Chapter III (3)

When APELLES limbed to life,
Loathèd VULCAN's lovely wife;
With such beauties he did turn
Each sweet feature, and each limb,
And so curiously did place
Every well becoming grace;
That 'twas said, ere he could draw
Such a Piece, he naked saw
Many women in their prime
And the fairest of that Time;
From all which, he, parts did take,
Which, aright disposed, make
Perfect Beauty. So when you
Know what I have yet to show,
It will seem to pass so far
Those things which expressèd are;
That you will suppose I've been
Privileged, where I have seen
All the Good that's spread in parts
Through a thousand women's hearts!
With their fair'st conditions lie
Bare, without hypocrisy!
And that I have took from thence,
Each dispersèd excellence
To express Her, who hath gained
More than ever One obtained.
And yet, soft! I fear, in vain
I have boasted such a Strain!
Apprehensions ever are
Greater than Expression, far!
And my striving to disclose
What I know, hath made me lose
My Invention's better part:
And my Hopes exceed my Art!
Speak, I can; yet Think I more!
Words, compared with Thoughts, are poor!
And I find, had I begun
Such a Strain, it would be done
When we number all the sands
Washed o'er perjured GODWIN's lands.
For of things I should indite,
Which, I know are infinite.

I do yield! My Thoughts did climb
Far above the power of Rhyme!
And no wonder it is so,
Since there is no Art can show
Red in roses, white in snow;
Nor express how they do grow.
Yea, since bird, beast, stone, and tree,
That inferior creatures be,
Beauties have, which we confess
Lines unable to express;
They more hardly can enrol
Those that do adorn a Soul.
But suppose my Measures could
Reach the height, I thought they would:
Now, relate, I would not though,
What did swell within me so.
For if I should all descry,
You would know as much as I!
And those clowns the Muses hate,
Would of things above them, prate!
Or, with their profaning eyes,
Come to view those mysteries
Whereof, since they disesteemed them,
Heaven hath unworthy deemed them!
And besides, it seems to me,
That your ears nigh tirèd be!
I perceive the fire that charmeth
And inspireth me, scarce warmeth
Your chill hearts! Nay, sure, were I
Melted into Poesy,
I should not a Measure hit,
(Though APOLLO prompted it)
Which should able be to leave
That in you, which I conceive!
You are cold! and here I may
Waste my vital heat away
Ere you will be moved so much
As to feel one perfect touch
Of those Sweets; which, yet concealed,
Swell my breast, to be revealed.

Now, my Words, I therefore cease!
That my mounting Thoughts, in peace,
May, alone, those pleasures share,
Whereof Lines unworthy are!
And so you, an end do see,
Of my Song; though long it be!

* * * * *

No sooner had the Shepherd PHIL'ARET,
To this Description, his last period set;
But instantly, descending from a wood,
Which on a rising ground, adjoining stood,
A troop of Satyrs, to the view of all,
Came dancing, of a new devisèd brall.
The measures they did pace, by Him were taught them,
Who, to so rare a gentleness had brought them,
That he had learned their rudeness an observing
Of such respect unto the well deserving;
As they became to no man else, a terror,
But such as did persist in wilful error:
And they, the Ladies, made no white affeared
Though since that time, they some Great Men have scared.
Their dance, the _Whipping of Abuse_ they named;
And though the Shepherd, since that, hath been blamed:
Yet, now, 'tis daily seen in every town!
And there's no Country Dance that's better known!
Nor that hath gained a greater commendation
'Mongst those that love an honest recreation!
This Scene presented; from a grove was heard
A Set of Viols; and there, was prepared
A Country Banquet, which this Shepherd made
To entertain the Ladies, in the shade.
And 'tis supposed, his Song prolongèd was
Of purpose, that it might be brought to pass.
So well it was performed that each one deemed,
The banquet might the City have beseemed;
Yet, better was their Welcome, than their Fare,
Which they perceived, and the merrier were.

One Beauty though, there sat among the rest,
That looked as sad as if her heart oppressed
With love had been. Whom PHIL'ARET beholding
Sit so demurely, and her arms enfolding:
"Lady!" quoth he, "am I, or this poor cheer,
The cause that you so melancholy are?
For if the object of your thoughts be higher,
It fits nor me to know them, nor inquire:
But if from me it cometh, that offends;
I seek the cause, that I may make amends!"

"Kind Swain!" said she, "it is nor so! nor so!
No fault in you! nor in your cheer I know!
Nor do I think there is a thought in me,
That can too worthy of your knowledge be!
Nor have I, many a day, more pleasure had
Than here I find, though I have seemèd sad.
My heart is sometimes heavy when I smile;
And when I grieve, I often sing the while.
Nor is it sadness that doth me possess,
But rather, musing, with much seriousness,
Upon that multitude of sighs and tears,
With those innumerable doubts and fears
Through which you passed, ere you could acquire
A settled Hope of gaining your Desire.
For you dared love a Nymph, so great and fair,
As might have brought a Prince unto despair;
And, sure, the excellency of your Passions
Did then produce as excellent impressions.
If, therefore, me the suit may well become!
And if to you, it be not wearisome!
In name of all the Ladies, I entreat
That one of those sad Strains you would repeat,
Which you composed, when greatest Discontent
Unsought-for help, to your Invention lent!"

"Fair Nymphs!" said PHIL'ARET, "I will so do!
For though your Shepherd doth no Courtship know,
He hath Humanity! and what's in me,
To do you service, may commanded be!"

So, taking down a lute, that near him hung;
He gave't his boy, who played: whilst this, he sung.

