From Petronius.[91]

Ales Phasiacis petita Colchis, &c.

The bird that's fetch't from Phasis floud, Or choicest hennes of Africk-brood; These please our palates; and why these? 'Cause they can but seldome please. Whil'st the goose soe goodly white, And the drake, yeeld noe delight, Though his wings' conceited hewe Paint each feather, as if new. These for vulgar stomacks be, And rellish not of rarity. But the dainty Scarus, sought In farthest clime; what e're is bought With shipwrack's toile, oh, that is sweet, 'Cause the quicksands hansell'd it. The pretious barbill, now growne rife, Is cloying meat. How stale is wife? Deare wife hath ne're a handsome letter, Sweet mistris sounds a great deale better. Rose quakes at name of cinnamon. Unlesse't be rare, what's thought vpon?

FROM HORACE.

Ille et ne fasto te posuit die, &c.

Shame of thy mother soyle! ill-nurtur'd tree! Sett, to the mischeife of posteritie! That hand (what e're it wer) that was thy nurse, Was sacrilegious (sure) or somewhat worse. Black, as the day was dismall, in whose sight Thy rising topp first stain'd the bashfull light. That man---I thinke--wrested the feeble life From his old father, that man's barbarous knife Conspir'd with darknes 'gainst the strangers throate; (Whereof the blushing walles tooke bloody note) Huge high-floune poysons, eu'n of Colchos breed, And whatsoe're wild sinnes black thoughts doe feed, His hands haue padled in; his hands, that found Thy traiterous root a dwelling in my ground. Perfidious totterer! longing for the staines Of thy kind Master's well-deseruing braines. Man's daintiest care, & caution cannot spy The subtile point of his coy destiny, Wch way it threats. With feare the merchant's mind Is plough'd as deepe, as is the sea with wind, (Rowz'd in an angry tempest), Oh the sea! Oh! that's his feare; there flotes his destiny: While from another (vnseene) corner blowes The storme of fate, to wch his life he owes; By Parthians bow the soldier lookes to die, (Whose hands are fighting, while their feet doe flie.) The Parthian starts at Rome's imperiall name, Fledg'd with her eagle's wing; the very chaine Of his captivity rings in his eares. Thus, o thus fondly doe wee pitch our feares Farre distant from our fates, our fates, that mocke Our giddy feares with an vnlook't for shocke. A little more, & I had surely seene Thy greisly Majesty, Hell's blackest Queene; And Oeacus on his tribunall too, Sifting the soules of guilt; & you, (oh you!) You euer-blushing meads, where doe the blest Farre from darke horrors home appeale to rest. There amorous Sappho plaines vpon her lute Her loue's crosse fortune, that the sad dispute Runnes murmuring on the strings. Alcaeus there In high-built numbers wakes his golden lyre To tell the world, how hard the matter went, How hard by sea, by warre, by banishment. There these braue soules deale to each wondring eare Such words, soe precious, as they may not weare Without religious silence; aboue all Warre's ratling tumults, or some tyrant's fall. The thronging clotted multitude doth feast: What wonder? when the hundred-headed beast Hangs his black lugges, stroakt with those heavenly lines; ears The Furies' curl'd snakes meet in gentle twines, And stretch their cold limbes in a pleasing fire. Prometheus selfe, and Pelops sterved sire Are cheated of their paines; Orion thinkes Of lions now noe more, or spotted linx.

EX EUPHORMIONE.

O Dea, siderei seu tu stirpe alma tonantis, &c.

Bright goddesse (whether Joue thy father be, Or Jove a father will be made by thee) Oh crowne these praiers (mov'd in a happy bower) But with one cordiall smile for Cloe. That power Of Loue's all-daring hand, that makes me burne, Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorne, Great nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. Heau'n you know And all their fellow-deities will bow Eu'n to the naked'st vowes. Thou art my fate; To thee the Parcae haue given vp of late My threds of life: if then I shall not live By thee, by thee yet lett me die; this giue, High Beautie's soveraigne, that my funerall flames May draw their first breath from thy starry beames. The phoenix' selfe shall not more proudly burne, That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull vrne.

AN ELEGY VPON THE DEATH OF MR. STANNINOW,