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Till sad 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
father florish’d, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet ; So well your words his noble virtues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them truc, And to possess them, honor'd Margaret.
XI. 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 subject new; it walk'd the Town a while. Numb'ring good intellects; now seldom por’d on. Cries the stall-reader, Bless us ! what a word on
A title page is this ! and some in file Stand spelling false, while one might walk to MileEnd Green. Why is it harder Sirs than Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek,
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek,
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou tau t'st Cambridge, and King Edward
XII. On the same.
Did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
When strait a barbarous noise environs me
Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny,
Which after held the sun and moon in fee. But this is got by casting pearl to hogs; That bawl for freedorh in their senseless mood, And still revolt when Truth would set them free. Licence they mean when they cry Liberty;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good; But from that mark how far they rove we see
For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood.
XIII. To Mr. H. Lawes on his Airs.
HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measurd song
First taught our English music how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan With Midas' ears, committing short and long; Thy worth and skill exempt's thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan ;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man That with smooth air could'st humour best out tongue.
[wing Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her To honor thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire,
That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn or story."
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing Met in the milder shades of Purgatory,
XIV. On the religious memory of Mrs. Catharine Thomson, myChristian friend, deceas'd 16 Dec. 1646. When faith and love, which parted from thee never
Had ripend thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth sevet. Thy worksand 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 bliss for ever,
Love led them on, and Faith who knew them best Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams
and azure wings, that up they flew so drest And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.
XV, 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 serpent wings.
O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand, (For what can war, but endless war still breed?) Til truth and right from violence be freed,
And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valor bieed,
While Avarice and Rapine share the land.
XVI. To the Lord General Cromwell.
Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots im
brued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer still; Peace hath her victories
No less renown'd than War: new foes arise Threatning to bind our souls with secular chains:
Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.
XVII. To Sir Henry Vane the younger. Vane, young in years, but in sage counsel old,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held (pellid
The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms reThe fierce Epirot and the African bold, Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow states hard to be spellid
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 power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou' hast learn'd, which few
have done : The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.
XVIII. On the late Massacre in Piemont.
AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, 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 chat rollid Mother with fant down the rocks. Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they