Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, XII. ON THE SAME. I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs When straight a barbarous noise environs me Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs; As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs Railed at Latona's twin-born progeny, Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee. But this is got by casting pearl to hogs, That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood, And still revolt when Truth would set them free. Licence they mean when they cry Liberty; For who loves that must first be wise and good: But from that mark how far they rove we see, For all this waste of wealth and loss of blood. ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord, Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword To force our consciences that Christ set free, And ride us with a Classic Hierarchy, Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rutherford ? Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent, Would have been held in high esteem with Paul Must now be named and printed heretics By shallow Edwards and Scotch What-d'ye-call! But we do hope to find out all your tricks, When they shall read this clearly in your charge: XIII. TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS. HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song First taught our English music how to span Words with just note and accent, not to scan With Midas' ears, committing short and long, Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng, With praise enough for Envy to look wan; To after age thou shalt be writ the man That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue. Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing XIV. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND, DECEASED DEC. 16, 1646. WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never, Had ripened thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthy load Of death, called life, which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, XV. ON THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX, AT THE FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings, Victory home, though new rebellions raise O yet a nobler task awaits thy hand (For what can war but endless war still breed?) Till truth and right from violence be freed, And public faith cleared from the shameful brand Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed, While Avarice and Rapine share the land. XVI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL, MAY 1652, ON THE PROPOSALS OF CERTAIN MINISTERS AT THE COM MITTEE FOR PROPAGATION OF THE GOSPEL. 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 hast ploughed, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reared 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 laureate wreath yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories No less renowned than War: new foes arise, Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains. Help us to save free conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves, whose Gospel is their maw. XVII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER. VANE, young in years, but in sage counsel old, The drift of hollow states hard to be spelled; 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 power and civil, what each means, have done. The bounds of either sword to thee we owe : Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans XVIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT. AVENGE, O Lord, thy slaughtered saints, whose bones Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold; Even them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshiped stocks and stones, Forget not in thy book record their groans Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold Slain by the bloody Piemontese, that rolled Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans The vales redoubled to the hills, and they To heaven. Their martyred blood and ashes sow O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow A hundredfold, who, having learnt thy way, Early may fly the Babylonian woe. XIX. [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 Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present 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; XX. [TO MR. LAWRENCE.] LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son, Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire, |