Thus far, in magnific strain,
A young poet sooth'd his vein;
But he had nor prose nor numbers
To express a princess' slumbers.
Youthful Richard had strange fancies,
Was deep versed in old romances,
And could talk whole hours upon
The great cham and Prester John—
Tell the field in which the Sophi
From the Tartar won a trophy-
What he read with such delight of,
Thought he could as eas'ly write of—
But his over-young invention
Kept not pace with brave intention.
Twenty suns did rise and set,
And he could no farther get;
But, unable to proceed,

Made a virtue out of need,

And, his labours wiselier deem'd of,

Did omit what the queen dream'd of.

A BALLAD:

NOTING THE DIFFERENCE OF RICH AND POOR, IN THE WAYS OF A RICH NOBLE'S PALACE AND A POOR WORKHOUSE.

To the tune of the "Old and Young Courtier."

In a costly palace Youth goes clad in gold;
In a wretched workhouse Age's limbs are cold:
There they sit, the old men by a shivering fire,
Still close and closer cowering, warmth is their desire.

In a costly palace, when the brave gallants dine,
They have store of good venison, with old Canary wine,
With singing and music to heighten the cheer;
Coarse bits, with grudging, are the pauper's best fare.

In a costly palace Youth is still caress'd
By a train of attendants which laugh at my young

lord's

jest;

In a wretched workhouse the contrary prevails:

Does Age begin to prattle, no man heark'neth to his

tales.

In a costly palace if the child with a pin

Do but chance to prick a finger, straight the doctor is called in;

In a wretched workhouse men are left to perish

For want of proper cordials, which their old age might cherish.

In a costly palace Youth enjoys his lust;

In a wretched workhouse Age, in corners thrust, Thinks upon the former days, when he was well to do, Had children to stand by him, both friends and kinsman

too.

In a costly palace Youth his temples hides

With a new-devised peruke that reaches to his sides;
In a wretched workhouse Age's crown is bare,
With a few thin locks just to fence out the cold air.

In peace, as in war, 'tis our young gallant's pride,
To walk, each one i' the streets, with a rapier by his side,
That none to do them injury may have pretence;
Wretched age, in poverty, must brook offence.

So in like fashions
Dim cogitations

Follow and haunt me,
Striving to daunt me,
In my heart festering,
In my ears whispering,
"Thy friends are treacherous,
Thy foes are dangerous,
Thy dreams ominous."

Fierce Anthropophagi,
Spectre, diaboli,

What scared St. Antony,
Hobgoblins, lemures,
Dreams of antipodes,
Night-riding incubi
Troubling the fantasy,
All dire illusions
Causing confusions;

Figments heretical,

Scruples fantastical,

Doubts diabolical,
Abaddon vexeth me,
Mahu perplexeth me,
Lucifer teareth me-

Jesu! Maria! liberate nos ab his diris tentationibus Inimici

A FAREWELL TO TOBACCO.

MAY the Babylonish curse
Straight confound my stammering verse,

If I can a passage see

In this word-perplexity,

Or a fit expression find,

Or a language to my mind,

(Still the phrase is wide or scant,)

To take leave of thee, GREAT PLANT!

Or in any terms relate

Half my love, or half my hate:

For I hate, yet love thee so,

That, whichever thing I show,

The plain truth will seem to be,
A constrain'd hyperbole,

And the passion to proceed.

More from a mistress than a weed.

Sooty retainer to the vine,
Bacchus' black servant, negro fine;
Sorcerer that mak'st us dote upon
Thy begrimmed complexion,
And, for thy pernicious sake,
More and greater oaths to break
Than reclaimed lovers take

'Gainst women: thou thy siege dost lay

Much too in the female way,

While thou suck'st the lab'ring breath
Faster than kisses or than death.

Thou in such a cloud dost bind us That our worst foes cannot find us, And ill-fortune, that would thwart us, Shoots at rovers, shooting at us;

While each man, through thy height'ning steam Does like a smoking Etna seem,

And all about us does express

(Fancy and wit in richest dress) A Sicilian fruitfulness.

Thou through such a mist dost show us,
That our best friends do not know us,

And for those allowed features,
Due to reasonable creatures,
Liken'st us to fell chimeras,
Monsters that, who see us, fear us;
Worse than Cerberus or Geryon,
Or, who first loved a cloud, Ixion.

Bacchus we know, and we allow
His tipsy rites. But what art thou,
That but by reflex canst show
What his deity can do,

As the false Egyptian spell

Aped the true Hebrew miracle?
Some few vapours thou mayst raise,
The weak brain may serve to amaze,
But to the reins and nobler heart
Canst nor life nor heat impart.

Brother of Bacchus, later born,
The old world was sure forlorn,
Wanting thee, that aidest more
The god's victories than before
All his panthers, and the brawls
Of his piping bacchanals.
These, as stale, we disallow,
Or judge of thee meant: only thou
His true Indian conquest art;
And for ivy, round his dart
The reformed god now weaves
A finer thyrsus of thy leaves.

Scent to match thy rich perfume,
Chymic art did ne'er presume
Through her quaint alembic strain,
None so sovereign to the brain.
Nature, that did in thee excel,
Framed again no second smell.
Roses, violets, but toys
For the smaller sort of boys,
Or for greener damsels meant;
Thou art the only manly scent.

Stinking'st of the stinking kind,
Filth of the mouth and fog of the mind.
Africa, that brags her foyson,
Breeds no such prodigious poison,
Henbane, nightshade, both together,
Hemlock, aconite-

Nay, rather,

Plant divine, of rarest virtue;

Blisters on the tongue would hurt you.
"Twas but in a sort I blamed thee;
None e'er prosper'd who defamed thee;
Irony all, and feign'd abuse,
Such as perplex'd lovers use,
At a need, when, in despair
To paint forth their fairest fair,
Or, in part, but to express
That exceeding comeliness
Which their fancies doth so strike,
They borrow language of dislike;
And, instead of dearest miss,
Jewel, honey, sweetheart, bliss,