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But, had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His letters are deliver'd all, and gone,
Only remains this superscription.

EPIGRAM ON SALMASIUS'S HUNDREDA..
Who taught Salmasius, that French chattering pye
To aim at English, and Hundreda cry?
The starving rascal, flush'd with just a hundred
English Jacobusses, Hundreda blunder'd :
An outlaw'd king's last stock. A hundred more
Would make him pimp for the antichristian whore;
And in Rome's praise employ his poison'd breath,
Who threaten’d once to stink the pope to death.

ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE

LONG PARLIAMENT.
BECAUSE you have thrown off your prelate lord,

And with stiff vows renounced his liturgy,
To seize the widow'd whore Plurality,

From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr'd,
Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword

To force our consciences that Christ set free,
And ride us with a classic hierarchy,

Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ?
Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent,

Would have been held in high esteem with Paul
Must now be named and printed heretics,

By shallow Edwards, and Scotch what d'ye call ;
But we do hope to find out all your tricks,
Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent,

That so the Parliament
May, with their wholesome and preventive shears,
Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears,

And succour our just fears
When they shall read this clearly in your charge,
New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ large.

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I TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
Warblest at eve when all the woods are still;
Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill,
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Portend success in love ; oh, if Jove's will

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,
Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh ;

As thou from year to year has sung too late
For my relief, yet hadst no reason why :

Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

II. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE AGE OF TWENTY

THREE.
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year !
My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom showeth.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

That I to manhood am arrived so near;
And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

That some more timely-happy spirits endueth.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven;

All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great Task-master's eye.

III. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.

CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
If deed of honour did thee ever please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms.
He can requite thee, for he knows the charms

That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
And he can spread thy name o'er lands and seas,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
Lift not thy spear against the Muses' bower :

The great Emathian conqueror bid spare

The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower
Went to the ground : and the repeated air

Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare.

IV. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.
LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth

Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,

That labour up the hill of heavenly truth,
The better part with Mary and with Ruth

Chosen thou hast ; and they that overween,
And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,

And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends

Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night
Hast gain'd thy entrance, virgin wise and pure.

V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once President

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

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

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 your father flourish'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, honour'd Margaret.

VI. 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 style ;
The subject new; it walk'd the town awhile,

Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored 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 Mile-

End 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 taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward Greek.

VII. ON THE SAME.
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs

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

Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs :
As when those hinds, that were transform'd to frogs,

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 freedom 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.

VIII. TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.

Harry, whose tuneful and well-measured 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 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 couldst humour best our tongue.
Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing

To honour thee, the priest of Phæbus' choir,

That tunest 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,
Mei in the milder shades of purgatory,

IX. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF

MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON,
MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED 16TH DEC. 1646.
WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never,

Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

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

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 handmaids, 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.

X. 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 rumours 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 ?)

Till truth and right from violence be freed,
And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand

Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
While avarice and rapine share the land.

XI. 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 hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud

Hast 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 laureate wreath. Yet much remains

To conquer still ; peace hath her victories

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