[_SONNET I._]

_"Ah, me!"_
_Am I the Swain_
_That late, from sorrow free,_
_Did all the cares on earth disdain?_
_And still untouched, as at some safer games,_
_Played with the burning coals of Love, and Beauty's flames?_
_Was't I, could dive, and sound each Passion's secret depth at will;_
_And from those huge overwhelmings, rise, by help of Reason, still?_
_And am I, now, O heavens! (for trying this in vain)_
_So sunk, that I shall never rise again?_
_Then let Despair set Sorrow's string_
_For Strains, that doleful'st be!_
_And I will sing_
_"Ah, me."_

_But why,_
_O fatal Time!_
_Dost Thou constrain, that I_
_Should perish in my Youth's sweet prime?_
_I, but a while ago, You cruel Powers!_
_In spite of Fortune, cropped Contentment's sweetest flowers._
_And yet, unscorned, serve a gentle Nymph, the fairest She,_
_That ever was beloved of Man, or eyes did ever see._
_Yea, one, whose tender heart would rue for my distress;_
_Yet I, poor I! must perish nay-the-less:_
_And, which much more augments my care,_
_Unmoaned, I must die!_
_And no man e'er_
_Know why!_

_Thy leave,_
_My dying Song!_
_Yet take! ere Grief bereave_
_The breath which I enjoy too long._
_Tell thou that Fair One this! "My Soul prefers_
_Her love above my life, and that I died hers!_
_And let Him be, for evermore, to her remembrance dear,_
_Who loved the very thought of Her, whilst he remained here!"_
_And now, farewell, thou place of my unhappy birth!_
_Where once I breathed the sweetest air on earth:_
_Since me, my wonted joys forsake,_
_And all my trust deceive;_
_Of all, I take_
_My leave!_

_Farewell,_
_Sweet Groves, to you!_
_You Hills, that highest dwell;_
_And all you humble Vales, adieu!_
_You wanton Brooks! and solitary Rocks!_
_My dear Companions all! and you, my tender Flocks!_
_Farewell, my Pipe! and all those pleasing Songs, whose moving Strains_
_Delighted once the fairest Nymphs that dance upon the plains!_
_You Discontentments (whose deep and over-deadly smart_
_Have, without pity, broke the truest heart)!_
_Sighs! Tears! and every sad Annoy_
_That erst did with me dwell!_
_And all others' Joy!_
_Farewell!_

_Adieu_
_Fair Shepherdesses!_
_Let garlands of sad yew_
_Adorn your dainty golden tresses!_
_I that loved you, and often, with my quill_
_Made music that delighted fountain, grove, and hill!_
_I, whom you loved so; and with a sweet and chaste embrace;_
_Yea, with a thousand rarer favours, would vouchsafe to grace!_
_I, now, must leave you all alone! of Love to 'plain,_
_And never Pipe, nor never Sing again_
_I must, for evermore, be gone!_
_And, therefore, bid I you,_
_And every one,_
_Adieu!_

_I die!_
_For O, I feel_
_Death's horrors drawing nigh!_
_And all this frame of Nature reels!_
_My hopeless heart, despairing of relief,_
_Sinks underneath the heavy weight of saddest grief!_
_Which hath so ruthless torn, so racked, so tortured every vein,_
_All comfort comes too late, to have it ever cured again._
_My swimming head begins to dance Death's giddy round!_
_A shuddering chillness doth each sense confound!_
_Benumbed is my cold-sweating brow!_
_A dimness shuts my eye!_
_And now, O now,_
_I die!_

* * * * *

So movingly these lines he did express,
And to a tune so full of heaviness;
As if, indeed, his purpose had been past
To live no longer than the Song did last.
Which in the Nymphs, such tender passion bred,
That some of them, did tears of pity shed.

This she perceiving, who first craved the Song,
"Shepherd!" she said, "although it be no wrong
Nor grief to you, those Passions to recall
Which, heretofore, you have been pained withal!
But comforts rather, since they, now, are over;
And you, it seemeth, an enjoying lover:
Yet some Nymphs among us, I do see;
Who, so much movèd with your Passions be,
That, if my aim I have taken aright,
Their thoughts will hardly let them sleep to-night.
I dare not, therefore, beg of you again
To sing another of the selfsame Strain;
For fear it breed within them, more unrest
Than women's weaknesses can well digest.
Yet, in your Measures, such content you have!
That one Song more, I will presume to crave.
And if your memory preserves of those
Which you, of your affections did compose
Before you saw this Mistress; let us hear
What kind of Passions, then, within you were!"
To which request, he instantly obeyed;
And this ensuing Song, both sung and played.

_SONNET II._

_You gentle Nymphs! that on these meadows play,_
_And oft relate the loves of Shepherds young;_
_Come, sit you down! For if you please to stay,_
_Now may you hear an uncouth Passion sung!_
_A Lad there is, and I am that poor Groom_;
That's fall'n in love, and cannot tell with whom!

_O do not smile at sorrow, as a jest!_
_With others' cares, good natures movèd be;_
_And I should weep, if you had my unrest!_
_Then, at my grief, how can you merry be?_
_Ah, where is tender pity now become?_
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

_I, that have oft, the rarest features viewed,_
_And Beauty in her best perfection seen;_
_I, that have laughed at them that love pursued,_
_And ever free from such affections been:_
_Lo, now at last, so cruel is my doom!_
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

_My heart is full nigh bursting with Desire;_
_Yet cannot find from whence these longings flow:_
_My breast doth burn, but She that lights the fire,_
_I never saw, nor can I come to know._
_So great a bliss, my fortune keeps me from_;
That though I dearly love, I know not whom!

_Ere I had twice four Springs renewed seen,_
_The force of Beauty I began to prove;_
_And ere I nine years old had fully been,_
_It taught me how to frame a Song of Love,_
_And little thought I, this day should have come_,
Before that I, to love had found out whom!

_For on my chin, the mossy down you see!_
_And in my veins, well heated blood doth glow!_
_Of Summers I have seen twice three times three;_
_And fast, my youthful time away doth go!_
_That much I fear, I agèd shall become,_
_And still complain_, I love, I know not whom!

_O, why had I a heart bestowed on me,_
_To cherish dear affections, so inclined?_
_Since I am so unhappy born to be_
_No Object, for so true a Love to find._
_When I am dead, it will be missed of some;_
_Yet, now I live_, I love, I know not whom!

_I to a thousand beauteous Nymphs am known!_
_A hundred Ladies' favours do I wear!_
_I, with as many, half in love am grown;_
_Yet none of them, I find, can be my Dear!_
_Methinks, I have a Mistress yet to come!_
_Which makes me sing_, I love, I know not whom!

