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SO N N E T S.
To the Nightingale.
Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still;'
While the jolly hours lead on propitious May.
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Have link'd that amorous pow'r to thy soft lay,
Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh
As thou from year to year hast sung too late
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three. HOW soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,
Stol'n on his wing my three and twentieth year!
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near ;
That some more timely-happy spirits endu'th.
It shall be still in strictest measure even
To that same lot, however mean or high,
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
When the Assault was intended to the City. CAPTAIN, or Colonel, or Knight in arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honour did thee ever please,
Guard them, and him within protect from harms. He can requite thee; for he knows the charms
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
Went to the ground : and the repeated air
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
To a virtuous Young Lady.
Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green,
That labour up the hill with heav'nly truth,
Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, Apd at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
To the Lady Margaret Ley.
Of England's Council and her Treasury,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
Wherein your father flourish'd, 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 certain
And woven close, both matter, form, and style;
Numb’ring good intellects ; now seldom por'd on.
A title-page is this!' And some in file
End Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than Gordon,
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,
On the same.
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
Rail'd 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.
First taught our English music how to span
With Midas' ears, committing short and long ;
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire,
That tun'st their happiest lines in hymn or story.
Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing
On the religious Memory of Mrs. Catherine Thomson, my
Christian Friend, deceased December 16, 1646. WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
Štaid not behind, nor in the grave were trod;
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And rumours loud that daunt remotest kings;
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Her broken league to imp their serpent-winge.
(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. CROMWELL, our chief of men, who through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
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,
And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud,
To conquer still; peace hath her victories
No less renown'd than war: new foes arise
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
To Sir Henry Vane, the Younger,
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The fierce Epirot and the African bold;
The drift of hollow states hard to be spellid;
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
Both spiritual pow'r and civil, what each means,
What severs each, thou hast learn’d, which few have done: The nds of either sword to thee we owe:
Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
On the late Massacre in Piemont.
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not: in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
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
O’er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
A hundred fold, who having learn’d thy way,
On his Blindness. x Х WHEN I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
My true account, lest he, returning, chide;
Either man's work, or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best: his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o’er land and ocean without rest;
To Mr. Lawrence. LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we my rise