IX. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president Who lived in both, unstain'd with gold or fee, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. So well your words his noble virtues praise, X. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES. 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, 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, When thou taught'st Cambridge and King Edward Greek. XI. ON THE SAME. I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs When straight a barbarous noise environs me As when those hinds, that were transform'd to frogs, Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny, 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, And still revolt when truth would set them free. Licence they mean when they cry liberty; For who loves that, must first be wise and good; But from that mark how far they rove we see, For all this waste of wealth, and loss of blood. XII. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. and the green, LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends 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. XIII. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS. HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song To after age thou shalt be writ the man XIV. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never, Love led them on, and Faith, who knew them best XV. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Victory home, though new rebellions raise (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 valour bleed, While avarice and rapine share the land. XVI. 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 hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned fortune proud Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued, And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureate wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renown'd than war: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains: Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw. XVII. TO SIR HENRY VANE, THE YOUNGER. VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, 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 severseach, 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. XVIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones. Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold |