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That with smooth aire could humour best our
tongue. Thou honour'ft Verse, and Verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus' Choir,
That tun'st their happiest lines in Hymn, or Story, Dante Thall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to fing,
SON N E T XIV,
An Elegy. When Faith and Love, which parted from thee
never, Had ripen'd thy just Soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didft resign this earthly load. O Death, call'd life ; which us from Life doth
fever! Thy Works and Alms and all thy good Endeavour
Staid not behind, nor in the Grave were trod;
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever :
Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bid thee relt,
S O N N E T XV.
On General FAIRFAX.
And fills all mouths with envy or with Praise,
Ard rumours loud, which daunt remotest things;
yet a nobler Talk awaits thy Hand,
Till injur'd Truth from Violence be freed,
Of publick fraud ? In vain does Valour bleed,
On Sir Henry Vane the younger.
Than whom a better Senator ne'er held [repeld
The fierce Epirot, and the African bold)
The drift of hollow States, hard to be spell'd ;
Man'd by her two main Nerves, Iron and Gold,
What serves each, thou hast learn'd, which few
Therefore on thy right hand Religion leans,
T. O. CROMWELL. Cromwell, our chief of Men, that thro' a crowd Not of War only, but Distractions rude, (Guided by Faith and matchless Fortitude) To Peace and Truth thy glorious way haft plow'd, And fought God's Battles and his works pursu'd, While Darwent Streams with blood of Scots imbru'd, And Dunbar field resound thy Praises loud, And Worcester's Laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still ; Peace has her Victories No less than those of War. New Foes arise, Threatning to bind our Souls in fecular chains : Help us to save free Conscience from the Paw Of hireling Wolves, whose Gospel is their Maw. S Ο Ν Ν Ε Τ XVIII.
On the late Massacre in Piemont. Avenge, Lord, thy. Naughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
When all our Fathers worship'd Stocks and Stones, Forget not : in thy Book record their groans,
Who were thy Sheep, and in their antient Fold
Mother with Infant down the Rocks, Their moan The Vales redoubled to the hills, and they
To hear'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way,
On Cyriac Skinner.
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Nor to their idle Orbs does day appear,
Or Man, or Woman. Yet I argue not
Of Heart or Hope ; but Atill bear up, and steer
The conscience, friend, t'have lost them overply'd
In Liberty's defence, my noble task,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent
My true account, left he returning chide.
I fondly ask ; but patience, to prevent
soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best
Bear his mild yoak, they serve him best; his State Is Kingly: Thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er Land and Ocean without rest;
Cromwell's Council. 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 sullen day; what may be won
On smoother, till Favonius pe-inspire
The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repaft shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attiek taste, with Wine, whence we may rise
To hear the Lute well toucht, or artful voice Warble immortal Notes and Tufcan Air ?
He, who of those delights can judge and spare. To interpose them oft, is not unwise, SON N E T XXII.
On Cyriac Skinner. Eyriac, whose Grandfire on the Royal Bench Of British. Themise with no mean applause