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XV. To my Lord Fairfax. FAIRFAX, whole 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 talk awaits thy Hand,

For what can War, but Acts of War still breed,

Till injur'd Truth from Violence be freed; And publick Faith be rescu'd from the Brand

Of publick Fraud ; in vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine shares the Land.

XVI. To Oliver Cromwell.

CROM

Croud,

"ROMWELL our Chief of Men, that through

a Croud,
Not of War only, but distractions 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 Haft rear'd God's Trophies, and his Work pursued,

[imbru’d; While Darwent Streams with Blood of Scots

And Dunbarfield resound thy Praises loud, And Worcester's Laureat Wreath; yet much remains

To Conquer still; Peace hath her Victories 10

No less than those of War; new Foes arise Threatning to bind our Souls in secular Chains, Help us to save Free Conscience from the

paw Of Hireling Wolves, whose Gospel is their Maw.

XVII. To Sir Henry Vane.

VANE, Young in years, but in Sage Councels

Then whom a better Senator ne're held
The Helm of Rome, when Gowns, not Arms,

repellid
The fierce Epirote, and the African bold,
Whether to settle Peace, or to unfold

The Drift of hollow States, hard to be Spellid; Then to advise how War may best be upheld,

Mann'd by her Two main Nerves, Iron and Gold, In all her Equipage : Besides, to know

Both Spiritual and Civil, what each means, What serves each, thou hast 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 Massacher in Piemont. A VENGE O Lord thy slaughter'd Saints, whose

bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold, Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old

Whenallour 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 Piemontese that rollid Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their

moans

The Vales redoubľd to the Hills, and they

To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes fow

O’re all th’Italian fields where still doth sway The triple Tyrant : that from these may grow

A hunder'd-fold, who having learnt thy way Early may fly the Babylonian wo.

XIX.

W
HEN I consider how my light is spent,
E're 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

My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask ; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need

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

Bear his milde yoak, they serve him beft, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed

And post o’re Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite.

XX.

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 wast a sullen day; what may be won
From the hard Season gaining: time will run

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

The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,

Of Attick tast, 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 interpose them oft, is not unwise.

XXI.

CYR

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 resolve with me to drench

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

And what the Swede intend, 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 cheerful hour, refrains.

XXII. To Mr. Cyriac Skinner.

Upon his Blindness. CYRIAC VYRIAC this Three years day, these Eyesthough

clear 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 supports me, dost thou ask?

The Conscience, Friend, to have lost them over

In Liberties Defence, my noble task ; [ply'd Of which all Europe rings from side to side. This thought might lead me through this World's

vain mask Content, though blind, had I no other Guide.

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