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That, since leagues we'gan to swear,

Vice did ne'er so black appear;
Oppression, bloodshed, ne'er more rife,

From jests prophane and flattering tongues, Foul jars between the man and wife;

From baudy tales and beastly songs, Religion so contemn'd was never,

From after-supper suits, that fear Whilst all are raging in a fever,

A parliament or council's ear;

From Spanish treaties, that may wound They tell by devils, and some sad chance,

The country's peace, the gospel's sound; That that detested league of France,

From Job's false friends, that would entice Which cost so many thousand lives,

My sovereign from Heaven's paradise; And two kings, by religious knives,

From prophets such as Achab's were, Is amongst us, though few descry;

Whose flatterings sooth my sovereign's ear; Though they speak truth, yet say they lie. His frowns more than his Maker's fearing,

Bless my sovereign and his bearing.
He who says that night is night,
That cripple folk walk not upright,

That the owls into the spring
Do not nightingales out-sing,

From all fruit that is forbidden,
That the seas we may not plough,

Such for which old Eve was chidden; Ropes make of the rainy bow,

From bread of labours, sweat and toil; That the foxes keep not sheep,

From the poor widow's meal and oil; That men waking do not sleep,

From blood of innocents oft wrangled That all's not gold doth gold appear

From their estates, and from that's strangled ; Believe him not, although he swear.

From the candid poison'd baits

Of Jesuits, and their deceits; To such syrens stop your ear,

Italian sallads, Romish drugs, Their societies forbear.

The milk of Babel's proud whore's dugs; Ye may be tossed like a wave,

From wine that can destroy the brain; Verity may you deceive;

And from the dangerous figs of Spain ; Just fools they may make of you ;

At all banquets, and all feasting,
Then hate them worse than Turk or Jew.

Bless my sovereign and his tasting.
Were it not a dangerous thing,
Should we again obey the king;

Lords lose should sovereignty,
Soldiers hast back to Germany;

From prick of conscience, such a sting

As slays the soul, Heav'n bless the king ; Justice should in our towns remain,

From such a bribe as may withdraw Poor men possess their own again;

His thoughts from equity or law;
Brought out of Hell that word of plunder,

From such a smooth and beardless chin
More terrible than devil, or thunder,
Should with the covenant Ay away,

As may provoke or tempt to sin;

From such a hand, whose moist palm may And charity amongst us stay;

My sovereign lead out of the way; Peace and plenty should us nourish,

From things polluted and unclean, True religion 'mongst us flourish?

From all things beastly and obscene ; When you find these lying fellows,

From that may set his soul a reeling,
Take and flower with them the gallows.

Bless my sovereign and his feeling.
On others you may too lay hold,
In purse or chest, if they have gold.

Who wise or rich are in this nation,
Malignants are by protestation,

WHERE myrrh and frankincense are thrown,
The altar's built to gods unknown,
O let my sovereign never dwell;
Such damn'd perfumes are fit for Hell.

Let no such scent his nostrils stain;

From smells that poison can the brain

Heav'ns still preserve him. Next I crave, I. SEEING.

Thou wilt be pleas'd, great God! to save From such a face, whose excellence

My sov'reign from a Ganymede, May captivate my sovereign's sense,

Whose whorish breath hath pow'r to lead And make him (Phæbus like) his throne,

His excellence which way it list Resign to some young Phaëton,

O let such lips be never kiss'd! Whose skilless and unstayed band

From a breath so far excelling,
May prove the ruin of the land,

Bless my sovereign and his smelling.
Unless great Jove, down from the sky,
Beholding Earth's calamity,
Strike with his hand that cannot err
The proud usurping charioter;

And cure, though Phæbus grieve, our woe

From such a face as can work so,
Wheresoever thou 'st a being,

And now, just God, I humbly pray,
Bless my sovereign and his seeing.

That thou wilt take the slime away

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Alas! ye look but up the hill on me,

Which shows to you a fair and smooth ascent ; Nor amaranths nor roses do bequeath

The precipice behind ye cannot see,
Unto this hearse, but tamarists and wine;

On which high fortunes are too pronely bent:
For that same thirst, though dead, yet doth him pine, If there I slip, what former joy or bliss
Which made bim so carouse while he drew breath. Can heal the bruise of such a fall as this?