_There lives no Swain doth stronger Passion prove_
_For her, whom most he covets to possess;_
_Than doth my heart, that being full of love_
_Knows not to whom it may the same profess!_
_For he that is despised, hath sorrow some;_
_But he hath more_, that loves, and knows not whom!

_Knew I my Love, as many others do,_
_To some one object might my thoughts be bent!_
_So they divided, should not wandering go_
_Until the Soul's united force be spent._
_As his, that seeks and never finds a home,_
_Such is my rest_, that love, and know not whom!

_Those, whom the frowns of jealous friends divide,_
_May live to meet, and descant on their woe;_
_And he hath gained a Lady for his bride,_
_That durst not woo her Maid, a while ago._
_But O, what end unto my hopes can come?_
That am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

_Poor COLLIN grieves that he was late disdained;_
_And CLORIS doth, for WILLY's absence pine;_
_Sad THIRSIS weeps, for his sick PHOEBE pained:_
_But all their sorrows cannot equal mine!_
_A greater care, alas, on me is come._
I am in love, and cannot tell with whom!

_NARCISSUS like, did I affect my shade;_
_Some shadow yet I had to dote upon!_
_Or did I love some Image of the dead,_
_Whose Substance had not breathed long agone?_
_I might despair! and so an end would come_;
But O, I love! and cannot tell you whom!

_Once, in a dream, methought, my Love I viewed,_
_But never, waking, could her face behold;_
_And, doubtless, that resemblance was but shewed_
_That more my tirèd heart, torment it should._
_For, since that time, more grieved I am become;_
_And more in love_, I cannot tell with whom!

_When on my bed, at night, to rest I lie,_
_My watchful eyes, with tears bedew my cheek;_
_And then, "O would it once were day!" I cry,_
_Yet when it comes, I am as far to seek._
_For who can tell, though all the earth he roam_;
Or when, or where to find, he knows not whom?

_O, if she may be among the beauteous trains_
_Of all you Nymphs, that haunt the silver rills!_
_Or if you know her, Ladies of the plains!_
_Or you, that have your bowers on the hills!_
_Tell, if you can, who will my Love become?_
Or I shall die, and never know for whom!

* * * * *

The Ladies smiled oft, when this they heard,
Because the Passion strange to them appeared,
And stranger was it, since by his expression,
As well as by his own unfeigned confession,
It seemèd true! But having sung it out;
And seeing, scarcely manners, they it thought,
To urge him further: thus to them, he spake.
"Fair Ladies! forasmuch as doubt you make
To re-command me; of mine own accord,
Another Strain I freely will afford.
It shall not be of Love, nor any Song
Which to the praise of Beauty doth belong;
But that, hereafter, when you hence are gone,
Your Shepherd may be sometime thought upon!
To shew you also, what Content the Field
And lonely Grove to honest minds may yield!
That you, my humble fate may not despise,
When you are returned unto your braveries;
And not suppose that, in these homely bowers,
I hug my fortune, 'cause I know not yours.
Such Lines I'll sing, as were composed by me,
When some proud Courtiers, where I happed to be,
Did (like themselves) of their own glories prate,
As in contempt of my more happy state.
And these they be--"

_SONNET_ [_III._]

_Lordly Gallants! tell me this!_
_(Though my safe Content you weigh not!)_
_In your greatness, what one bliss_
_Have you gained, that I enjoy not?_
_You have Honours, you have Wealth!_
_I have Peace, and I have Health!_
_All the day I merry make;_
_And, at night, no care I take!_

_Bound to none, my fortunes be;_
_This, or that man's fall, I fear not!_
_Him I love, that loveth me;_
_For the rest, a pin I care not!_
_You are sad, when others chafe;_
_And grow merry as they laugh!_
_I, that hate it, and am free,_
_Laugh and weep, as pleaseth me!_

_You may boast of favours shown,_
_Where your service is applied!_
_But my pleasures are mine own,_
_And to no man's humours tied._
_You oft flatter, sooth, and feign!_
_I, such baseness do disdain!_
_And to none, be slave I would,_
_Though my fetters might be gold!_

_By greatest titles, some believe,_
_Highest honours are attained;_
_And yet Kings have power to give_
_To their Fools, what these have gained._
_Where they favour, there they may_
_All their Names of Honour lay!_
_But I look not, raised to be,_
_Till mine own wing carry me!_

_Seek to raise your titles higher!_
_They are toys not worth my sorrow._
_Those that we, to-day, admire,_
_Prove the Age's scorn to-morrow!_
_Take your Honours! Let me find_
_Virtue in a free born mind!_
_This, the greatest Kings that be,_
_Cannot give, nor take from me!_

_Though I vainly do not vaunt_
_Large demesnes to feed my pleasure:_
_I have favours, where you want,_
_That would buy Respect with treasure!_
_You have lands lie here, and there;_
_But my wealth is everywhere!_
_And this addeth to my store_,
Fortune cannot make me poor!

_Say, you purchase, with your pelf,_
_Some respect, where you importune!_
_Those may love me, for myself;_
_That regard you for your fortune!_
_Rich, or born of high degree,_
_Fools, as well as you, may be!_
_But that Peace in which I live,_
_No Descent, nor Wealth can give!_

_If you boast that you may gain_
_The respect of high-born Beauties;_
_Know I never wooed in vain,_
_Nor preferrèd scornèd duties!_
_She I love, hath all delight,_
_Rosy red with lily white;_
_And, whoe'er your Mistress be,_
_Flesh and blood as good as She!_

_Note of me, was never took_
_For my womanlike perfections;_
_But so like a Man I look,_
_It hath gained me best affections!_
_For my love, as many showers_
_Have been wept, as have for yours!_
_And yet none doth me condemn_
_For abuse, or scorning them!_

_Though of dainties, you have store_
_To delight a choicer palate!_
_Yet your taste is pleased no more_
_Than is mine, in one poor sallat!_
_You to please your senses feed!_
_But I eat, good blood to breed!_
_And am most delighted then_
_When I spend it like a man!_

_Though you Lord it over me;_
_You, in vain, thereof have bravèd!_
_For those Lusts, my servants be;_
_Whereunto your minds are slavèd!_
_To yourselves you wise appear,_
_But, alas, deceived you are!_
_You do, foolish me esteem;_
_And are that, which I do seem!_

_When your faults I open lay;_
_You are moved, and mad with vexing!_
_But you ne'er could do, or say_
_Ought to drive me to perplexing!_
_Therefore, my despisèd power_
_Greater is, by far, than your!_
_And whate'er you think of me,_
_In your minds, you poorer be!_

_You are pleasèd, more or less,_
_As men, well or ill report you!_
_And shew discontentedness_
_When the Times forbear to court you!_
_That in which my pleasures be,_
_No man can divide from me!_
_And my care it adds not to,_
_Whatso others say or do._

_Be not proud, because you view_
_You, by thousands are attended!_
_For, alas, it is not You,_
_But Your Fortune! that's befriended._
_Where I shew of love have got,_
_Such a danger, fear I not!_
_Since they nought can seek of me;_
_But for love, beloved to be._

_When your hearts have everything;_
_You are pleasantly disposed!_
_But I can both laugh and sing,_
_Though my foes have me enclosed._
_Yea, when dangers me do hem,_
_I delight in scorning them!_
_More than you, in your renown;_
_Or a King can, in his crown._

_You do bravely domineer_
_Whilst the sun upon you shineth!_
_Yet if any storm appear,_
_Basely, then, your mind declineth!_
_But, or shine, or rain, or blow,_
_I, my resolutions know!_
_Living, dying, thrall, or free;_
_At one height, my Mind shall be!_

_When in thraldom, I have lain;_
_Me, not worth your thought you prizèd!_
_But your malice was in vain,_
_For your favours I despisèd._
_And howe'er you value me,_
_I, with praise, shall thought on be!_
_When the world esteems you not,_
_And your Names shall be forgot._

_In these thoughts my riches are,_
_Now, though poor and mean you deem me!_
_I am pleased, and do not care_
_How the Times, or you esteem me!_
_For those toys that make you gay._
_Are but Play Games for a Day!_
_And when Nature craves her due,_
_I, as brave shall be, as you!_

* * * * *

Here PHIL'ARET did give his Song an ending.
To which the Nymphs so seriously attending
About him sate, as if they had supposed
He still had somewhat more to be disclosed.
And, well they know not, whether did belong
Most praise unto the Shepherd, or his Song.
For though, they must confess, they often hear
Those Lays, which much more deeply learned are;
Yet, when they well considered of the place,
With how unlikely (in their thought) it was
To give them hope of hearing of such a Strain;
Or that so young, and so obscure a Swain
Should such a matchless Beauty's favour get;
And know her worth so well, to sing of it:
They wondered at it. And some thus surmised
That He a greater man was, so disguised;
Or else that She, whom he so much had praised,
Some goddess was, that those his Measures raised,
Of purpose, to that rare attainèd height
In Envy's, and presuming Art's despite.
But whilst they, musing with themselves, bethought
Which way, out of this Shepherd to have wrought
What Nymph this Fair One was? and where she lived?
Lo, at that very instant, there arrived
Three men that, by their habits, Courtiers seemed:
For, though obscure, by some, he is esteemed,
Among the Greatest: who do not contemn,
In his retirèd walks, to visit him;
And there, they taste those pleasures of the mind,
Which they can, nor in Court, nor City find.
Some news or message, these new guests had brought him;
And to make haste away, it seems, besought him:
For instantly he rose! And that his nurture
Might not be taxed by a rude departure,
Himself excusing; he, those Nymphs did pray
His noble friends might bring him on their way.
"Who, as it seems," said he, "were therefore come,
That they might wait upon him to their home."
So, with their favour, he departed thence;
And, as they thought, to meet her Excellence,
Of whom he sung. Yet many deem that this
But an _Idea_ of a Mistress is:
Because to none, he yet had deigned the telling
Her proper name; nor shown her place of dwelling!

When he was gone, a Lady, from among
Those Nymphs, took up his lute, and sang this Song.

_THE NYMPH'S SONG._

_Gentle Swain! Good speed befall thee!_
_And in love still prosper thou!_
_Future Times shall happy, call thee!_
_Though thou lie neglected now._
_Virtue's lovers shall command thee!_
_And perpetual fame attend thee!_

_Happy are these woody mountains,_
_In whose shadows, thou dost hide!_
_And as happy, are those fountains_
_By whose murmurs, thou dost 'bide!_
_For Contents are here excelling,_
_More than in a Prince's dwelling._

_These, thy flocks do clothing bring thee!_
_And thy food, out of the fields:_
_Pretty songs, the birds do sing thee!_
_Sweet perfumes the meadow yields:_
_And what more is worth the seeing?_
_Heaven and Earth, thy prospect being!_

_None comes hither, who denies thee_
_Thy contentments, for despite;_
_Neither any that envies thee,_
_That wherein thou dost delight._
_But all happy things are meant thee!_
_And whatever may content thee!_

_Thy Affection, Reason measures,_
_And distempers none it feeds:_
_Still so harmless are thy pleasures,_
_That no other's grief it breeds._
_And if night beget thee sorrow;_
_Seldom stays it till the morrow._

_Why do foolish men so vainly_
_Seek contentment in their store?_
_Since they may perceive so plainly_
_Thou art rich, in being poor!_
_And that they are vexed about it;_
_Whilst thou merry are without it!_

_Why are idle brains devising_
_How high titles may be gained!_
_Since, by those poor toys despising,_
_Thou hast higher things obtained!_
_For the man who scorns to crave them,_
_Greater is than they that have them._

_If all men could taste that sweetness_
_Thou dost, in thy meanness, know!_
_Kings would be to seek, where greatness_
_And their honours to bestow._
_For it such content would breed them,_
_As they would not think they need them._

_And if those, who so aspiring_
_To the Court preferments be,_
_Knew how worthy the desiring_
_Those things are, enjoyed by thee!_
_Wealth and titles would, hereafter,_
_Subjects be for scorn and laughter._

_He that Courtly styles affected,_
_Should a May-Lord's honour have;_
_He that heaps of Wealth collected,_
_Should be counted as a slave:_
_And the man, with few'st things cumbered,_
_With the noblest should be numbered._

