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That with fmooth aire could humour beft our

tongue.

Thou honour'ft Verfe, and Verse must fend her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus' Choir,
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.

SONNET 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 refign 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 blifs 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 fo dreft, And spake the truth of thee on glorious Theams Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

SON

SONNET

XV.

On General FAIRFAX.

Fairfax, whofe Name in Arms thro' Europe rings,
And fills all mouths with envy or with Praife,
And all her jealous Monarchs with amaze
And rumours loud, which daunt remotest things;
Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings

Victory home, while new Rebellions raise

Their Hydra Heads, and the falfe North displays. Her broken League to imp her Serpent wings. O yet a nobler Tafk awaits thy Hand,

For what can War but acts of War ftill breed, Till injur'd Truth from Violence be freed, And publick faith be refcu'd from the brand Of publick fraud? In vain does Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the Land.

SONNET

XVI.

On Sir Henry Vane the younger. Vane, young in Years, but in fage Counfels old, Than whom a better Senator ne'er held [repel'd The Helm of Rome (when Gowns, not Arms, The fierce Epirot, and the African bold) Whether to fettle Peace, or to unfold

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

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

M 5

What

What ferves each, thou haft 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 Eldeft Son.

SONNET XVII.
To O. CROMWELL.

Cromwell, our chief of Men, that thro' a crowd
Not of War only, but Distractions rude,
(Guided by Faith and matchlefs Fortitude)

To Peace and Truth thy glorious way haft plow'd,
And fought God's Battles and his works purfu'd,
While Darwent Streams with blood of Scots imbru'd,
And Dunbar field refound thy Praises loud,
And Worcester's Laureat wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer ftill; Peace has her Victories
No less than thofe of War. New Foes arife,
Threatning to bind our Souls in fecular chains:
Help us to fave free Confcience from the Paw
Of hireling Wolves, whofe Gospel is their Maw.
XVIII.

SONNET

On the late Maffacre in Piemont. Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd Saints, 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 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 roll'd

Mother

Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moan The Vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow
O'er all th' Italian fields, where ftill doth fway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
A hundred-fold, who having learnt thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

SONNET XIX.
On Cyriac Skinner.

Cyriac, this three years day, these Eyes tho' clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of Sight, their feeing 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 ftill bear up, and steer Right onwards. What fupports me, doft thou atk ? The confcience, friend, t'have loft them overply'd In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Whereof all Europe rings from fide to fide.

This Thought might lead me thro' this world's vain mask,

Content, though blind, had I no other Guide,

SONNET

XX.

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 Soul more bent To ferve therewith my Maker, and present

My

My true account, left he returning chide.. Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd I fondly afk; but patience, to prevent That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts; who beft Bear his mild yoak, they serve him beft; his State Is Kingly: Thousands at his bidding speed, And poft o'er Land and Ocean without reft; They alfo ferve who only stand and wait.

SONNET

XXI.

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 fometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a fullen day; what may be won
From the hard season gaining? time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth; and clothe in fresh attire
The Lillie and Rose, that neither fow'd nor fpun.
What neat repaft fhall feaft us, light and choice,
Of Attick tafte, 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 interpofe them oft, is not unwife.

SONNET XXII.
On Cyriac Skinner.

Cyriac, whofe Grandfire on the Royal Bench
Of British Themis with no mean applause

Pra

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