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WHERE is that learned wretch that knows
What are those darts the vey'd god throws:
O let him tell me ere I dye
When 'twas he saw or heard them fly;

Whether the sparrow's plumes, or dove's,
Wing them for various loves;
And whether gold, or lead,

Quicken, or dull the head:
I will annoint and keep them warm,
And make the weapons heale the harm.

Fond that I am to aske! who ere
Did yet see thought? or silence hear?
Safe from the search of humane eye
These arrows (as their waies are) fie:

The flights of angels part
Not aire with so much art;
And snows on streams, we may

Say, louder fall than they.
So hopeless I must now endure,
And neither know the shaft nor cure.

A sudden fire of blushes shed
To dye white paths with hasty red;
A glance's lightning swiftly thrown,
Or from a true or seeming frown;

A subt'le taking smile
From passion, or from guile;
The spirit, life, and grace

Of motion, limbs, and face ;
These misconceits entitles darts,
And tears the bleeding of our hearts.


But as the feathers in the wing,
Unblemish'd are and no wounds bring,
And harmless twigs no bloodshed know,
Till art doth fit them for the bow;

So lights of flowing graces
Sparkling in severall places,
Only adorn the parts,

Till we that make them darts ;
Themselves are only twigs and quills :
We give them shape, and force for ills.

Beautie's our grief, but in the ore,
We mint, and stamp, and then adore ;
Like heathen we the image crown,
And undiscrectly then fall down :

Those graces all were meant
Our joy, not discontent ;
But with untauglit desires

We turn those lights to fires.
Thus Nature's healing herbs we take,
And out of cures do poysons make.

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Thou whitest soul, thou thine own day,
Not sully'd by the bodie's clay,

Fly to thy native seat,

Surrounded with this heat,
Make thy disease which would destroy thee

Thy chariot only to conveigh thee ;
And while thou soar’st and leav'st us here beneath,
Wee'l think it thy translation, not thy death.

But with this empty feign'd relief
We do but fatter our just grief,

And we as well may say

That martyr dy'd that day,
Ride up in flames, whom we saw burn,

And into paler ashes turn;
Who’s he that such a fate translation calls,
Where the whole body like the mantle falls ?

But we beguile our sorrows so
By a false scene of specious woe;

Wee'l weigh, and count, and rate

Our loss, then grieve the fate.
Wee'l know the measure of her worth,

Then mete and deal our sadness forth:
And when the sum's made up, and all is clos’d,
Say Death undid what Love himself compos'd.

What morns did from her smiling rise ?
What day was gather'd in her eyes?

What air? what truth? what art?

What musick in each part?
What grace? what motion ? and what skill?

How all by manage doubled still ?
Thus 'twixt her self and Nature was a strife,
Nature materials brought, but she the life.

The rose when't only pleas'd the sence,
Arm’d with no thorns to give offence,

That rose, as yet curse-free,

Was not more mild than she,
Clear as the tears that did bedew her,

Fresh as the flowers that bestrew her,
Fair while she was, and when she was not, fair ;
Some ruines more than other buildings are.


SIR BEVILL GRENVILL, KNIGHT. Not to be wrought by malice, gain, or pride, To a compliance with the thriving side ; Not to take arms for love of change, or spight, But only to maintain afflicted right; Not to dye vainly in pursuit of fame, Perversly seeking after voice and name; Is to resolve, fight, dye, as martyrs do, And thus did he, souldier and martyr too.

He might (like some reserved men of state, Who look not to the cause, but to its fate) Have stood aloof, engag'd on neither side, Prepard at last to strike in with the tide : But well-weigh'd reason told him, that when law Either 's renounc'd, or misapply'd by th' awe Of false-nam'd patriots, that when the right Of king and subject is suppress’d by might; When all religion either is refus'd As mere pretence, or meerly as that us’d; When thus the fury of ambition swells, Who is not active, modestly rebels. Whence, in a just esteem to church and crown, He offered all, and nothing thought his own: This thrust him into action, whole and free, Knowing no interest but loyalty; Not loving arms as arms, or strife for strife ; Nor wastfull, nor yet sparing of his life ; A great exactor of himself, and then, By fair commands, no less of other men ;

Courage and judgement had their equal part, Counsell was added to a generous heart; Affairs were justly tim'd, nor did he catch At an affected fame of quick dispatch ; Things were prepar'd, debated, and then done, Not rashly broke, or vainly overspun ; False periods no where by design were made, As are by those that make the war their trade; The building still was suited to the ground, Whence ev'ry action issu'd full and round. We know who blind their men with specious lyes, With revelations and with prophesies, Who promise two things to obtain a third, And are themselves by the like motives stirr'd. By no such engins he his shoulders draws, He knew no arts but courage, and the cause : With these he brought them on as well train’d men, And with those two he brought them off agen.

I should I know track him through all the course Of his great actions, show their worth and force ; But although all are handsome, yet we cast A more intentive eye still on the last.

When now th' incensed legions proudly came Down like a torrent without bank or dam: When undeserv'd success urg'd on their force ; That thunder must come down to stop their course, Or Grenvill must step in; then Grenvill stood, And with himself oppos'd, and check'd the floud. Conquest or death was all his thought. So fire Either o'rcomes, or doth itself expire : His courage work't like flames, cast heat about, Here, there, on this, on that side, none gave out; Not any pike in that renowned stand, But took new force from his inspiring hand :

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