_Thou, their folly hast discerned;_
_That neglect thy mind and thee!_
_And to slight them, thou hast learned,_
_Of what title e'er they be!_
_That, no more with thee obtaineth;_
_Than with them, thy meanness gaineth._

_All their riches, honours, pleasures,_
_Poor unworthy trifles seem;_
_If comparèd with thy treasures!_
_And do merit no esteem:_
_For they, true contents provide thee,_
_And from them, can none divide thee._

_Whether thrallèd, or exilèd;_
_Whether poor, or rich thou be!_
_Whether praisèd, or revilèd;_
_Not a rush it is to thee!_
_This, nor that, thy rest doth win thee;_
_But the Mind, which is within thee!_

_Then, O, why so madly dote we_
_On those things that us o'erload?_
_Why no more their vainness note we,_
_But still make of them a god?_
_For, alas, they still deceive us;_
_And, in greatest need, they leave us!_

_Therefore have the Fates provided_
_Well, thou happy Swain! for thee!_
_That may'st here, so far divided_
_From the world's distractions be!_
_Thee, distemper let them never;_
_But in peace continue ever!_

_In these lonely groves, enjoy thou_
_That contentment here begun!_
_And thy hours, so pleased, employ thou_
_Till the latest glass be run!_
_From a fortune so assured,_
_By no temptings, be allured!_

_Much good do 't them, with their glories,_
_Who, in Courts of Princes dwell!_
_We have read in antique stories_
_How some rose, and how they fell._
_And 'tis worthy well the heeding,_
_"There's like end, where's like proceeding."_

_Be thou still, in thy affection,_
_To thy noble Mistress, true!_
_Let her never-matched perfection_
_Be the same unto thy view!_
_And let never other Beauty_
_Make thee fail in love or duty!_

_For if thou shalt not estrangèd,_
_From thy course professed, be;_
_But remain, for aye, unchangèd,_
_Nothing shall have power on thee!_
_Those that slight thee now, shall love thee;_
_And, in spite of spite, approve thee!_

_So those virtues now neglected;_
_To be more esteemed, will come:_
_Yea, those toys so much affected,_
_Many shall be wooèd from._
_And the Golden Age, deplored,_
_Shall, by some, be thought restored._

Thus sang the Nymph! so rarely-well inspired,
That all the hearers, her brave Strains admired;
And (as I heard by some that there attended)
When this her Song was finished, all was ended.

_A Postscript._

If any carp, for that my younger Times
Brought forth such idle fruit, as these slight rhymes,
It is no matter, so they do not swear
That they so ill employed, never were.
Whilst their Desires, perhaps, they looselier spent;
I gave my heats of youth this better vent:
And, oft, by writing thus, the blood have tamed,
Which some, with reading wanton Lays enflamed.
Nor care I, though their censure some have past,
Because my Songs exceed the Fidler's Last:
For do they think that I will make my Measures
The longer, or the shorter, for their pleasures?
Or maim, or curtalise my free Invention,
Because Fools weary are, of their attention!
No! Let them know, who do their length condemn;
I Make to please myself, and not for them!

FOOTNOTES:

[10] Alresford Pool.

[11] Alresford, 7 miles N. of Winchester.

[12] Winchester.

[13] lawn.

A MISCELLANY

OF

EPIGRAMS, SONNETS, EPITAPHS, AND SUCH OTHER
VERSES, AS WERE FOUND WRITTEN WITH
THE POEM AFOREGOING.

_Of the Invention of the Nine Muses._

The acts of Ages past doth CLIO write.
The Tragedies', MELPOMENE's delight.
THALIA is with Comedies contented.
EUTERPE, first, the Shepherd's Pipe invented.
TERPSICHORE doth Song and Lute apply.
Dancing ERATO found Geometry.
CALLIOPE on loving Verses dwells.
The secrets of the stars, URANIA tells.
POLYHYMNIA, with choice words, the speech doth trim
And great APOLLO shares with all of them.
Those thrice three Feminines, we Muses call;
But that one Masculine is worth them all!

_Of the Labours of HERCULES._

First, he the strong Nemæan lion slew;
The many-headed Hydra, next, o'erthrew.
The Erymanthian Boar he, thirdly, foils,
Then of his golden horns, the Stag he spoils.
The foul Stymphalian birds he, fifthly, frayed:
Next, he, the Queen of Amazons o'erswayed.
Then cleansed AUGIAS' stalls, with filth so full;
And, eighthly, tamed the untamed Bull.
He slew proud DIOMEDES with his horses.
From triple GERION, his rich beard he forces.
He slew the Dragon for the fruit of gold:
And made black CERBERUS the day behold.

_Being left by a Gentleman in his dining-room, where_
_was nothing but a Map of England to entertain_
_him; he thus turned it into Verse._

Fair England, in the bosom of the seas,
Amid her two and fifty Provinces,
Sits like a glorious Empress, whose rich throne
Great Nymphs of Honour come to wait upon.
First, in the height of bravery, appears
Kent, East and South and Middle Saxon Shires;
Next Surrey, Berkshire and Southampton get,
With Dorset, Wilton, and rich Somerset.
Then Devon, with the Cornish promontory,
Glou'ster and Worc'ster, fair Sabrina's glory!
Then Salop, Suffolk, Norfolk large and fair:
Oxford and Cambridge, that thrice learned pair!
Then Lincoln, Derby, Yorkshire, Nottingham,
Northampton, Warwick, Stafford, Buckingham,
Chester and Lancaster with herds well stored,
Huntington, Hertford, Rutland, Hereford.
Then Princely Durham, Bedford, Leic'ster and
Northumber-, Cumber-, and cold Westmoreland.
Brave English Shires! With whom, loved equally,
Welsh Monmouth, Radnor, and Montgomery
Add all the glory, to her train, they can:
So doth Glamorgan, Brecknock, Cardigan,
Carnarvon, Denbigh, Merionethshire,
With Anglesea, which o'er the sea doth rear
Her lofty head. And the first, though last,
Flint, Pembroke, and Caermarthen might be placed.
For all of these, unto their power, maintain
Their mistress, England, with a royal train.
Yea, for Supporters, at each hand hath she,
The Wight and Man, that two brave islands be.

