Are stooles for horsemen that have feeble knees; Carry noe heads above ground: They which tell, That Christ hath nere descended into hell, But to the grave, his picture buried have In a far deeper dungeon then a grave: That is, descended to endure what paines The divell can think, or such disciples braines. No more my greife, in such prophane abuses Good whipps make better verses then the muses. Away, and looke not back; away, whilst yet The church is standing, whilst the benefitt Of seeing it remaines; ere long you shall Have that rac’t downe, and call’d Apocryphal, And in some barne heare cited many an author, Kate Stubbs, Anne Askew, or the Ladyes daughter[113]; Which shall be urg’d for fathers. Stopp Disdaine, When Oxford once appears, Satyre refraine. Neighbours, how hath our anger thus out gon ’s? Is not Saint Giles’s this, and that Saint Johns? Wee are return’d; but just with soe much ore As Rawleigh from his voyage, and noe more. _Non recito cuiquam nisi amicis, idque coactus,_ _Non ubivis, coramve quibuslibet._ HOR. lib. i. sat. 4. ON MR. RICE, THE MANCIPLE OF CHRIST-CHURCH IN OXFORD. Who can doubt, Rice, but to th’ eternall place Thy soule is fledd, that did but know thy face? Whose body was soe light, it might have gone To heav’ne without a resurrection. Indeed thou wert all type; thy limmes were signes, Thy arteryes but mathematicke lines: As if two soules had made thy compound good, That both should live by faith, and none by blood. ON HENRY BOLINGS. If gentleness could tame the Fates, or wit Deliver man, Bolings had not di’d yet; But One which over us in judgment sits, Doth say our sins are stronger than our wits. ON JOHN DAWSON, BUTLER OF CHRIST-CHURCH. Dawson the butler’s dead: Although I think Poets were ne’re infus’d with single drink, I’ll spend a farthing, muse; a watry verse Will serve the turn to cast upon his herse. If any cannot weep amongst us here, Take off his cup, and so squeeze out a tear. Weep, O ye barrels! let your drippings fall In trickling streams; make waste more prodigal Than when our beer was good, that John may float To Styx in beer, and lift up Charons boat With wholsome waves: and, as the conduits ran With claret at the Coronation, So let your channels flow with single tiff, For John, I hope, is crown’d: Take off your whiff, Ye men of rosemary[114], and drink up all, Remembring ’tis a butlers funeral: Had he been master of good double beer, My life for his, John Dawson had been here. ON GREAT TOM OF CHRIST-CHURCH.