SONNET XI

T

On the Reception his Book of Divorce met with A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon;

And woven close, both matter, form and ftile; The Subject new: it walk'd the Town a while, Numb'ring good intellects; now feldom por❜d on. Cries the ftall-reader, Blefs us! what a word on

A title page is this! and fome in file

Stand spelling false, while one might walk to MileEnd Green. Why is it harder Sirs than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galafp?

Those rugged Names to our like mouths grow fleek, That would have made Quintilian ftare and gafp. Thy age, like ours, O Soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not Learning worse than Toad or Afp; When thou taught'ft Cambridge, and King Edward

SONNET

On the fame.

XIL

[Greek

I did but prompt the Age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient Liberty,
When ftrait a barbarous noife environs me
Of Owls and Cuckoes, Affes, Apes and Dogs.
As when those Hinds that were transform'd to Frogs
Rail'd at Latona's twin-born Progenie

Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee..

But this is got by cafting Pearl to Hogs;

That bawle for freedom in their fenfelefs mood,

And ftill revolt when truth would fet them free. Licence they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that, must first be wife and good;

But from that mark how far they roave we fee For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood.

SONNET XIII.

To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Aires. Harry, whofe tuneful and well measur'd Song

First taught our English Mufick how to span Words with just note and accent, not to scan With Midas Ears, committing short and long; Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, With praise enough for Envy to look wan;

To after age thou shalt be writ the man, [tongue. That with smooth aire could'ft humour beft our Thou honour'ft Verfe, and Verfe muft fend her wing To honour thee, the Priest of Phabus Quire

That tun'ft their happiest lines in Hymn, or Story,
Dante fhall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to fing
Met in the milder hades of Purgatory.

SONNET XIV.
An Elegy.

When Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy juft Soul to dwell with God,

Meekly thou didst 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 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 speak the truth of thee on glorious Theams Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee reft And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

SONNET XV.

On General FAIRFAX.

Fairfax whofe Name in Arms thro' Europe rings,
And fills all mouths with Envy or with Fraife,
And all her Jealous Monarchs with amaze
And rumours loud, which daunt remoteft things,
Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings

Victory home, while new Rebellions raife
Their Hydra Heads, and the false North displays
Her broken League to inip her Serpent wings.
O yet a nobler Task 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 fhare the Land

SONNET XVI.

On Sir Henry Vane the younger.

Vane, young in Years, but in fage Councils old,
Than whom a better Senator ne'er held

The Helm of Rome (when Gowns not Arms repel'd
The fierce Epirot, and the African bold)
Whether to fettle Peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow States, hard to be spel'd. Then to advise how War may be best upheld, Man'd by her two main Nerves, Iron and Gold, In all her Equipage: Besides to know

What ferves each, thou hast learn'd, which few have The bounds of either Sword to thee we owe; [done, Therefore on thy right hand Religion leans, And reckons thee in chief her Eldest Son.

SONNET XVII.

To O. CROMWELL.

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

To Peace and Truth thy glorious way hast 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 till; 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, whose gospel is their Maw.

SONNET

XVIII.

On the late Massacre 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 so pure of old
When all our Fathers worship't 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 roil'd

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 still doth sway The tripple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hunder'd fold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

SONNET XIX.

On Cyriac Skinner.

Cyriae, this three years day, thofe Eyes, tho' clear
To outward view of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of Sight, their feeing have forgot.