From these, I, to the Scottish Nymphs had journeyed;
But that my friend was back again returned:
Who having kindly brought me to his home,
Alone did leave me in his dining-room;
Where I was fain (and glad I had the hap!)
To beg an entertainment of his Map.

_An Epitaph upon the right virtuous Lady,_
_the Lady SCOTT._

Let none suppose this relic of the Just
Was here wrapped up, to perish in the dust!
No, like best fruits, her time she fully stood,
Then, being grown in Faith, and ripe in Good
(With stedfast hope that She, another day,
Should rise with CHRIST), with Death, here down she lay.
And, that each part which Her in life had graced,
Preserved might be, and meet again at last;
The Poor, the World, the Heavens, and the Grave,
Her Alms, her Praise, her Soul, her Body have.

_An Epitaph upon a Woman and her Child buried_
_together in the same Grave._

Beneath this marble stone doth lie
The subject of Death's tyranny;
A Mother, who, in this close tomb,
Sleeps with the issue of her womb.
Though cruelly inclined was He.
And, with the Fruit, shook down the Tree;
Yet was his cruelty in vain!
For Tree and Fruit shall spring again.

_A Christmas Carol._

_So, now, is come our joyful'st feast;_
_Let every man be jolly!_
_Each room with ivy leaves is drest;_
_And every post, with holly._
_Though some churls at our mirth repine;_
_Round your foreheads, garlands twine!_
_Drown sorrow in a cup of wine;_
_And let us all be merry!_

_Now, all our neighbours' chimneys smoke,_
_And Christmas blocks be burning;_
_Their ovens, they with baked meats choke,_
_And all their spits are turning._
_Without the door, let sorrow lie!_
_And if, for cold, it hap to die;_
_We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,_
_And evermore be merry!_

_Now, every lad is wondrous trim,_
_And no man minds his labour;_
_Our lasses have provided them,_
_A bagpipe and a tabor._
_Young men and maids, and girls and boys,_
_Give life to one another's joys;_
_And you, anon, shall by the noise,_
_Perceive that they are merry._

_Ranking misers, now, do sparing shun;_
_Their Hall, of music soundeth!_
_And dogs thence, with whole shoulders run;_
_So all things there aboundeth._
_The country folk themselves advance;_
_For_ Crowdy-Mutton_'s come out of France!_
_And JACK shall pipe, and JILL shall dance,_
_And all the town be merry._

_NED SWASH hath fetched his Bands from pawn,_
_And all his best apparel;_
_Brisk NELL hath bought a Ruff of Lawn_
_With droppings of the barrel:_
_And those that hardly, all the year,_
_Had bread to eat, or rags to wear,_
_Will have both clothes and dainty fare;_
_And all the day be merry._

_Now poor men, to the Justices,_
_With capons make their arrants:_
_And if they hap to fail of these,_
_They plague them with their warrants._
_But, now, they feed them with good cheer,_
_And what they want, they take in beer;_
_For_ Christmas comes but once a year!
_And then they shall be merry._

_Good farmers in the country, nurse_
_The poor that else were undone;_
_Some landlords spend their money worse_
_On lust and pride in London._
_There, the roist'rers they play:_
_Drab and Dice their lands away;_
_Which may be ours, another day,_
_And therefore let's be merry!_

_The client now his suit forbears,_
_The prisoner's heart is eased._
_The debtor drinks away his cares,_
_And, for the time, is pleased._
_Though others' purses be more fat;_
_Why should we pine, or grieve thereat?_
Hang Sorrow! Care will kill a cat!
_And therefore let's be merry!_

_Hark, how the wags abroad do call_
_Each other forth to rambling!_
_Anon, you'll see them in the Hall,_
_For nuts and apples sc[r]ambling._
_Hark, how the roofs with laughter sound!_
_Anon, they'll think the house goes round;_
_For they, the cellar's depth have found,_
_And, there, they will be merry._

_The wenches, with their wassail bowls,_
_About the streets are singing;_
_The boys are come to catch the owls;_
_The Wild Mare in is bringing:_
_Our kitchen boy hath broke his box;_
_And to the dealing of an ox,_
_Our honest neighbours come by flocks;_
_And, here, they will be merry._

_Now_ Kings _and_ Queens, _poor sheepcots have,_
_And mate with everybody;_
_The honest, now, may play the_ Knave
_And wise men play at_ Noddy.
_Some youths will now a Mumming go,_
_Some others play at_ Rowland-hoe,
_And twenty other gameboys moe_
_Because they will be merry_.

_Then, wherefore, in these merry days_
_Should we, I pray! be duller?_
_No! let us sing some Roundelays_
_To make our mirth the fuller!_
_And whil'st, thus inspired, we sing;_
_Let all the streets with echoes ring!_
_Woods and Hills, and everything,_
_Bear witness we are merry!_

_An Epitaph upon the Porter of a Prison._

Here lie the bones of him, that was, of late,
A churlish Porter of a Prison gate!
Death, many an evening, at his lodging knocked;
But could not take him, for the door was locked!
Yet, at a tavern, late one night, he found him;
And getting him into the cellar, drowned him.
On which the world (that still the worst is thinking)
Reports abroad that "He was killed with drinking!"
Yet let no Prisoner, whether thief or debtor,
Rejoice, as if his fortune were the better!
Their sorrow's likely to be ne'er the shorter!
The Warden lives! though Death hath took the Porter.

_A Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss_.

Now gentle sleep hath closèd up those eyes,
Which waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
From whence I long, the rosy breath to draw.
Methinks, no wrong it were, if I should steal
From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss!
None sees the theft, that would the theft reveal!
Nor rob I her, of ought which she can miss!
Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
There would be little sign I had done so!
Why then should I, this robbery delay?
O, she may wake! and therewith angry grow!
Well, if she do: I'll back restore that one;
And twenty hundred thousand more for loan!

