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Mr. John Milton,


ENGLISH and LATIN, Compos'd at feveral times.

Printed by his true Copies.

The SONGS were fet in Mufick by

Mr. HENRY LAWES Gentleman of the KINGS Chappel, and one of His MAIESTIES Private Mufick.

Baccare frontem

Cingite, ne vati noceat mala lingua futuro,
Virgil, Eclog. 7.

Printed and publifh'd according to



Printed by Ruth Raworth for Humphrey Moseley, and are to be fold at the figne of the Princes Arms in S. Pauls Church-yard. 1645.


Several Occasions.



Both ENGLISH and LATIN,&c. Compofed at feveral times.

With a fmall Tractate of EDUCATION



Printed for Tho. Dring at the Blew Anchor next Mitre Court over against Fetter Lane in Fleet-freet. 1673.



It is not any private respect of gain, Gentle Reader, for the slightest Pamphlet is now adayes more vendible then the Works of learnedest men; but it is the love I have to our own Language that hath made me diligent to collect, and set forth such Peeces both in Prose and Vers as may renew the wonted honour and esteem of our English tongue and it's the worth of these both English and Latin Poems, not the flourish of any prefixed encomions that can invite thee to buy them, though these are not without the highest Commendations and Applause of the learnedst Academicks, both domestick and forrein: And amongst those of our own Countrey, the unparallel'd attestation of that renowned Provost of Eaton, Sir Henry Wootton: I know not thy palat how it relishes such dainties, nor how harmonious thy soul is; perhaps more trivial Airs may please thee better. But howsoever thy opinion is spent upon these, that incouragement I have already received from the most ingenious men in their clear and courteous entertainment of Mr. Wallers late choice Peeces, hath once more made me adventure into the World, presenting it with these ever-green, and not to be blasted Laurels. The Authors more peculiar excellency in these studies, was too well known to conceal his Papers, or to keep me from attempting to sollicit them from him. Let the event guide it self which way it will, I shall deserve of the age, by bringing into the Light as true a Birth, as the Muses have brought forth since our famous Spencer wrote; whose Poems in these English ones are as rarely imitated, as sweetly excell'd. Reader, if thou art Eagle-eied to censure their worth, I am not fearful to expose them to thy exactest perusal.

Thine to command



On the Morning of CHRISTS Nativity.

Compos'd 1629.


THIS is the Month, and this the happy morn
Wherin the Son of Heav'ns eternal King,
Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born,
Our great redemption from above did bring;
For so the holy sages once did sing,

That he our deadly forfeit should release,
And with his Father work us a perpetual peace.


That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable,
And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty,

Wherwith he wont at Heav'ns high Councel-Table,
To sit the midst of Trinal Unity,

He laid aside; and here with us to be,

Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day,

And chose with us a darksom House of mortal Clay.


Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein.
Afford a present to the Infant God?

Hast thou no vers, no hymn, or solemn strein,

To welcom him to this his new abode,

Now while the Heav'n by the Suns team untrod,
Hath took no print of the approching light,

And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright?




See how from far upon the Eastern rodę
The Star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet,
O run, prevent them with thy humble ode,
And lay it lowly at his blessed feet;

Have thou the honour first, thy Lord to greet,
And joyn thy voice unto the Angel Quire,

From out his secret Altar toucht with hallow'd fire.

The Hymn.


It was the Winter wilde,

While the Heav'n-born-childe,

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in aw to him

Had doff't her gawdy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathize:

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour.

Only with speeches fair


She woo's the gentle Air

To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame,


Pollute with sinfull blame,


The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes

Should look so neer upon her foul deformities.


But he her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyd Peace,

She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear

His ready Harbinger,

With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, And waving wide her mirtle wand,

She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land.


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