To The Right Worshipfull, Sir Edward Mosley, Knight, Attorney Of His Maiesties Court Of The Dutchie Of Lancaster Poem by John Ashmore

This Nothing take of him, that owes to Thee
All things; and Nothing, if it greater bee.

Ianus is come; and now begins to call
For gifts, due at his first dayes Festivall:
But, gifts to him I none can finde to bring:
What? Are the sluces of the Thespian spring
So shut up? Are my wits so in the wane,
That the old Porter of the year, againe
Returning, should me emptie handed see?
I rather that, which no where found may be,
In wayes before unknown will seek: and, Lo,
From place to place by wandring to and fro,
My Muse hath Nothing found. This Gift take well.
Nothing doth pearle, Nothing doth gold, excell.
This therefore with a friendly eye beholde:
A new thing's heere; which none before have tolde.
The Latin and Greek Poëts did rehearse
All other things in their yet-living Verse:
Nothing the Greeks and Latins left unsaid.
Where-soe'r faire Ceres in the fields doth spread
Her Plentie-bringing hands from Heaven's towrs,
Or olde Oceanus (from his watry bowrs)
The broad ball of the Earth encloseth round,
Nothing's beginning or end is not found.
Nothing's immortall: Nothing, on all sides,
Still in the height of happiness abides.
But, if from hence we prove the divine praise,
Shall we not Altars then unto it raise?
Nothing's more pleasant than the cheerfull light.
Nothing with beauty more allures the sight,
Then a well watred garden in the Spring.
Nothing, than meadowes, is more flourishing.
Nothing is milder then the Southern winde.
In hurly-burlies, Nothing rest doth finde.
Nothing is iust in Peace. Nothing holdes faith
In Courtiers. And (as Tibullus saith)
He happy is, that Nothing hath. For, he
Feares not the traps of wily Treacherie.
He feares not scar-fires that great-Towns lay waste:
Nor he, by Theeves,
or Robbers, is agast:
Nor he, in carefull Sutes, his wit doth waste.
And Zeno's Wiseman, that doth so subiect
All things to Fate, Nothing doth not neglect:
H' admireth Nothing: Nothing he desires:
And the Socratian but to this aspires,
Nothing to knowe; which now's sought busily:
And boyes ith' schoole learne Nothing willingly,
Because to Wealth and Honour it doth bring.
Knowe Nothing, and thou then shalt know the thing
Which with a No-Say, eye-like, dy'd in graine,
Is in the top of learnd Pythagoras Beane.
Mercurialists, the bowels of the earth
That rent, and with fire-belching bellows breath
Smelt metalls, and their Patrimonies mingle
With Sulphure, Mercurie, and smoaky Ingle,
Instant upon their secret work in holes,
Forc't in their Fornaces with hell-black coales,
At last with costly loss searching each creek
Finde Nothing; and yet, Nothing found, still seek.
No Pearch can measure this in th'Artists hand:
Nor he, the number of the Lybian sand
That knowes, can number it. Nothing, alone,
Is to Minerva and Apollo 'unknowne.
Nothing, it selfe above the Stars up-reares:
Nothing is higher then the glorious Spheares.
And though all ornaments of Wit You have
(Searching things hid in Natures secret Cave)
And gracefull speech (which when you doo advance,
Might make whole Forrests after you to dance
The Measures) and grave Wisdome (which doth bring
You to imployment, from our gracious King,
In matters of great Consequence) yet you
(Oh! give me leave to speak the thing that's true,
And all that know you, needs must to me grant)
Doe seem of Nothing to be ignorant.
Yet Nothing than the glorious Sun-beame's lighter:
And Nothing then the glowing fire is brighter:
Nothing doth fit each Fancie. Adde this too,
Nothing's more subtle than the clouted-shoo.
Touch Nothing: and thou then wilt surely say,
Without a body Nothing touch we may:
Nothing behold: and thou wilt say, that wee
Can Nothing without help of Colour see.
Without a Voyce, it speaks, and heares; and flyes
Without Wings: Nothing walketh without Thies.
Without a Place, Nothing to goe is able.
Than Physick, Nothing is more profitable.
Then, try not the Thessalian spels, or reeles,
When the Idalian dart thy breast, pearc't, feeles;
Nor Dictean weeds, from Ida's top tane, prove.
Nothing doth cure the wounds of cruell Loue.
And though thee Charon o'r his sad flood carry,
Nothing will thee forbid there still to tarry.
Nothing th'infernall King doth pacifie,
And bends the distafs of hard Destinie.
The Titans brood, in fields Phlegreian drownd,
Than stroake of Thunder Nothing mightier found.
Nothing without the worlds great wals doth stray.
The gods feare Nothing. Why then dost thou stay,
My Muse, so long? Than Vertue Nothing's better:
And (to conclude) Nothing than Iove is greater.
But, now these subtle Trifles time bids end;
Lest, if in too much paper I commend
My Verses, unto you of Nothing sent,
They might more Weariness bring, than Content.