_An Epitaph upon ABRAHAM GOODFELLOW,_
_a common Alehouse hunter._

Beware, thou look not who hereunder lies!
Unless thou long to weep away thine eyes.
This man, as sorrowful report doth tell us,
Was, when he lived, the Prince of all Good Fellows.
That day he died, it cannot be believed
How, out of reason, all the Alewives grieved.
And what abominable lamentation
They made at _Black Boy_, and at _Salutation_.
They howled and cried, and, ever more, among,
This was the burden of their woful Song.
_Well, go thy ways! thy like hath never been!_
_Nor shall thy match again be ever seen!_
_For, out of doubt, now thou art dead and gone,_
_There's many a Taphouse will be quite undone!_
_And Death, by taking thee, did them more scath_
_Than yet, the Alehouse Project done them hath._
Lo, such a one but yesterday, was he;
But now, he much is altered, you do see!
Since he came hither, he hath left his riot;
Yea, changed both his company and his diet;
And, now, so civil lies, that, to your thinking,
He neither for an Alehouse cares, nor drinking.

_An Epitaph upon a Gentlewoman who had_
_foretold the time of her death._

Her, who, beneath this stone, consuming lies,
For many virtues, we might memorise;
But, most of all, the praise deserveth she
In making of her words and deeds agree.
For she so truly kept the word she spake;
As that with Death, she promise would not break.
"I shall," quoth she, "be dead, before the mid
Of such a month!" And, as she said, she did.

_An Epitaph on a Child, son to Sir W. H. KNIGHT._

Here lies, within a cabinet of stone,
The dear remainder of a Pretty One.
Who did in wit, his years so far out-pass;
His parents' wonder, and their joy he was:
And by his face, you might have deemèd him
To be on earth, some heavenly Cherubim.
Six years with life he laboured; then deceast
To keep the Sabbath of eternal rest:
So that, which many thousand able men
Are labouring for till threescore years and ten;
This blessed child attainèd to, ere seven:
And, now, enjoys it with the saints of heaven.

_A Song._

_Now, Young Man! Thy days and thy glories appear_
_Like sunshine and blossoms in Spring of the year;_
_Thy vigour of body, thy spirits, thy wit,_
_Are perfect, and sound, and untroubled yet._
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Mispend not a morning, so excellent clear!_
_Never, for ever, was happiness here!_
_Thy noontide of life hath but little delight;_
_And sorrows on sorrows will follow at night!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_That Strength, and those beauties that grace thee to-day;_
_To-morrow may perish, and vanish away!_
_Thy Wealth, or thy Pleasures, or Friends that now be,_
_May waste, or deceive, or be traitors to thee!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Thy joints are yet nimble, thy sinews unslack!_
_And marrow, unwasted, doth strengthen thy back!_
_Thy Youth from diseases, preserveth the brain;_
_And blood, with free passage, plumps every vein!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_But, trust me! it will not for ever be so!_
_Those Arms, that are mighty, shall feebler grow!_
_And those Legs, so proudly supporting thee now,_
_With age, or diseases will stagger and bow!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Then all those rare Features, now graceful in thee,_
_Shall, ploughed with Time's furrows, quite ruinèd be!_
_And they who admired and loved thee so much,_
_Shall loathe, or forget thou hadst ever been such!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Those tresses of Hair, which thy youth do adorn,_
_Will look like the meads in a winterly morn;_
_And where red and white intermixed did grow,_
_Dull paleness, a deadly Complexion will show!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_That Forehead imperious, whereon we now view_
_A smoothness and whiteness, enamelled with blue,_
_Will lose that perfection, which youth now maintains;_
_And change it for hollowness, wrinkles, and stains!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Those Ears, thou with music didst oft entertain,_
_And charm with so many a delicate strain;_
_May miss of those pleasures wherewith they are fed,_
_And never hear Song more, when youth is once fled!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Those Eyes, which so many, so much did admire,_
_And with strange affections set thousands on fire;_
_Shut up in that darkness which Age will constrain,_
_Shall never see mortal, no, never again!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Those Lips, whereon Beauty so fully discloses_
_The colour and sweetness of rubies and roses;_
_Instead of that hue, will ghastliness wear:_
_And none shall believe what perfection was there!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Thy Teeth, that stood firmly, like pearls in a row,_
_Shall rotten, and scattered, disorderly grow!_
_Thy Mouth, whose proportion, earth's wonder was thought;_
_Shall robbed of that sweetness, be prizèd at nought._
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_That Gait and those Gestures, that win thee such grace,_
_Will turn to a feeble and staggering pace;_
_And thou, that o'er mountains ran'st nimbly to-day;_
_Shall stumble at every rub in the way!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_By these imperfections, Old Age will prevail._
_Thy marrow, thy sinews, and spirits will fail!_
_And nothing is left thee, when those are once spent,_
_To give, or thyself, or another content!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Those Fancies that lull thee with Dreams of Delight,_
_Will trouble thy quiet, the comfortless night!_
_And thou that now sleepest thy troubles away;_
_Shalt hear how each cockerel gives warning of day!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_Then Thou, that art yet to thousands so dear,_
_Of all, shalt despised or neglected appear!_
_Which, when thou perceiv'st, though now pleasant it be,_
_Thy life will be grievous and loathsome to thee!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_That Lust, which thy youth can so hardly forego,_
_Will leave thee! and leave thee Repentance and Woe!_
_And then, in thy folly no joy thou canst have;_
_Nor hope other rest than a comfortless grave!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_For next, shall thy Breath be quite taken away;_
_Thy Flesh turned to dust, and that dust turned to clay!_
_And those, thou hast lovèd, and shared of thy store;_
_Shall leave thee, forget thee, and mind thee no more!_
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_And yet, if in time thou remember not this,_
_The slenderest part of thy sorrow it is!_
_Thy Soul, to a torture more fearful, shall wend,_
_Hath ever, and ever, and never an end._
Now then, O now then, if safety thou love;
Mind thou, O mind thou, thy Maker above!

