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Who liv'd in both, unftain'd with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content Till fad the breaking of that Parlament Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Charonea, fatal to liberty,
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father florifh'd, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I fee him living yet?
On the detraction which follow'd upon my writing certain treatifes.
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, Numbering good intellects; now feldom por'd on. Cries the stall-reader, Bless us! what a word on 5 A title page is this! and some in file
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to MileEnd Green. Why is it harder Sirs than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
9 Those rugged names to our like mouths grow fleek, 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 afp,
On the fame.
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
Which after held the fun and moon in fee.
To Mr. H. LAWES on his Airs.
Harry, whose tuneful and well-measur'd fong
To after age
Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
To honor thee, the priest of Phœbus quire, 10 That tun'ft their happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante shall give fame leave to set thee higher Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to sing Met in the milder fhades of purgatory.
On the religious memory of Mrs. CATHARINE THOMSON, my Chriftian friend, deceas'd 16 Decem. 1646.
When faith and love, which parted from thee never,
To the Lord General FAIRFAX.
Fairfax, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
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 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 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 plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud
Haft rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen ftream with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field refounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains
To conquer ftill; peace hath her victories
No lefs renown'd than war: new foes arife Threatning to bind our fouls with fecular chains: Help us to fave free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.
To Sir HENRY VANE the younger. Vane, young in years, but in fage 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 ftates hard to be spell'd,
Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means,
On the late maffacre in PIEMONT.
Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whofe bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold; Ev'n them who kept thy truth fo pure of old,