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Thou honor'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
To honor thee, the priest of Phoebus quire, 10
That tun'ft their happiest lines in hymn, or story.
Dante fhall give fame leave to fet thee higher
Than his Cafella, whom he woo'd to fing
Met in the milder fhades of purgatory.


On the religious memory of Mrs. CATHARINE THOMSON, my Chriftian friend, friend, deceas'd 16 Decem. 1646.

When faith and love, which parted from thee never, Had ripen'd thy just foul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth fever. 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 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, 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 unfhaken virtue ever brings

Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the falfe North difplays Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings. O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand,


(For what can war, but endless war ftill breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, 1I And public faith clear'd from the fhameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth valor bleed, While avarice and rapin share the land.


To the Lord General CROMWEL L. Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude, Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,

Topeace and truth thy glorious way hast 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 M m 2 To

To conquer ftill; peace hath her victories No lefs renown'd than war: new foes arise Threatning to bind our fouls with fecular chains : Help us to fave free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whofe gospel is their maw.




younger. Vane, young in years, but in fage counfel 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 fettle peace, or to unfold

The drift of hollow ftates hard to be spell'd, Than 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 pow'r and civil, what each means,
What fevers each, thou haft 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 fon.



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,


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When all our fathers worshipt flocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans


Who were thy fheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd 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 sow 10 O'er all th' Italian fields, where ftill 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.



When I confider 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 foul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, left he returning chide;
Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd,
I fondly ask: But patience to prevent
That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts; who beft 10
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state
Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And poft o'er land and ocean without reft;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

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Lawrence, of virtuous father virtuous fon,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire,
Help waste a fullen day, what may be won
From the hard season gaining? time will run 5

On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire

The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

The lilly' and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise 10

To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice Warble immortal notes and Tuscan air?

He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpose them oft, is not unwife.


To CYRIAC SKINNER. Cyriac, whose granfire on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc'd and in his volumes taught our laws, Which others at their bar fo often wrench; To day deep thoughts refolve with me to drench 5 In mirth, that after no repenting draws; Let Euclid reft and Archimedes pause,

And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know 9 To

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