THE DEDICATION OF THE KING'S NEW CELLAR TO BACCHUS.
Accessit fervor capiti, numerusque lucernis.
INCE, Bacchus, thou art father
Of wines, to thee the rather
We dedicate this Cellar,
Where now thou art made dweller,
And seal thee thy commission :
But 'tis with a condition,
That thou remain here taster
Of all to the great master;
And look unto their faces,
Their qualities and races,
That both their odour take him,
And relish merry make him.
For, Bacchus, thou art freër
Of cares, and overseër
Of feast and merry meeting,
And still begin'st the greeting:
See then thou dost attend him,
Lyæus, and defend him,
By all the arts of gladness,
From any thought like sadness.
So may'st thou still be younger
Than Phoebus, and much stronger,
To give mankind their eases,
And cure the world's diseases!
So may the Muses follow
Thee still, and leave Apollo,
And think thy stream more quicker
Than Hippocrene's liquor:
And thou make many a poet,
Before his brain do know it!
So may there never quarrel
Have issue from the barrel,
But Venus and the Graces
Pursue thee in all places,
And not a song be other
Than Cupid and his mother!
That when king James above here
Shall feast it, thou may'st love there
The causes and the guests too,
And have thy tales and jests too,
Thy circuits and thy rounds free,
As shall the feast's fair grounds be.
Be it he holds communion
In great St. George's union;
Or gratulates the passage
Of some well wrought embassage,
Whereby he may knit sure up
The wished peace of Europe:
Or else a health advances,
To put his court in dances,
And set us all on skipping,
When with his royal shipping,
The narrow seas are shady,
And Charles brings home the lady.'
AN EPIGRAM ON THE COURT PUCELLE.
OES the Court Pucelle then so censure me,
And thinks I dare not her? let the world
What though her chamber be the very pit, Where fight the prime cocks of the game, for wit;
1 And Charles brings home the lady.] This was written when the
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;8
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.
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;
8 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,
Than the great Homer's wit for her could feign;
For you admit no company 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.
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