770. HIS WISH TO PRIVACY.

Give me a cell To dwell, Where no foot hath A path: There will I spend And end My wearied years In tears.

771. A GOOD HUSBAND.

A Master of a house, as I have read, Must be the first man up, and last in bed.

With the sun rising he must walk his grounds; See this, view that, and all the other bounds: Shut every gate; mend every hedge that's torn, Either with old, or plant therein new thorn; Tread o'er his glebe, but with such care, that where He sets his foot, he leaves rich compost there.

772. A HYMN TO BACCHUS.

I sing thy praise, Iacchus, Who with thy thyrse dost thwack us: And yet thou so dost back us With boldness, that we fear No Brutus ent'ring here, Nor Cato the severe.

What though the lictors threat us, We know they dare not beat us, So long as thou dost heat us.

When we thy orgies sing, Each cobbler is a king, Nor dreads he any thing: And though he do not rave, Yet he'll the courage have To call my Lord Mayor knave; Besides, too, in a brave, Although he has no riches, But walks with dangling breeches And skirts that want their st.i.tches, And shows his naked flitches, Yet he'll be thought or seen So good as George-a-Green; And calls his blouze, his queen; And speaks in language keen.

O Bacchus! let us be From cares and troubles free; And thou shalt hear how we Will chant new hymns to thee.

_Orgies_, hymns to Bacchus.

_Brave_, boast.

_George-a-Green_, the legendary pinner of Wakefield, renowned for the use of the quarterstaff.

_Blouze_, a fat wench.

773. UPON PUSS AND HER 'PRENTICE. EPIG.

Puss and her 'prentice both at drawgloves play; That done, they kiss, and so draw out the day: At night they draw to supper; then well fed, They draw their clothes off both, so draw to bed.

_Drawgloves_, the game of talking on the fingers.

774. BLAME THE REWARD OF PRINCES.

Among disasters that dissension brings, This not the least is, which belongs to kings: If wars go well, each for a part lays claim; If ill, then kings, not soldiers, bear the blame.

775. CLEMENCY IN KINGS.

Kings must not only cherish up the good, But must be n.i.g.g.ards of the meanest blood.

776. ANGER.

Wrongs, if neglected, vanish in short time, But heard with anger, we confess the crime.

777. A PSALM OR HYMN TO THE GRACES.

Glory be to the Graces!

That do in public places Drive thence whate'er enc.u.mbers The list'ning to my numbers.

Honour be to the Graces!

Who do with sweet embraces, Show they are well contented With what I have invented.

Worship be to the Graces!

Who do from sour faces, And lungs that would infect me, For evermore protect me.

778. A HYMN TO THE MUSES.

Honour to you who sit Near to the well of wit, And drink your fill of it.

Glory and worship be To you, sweet maids, thrice three, Who still inspire me,

And teach me how to sing Unto the lyric string My measures ravishing.

Then while I sing your praise, My priesthood crown with bays Green, to the end of days.

779. UPON JULIA'S CLOTHES.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

780. MODERATION.

In things a moderation keep: _Kings ought to shear, not skin their sheep_.

781. TO ANTHEA.

Let's call for Hymen, if agreed thou art; _Delays in love but crucify the heart_.

Love's th.o.r.n.y tapers yet neglected lie: Speak thou the word, they'll kindle by-and-bye.

The nimble hours woo us on to wed, And Genius waits to have us both to bed.

Behold, for us the naked Graces stay With maunds of roses for to strew the way: Besides, the most religious prophet stands Ready to join, as well our hearts as hands.

Juno yet smiles; but if she chance to chide, Ill luck 'twill bode to th' bridegroom and the bride.

Tell me, Anthea, dost thou fondly dread The loss of that we call a maidenhead?

Come, I'll instruct thee. Know, the vestal fire Is not by marriage quench'd, but flames the higher.

_Maunds_, baskets.

_Fondly_, foolishly.

782. UPON PREW, HIS MAID.

In this little urn is laid Prudence Baldwin, once my maid: From whose happy spark here let Spring the purple violet.