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To the Lord General F A IRFAX.
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
(For what can war, but endless war ftill breed?) 10
To the Lord General C ROMWEL 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 pursued, 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
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: besides to know
Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means,
On the late maffacre in Piemont.
Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whose bones
When all our fathers worshipt 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 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 fway 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 serve therewith my Maker, and present 5
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 beft 10 Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And poft o'er land and ocean without reft;
To Mr. LAWRENCE.
Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous son,
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire The lilly' and rofe, that neither fow'd nor fpun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, 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 unwife.
To CYRIAC SKIN NE R. Cyriac, whofe 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 so often wrench; To day deep thoughts resolve 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
To the fame.
Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear,
On his deceased WIFE.
Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me like Alceftis from the grave,