John Ashmore

The Argvment.
Goods got with care, we should not spare,
But spend them merily:
It then best fits, while time permits;
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The Argvment.
Whose birth the Muse doth not refuse
To grace with friendly eye,
Shall glory gaine, by the sweet veine
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Netubeatum dixeris &c.
Think not (good Saul) that hee is blest
Through Cities stately Gates that goes,
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Queen Elsabeth oft my complaints did heare:
But she no help (by death prevented) gave me.
These ruines crav'd a great King them t'up-reare:
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Blinde Fortune hath not Fowler nam'd thee then.
For, as he Birds doth take, so thou tak'st men.
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The Dane me sackt, poor wretch the Scot, o're-bold
In victory, unworthily me sold:
But, to both Realmes a Royall stem, by Fate,
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Come Virgins, come: Why doe you linger so,
With streams of tears that frō your swoln eys showr?
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Quod vitæ sectaboriter, &c.
What kinde of life may I desire as best,
If Courts of Iustice freed from Brawls ne'r rest?
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Wherefore did Fame this wofull Newes forth spread,
That thou (our Soveraigne) by curst hands wast dead?
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With silver Lips this Cup to thee I send:
Which with thy rosie Lips allow to blend.
It will thee satisfie with Nectar sweet,
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When Fame (great King) did through this Citie flie,
And told how Thou too soon a death didst die;
All places paid to thee the wofull Rent
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Vr.
Tell me, good Skell, from mirth to mourning cheer
What so hath chang'd thee, or what moves thy mind?
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The Argvment.
In one state they can never stay,
Whom Cupids toyes intangle:
What now they chuse, they straight refuse
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The Argvment.
The storme now spent of discontent
(If Lovers words be true)
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This Citie, where to learn I first began,
Me breeding gave, till (growing to a man)
Strange fashions I and kingdoms longd to see;
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Thy Ship, late tost from Coast to Coast,
Thou steerd ith' Port to rest,
From Circes charms and Scylla's harms;
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Heaven, Earth, and Men for one thing do contend:
Each one doth Fowler chalenge to be his.
Gods Messenger, from Heaven, this strife to end,
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Round Robin's gone: And this Grave doth inclose
The Pudding of his Doublet and his Hose.
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His Parents hope, the quires shrill Nightingall,
With whose sweet voyce these sacred wals oft rung,
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If any worthie be to be inrowl'd
Amongst true Friends, of which fore-times have told:
If any in Greek Arts, or Latin be
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