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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 ftill breed?) 10 Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed, While avarice and rapin share the land. XVI.

To the Lord General CROMWEL L. Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud 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


Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work purfued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field refounds thy praises loud,

And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains


To conquer fill; peace hath her victories

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


To Sir HENRY VAN E the younger. Vane, young in years, but in fage counsel old,

Than whom a better senator 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, Then 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
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.


On the late maffacre in Piemont.

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


When all our fathers worshipt stocks and ftones, 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 sow 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.


On his Blindness.

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 useless, though my foul more bent
To ferve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, left he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd,
I fondly afk: But patience to prevent
That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who beft 10
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him beft: his ftate
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And poft o'er land and ocean without reft;
They also serve who only stand and wait.




Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,

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 rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic tafte, with wine, whence we may rise 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 interpose them oft, is not unwise.



Cyriac, whose grandfire 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 rest and Archimedes pause,

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


Toward folid good what leads the nearest way; 10 For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise 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,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not
Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but ftill bear up and steer
Right onward. What fupports me, doft thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to' have loft them over-
In liberty's defense, my noble task,

Of which all Europe talks from side to side.



This thought might lead me through the world's vain

Content though blind, had I no better guide.


On his deceased WIFE.

Methought I saw my late efpoused faint

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

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