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To the Lord General FAIRFAX.

Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze
And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Thy firm unshaken virtue ever brings


Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings. O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,


(For what can war, but endless war still breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith clear'd from the fhameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed, While avarice and rapin share the land.


To the Lord General CROMWELL. Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud


Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work purfued, While Darwen ftream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field refounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains

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To conquer ftill; peace hath her victories


No lefs renown'd than war: new foes arise Threatning to bind our fouls with secular chains: Help us to fave free confcience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whofe gospel is their maw.


To Sir HENRY VANE the younger. Vane, young in years, but in fage counsel old, Than whom a better fenator ne'er held The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms repell'd The fierce Epirot and the African bold, Whether to fettle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow ftates hard to be spell'd, Than to advise how war may best upheld Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: befides to know



Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, What fevers each, thou haft learn'd, which few have The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: (done: Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans


peace, and reckons thee her eldest fon.


On the late maffacre in PIEMONT.

Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whofe bones Lie fcatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old,


When all our fathers worshipt flocks 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 Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow 10 O'er all th' Italian fields, where ftill doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe.



When I confider how my light is spent


Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me ufeless, though my foul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, left he returning chide; Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'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 10 Bear his mild yoke, they ferve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without reft; They also serve who only ftand and wait.




Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous fon,


Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire, Help waste a fullen day, what may be won From the hard season gaining? time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lilly' and rofe, that neither fow'd nor fpun. What neat repaft fhall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rife 10

To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpofe them oft, is not unwife.



Cyriac, whose granfire on the royal bench

Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc'd and in his volumes taught our laws, Which others at their bar fo often wrench; To day deep thoughts refolve with me to drench 5 In mirth, that after no repenting draws;

Let Euclid reft and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 9


Toward folid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wife in show, That with fuperfluous burden loads the day, And when God fends a chearful hour, refrains. XXII.

To the fame.

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear. To outward view, of blemish or of spot,

Bereft of light their feeing have forgot, Nor to their idle orbs doth fight appear Of fun, or moon, or ftar throughout the year, 5 Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The confcience, Friend, to' have loft them overIn liberty's defence, my noble task, ply'd Of which all Europe talks from fide to fide. (mask This thought might lead me thro' the world's vain Content though blind, had I no better guide.


On his deceafed WIFE.

Methought I faw my late efpoused faint

Brought to me like Alceftis from the grave, Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave, Rescued from death by force, tho' pale and faint.


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