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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 unshaken virtue ever brings

5 Victory home, though new rebellions raise Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays

Her broken league to imp their serpent wings. O yet a nobler talk awaits thy hand,

(For what can war, but endless war still breed?) 10

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

5 Haft 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 laureat wreath. Yet much remains

To conquer still; peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than war: new foes arise
Threatning to bind our souls with secular chains :

Help us to save 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 repellid'

The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
Whether to settle peace, or to unfold

5. 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 pow'r and civil, what each means, 10 What severs each, thou haft 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.

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On the late massacre in Piemont,

Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones

Lię scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold ;
Ev’n them who kept thy truth fo pure of old,

When all our fathers worshipt stocks and stones, Forget not : in thy book record their groans 5

Who were thy. Sheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rollid

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 fow 10

O’er all'th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant ; that from these may grow

A hundred fold, who having learn’d 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,
And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodg’d with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present

S My true account, left he returning chide; Doth God exact day-labor, light deny'd ? I fondly ask : But patience to prevent


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That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts ; who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him beft : his state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o’er land and ocean without rest ;
They also serve who only stand and wait.



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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

From the hard season gaining time will run

On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire

The lily' 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

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 unwise,

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Cyriac, whose grandfire 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 so often wrench;
To-day deep thoughts resolve with me to drench

In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest and Archimedes pause,

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

Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ;

For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show : That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a chearful hour, refrains.



To the same.

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle orbs doth fight appear

* Son of William Skinner, Esq; and grandson of Sir Vincent Skinner; and his mother was Bridget, one of the daughters of the famous Sir Edward Coke Lord Chief Justice of the King's Bench.


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