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Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Passes to bliss at the mid-hour of night,
TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
DAUGHTER to that good Earl, once President
Of England's Council and her Treasury,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
Killed with report that old man eloquent.
Wherein your father flourished, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I see him living yet :
That all both judge you to relate them true,
ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING
A BOOK was writ of late called Tetrachordon,
And woven close, both matter, form, and style;
Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on.
A title-page is this!" And some in file
Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?
sieek 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,
ON THE SAME.
I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs;
Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny,
But this is got by casting pearl to hogs,
And still revolt when Truth would set them free.
Licence they mean when they cry Liberty ;
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.
HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
With Midas' ears, committing short and long,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan ;
Thou honour'st verse, and verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' choir,
That tunest their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY
CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED DEC. 16, 1646. WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, · Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God,
Meekly thou didst resign this earthy load
Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever.
Stayed not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
Followed thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so dressed,
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAIX. (1648).
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And rumours loud that daunt remotest kings,
Victory, home, though new rebellions raise
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,
Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY 1652.
ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS OF THE COMMITTEE FOR
PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL.
CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Hast reared God's trophies, and His work pursued,
And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
To conquer still ; Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than War: new foes arise,
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER, 1652.
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled ;
În all her equipage ; besides, to know
Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
What severs each, thou hast learned, which few have done. The bounds of either sword to thee we owe :
Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.
AVENGE, O Lord, Thy slaughtered saints, whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold;
When all our fathers worshipped stocks and stones,
Who were Thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
To Heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundredfold, who, having learned Thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe.
ON HIS BLINDNESS.
WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
My true account, lest He returning chide,