And Hope that reaps not fhame. Therefore be fure

Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends Paffes to bliss at the mid hour of night,

Haft gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wife and pure.
X.

Daughter to that good Earl, once Prefident
Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
Who liv'd in both, unftain'd with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the fad breaking of that Parliament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory

At Charonea, fatal to Liberty,

Kill'd with report that Old man eloquent,

Though later born, than to have known the days
Wherein your Father flourisht, yet by you,

Madam, methinks I see him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to poffefs them, Honour'd Margaret.
XI.

A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon;
And woven close, both matter, form and stile;
The Subject new: it walk'd the Town a while,

Num

Numb'ring good intellects; now seldom por❜d on. Cries the stall-reader, blefs us! what a word on

A title page is this! and fome in file

Stand spelling falfe, while one might walk to Mile

End Green. Why is harder Sirs than Gordon, Coliktto, or Macdonnel, or Galafp?

Thofe rugged Names to our like mouths grow fleek That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not Learning worfe than Toad or Afp;

When thou taught'ft Cambridge, and King Edward
XII. On the fame
{Greek.

I did but prompt the Age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient Liberty,

When ftrait a barbarous noise environs me

Of Owls and Cuckoes, Affes, Apes and Dogs. As when thofe Hinds that were transform'd to Frogs Rail'd at Latona's twin-born Progenie

Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee.
But this is got by cafting Pearl to Hogs;

That bawle for freedom in their senseless mood,
And ftill revolt when truth would fet them free.
Licence they mean when they cry Liberty s

For who loves that, must first be wife and good;

But from that mark how far they roave we fee For all this waste of wealth, and lofs of blood.

To Mr. H. Lawes on his Aires,

XIII.

Harry whofe tuneful and well measur'd Song
First taught our English Musick how to fpan
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas Ears, committing fhort and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;

To after age thou shalt be writ the man,

[tongue. That with fmooth air could'ft humour beft our Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must send her wing

To honour thee, the Prieft of Phœbus Quire That tun'ft the happiest lines in Hymn, or Story, Dante fhall give Fame leave to set thee higher Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to fing Met in the milder fhades of Purgatory.

XIV.

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, Had ripen'd thy just Soul to dwell with God,

Meek

Meekly thou didst refign' this earthly load

Of Death, call'd Life; which us from Life doth se

ThyWorks and Alms and all thy goodEndeavour[ver.

Staid not behind, nor in the Grave were trod; But as Faith pointed with her Golden rod, Follow'd thee up to joy and blifs for ever. Love led them on, and Faith who knew them best Thy hand-maids,clad them o'er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew fo dreft, And speak the truth of thee on glorious Theams Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

On the late Maffacher in Piemont.

XV.

Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
Ev'n them who kept thy truth fo pure of old
When all ourFathers worship'd Stocks and Stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy Sheep, and in their ancient Fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd

Mo

Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and afhes fow O'er all th' Italian Fields where still doth fway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

XVI.

When I confider how my light is spent,
E'er half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To ferve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, left he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light depy'd,
'I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
Bear his mild yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And poft o're Land and Ocean without rest,
They alfo ferve who only stand and wait.

XVII. Law