E. P.


In shells and gold pearls are not kept alone,
A Margaret here lies beneath a stone;

Who love enjoys, and placed hath his mind
A Margaret that did excel in worth

Where fairer virtues fairest beauties grace; All those rich gems the Indies both send forth;

Then in himself such store of worth doth find, Who, had she liv'd when good was lov'd of men,

That he deserves to find so good a place;
Had made the Graces four, the Muses ten;

To chilling fears how can he be set forth
And forc'd those happy times her days that claim'd, Whose fears condemn his own, doubt others' worth?
From her, to be the Age of Pearl still nam'd;
She was the richest jewel of her kind,
Grac'd with more lustre than she left behind, Desire, as flames of zeal, fear, horrours meets,
All goodness, virtue, bounty; and could cheer They rise who fall of falling never prov'd.
The saddest minds; now Nature knowing here Who is so dainty, satiate with sweets,
How things but shown, then bidden, are lov'd best, To murmur when the banquet is remov'd ?
This Margaret 'shrin'd in this marble chest. The fairest hopes time in the bud destroys,

When sweet are memories of ruim'd joys.




It is no hill, but Heaven where you remain; This beauty fair, which death in dust did turn,

And whom desert advanced hath so high And clos'd so soon within a coffin sad,

To reach the guerdon of his burning pain,
Did pass like lightning, like the thunder burn, Must not repine to fall, and falling die :
So little life, so much of worth it bad.

His hopes are crown'd. What years of tedious breath
Heav'ns, but to show their might, here made it shine; Can them compare with such a happy death?
And, when admir'd, then in the world's disdain,
O tears ! O grief! did call it back again,
Lest Earth should vaunt she kept what was divine.

What can we hope for more, what more enjoy,
Sith fairest things thus soonest have their end;
And, as on bodies shadows do attend,

Or those rare worthies who adorn'd our north,
Sith all our bliss is follow'd with annoy?

And shone like constellations, thou alone
She is not dead, she lives where she did love, Remainedst last,great Maitland! charg'd with worth,
Her memory on Earth, her soul above.

Second, in virtue's theatre, to none.


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But finding all eccentric in our times,

Most debonnaire, in courtesy supreme; Religion into superstition turu'd,

Lov'd of the mean, and honour'd by the great; Justice silenc'd, exiled, or in-urn'd;

Ne'er dash'd by fortune, nor cast down by fate; Truth, faith, and charity reputed crimes;

To present and to after times a theme. The young men destinate by sword to fall,

Aithen, thy tears pour on this silent grave, And trophies of their country's spoils to rear;

And drop them in thy alabaster care, Strange laws the ag'd and prudent to appal,

And Niobe's imagery here become; And forc'd sad yokes of tyranny to bear;

And when thou hast distilled here a tomb, And for no great nor virtuous minds a room

Enchase in it thy pearls, and let it bear, Disdaining life, thou shroud'st into thy tomb.

“ Aithen's best gem and honour shrin'd lies here." When misdevotion every where shall take place, And lofty orators, in thund'ring terms,

Fame, register of time, Shall move you, people, to arise in arms,

Write in thy scroll, that I, And churches hallow'd policy deface;

Of wisdom lover, and sweet poesy, When you shall but one general sepulchre Was cropped in my prime; (As Averroes did one general soul)

And ripe in worth, though green in years, did die. On high, on low, on good, on bad confer, And your dull predecessors rites controulAh! spare this monument, great guests! it keeps Justice, Truth, Peace and Hospitality, Three great justiciars, whom true worth did raise; Friendship, and Love being resolved to die, The Muses' darlings, whose loss Phæbus weeps;

In these lewd times, have chosen here to have Best men's delight, the glory of their days. With just, true, pious

their grave; More we would say, but fear, and stand in awe Them cherished he so much, so much did grace, To turn idolaters, and break your law,

That they on Earth would chuse none other place.

