Brings hither but his sheet; nay, th' ostrich-man That feeds on steel and bullet, he that can Outswear his lordship, and reply as tough To a kind word, as if his tongue were buff, Is chap-fall'n here: worms without wit or fear Defy him now; Death hath disarm'd the bear. Thus could I run o'er all the piteous score Of erring men, and having done, meet more, Their shuffled wills, abortive, vain intents, Fantastic humours, perilous ascents, False, empty honours, traitorous delights, And whatsoe'er a blind conceit invites; But these and more which the weak vermins swell, Are couch'd in this accumulative cell, Which I could scatter; but the grudging sun Calls home his beams, and warns me to be gone; Day leaves me in a double night, and I Must bid farewell to my sad library. Yet with these notes--Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit; Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again. IN AMICUM F[OE]NERATOREM. Thanks, mighty Silver! I rejoice to see How I have spoil'd his thrift, by spending thee. Now thou art gone, he courts my wants with more, His decoy gold, and bribes me to restore. As lesser lode-stones with the North consent, Naturally moving to their element, As bodies swarm to th' centre, and that fire Man stole from heaven, to heav'n doth still aspire, So this vast crying sum draws in a less; And hence this bag more Northward laid I guess, For 'tis of pole-star force, and in this sphere Though th' least of many, rules the master-bear. Prerogative of debts! how he doth dress His messages in chink! not an express Without a fee for reading; and 'tis fit, For gold's the best restorative of wit. Oh how he gilds them o'er! with what delight I read those lines, which angels do indite! But wilt have money, Og? must I dispurse Will nothing serve thee but a poet's curse? Wilt rob an altar thus? and sweep at once What Orpheus-like I forc'd from stocks and stones? 'Twill never swell thy bag, nor ring one peal In thy dark chest. Talk not of shreeves, or gaol; I fear them not. I have no land to glut Thy dirty appetite, and make thee strut Nimrod of acres; I'll no speech prepare To court the hopeful cormorant, thine heir. For there's a kingdom at thy beck if thou But kick this dross: Parnassus' flow'ry brow I'll give thee with my Tempe, and to boot That horse which struck a fountain with his foot. A bed of roses I'll provide for thee, And crystal springs shall drop thee melody. The breathing shades we'll haunt, where ev'ry leaf Shall whisper us asleep, though thou art deaf. Those waggish nymphs, too, which none ever yet