_A Dream._

_When bright PHOEBUS at his rest,_
_Was reposèd in the West;_
_And the cheerful daylight gone,_
_Drew unwelcome darkness on:_
_Night, her blackness wrapt about me;_
_And within, 'twas as without me!_

_Therefore on my tumbled bed,_
_Down I laid my troubled head;_
_Where, mine eyes inured to care,_
_Seldom used to slumbering were:_
_Yet o'ertired of late, with weeping;_
_Then, by chance, they fell asleeping._

_But such visions, me diseased,_
_As in vain that sleep I seized;_
_For I sleeping Fancies had,_
_Which, yet waking, make me sad._
_Some can sleep away their sorrow!_
_But mine doubles every morrow._

_Walking to a pleasant grove,_
_Where I used to think of love,_
_I, methought, a place did view_
_Wherein FLORA's riches grew;_
_Primrose, hyacinth, and lilies,_
_Cowslips, vi'lets, daffodillies._

_There, a fountain close beside,_
_I, a matchless Beauty spied._
_So she lay as if she slept,_
_But much grief, her waking kept._
_And she had no softer pillow_
_Than the hard root of a willow._

_Down her cheeks, the tears did flow,_
_Which a grievèd heart did shew;_
_Her fair eyes, the earth beholding,_
_And her arms, themselves enfolding;_
_She (her Passion to betoken),_
_Sighed as if her heart were broken._

_So much grief, methought, she shewed,_
_That my sorrow, it renewed:_
_But when, nearer her I went,_
_It increased my discontent;_
_For a gentle Nymph she proved,_
_Who, me (long unknown) had loved._

_Straight on me she fixed her look;_
_Which, a deep impression took,_
_And "Of all that live," quoth she,_
_"Thou art welcomest to me!"_
_Then (misdoubting to be blamèd),_
_Thus she spake, as half ashamèd._

_"Thee! unknown, I long affected_
_And, as long, in vain expected,_
_For I had a hopeful thought_
_Thou would'st crave, what others sought!_
_And I, for thy sake! have stayed_
_Many wanton Springs, a Maid."_

_"Still, when any wooèd me,_
_They renewed the thought of thee!_
_And, in hope thou would'st have tried!_
_Their affections, I denied._
_But a lover forced upon me_
_By my friends, hath now undone me."_

_"What I waking, dared not shew;_
_In a dream, thou, now, dost know!_
_But to better my estate,_
_Now, alas, it is too late!_
_And I, both awake and sleeping,_
_Now consume my youth with weeping."_

_Somewhat, then, I would have said;_
_But replyings were denied._
_For, methought, when speak I would,_
_Not a word bring forth I could:_
_And as I, a kiss was taking;_
_That I lost too, by awaking._

PHIL'ARETE.

+THE KING+'s
+MAJESTY+'s

_Declaration to his_

Subjects,

CONCERNING

lawful Sports to
be used.

* * * * *

LONDON:

Printed by BONHAM NORTON and JOHN BILL,
Deputy Printers for the King's most
Excellent Majesty.
M.DC.XVIII.

[The text of this Monument of State Folly (the real drift of which was simply to affront the Puritans) is taken from a copy of the original edition in the Bodleian Library, Oxford.

We have also given at _pp._ 517-518, the title and additional matter of its reprint by CHARLES I. in 1633.]

By the King.

Whereas upon Our return, the last year out of Scotland, We did publish Our Pleasure touching the recreations of Our people in those parts, under Our hand: for some causes Us thereunto moving, We have thought good to command these Our Directions, then given in Lancashire, with a few words thereunto added and most appliable to these parts of Our Realms, to be published to all Our subjects.

Whereas We did justly, in Our progress through Lancashire, rebuke some Puritans and precise people, and took order that the like unlawful carriage should not be used by any of them hereafter, in the prohibiting and unlawful punishing of Our good people for using their lawful recreations and honest exercises upon Sundays and other Holy Days, after the afternoon Sermon or Service; We now find, that two sorts of people wherewith that country [_county_] is much infested (We mean Papists and Puritans) have maliciously traduced and caluminated those Our just and honourable proceedings. And therefore lest Our reputation might, upon the one side, though innocently, have some aspersion laid upon it; and that, upon the other part, Our good people in that country be misled by the mistaking and misinterpretation of Our meaning: We have therefore thought good hereby to clear and make Our Pleasure to be manifested to all Our good people in those parts.

It is true, that at Our first entry to this Crown and Kingdom, We were informed, and that too truly, that Our County of Lancashire abounded more in Popish Recusants than any county in England; and thus hath still continued since, to our great regret, with little amendment, save that now, of late, in our last riding through Our said County, We find, both by the report of the Judges, and of the Bishops of that diocese, that there is some amendment now daily beginning, which is no small contentment to Us.

The report of this growing amendment amongst them, made Us the more sorry, when, with Our own ears, We heard the general complaint of Our people, that they were barred from all lawful recreation and exercise upon the Sunday's afternoon, after the ending of all Divine Service. Which cannot but produce two evils. The one, the hindering of the conversion of many whom their priests will take occasion hereby to vex; persuading them that "no honest mirth or recreation is lawful or tolerable in Our Religion!" which cannot but breed a great discontentment in Our people's hearts; especially of such as are, peradventure, upon the point of turning. The other inconvenience is, that this prohibition barreth the common and meaner sort of people from using such exercises as may make their bodies more able for war, when We, or Our Successors shall have occasion to use them: and in place thereof sets up filthy tiplings and drunkenness, and breeds a number of idle and discontented speeches in their alehouses. For when shall the common people have leave to exercise, if not upon the Sundays and Holy Days? seeing they must apply their labour, and win their living in all working days!

Our express pleasure therefore is, _That the Laws of Our Kingdom, and Canons of Our Church be as well observed in that County, as in all other places of this Our Kingdom. And, on the other part, that no lawful recreation shall be barred to our good people, which shall not tend to the breach of Our aforesaid Laws, and Canons of Our Church._

Which to express more particularly,

Our Pleasure is, _That the Bishop and all other inferior Churchmen_ [Clergy], _and Churchwardens shall, for their parts, be careful and diligent, both to instruct the ignorant, and convince and reform them that are misled in religion, presenting_ [_i.e._, reporting for punishment] _them that will not conform themselves, but obstinately stand out to Our Judges and Justices: whom, We likewise command to put the law in due execution against them_.

Our Pleasure likewise is, _That the Bishop of that diocese take the like strait order with all the Puritans and Precisians within the same: either constraining them to conform themselves, or to leave the country, according to the Laws of Our Kingdom and Canons of Our Church_. And so to strike equally on both hands against the Contemners of Our Authority, and Adversaries of Our Church.