Do not repine, bless'd soul, that humble wits
Do make thy worth the matter of their verse:

When Death, to deck his trophies, stopt thy breath, No bigh-strain'd Muse our times and sorrows fits;

Rare ornament and glory of these parts! And we do sigh, not sing, to crown thy hearse.

All with moist eyes might say, and ruthful hearts, The wisest prince e'er manag’a Britain's state That things immortal vassal'd were to Death. Did not disdain, in numbers clear and brave, What good in parts on many shar'd we see, The virtues of thy sire to celebrate,

From Nature, gracious Heaven, or Fortune flor; And fix a rich memorial on his grave.

To make a master-piece of worth below, Thou didst deserve no less; and here in jet, Heaven, Nature, Fortune gave in gross to thee. Gold, touch, brass, porphyry, or Parian stone, That by a prince's hand no lines are set

In honour, bounty, rich—in valour, wit, For thee-the cause is, now this land hath none.

In courtesy ; born of an ancient race; Such giant moods our parity forth brings,

With bays in war, with olives crown'd in peace; We all will nothing be, or all be kings.

Match'd great with offspring for great actions fit.
No rust of times, nor change, thy virtue wan
With times to change; when truth, faith,love, decayid,

In this new age, like fate thou fixed staid,
ON THE DEATH OF A NOBLEMAN IN SCOTLAND, Of the first world an all-substantial man.

As erst this kingdom given was to thy sire,

The prince his daughter trusted to thy care, AITHEN, thy pearly coronet let fall;

And well the credit of a gem so rare Clad in sad robes, upon thy temples set

Thy loyalty and merit did require. The weeping cypress, or the sable jet.

Years cannot wrong thy worth, that now appears Mourn this thy nurseling's loss, a loss which all By others set as diamonds among pearls : Apollo's choir bemoans, which many years

A queen's dear foster, father to three earls, Cannot repair, nor influence of spheres.

Enough on Earth to triumph are o'er years.

Life a sea voyage is, death is the haven,
Ah! when shalt thou find shepherd like to him, And freight with honour there thou hast arriv'd;
Who made thy banks more famous by his worth, Which thousands seeking, have on rocks been driven:
Than all those gemsthyrocks and streams send forth? That good adorns thy grave which with thee lir'de

For a frail life, which here thou didst enjoy,
His splendour others glow-worm light did diin: Thou now a lasting hast, freed of annoy.
Sprung of an aucient and a virtuous race,
He virtue more than many did embrace.



He fram'd to mildness thy half-barbarous swains;
The good man's refuge, of the bad the fright,
Unparallell'd in friendsbip, world's delight!



For hospitality along thy plains
Far-fam'd a patron; and a pattern fair
Of piety; the Muses' chief repair;

Let holy David, Solomon the wise,
That king whose breast Egeria did inflame,
Augustus, Helen's son, great in all eyes,
Do homage low to tby mausolean frame ;


And bow before thy laurel's anadem ;

Virtue is but a name abstractly trimm'd,
Let all those sacred swans, which to the skies Interpreting what she was in effect;
By never-dying lays have rais'd their name, A shadow from her frame which did reflect,
From north to south, where Sun doth set and rise. A portrait by her excellences limm'd.
Religion, orphan'd, waileth o'er thy urn;

Thou whom free-willor chance hath hither brought, Justice weeps out her eyes, now truly blind;

And read'st, here lies a branch of Maitland's stem, To Niobes the remnant virtues turn; Fame but to blaze thy glories stays behind

And Seyton's offspring; know that either name l'th' world, which late was golden by thy breath,

Designs all worth yet reach'd by human thought. Is iron turu'd, and horrid by thy death.

Tombs elsewhere use life to their guests to give,

These ashes can frail monuments make live.
Pond wight, who dream'st of greatness, glory, state;
And worlds of pleasures, honours, dost devise;

Awake, learn how that here thou art not great
Nor glorious: by this monument turn wise.

