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XV. To my Lord Fairfax.
AIRFAX, whose Name in Arms through
And fills all Mouths with Envy or with Praise, And all her Jealous Monarchs with Amaze. And Rumours loud which daunt remotest Kings, Thy firm unshaken Valour ever brings
Victory home, while new Rebellions raise Their Hydra-heads, and the false North displays Her broken League to Imp her Serpent Wings : O yet! a Nobler task awaits thy Hand,
For what can War, but Acts of War ftill breed, Till injur❜d Truth from Violence be freed; And publick Faith be refcu'd from the Brand
Of publick Fraud; in vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine shares the Land.
XVI. To Oliver Cromwell.
ROMWELL our Chief of Men, that through
Not of War only, but distractions rude;
To Peace and Truth, thy Glorious way haft
And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud
Haft rear'd God's Trophies, and his Work purfued, [imbru'd ; While Darwent Streams with Blood of Scots
And Dunbarfield refound thy Praises loud, And Worcester's Laureat Wreath; yet much remains To Conquer ftill; Peace hath her Victories 10 No less than those of War; new Foes arise Threatning to bind our Souls in fecular Chains, Help us to fave Free Conscience from the paw Of Hireling Wolves, whofe Gospel is their Maw.
XVII. To Sir Henry Vane.
ANE, Young in years, but in Sage Councels old,
Then whom a better Senator ne're held
The Helm of Rome, when Gowns, not Arms, repell'd
The fierce Epirote, 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 be upheld, Mann'd by her Two main Nerves, Iron and Gold, In all her Equipage: Befides, to know
Both Spiritual and Civil, what each means, What ferves each, thou haft learn'd, which few have done.
The bounds of either Sword to thee we owe; Therefore on thy Right hand Religion leans, And reckons thee in chief her Eldest Son.
XVIII. On the late Maffacher in Piemont.
VENGE O Lord thy flaughter'd Saints, whose bones
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones, Forget not in thy book record their groanes
Who were thy Sheep and in their antient Fold Slayn by the bloody Piemontefe that roll'd Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their
The Vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they
To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow O're all th' Italian fields where still doth fway The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian wo.
HEN I confider how my light is spent,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
That murmur, foon replies, God doth not need
AWRENCE of vertuous Father vertuous Son, Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire Help waft a fullen day; what may be won From the hard Seafon gaining: time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire The Lillie and Rofe, that neither fow'd nor fpun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attick taft, with Wine, whence we may rise To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare To interpofe them oft, is not unwife.
YRIACK, whose Grandfire on the Royal Bench Of Brittish Themis, with no mean applause Pronounc't and in his volumes taught our Lawes, Which others at their Barr so often wrench;
To day deep thoughts refolve with me to drench
And what the Swede intend, and what the French. To measure life, learn thou betimes, and know Toward folid good what leads the nearest way; For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wife in fhow,
That with fuperfluous burden loads the day, And when God fends a cheerful hour, refrains.
XXII. To Mr. Cyriac Skinner.
YRIAC this Three years day, these Eyes though
To outward view of blemish or of Spot, Bereft of Sight, their Seeing have forgot: Nor to their idle Orbs doth day appear, Or Sun, or Moon, or Star, throughout the Year; Or Man, or Woman; yet I argue not Against Heaven's Hand, or Will, nor bate one jot Of Heart or Hope; but still bear up, and steer Right onward. What fupports me, dost thou ask? The Conscience, Friend, to have loft them over In Liberties Defence, my noble task; [ply'd Of which all Europe rings from fide to fide. This thought might lead me through this World's
Content, though blind, had I no other Guide.