<89.2> See THE POEMS OF WILLIAM HAMMOND, 1655, edited by Sir E. Brydges, 1816, p. 54, where there is a similar poem on Stanley and his bride from the pen of Hammond, who also claimed relationship with the then newly-married poet. The best account of Stanley is in the reprint of his Poems and Translations, 1814, 8vo. <89.3> Meaning that the earth had made 5000 revolutions round the sun; or, in other words, that the sun was 5000 years old. <89.4> Original reads AND THOU OF NIGHT. ON SANAZAR'S BEING HONOURED WITH SIX HUNDRED DUCKETS BY THE CLARISSIMI OF VENICE, FOR COMPOSING AN ELIGIACK HEXASTICK OF THE CITY. A SATYRE. Twas a blith prince<90.1> exchang'd five hundred crowns For a fair turnip. Dig, dig on, O clowns But how this comes about, Fates, can you tell, This more then Maid of Meurs, this miracle? Let me not live, if I think not St. Mark Has all the oar, as well as beasts, in's ark! No wonder 'tis he marries the rich sea, But to betroth him to nak'd Poesie, And with a bankrupt muse to merchandise; His treasures beams, sure, have put out his eyes.<90.2> His conquest at Lepanto<90.3> I'l let pass, When the sick sea with turbants night-cap'd was; And now at Candie his full courage shown, That wan'd to a wan line the half-half moon.<90.4> This is a wreath, this is a victorie, Caesar himself would have look'd pale to see, And in the height of all his triumphs feel Himself but chain'd to such a mighty wheel. And now me thinks we ape Augustus state, So ugly we his high worth imitate, Monkey his godlike glories; so that we Keep light and form with such deformitie, As I have seen an arrogant baboon With a small piece of glasse zany the sun. Rome to her bard, who did her battails sing, Indifferent gave to poet and to king; With the same lawrells were his temples fraught, Who best had written, and who best had fought; The self same fame they equally did feel, One's style ador'd as much as t' other's steel. A chain or fasces she could then afford The sons of Phoebus, we, an axe or cord; Sometimes a coronet was her renown, And ours, the dear prerogative of a crown. In marble statu'd walks great Lucan lay, And now we walk, our own pale statua. They the whole year with roses crownd would dine, And we in all December know no wine; Disciplin'd, dieted, sure there hath bin Ods 'twixt a poet and a Capuchin. Of princes, women, wine, to sing I see Is no apocrypha: for to rise high Commend this olio of this lord 'tis fit: Nay, ten to one, but you have part of it; There is that justice left, since you maintain His table, he should counter-feed your brain. Then write how well he in his sack hath droll'd, Straight there's a bottle to your chamber roll'd, Or with embroider'd words praise his French suit, Month hence 'tis yours with his mans, to boot; Or but applaud his boss'd legs: two to none, But he most nobly doth give you one. Or spin an elegie on his false hair: 'Tis well, he cries, but living hair is dear.