Like to the garden's eye, the flow'r of Row'rs, One it enshrineth sprung of ancient stem,

With purple pomp that dazzle doth the sight; And (if that blood nobility can make)

Or, as among the lesser gems of night, From which some kings have not disdain'd to take The usher of the planet of the hours; Their proud descent, a rare and matchless gem.

Sweet maid, thou shinedst on this world of ours,

Of all perfections having trac'd the height; A beauty here it holds by full assurance,

Thine outward frame was fair, fair inward pow'rs, Than which no blooming rose was more refin'd,

A sapphire lanthorn, and an inceuse light. Nor morning's blush more radiant ever shin'd;

Hence the enamour'd Heaven, as too, too good Ah! too, too like to morn and rose at last !

On Earth's all-thorny soil long to abide, It holds her who in wit's ascendant far

Transplanted to their fields so rare a bud, Did years and sex transcend; to whom the Heaven Where from thy Sun no cloud thee now can hide. More virtue than to all this age had given; Earth moan'd her loss, and wish'd she had the grace For virtue meteor turn'd, when she a star.

Not to have known, or known thee longer space. Fair mirth, sweet conversation, modesty, And what those kings of numbers did conceive By Muses nine, and Graces more than three,

Hard laws of mortal life! Lie clos'd within the compass of this grave.

To which made thralls we come without consent,

Like tapers, lighted to be early spent,
Thus death all earthly glories doth confound, Our griefs are always rife,
Lo! how much worth a little dust doth bound.

When joys but halting march, and swiftly fly,
Like shadows in the eye:

The shadow do h not yield unto the Sun, “ Far from these banks exiled be all joys,

But joys and life do waste e'en when begun. Contentments, pleasures, music (care's relief) ! Tears,sighs,plaints, horrours,frightments,sad annoys, Invest these mountains, fill all hearts with grief. Within the closure of this narrow grave “ Here, nightingales and turtles, vent your moans ;

Lie all those graces a good wife could have:

But on this marble they shall not be read,
Amphrisian shepherd, here come feed thy flock,
And read thy hyacinth amidst our groans ;

For then the living envy would the dead,
Plain, Echo, thy Narcissus from our rocks.
“ Lost have our meads their beauty, hills their gems, The daughter of a king of princely parts,
Our brooks their crystal, groves their pleasant shade: In beauty eminent, in virtues chief;
The fairest flow'r of all our anadems

Loadsiar of love, and loadstone of all hearts, Death cropped hath; the Lesbia chaste is dead !”

Her friends' and husband's only joy, now grief; Thus sigh'd the Tyne, then shrunk beneath his urn;

Is here pent up within a marble frame, And meads, brooks, rivers, hills, about did mourn.

Whose parallel no times, no climates claim.

Verses frail records are to keep a name, The fow'r of virgins, in her prime of years, Or raise from dust men to a life of fame; By ruthless destinies is ta'en away,

The sport and spoil of ignorance; but far And rap'd from Earth, poor Earth! before this day More frail the frames of touch and marble are, Which ne'er was rightly nam'd a vale of tears. Which envy, avarice, time, ere long confound,

Or misdevotion equals with the ground. Beauty to Heaven is filed, sweet modesty

Virtue alone doth last, frees man from death; No more appears; she whose harmonious sounds Did ravish sense, and charm mind's deepest wounds, Stands grav'n in angels' diamantine rolls,

And, though despis'd, and scorned here beneath, Embalm’d with many a tear now low doth lie!

And blazed in the courts above the poles. Fair hopes now vanish'd are. She would have grac'd Thou wast fair virtue's temple, they did dwell, A prince's marriage-bed! but, lo! in Heaven And live ador'd in thee ; nought did excel, Blest paramours to her were to be given !

