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To the Lady Margaret Ley.
Daughter to that good Earl, once Prelident

Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
Who liv'd in both, unstaind with gold or fee,

And left them both, more in himself content,
Till sad the breaking of that Parlament

Broke him, as that dishonelt victory
At Chäronea, fatal to liberty,

Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. Though later born than to have known the days Wherein


father florilh’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 true,
And to possess them, honor'd Margaret.

On the detraction which followed upon my writing

certain treatises.
A book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon,

And woven cloie, both matter, form and itile i
The subject new : it walk'd the town a while,

Numb'ring good intellects; now feldon por'd on,
Cries the stall-reader, Bless us ! what a word on's
A title page is this! and some in file
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to Mile-

End Green. Why is it harder Sirs than Gordon,
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galaip?

Those rugged names to ourlikemouths 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 alp, [Greek,
When thou taught it Cambridge, and kingëdward



On the fame.
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

By the known rules of ancient liberty,
When strait a barbarous noise environs me

Of owls and cuccoos, asses, apes and dogs: As when those kinds that were transformd to frogs

Which after held the sun and moon in fee.

But this is got by casting pearl to hogs ; That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,

And still revolt when trutht would set them free. 10

Licence they mean when they cry Liberty ; For who loves that, must first be wise and good;

Bnt 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.

Hairy, whose tuneful and well measur'd fong

First taught our English music how to span Words with just note and accent, not to scani With Midas ears, committing short and long i 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 sinooth air could'st humour best our Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honor thee, the priest of Phcbus quire,

That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante shall give fame leave to let thee higher

Than his Calella, whom he woo'd to sing
Met in the milder fades of purgatory,

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On the religious memory of Mrs. Catharine Thom,

fon, my christian friend, deceas'd 16 Decem, 2646.


When faith and love, which parted from thee never,

Had ripend thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didît resign this earthly load

Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works and alms and all thy good endevor

5 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 beft

Thy hand-maids,clad them o'erwith purple beams

And azure wings, that up they few so drest, 11
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,


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

S Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays

Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings.
O yet a nobler talk awaits thy hand,

(For what can war, but endless war ftill breed?)
Till truth and right from violence be freed,


And public faith cleard from the shameful 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 detractions rude,
Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way haft ploughid, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud

Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream with blood of Scots imbrued,

And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer ftill ; peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than war : new foes arise Threatning to bind our fouls with secular chains : Help us to save free conscience from the

paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their mas.


To Sir HENRY VANE the younger.

Vane, young in' years, but in sage counsel old,

Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms repell’d

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

S The drift of hollow states hard to be fpellid, Then to advife how war may best upheld

Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold, In all her equipage: besides to know Both fpiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, so


What severseach, thou hast learn'd, which few have The bounds of either sword to thee we owe: [done:

Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son,

On the late massacre in Piemont.

Svenge, O Lord, thy ffaughter'd saints, whose bones

Lie fcatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold
Er'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 5

Who were thy theçp, and in their ancient fold Slain by the blaody Piemontese that rollid

Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow 19 D'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth fway The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow

A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way Early may fly the Babylonian woe,

On his blindness.

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 ferve therewith my Maker, and present S

My true account, left he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd,

I fondly ask : But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need


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