And that as any are struck, her breath creates
New in their stead, out of the candidates!
What though with tribade lust she force a muse,
And in an epicone fury can write news
Equal with that which for the best news goes,
As airy, light, and as like wit as those!

What though she talk, and can at once with them
Make state, religion, bawdry, all a theme;
And as lip-thirsty, in each word's expense,
Doth labour with the phrase more than the sense!
What though she ride two mile on holydays
To church, as others do to feasts and plays,
To shew their tires, to view, and to be view'd!
What though she be with velvet gowns endued,
And spangled petticoats brought forth to th' eye,
As new rewards of her old secrecy!

What though she hath won on trust, as many do,
And that her truster fears her! must I too?
I never stood for any place: my wit

Thinks itself nought, though she should value it.
I am no statesman, and much less divine;
For bawd'ry, 'tis her language, and not mine.
Farthest I am from the idolatry

To stuffs and laces; those my man can buy.
And trust her I would least, that hath forswore
In contract twice; what can she perjure more?
Indeed her dressing some man might delight,
Her face there's none can like by candle-light:
Not he, that should the body have, for case
To his poor instrument, now out of grace.

match with the Infanta of Spain was in agitation, and the prince was at the Spanish court. WHAL.

This cellar was built by Inigo Jones. The circumstance is worth mentioning, as it serves to corroborate what has been more than once asserted, that till the period of the appearance of Chloridia, no breach of friendship had taken place between him and our author.

Shall I advise thee, Pucelle ? steal away

From court, while yet thy fame hath some small day;
The wits will leave you if they once perceive
You cling to lords; and lords, if them you leave
For sermoneers: of which now one, now other,
They say you weekly invite with fits o' th' mother,
And practise for a miracle; take heed,

This age will lend no faith to Darrel's deed;"
Or if it would, the court is the worst place,
Both for the mothers, and the babes of grace;
For there the wicked in the chair of scorn,
Will call❜t a bastard, when a prophet's born.

LXVIII.

AN EPIGRAM

**

TO THE HONOURED COUNTESS OF *.

HE wisdom, madam, of your private life, Wherewith this while you live a widow'd wife,

And the right ways you take unto the right, To conquer rumour, and triumph on spite ;

This age will lend no faith to Darrel's deed.] Many impostures of possession by evil spirits were practised about this time by Roman Catholics to delude and make converts of the vulgar. The boy of Bilson is a famous instance. Several others, amongst whom is this of Darrel, are mentioned in the Devil is an Ass. Darrel was the author of a book printed in 4to. 1600, intituled, A true narration of the strange and grievous vexation by the devil, of seven persons in Lancashire, and William Sommers of Nottingham: as perhaps he was equally concerned in carrying on the imposture. This book was answered by Dr. Harsnet, afterwards archbishop of York, in a piece intituled, A discovery of the fraudulent practices of John Darrel minister. WHAL.

See the Devil is an Ass, for a fuller account of these impostures. The last couplet of this poem has a singular bearing on the juggle of Joanna Southcote.

Not only shunning by your act to do
Aught that is ill, but the suspicion too,
Is of so brave example, as he were

No friend to virtue, could be silent here;
The rather when the vices of the time

Are grown so fruitful, and false pleasures climb,
By all oblique degrees, that killing height

From whence they fall, cast down with their own weight.

And though all praise bring nothing to your name,
Who (herein studying conscience, and not fame)
Are in yourself rewarded; yet 'twill be

A cheerful work to all good eyes, to see
Among the daily ruins that fall foul
Of state, of fame, of body, and of soul,
So great a virtue stand upright to view,
As makes Penelope's old fable true,

Whilst your Ulysses hath ta'en leave to go.
Countries and climes, manners and men to know,
Only your time you better entertain,

no company

Than the great Homer's wit for her could feign;
For you admit
but good,
And when you want those friends, or near in blood,
Or your allies, you make your books your friends,
And study them unto the noblest ends,
Searching for knowledge, and to keep your mind
The same it was inspired, rich and refined.

These graces, when the rest of ladies view,
Not boasted in your life, but practis'd true,
As they are hard for them to make their own,
So are they profitable to be known:
For when they find so many meet in one,
It will be shame for them, if they have none."

9 This is an excellent little poem. There seems to have been no occasion for suppressing the lady's name. It would not be difficult to suggest a person whom the lines would fit; but the safer way, perhaps, is to follow the poet's executors.

LXIX.

ON LORD BACON'S BIRTH-DAY.

AIL, happy Genius of this ancient pile! How comes it all things so about thee smile?1 The fire, the wine, the men! and in the midst Thou stand'st as if some mystery thou didst! Pardon, I read it in thy face, the day For whose returns, and many, all these pray;

1 Hail, happy genius of this ancient pile!

How comes it all things so about thee smile?] When lord Bacon was high chancellor of England, he procured from the king Yorkhouse for the place of his residence, for which he seems to have had an affection, as being the place of his birth, and where his father had lived all the time he possessed the high office of lord keeper of the great seal. Here, in the beginning of the year 1620, he kept his birth-day with great splendor and magnificence, which gave occasion to the compliment expressed in the short poem above. The verse indeed, like most of Jonson's, is somewhat harsh, but there is much good sense, and a vein of poetry to recommend it to our notice. The reader will observe the poem implies a very beautiful fiction; the poet starting, as it were, on his entering York-house, at the sight of the Genius of the place performing some mystery, which he discovers from the gaiety of his look, and takes occasion from thence to form the congratulatory compliment. WHAL.

Nothing is more remarkable in Jonson's character than the steadiness of his friendship. It is for this reason (for I can discover no other,) that Steevens and Malone insist particularly on the fickleness of his attachments! When Jonson wrote this poem, lord Bacon was in the full tide of prosperity; the year after, misfortune overtook him; and he continued in poverty, neglect, and disgrace till his death, which took place in 1627. Yet the poet did not change his language; nor allow himself to be checked by the unpopularity of the Ex-chancellor's name, or the dread of displeasing his sovereign and patron, from bearing that generous testimony to his talents and virtues which is inserted in his Discoveries, and which concludes with these words. "My conceit of lord Verulam's person was never increased by his place or honour: but I have, and do reverence him for the greatness that was only proper to himself, in that he seemed to me ever by his work one of

And so do I. This is the sixtieth year,
Since Bacon, and thy lord was born, and here;
Son to the grave wise Keeper of the Seal,
Fame and foundation of the English weal.
What then his father was, that since is he,
Now with a title more to the degree;
England's high Chancellor : the destin'd heir,
In his soft cradle, to his father's chair:
Whose even thread the fates spin round and full,
Out of their choicest and their whitest wool.
'Tis a brave cause of joy, let it be known,
For 'twere a narrow gladness, kept thine own.
Give me a deep-crown'd bowl, that I may sing,
In raising him, the wisdom of my king.

LXX.

THE POET TO THE PAINTER."

AN ANSWER.

HY, though I seem of a prodigious waist,
I am not so voluminous and vast,

But there are lines, wherewith I might be'
embrac'd.

'Tis true, as my womb swells, so my back stoops, And the whole lump grows round, deform'd, and droops;

But yet the Tun at Heidelberg had hoops.

the greatest men, and most worthy of admiration, that had been in many ages. In his adversity I ever prayed that God would give him strength, for greatness he could not want. Neither could I condole, in a word or syllable for him; as knowing no accident could do harm to virtue; but rather help to make it manifest.” This, with the commentators' leave, is a very pretty specimen of "old Ben's flattery of kings," and "hatred of all merit but his own!"

2 The Poet to the Painter.] This is an "answer," as Jonson