Elve Boniface shall next be pope.
They have their cups and chalices,
Their pardons and indulgences;

Their beads of nits, bels, books, and wax
Candles, forsooth, and other knacks:
Their holy oyle, their fasting-spittle,

Their sacred salt here, not a little,

Dry chips, old shooes, rags, grease, and bones, Beside their fumigations,

To drive the Devill from the cod-piece

Of the fryar, of work an odde-piece.

Many a trifle too and trinket,

And for what use, scarce man wo'd think it.

Next, then, upon the chanters side

An apples-core is hung up dry'd,
With ratling kirnils, which is rung
To call to morn and even-song.

The saint to which the most he prayes
And offers incense, nights and dayes,
The lady of the lobster is,

Whose foot-pace he doth stroak and kisse,

And humbly chives of saffron brings,
For his most cheerful offerings.

When, after these, h'as paid his vows,

He lowly to the altar bows,

And then he dons the silk-v

x-worms shed,

Like a Turks turbant on his head,

And reverently departeth thence,
Hid in a cloud of frankincense;

And by the glow-worms light wel guided,
Goes to the feast that's now provided.

TO MISTRESSE CATHERINE BRADSHAW, THE LOVELY, THAT CROWNED HIM WITH

LAUREL.

My muse in meads has spent her many houres,
Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers
To make for others garlands, and to set
On many a head here, many a coronet:
But, amongst all encircled here, not one
Gave her a day of coronation,

Till you, sweet mistresse, came and enterwove
A laurel for her, ever young as love.

You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due, Render for that a crowne of life to you.

THE PLAUDITE, OR END OF LIFE.

If after rude and boystrous seas,
My wearyed pinnace here finds ease;
If so it be I've gained the shore
With safety of a faithful ore;

If having run my barque on ground,
Ye see the aged vessell crown'd;
What's to be done? but on the sands
Ye dance and sing, and now clap hands.
The first act's doubtful, but we say
It is the last commends the play.

TO THE MOST VERTUOUS MISTRESSE POT, WHO
MANY TIMES ENTERTAINED HIM.

WHEN I through all my many poems look,
And see your selfe to beautifie my book,
Me thinks that onely lustre doth appeare,
A light fulfilling all the region here.
Guild still with flames this firmament, and be
A lamp eternall to my poetrie!

Which if it now, or shall hereafter shine,
'Twas by your splendour, lady, not by mine.
The oile was yours, and that I owe for yet:
He pays the halfe, who do's confess the debt.

TO MUSIQUE, TO BECALME HIS FEVER.

CHARM me asleep, and melt me so,
With thy delicious numbers,
That being ravisht, hence I goe

Away in easie slumbers.

Ease my sick head,

And make my bed,

Thou power that canst sever

Thou sweetly canst convert the same

From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My paines asleep,

And give me such reposes,
That I, poore I,

May think thereby,
I live and die

'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like a silent dew,

Or like those maiden showrs,
Which, by the peepe of day, doe strew
A baptime o're the flowers.
Melt, melt my paines,

With thy soft straines,
That having ease me given,
With full delight,

I leave this light,
And take my flight
For heaven.

UPON A GENTLEWOMAN WITH A SWEET VOICE.

So long you did not sing, or touch your lute,
We knew 'twas flesh and blood that there sate

mute.

But when your playing and your voice came in, 'Twas no more you then, but a cherubin.

UPON CUPID.

As lately I a garland bound,
'Mongst roses, I there Cupid found:
I took him, put him in my cup,
And, drunk with wine, I drank him
up.
Hence then it is, that my poore brest
Co'd never since find any rest.

UPON JULIA'S BREASTS.

DISPLAY thy breasts, my Julia, there let me
Behold that circummortall purity;

Between whose glories there my lips Ile lay,
Ravisht, in that faire via lactea.

BEST TO BE MERRY.

FOOLES are they who never know
How the times away doe goe.

But for us, who wisely see

Where the bounds of black death be,

Let's live merrily, and thus

Gratifie the genius.