Was his effentiall table full as free

As boafts and invitations ufe to be?

Where if his fuffet-friend did chance to dine,
Whether his fatten man would fill him wine?
Did he thinke perjury as lov'd a finne,
Himfelfe forfworne, as if his flave had beene?
Did he feeke regular pleasures? was he knowne
Just husband of one wife, and the his owne ?
Did he give freely without pause or doubt,
And read petitions, ere they were worne out?
Or fhould his well-deferving client aske,
Would he bestow a Tilting or a Maske

To keepe need vertuous? and that done not feare
What Lady damn'd him for his absence there?
Did he attend the Court for no man's fall?
Wore he the ruine of no Hofpitall?
And when he did his rich apparell don,
Put he no widow, nor an orphan on ?
Did he love fimple vertue for the thing?
The King for no refpect but for the King?
But above all, did his Religion wait
Upon God's Throne, or on the Chaire of State?
He that is guiltie of no Quære here,
Out-lafts his epitaph, oulives his heire.
But there is none fuch, none fo little bad,
Who but this negative goodneffe ever had?
Of fuch a Lord we may expect the birth,
He's rather in the wombe than on the earth.
And 'twere a crime in such a publike fate,
For one to live well and degenerate;
And therefore I am angry, when a name
Comes to upbraid the world like Effingham.
Nor was it modeft in thee to depart
To thy eternall home, where now thou art,
Ere thy reproach was ready; or to dye,
Ere cuftome had prepar'd thy calumny.

Eight dayes have past fince thou haft paid thy debt
To finne, and not a libell stirring yet,
Courtiers that fcoffe by Patent, filent fit,
And have no use of flander or of wit;

But (which is monftrous) though against the tide,
The watermen have neither rayld nor lide.
Of good and bad there's no distinction known,
For in thy praise the good and bad are one.
It feemes we all are covetous of Fame,
And hearing what a purchase of good name
Thou lately mad'st, are carefull to encrease
Our title by the holding of fome leafe

From thee our Land-Lord, and for that th' whole crue
Speake now like tenants ready to renew ;
It were too fad to tell thy pedegree,
Death hath diforder'd all, mifplacing thee,
Whilft now thy Herauld in his line of heires
Blots out thy name, and fills the space with teares.
And thus hath conqu'ring death, or nature rather,
Made thee, prepoftrous, ancient to thy father,
Who grieves th' art fo, and like a glorious light
Shines ore thy Hearfe; he therefore that would write
And blaze thee thoroughly, may at once fay all
Here lies the Anchor of our Admirall.

Let others write for glory or reward,

Truth is well paid, when she is sung and heard.

ELEGY ON DR. AILME R.

No, no, he is not dead; the mouth of Fame,
Honor's fhrill Herald, would preferve his name,

And make it live in spite of death and duft,
Were there no other heaven, no other trust.
He is not dead: the facred Nine deny,
The foule that merits fame, fhould ever dye;
He lives; and when the latest breath of fame
Shall want her trumpe to glorify a name,
He fhall furvive, and thefe felfe-clofed eyes,
That now lie flumbring in the dust shall rise,
And fill'd with endleffe glory, fhall enjoy
The perfect vifion of eternall joy.

On the Death of a SCOTCH NOBLEMAN.

FAME, regifler of Time,

Write in thy fcrowle, that I

Of Wisdome lover, and fweet Poesie,

Was cropped in my prime :

And ripe in worth, though greene in yeares did dye.

Drummond, p. 203.

Small 8vo. Ed.

MORS TUA.

METHINKES, I fee the nimble aged Sire
Paffe fwiftly by, with feet unapt to tire;

Upon his head an Hower-glaffe he weares,
And in his wrinkled hand a fythe he beares,
(Both inftruments, to take the lives from men)
Th' one fewes with what, the other fheweth when.
Methinkes, I heare the dolefull paffing-bell,
Setting an onfet on his louder knell ;
(This moody mufick of impartialt death
Who dances after dances out of breath).

Methinkes

Methinkes I fee my dearest friends lament,
With fighes and teares, and wofull dryriment,
My tender wife and children standing by,
Dewing the Death-bed, whereupon I lye :
Methinkes. I hear a voice (in fecret) fay,

Thy glaffe is runne, and thou muft dye to-day.”

Pentelogia, by F. Quarles.
Lond. 1630.

Upon the Death of CHARLES the Firft. Written with the Point of his Sword.

GREAT, good, and just! could I but rate

My grief to thy too rigid fate,

'I'd weep the world to fuch a strain,

As it fhould deluge once again.

But fince thy loud-tongu'd blood demands fupplies,
More from Briareus hands, than Argus eyes,
Il'e fing thee obfequies with trumpet founds
And write thy Epitaph in blood and wounds.

MONTROSE.

Printed amongst Poems by J. Cleaveland, 1665, Lond. Ed. See likewise, A Choice Collection of Comic and Serious Scots Poems. Edinburgh 1713.