X.

To the Lady Margaret Ley.

Daughter to that good Earl, once President
Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
Who liv'd in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Till fad the breaking of that Parlament

Broke him, as that dishonest 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 florish'd, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I fee him living yet;
So well your words his noble virtues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to poffefs them, honor'd Margaret.

XI.

5

10

On the detraction which followed upon my writing certain treatises.

A book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon,
And woven close, both matter, form and stile;
The fubject new it walk'd the town a while,
Numb'ring good intellects; now seldom por`d on.
Cries the ftall-reader, Bless 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 Galafp?

Thofe rugged names to our like mouths grow fleck, That would have made Quintilian ftare and gafp. Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not learning worfe than toad or alp, [Greek, When thou taught ft Cambridge, and king Edward

XII.

On the fame.

I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
When ftrait a barbarous noife environs me
Of owls and cuccoos, affes, apes and dogs =
As when those hinds that were transform'd to froge
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 fenfeless mood,
And ftill revolt when truth would fet them free. ro
Licence they mean when they cry Liberty;
For who loves that, must first be wife and good;
But from that mark how far they rove we fee
For all this waste of wealth, and lofs of blood.

XIII.

To Mr. H. LAWES on his Airs.

Harry, whofe tuneful and well meafur'd song
First taught our English mufic how to span
Words with juft note and accent, not to fcan
With Midas ears, committing fhort and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, s
With praife enough for envy to look wan;

10

To after age thou shalt be writ the man, [tongue. That with fmooth air could't humour beft our Thou honor'ft verfe, and verfe muft lend her wing To honor thee, the pricft of Phoebus quire, That tun'ft their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante fhall give fame leave to fet thee higher Than his Catella, whom he woo'd to fing Met in the milder fhades of purgatory.

XIV.

On the religious memory of Mrs. Catharine Thomfon, my chriftian friend, deceas'd 16 Decem. 1646.

When faith and love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just foul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load
Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth fever.
Thy works and alms and all thy good endevor
S
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 bliss for ever.
Love led them on, and faith who knew them beft
Thy hand-maids,clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 11
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee reft
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praife,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze
And rumors loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Thy firm unfhaken virtue ever brings
Victory home, though new rebellions raife
Their Hydra heads, and the falfe North displays
Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings.

O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,

5

(For what can war, but endless war ftill breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, X 2

And

And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand
Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed,
While avarice and rapin fhare the land.

XVI.

To the Lord General CROMWELL.

S

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 haft 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
Το
hath her victories
conquer ; peace
No lefs renown'd than war: new foes arife
Threatning to bind our fouls with secular chains :
Help us to fave free confcience from the paw
Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.

ftill

XVII.

To Sir HENRY VANE the younger.

10

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,
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 fpiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, 10

What

What fevers each, thou haft learn'd, which few have The bounds of either fword to thee we owe: [done: Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans In peace, and reckons thee her eldest fon.

XVIII.

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 fo pure of old,
When all our fathers worshipt ftocks and stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy theep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontefe 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 id O'er all th' Italian fields, where still 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.

XIX.

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 niore bent
To ferve therewith my Maker, and prefent
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
X 3
Either