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TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president
Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
Though later born than to have known the days
So well your words his noble virtues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret.
ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY
A BOOK was writ of late, called Tetrachordon,
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to MileEnd Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek,
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
ON THE SAME.
I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs
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,
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,
For who loves that, must first be wise and good;
TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY.
LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth
Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green,
Chosen thou hast; and they that overween,
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.
TO MR. H. LAWES, ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE
THOMSON, DECEASED, DECEMBER 16, 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, called 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.
TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX.
FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand
And public faith clear'd from the shameful brand
TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.
CROMWELL, Our chief of men, who, through a cloud
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast plough'd,
Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued,
Yet much remains
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
The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd; Then to advise how war may, best upheld, Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
In all her equipage: besides, to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each means, What severs each, thou hast learn'd, which few have done: The bounds of either sword to thee we owe ; Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.
AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy way,