To the Lady Margaret Ley.
Daughter to that good Earl, once Prefident Of England's Council, and her Treasury, Who liv'd in both, unftain'd with gold or fee, And left them both, more in himself content, Till sad the breaking of that Parlament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory At Charonea, fatal to liberty,
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father florifh'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.
On the detraction which followed upon my writing
A book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon, And woven close, both matter, form and file; The fubject new: it walk'd the town a while, Numb'ring good intellects; now feldom por`d on. Cries the ftall-reader, Blefs us! what a word on s A title page is this! and fome in file
Stand spelling 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 fleek, 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 afp, [Greek, When thou taught it Cambridge, and king Edward
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs By the known rules of ancient liberty, When ftrait a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuccoos, affes, apes and dogs: As when those hinds that were transform'd to frogs 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 fenfelefs mood, And ftill revolt when truth would fet them free. 10 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 loss of blood.
To Mr. H. LAWES on his Airs.
Harry, whofe tuneful and well meafur'd fong First taught our English mufic how to span Words with juft note and accent, not to scan With Midas ears, committing fhort and long; Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, s With praise enough for envy to look wan ;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man, [tongue. That with fimooth air could'st humour beft our Thou honor'ft verfe, and verfe muft lend her wing To honor thee, the priest of Phoebus quire, That tun'ft their happiest 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.
On the religious memory of Mrs. Catharine Thomfon, my chriftian friend, deceas'd 16 Decem, 646.
When faith and love, which parted from thee never, Had ripen'd thy juft foul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst refign this earthly load
Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth fever. Thy works and alms and all thy good endevor 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 blifs 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 fo dreft, 11 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,
To the Lord General FAIRFAX,
Fairfax, whofe 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 unfhaken virtue ever brings Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the falfe 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?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, X 2
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 detra&tions rude, Guided by faith and matchlefs fortitude, To peace and truth thy glorious way haft plough, 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 To conquer ftill; 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 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 fpell'd, Then to advife 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 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,
On the late maffacre in Piemont.
Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whose 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 stocks and stones, Forget not in thy book record their groans Who were thy fheep, 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 afhes fow IQ O'er all th' Italian fields, where ftill doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from thefe 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 ufelefs, though my foul more 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
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