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X. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.

DAUGHTER to that good once

AUGHTER to that good Earl, once prefident

Who liv'd in both, unftain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till fad the breaking of that Parliament

Broke him, as that dishoneft victory

At Chæronea, fatal to liberty,

Kill'd with report that old man eloquent.
Though later born than to have known the days
Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I fee him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praife,

That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to poffefs them, honor'd Margaret.

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ΤΟ

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XI. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES.

A

BOOK was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon.

And woven clofe, both matter, form and style; The fubject new; it walk'd the Town awhile. Numb'ring good intellect; now feldom por'd on. Cries the tall-reader, Blefs us! what a word on 5 A title page is this! and fome in file

Stand fpelling falfe, while one might walk to MileEnd Green. Why is it harder Sirs than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galatp?

Thofe rugged names to our like mouths grow fleek, That would have made Quintilian ftare and gafp. 11 Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,

Hated not learning worse than toad or alp, When thou taught'ft at Cambridge, and King Edward [Greek.

XII. ON THE SAME.

I By the known Pults of ancient linerty,

DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs

When ftrait a barbarous noife environs me Of owls and cuccoos, affès, apes and dogs:

As when thofe hinds that were transform'd to frogs 5

Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny.

Which after held the fun and moon in fee,
But this is got by cafting pearl to hogs,

That bawl for freedom in their fenfeleis mood,
And ftill revolt when Truth would fet them free,
Licence they mean when they cry Liberty;

For who loves that, muft first be wife and good;
But from that mark how far they rove we fee
For all this waite of wealth, and lofs of blood.

HAR

ΙΟ

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XIII. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS. [ARRY, whose tuneful and well-measur'd song Firft taught our English mufic how to span Words with just note and accent, not to fcan With Midas' ears, committing short and long; Thy worth and kill exempts thee from the throng, With praise enough for Envy to look wan; To after age thou fhall be writ the man That with imooth air could't humour beit our tongue. Thou honour'it verfe, and verfe muft lend her wing To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire That tun'ft their happieft lines in hymn or story. Dante fhall give Fame leave to fet thee higher

Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to fing, Met in the milder fhades of purgatory.

ΙΟ

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XIV. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHARINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND.

Deceas'd 16 Dec. 1646.

HEN faith and love, which parted from theè

WHEN

never,

Had ripen'd thy juft foul to dwell with God
Meekly thou didst refign this earthly load
Of death, call'd lite; which us from life doth fever.
Thy works and alms and all thy good endeavour
Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod,
But as Faith, pointed with her golden rod,
Follow'd thee up to joy and blits for ever.

Love led them on, and Faith who knew them best Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams

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And azure wings, that up they flew so drest And fpake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee reft, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

XV. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX.

FAIRE

AIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe
rings,

Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,

And all her jealous monarchs with amaze
And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Thy firm unfhaken virtue ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Their Hydra heads, and the falfe North difplays
Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings.

O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,
(For what can war but endless war ftill breed?)
Till truth and right from violence be freed,

And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

XVI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.

CR

II

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[cloud,

ROMWELL, our chief of men, who, through a Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchlefs fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way haft plough'd, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud

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Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work purfu'd, While Darwen ftream with blood of Scots imbru'd, And Dunbar field refounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer ftill; Peace hath her victories No lefs renown'd than War: new foes arife Threat'ning to bind our fouls with fecular chains: Help us to fave free confcience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whofe gospel is their maw. VOL. II.

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XVII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.

VANE, in better fenator ne er held

ANE, young in years, but in fage council old,

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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 Then to advife how War may beft upheld Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: befides to know

Both fpiritual power and civil, what each means, IQ What fevers each, thou haft learn'd, which few have done :

The bounds of either fword to thee we owe : Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans

In peace, and reckons thee her eldest fon.

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XVIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEMONT.

AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd faints, whose

bones

Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; E'en them who kept thy truth fo pure of old, When all our fathers worthipt stocks and ftones, Forget not; in thy book record their groans Who were thy theep, 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
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth fway
The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

W

XIX. ON HIS BLINDNESS.

WHEN I confider how my light is spent

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Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodg'd with me ufelefs, though my foul more bent
To ferve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask? but patience to prevent

That murmur, foon replies, God doth not heed
Either man's work or his own gifts; who beft

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Bear his mild yoke, they ferve him beft; his state Is kingly; thou lands at his bidding speed, And poft o'er land and ocean without reit: They also serve who only stand and wait.

XX. TO MR. LAWRENCE.

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous fon;

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Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where fhall we fometimes meet, and, by the fire, Help waste a fullen day, what may be won From the hard feafon gaining? time will run On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lily and rofe, that neither fow'd nor spun.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice Of attic tafte, with wine, whence we may rife

To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice
Warble immortal notes and Tufcan air?
He who of those delights can judge and spare
To interpofe them oft, is not unwife.

CY

XXI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER.

YRIAC, whofe grandfire on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applaufe,
Pronounc'd, and in his volumes taught our laws,
Which others at their bar to often wrench;
To day deep thoughts refolve with me to drench
In mirth, that atter 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
Tow'rd folid good what leads the nearest way ;

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