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And when he happened to break off
I' th' middle of his speech, or cough,
H' had hard words ready to show why,
And tell what rules he did it by.
Else when with greatest art he spoke,
You'd think he talked like other folk;
For all a rhetorician's rules
Teach nothing but to name his tools.

In mathematics he was greater
Than Tycho Brahe or Erra Pater;
For he by geometric scale
Could take the size of pots of ale;
Resolve by sines and tangents, straight,
If bread or butter wanted weight;
And wisely tell what hour o' th' day
The clock does strike, by algebra.

For his religion, it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
'T was Presbyterian true blue;
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant saints whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant;
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;

And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation
A godly, thorough reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done,
As if religion were intended
For nothing else but to be mended.
A sect whose chief devotion lies
In odd, perverse antipathies;
In falling out with that or this,
And finding somewhat still amiss;
More peevish cross. and spleenatic









Than dog distract or monkey sick;
That with more care keep holy-day
The wrong than others the right way;
Compound for sins they are inclined to
By damning those they have no mind to;
Still so perverse and opposite,
As if they worshipped God for spite.
The selfsame thing they will abhor
One way, and long another for.
Free-will they one way disavow;
Another, nothing else allow:
All piety consists therein
In them; in other men, all sin.
Rather than fail they will defy
That which they love most tenderly,
Quarrel with minced pies, and disparage
Their best and dearest friend, plum-porridge;
Fat pig and goose itself oppose,
And blaspheme custard through the nose.




It is not, Celia, in our power

To say how long our love will last;
It may be we within this hour

May lose those joys we now do taste:
The blessed, that immortal be,
From change in love are only free.


Then since we mortal lovers are,

Ask not how long our love may last;
But while it does, let us take care

Each minute be with pleasure passed:
Were it not madness to deny

To live because we're sure to die? Before 1675.










To all you ladies now at land

We men at sea indite,

But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:

The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,

Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,

Our paper, pen, and ink, and we
Roll up and down our ships at sea-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind,

Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind:

Our tears we'll send a speedier way;
The tide shall bring 'em twice a day-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

The King with wonder and surprise
Will swear the seas grow bold,
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old;
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,

The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;

For what resistance can they find
From men who 've left their hearts behind?-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

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Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be you to us but kind;

Let Dutchmen vapour, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:

'Tis then no matter how things go,

Or who's our friend, or who's our foe-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

To pass our tedious hours away
We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play;

But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

But now our fears tempestuous grow
And cast our hopes away,
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play,
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand or flirt your fan-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

When any mournful tune you hear
That dies in ev'ry note,

As if it sighed with each man's care
For being so remote,

Think then how often love we've made
To you, when all those tunes were played-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

In justice you cannot refuse

To think of our distress,

When we for hopes of honour lose

Our certain happiness:

All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,









In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears:
Let's hear of no inconstancy;

We have too much of that at sea-
With a fa, la, la, la, la!


Dorinda's sparkling wit and eyes,

United, cast too fierce a light,
Which blazes high but quickly dies,

Pains not the heart but hurts the sight.

Love is a calmer, gentler joy;

Smooth are his looks, and soft his pace:
Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,

That runs his link full in your face.

Before 1680.


Phyllis, for shame! let us improve,
A thousand different ways,

Those few short moments snatched by love
From many tedious days.

If you want courage to despise
The censure of the grave,

Though Love's a tyrant in your eyes
Your heart is but a slave.

My love is full of noble pride,
Nor can it e'er submit

To let that fop, Discretion, ride
In triumph over it.


False friends I have, as well as you,
Who daily counsel me
Fame and ambition to pursue,
And leave off loving thee.

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