But took her by force,

For better for worse,

And us'd her like a fifter.

Now when in fuch a faddle

A faint will needs be riding,
Though we dare not say
'Tis a falling away,

May there not be fome back-fliding?

No furely, quoth James Naylor, 'Twas but an infurrection

Of the carnal part,

For a quaker in heart Can never lofe perfection.

For (as our mafters teach us)
The intent being well directed,
Though the devil trepan
The Adamical man,

The fair ftands un-infected.

But, alas! a Pagan jury

Ne'er judges what 's intended;
Then fay what we can,
Brother Green's outward man

I fear will be fufpended.

And our adopted fifter

Will find no better quarter,

*The Jefuits.
F 3

But

But when him we enrol

For a Saint, Filly Foal

Shall pafs herself for a Martyr.

Rome, that fpiritual Sodom,
No longer is thy debtor,
O Colchester, now
Who's Sodom but thou,
Even according to the Letter?

A SON G.

MORPHEUS, the humble God, that dwells

In Cottages and fmoaky Cells,

Hates gilded roofs and beds of down;
And though he fears no prince's frown,
Flies from the circle of a crown.

Come, I fay, thou powerful God,
And thy leaden charming rod,
Dipt in the Lethéan lake,

O'er his wakeful temples fhake,

Left he should fleep, and never wake.

Nature (alas) why art thou fo

Obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep that is thy best repast,
Yet of death it bears a taste,

And both are the fame thing at last.

On

On Mr. JOHN FLETCHER's Works,

So fhall we joy, when all whom beafts and worms

Have turn'd to their own fubftances and forms :
Whom earth to earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire,
We fhall behold more than at firft entire ;
As now we do, to fee all thine thy own
In this my Muse's resurrection,

Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race, more wounds
Hath fuffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds;
Which firft their brains, and then their belly fed,
And from their excrements new poets bred.
But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn
Like ghosts of murder'd bodies does return
T'accufe the murderers, to right the ftage,
And undeceive the long-abused age,

Which cafts thy praife on them, to whom thy wit
Gives not more gold than they give drofs to it:
Who, not content like felons to purloin,
Add treason to it, and debase the coin.
But whither am I ftray'd I need not raise
Trophies to thee from other mens difpraise;
Nor is thy fame on leffer ruins built,
Nor need thy jufter title the foul guilt
Of eaftern kings, who, to fecure their reign,

Must have their brothers, fons, and kindred flain.
Then was wit's empire at the fatal height,
When labouring and finking with its weight,

From thence a thousand leffer poets fprung,
Like petty princes from the fall of Rome;
When Jonfon, Shakespeare, and thyself did fit,
And fway'd in the triumvirate of wit---
Yet what from Jonfon's oil and fweat did flow,
Or what more easy nature did bestow

On Shakespeare's gentler Mufe, in thee full grown
Their graces both appear, yet
fo that none
Can fay here Nature ends, and Art begins,

But mixt like th' elements, and born like twins,
So interwove, fo like, fo much the fame,

None, this mere Nature, that mere Art can name :
"Twas this the ancients meant; Nature and Skill
Are the two tops of their Parnaffus' hill.

TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAW, Upon his Tranflation of

PASTOR FID O.

SUCH is our pride, our folly, or our fate,

That few but fuch as cannot write, tranflate.

But what in them is want of art or voice,

In thee is either modefty or choice.

While this great piece, reftor'd by thee, doth ftand
Free from the blemish of an artlefs hand.

Secure of fame, thou justly doft esteem
Lefs honour to create, than to redeem.

Nor

Nor ought a genius lefs than his that writ,
Attempt tranflation; for tranfplanted wit,
All the defects of air and foil doth fhare,
And colder brains like colder climates are :
In vain they toil, fince nothing can beget
A vital spirit but a vital heat.

That fervile path thou nobly doft decline
Of tracing word by word, and line by line.
Thofe are the labour'd births of flavish brains,
Not the effect of poetry, but pains;
Cheap vulgar arts, whose narrownefs affords
No flight for thoughts, but poorly sticks at words.
A new and nobler way thou doft pursue
To make tranflations and tranflators too.

They but preserve the ashes, thou the flame,
True to his fenfe, but truer to his fame.
Fording his current, where thou find'st it low,
Let'ft in thine own to make it rife and flow;
Wifely reftoring whatsoever grace

It loft by change of times, or tongues, or place.
Nor fetter'd to his numbers and his times,
Betray'ft his mufic to unhappy rhymes.
Nor are the nerves of his compacted strength
Stretch'd and diffolv'd into unfinew'd length:
Yet, after all, (left we should think it thine)
Thy fpirit to his circle doft confine.

New names, new dreffings, and the modern caft,
Some scenes, fome perfons alter'd, and out-fac'd
The world, it were thy work; for we have known
Some thank'd and prais'd for what was less their own.

That