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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,
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.


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;
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

And azure wings, that up they flew fo dreft,
And spake the truth of thee on glorious Theams

Before the Judge ; who thenceforth bid thee relt,
And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.



On General FAIRFAX.
Fairfax, whose Name in Arms thro' Europe rings,

And fills all mouths with envy or with Praise,
And all her jealous Monarchs with amaze

Ard rumours loud, which daunt remotest things;
Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings
Victory home, while new Rebellions raise
Their Hydra Heads, and the false North displays.
Her broken League to imp her Serpent wings.

yet a nobler Talk awaits thy Hand,
For what can War but acts of War still breed,

Till injur'd Truth from Violence be freed,
And publick faith be rescu'd from the brand

Of publick fraud ? In vain does Valour bleed,
While Avarice and Rapine share the Land,


On Sir Henry Vane the younger.
Vane, young in Years, but in sage Counsels old,

Than whom a better Senator ne'er held [repeld
The Helm of Rome (when Gowns, not Arms,

The fierce Epirot, and the African bold)
Whether to settle Peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow States, hard to be spell'd ;
Then to advise how War may best b' upheld;

Man'd by her two main Nerves, Iron and Gold,
In all her Equipage : Besides to know


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What serves each, thou hast learn'd, which few

have done.
The bounds of either Sword to thee we owe ;

Therefore on thy right hand Religion leans,
And reckons thee in chief her Eldest Son,


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,
Ev’n them who kept thy truth fo pure of old,

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
Slain by the bloody Piemontese that rollid


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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
The triple Tyrant : that from these may grow

A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

On Cyriac Skinner.
Cyriac, this three years day, these Eyes tho clear

To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of Sight, their seeing have forgot ;

Nor to their idle Orbs does day appear,
Or Sun or Moon, or Stars throughout the Year ;

Or Man, or Woman. Yet I argue not
Againft Heav'n's Hand, or Will; nor bate one jot

Of Heart or Hope ; but Atill bear up, and steer
Right onwards. What fupports me, doft thou ask ?

The conscience, friend, t'have lost them overply'd

In Liberty's defence, my noble task,
Whereof all Europe rings from side to side.
This Thought might lead me thro' this world's:

vain mark,
Content, though' blind, had I no other Guide,

When I consider 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 Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker; and present


My true account, left he returning chide.
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny.'d ?

I fondly ask ; but patience, to prevent
That murmur,

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;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

To Mr. Lawrence, Son to the President of

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
From the hard seafon gaining ? time will run

On smoother, till Favonius pe-inspire
The frozen earth ; and clothe in fresh attire

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


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