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Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
ON THE SAME.
I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs
When straight a barbarous noise environs me
As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs
Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee.
That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood,
And still revolt when Truth would set them free.
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE UNDER THE LONG PARLIAMENT.
BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord,
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred, Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword
To force our consciences that Christ set free,
Would have been held in high esteem with Paul
By shallow Edwards and Scotch What-d'ye-call!
But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent, That so the Parliament May with their wholesome and preventive shears Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears, And succour our just fears, When they shall read this clearly in your charge: New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large
TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS.
HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song
That with smooth air couldst humour best our
Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must lend her wing
Than his Casella, whom he wooed to sing,
ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHERINE
WHEN Faith and Love, which parted from thee never,
Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,
Before the Judge; who thenceforth bid thee rest,
ON THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX, AT THE
FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
(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.
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.
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, What severs each, thou hast learned, which few have done.
The bounds of either sword to thee we owe:
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.
[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, “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied ?” 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 mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
[TO MR. LAWRENCE.]
LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,