But what thou either didst possess or love, She liv'd an angel, now is with them plac’d. The Graces' darling, and the maids of Jove;


Courted by Fame for bounties, which the Heaven
Gave thee in great; which, if in parcels given,

'Too many such we happy sure might call;
How happy then wast thou, who enjoy’dst them all?
A whiter soul ne'er body did invest,

And now, sequester'd, cannot be but blest;
Enrob'd in glory, midst those hierarchies

Ah, silly soul! what wilt thou say
Of that immortal people of the skies,

When he, whom Earth and Heaven obey, Bright saints and angels, there from cares made free, Comes man to judge in the last day? Nought doth becloud thy sovereign good from thee. When he a reason asks, why grace Thou smil'st at Earth's confusions and jars,

And goodness thou wouldst not embrace, And how for Centaurs' children we wage wars:

But steps of vanity didst trace !
Like honey flies, whose rage whole swarms consumes,
Till dust thrown on them makes them veil their | That day of terrour, vengeance, ire,

Now to prevent thou shouldst desire,
Thy friends to thee a monument would raise, And to thy God in baste retire.
And limn thy virtues; but dull grief thy praise
Breaks in the entrance, and our task proves vain;

With wat'ry eyes, and sigh-swoll'n heart, What duty writes, that woe blots out again :

O beg, beg in his love a part, Yet love a pyramid of sighs thee rears,

Whilst conscience with remorse doth smart. And doth embalm thee with farewels and tears. That dreaded day of wrath and shame

In flames shall turn this world's huge frame,
As sacred prophets do proclaim.

0! with what grief shall earthlings groan Though marble porphyry, and mourning touch,

When that great judge, set on his throne, May praise these spoils, yet can they not too much; Examines strictly every one ! For beauty last, and this stone doth close,

Shrill-sounding trumpets through the air Once Earth's delight, Heaven's care, a purest rose. Shall from dark sepulchres each where And, reader, shouldst thou but let fall a tear

Force wretched mortals to appear.
Upon it, other flow'rs shall here appear,
Sad violets and hyacinths, which grow

Nature and Death amaz'd remain
With marks of grief, a public loss to show. To find their dead arise again,

And process with their judge maintain.
Relenting eye, which deignest to this stone
To lend a look, behold here laid in one,

Display'd then open books shall lie,
The living and the dead interr'd; for dead Which all those secret crimes descry
The turtle in its mate is; and she fed

For which the guilty world must die.
From earth, her choos'd this place of grief
To bound thoughts, a small and sad relief.

The Judge enthron'd, whom bribes not gain,

The closest crimes appear shall plain,
His is this monument, for hers no art
Could frame; a pyramid rais'd of his heart.

And none unpunished remain.

O! who then pity shall poor me?
Instead of epitaphs and airy praise,

Or who mine advocate shall be ?
This monument a lady chaste did raise
To her lord's living fame; and after death

When scarce the justest pass shall free. Her body doth unto this place bequeath,

All wholly holy, dreadful King,
To rest with his, till God's shrill trumpet sound, Who freely life to thine dost bring,
Though time her life, no time her love could bound. Of mercy save me, mercy's spring !

Then, sweet Jesu, call to mind

How of thy pains I was the end,

And favour let me that day find.

In search of me thou, full of pain,

Didst sweat blood, death on cross sustain: Though I have twice been at the doors of Death,

Let not these sufførings be in vain. And twice found shut those gales which ever mourn, This but a lightning is, truce ta'en to breathe, Thou supreme Judge, most just and wise, For late-born sorrows augur fleet return.

Purge me from guilt, which on me lies,

Before that day of thine assize.
Amidst thy sacred cares, and courtly toils,
Alexis, when thou shalt hear wand'ring fame Charg'd with remorse, lo! here I gruan,
Tell, Death hath triumph'd o'er my mortal spoils, Sin makes my face a blush take on;
And that on Earth I am but a sad name;

"Ah! spare me, prostrate at thy throne.
If thou e'er held me dear, by all our love, Who Mary Magdalen didst spare,
By all that bliss, those joys Heaven here us gave, And lend'st the thief on cross thine ear,
I conjure thee, and by the maids of Jove,

Show me fair hopes I should not fear.
Tu grave this short remembrance on my grave:

My prayers imperfect are and weak, “ Here Damon lies, whose songs did sometime grace But worthy of thy grace them make, The murmuring Esk:-may roses shade the place." And save me from Hell's burning lake.

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