's?
Is not Saint Giles's this, and that Saint John's?
We are return'd, but juft with fo much Ore,
As Rawleigh from his Voyage, and no more.
Non recito cuiquam nifi amicis, idque coactus
Non ubivis, coramve quibuflibet.
Bishop CORBET to his Son VINCent CORBET.
HAT I fhall leave thee none can tell,
But all fhall fay I wish thee well;
I wish thee (Vin) before all Wealth,
Both bodily and ghoftly Health:
Nor too much Wealth, nor Wit come to thee,
So much of either may undo thee.
I wish thee Learning, not for fhow,
Enough for to inftru&t, and know;
Not fuch as Gentlemen require,
To prate at Table, or at Fire.
I wish thee all thy Mother's Graces,
Thy Father's Fortunes, and his Places.
I wish thee Friends, and one at Court,
Not to build on, but fuppert;
To keep thee, not in doing many
Oppreffions, but from suffering any.
I wish thee Peace in all thy Ways,
Nor lazy nor contentious Days;
And when thy Soul and Body part,
As Innocent as now thou art.
BEN. JOHNSON to BURLACE..
HY though I be of a prodigious Waste,
I am not fo voluminous and vaft
But there are Lines wherewith I may be embrac'd.
'Tis true, as my Womb fwells, fo my Back stoops,
And the whole Lump grows round, deform'd and
But yet the Tun of Heidelberg has Hoops. [droops;
You are not tyed by any Painters Law,
To fquare my Circle, I confefs, but draw
My Superficies, that was all you faw:
Which if in compafs of no Art it came
To be defcrib'd, but by a Monogram,
With one great Blot you have drawn me as I am.
But whilst you Curious were to have it be
An Archetype for all the World to fee,
You have made it a brave Piece, but not like me.
Oh had I now the Manner, Maftery, Might,
Your Power of handling Shadow, Air, and Sprite,
How I could draw, behold, and take delight;
But you are he can paint, I can but write,
A Poet hath no more than black and white,
Nor has he flattering Colours, or false Light.
Yet when of Friendship I would draw the Face,
A letter'd Mind, and a large Heart would place
To all Pofterity, I would write Burlace.
Upon the KING'S RETURN to the City of London, when he came laft thither from Scotland, and was entertained there by the Lord Mayor.
ING and be merry, King Charles is come back,
The Scots are all quiet, each Man with his Pack
May cry now fecurely, Come fee what you lack.
Sing and be merry Boys, fing and be merry,
London's a fine Town, fo is London-Derry.
Great Preparation in London is made
To bid the King welcome, each Man gives his Aid,
With thanksgiving Cloaths themfelves they array'd
(I fhould have faid Holy-day) but I was afraid.
Sing, &c..
They stood in a Row for a Congratulation
Like a Company of Wild-geefe in the old Fashion:
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