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To the Lord General FAIRFAX.

Fairfax, whofe 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 false North displays
Her broken league to imp their ferpent wings.

O yet a nobler task 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 fhare 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 matchlefs fortitude,

To peace and truth thy glorious way haft plough'd,

And on the neck of crowned fortune proud

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 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,




Vane, young in years, but in fage counsel old,

Than whom a better fenator 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

Then to advise how war may best upheld
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,

In all her equipage: befides to know


Both fpiritual pow'r and civil, what each means, 10 What fevers each, thou haft learn'd, which few

have done :

The bounds of either fword to thee we owe :
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest fon.

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On the late maffacre in Piemont.

of old,

Avenge, O Lord, thy flaughter'd faints, whofe bones
Lie fcatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
Ev'n them who kept thy truth fo pure
When all our fathers worshipt stocks and ftones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy fheep, and in their ancient fold
Slain by the bloody Piemontefe, 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 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 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 ferve therewith my Maker, and prefent
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 poft o'er land and ocean without reft;
They also serve who only stand and wait.



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

On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth, and clothe in fresh attire
The lily' and rofe, that neither fow'd nor fpun.
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 Tufcan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpofe them oft, is not unwife.




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Cyriac, whofe 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 fo 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 folid good what leads the nearest way; 10 For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And difapproves that care, though wife in show: That with fuperfluous burden loads the day, And, when God fends a chearful hour, refrains.


To the fame.

Cyriac, this three years day these eyes, though clear,
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their feeing have forgot,
Nor to their idle orbs doth fight appear

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


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