Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time: And, like an engine moved with wheel and weight, His principles being ceased, he ended straight. Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death, And too much breathing put him out of breath; Nor were it contradiction to affirm,
Too long vacation hasted on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; Nay,' quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd, If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers.' Ease was his chief disease; and, to judge right, He died for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come, And lack of load made his life burdensome, That even to his last breath (there be that say't), As he were press'd to death, he cried, More weight;' But, had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier. Obedient to the moon he spent his date In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase: His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.
ON THE NEW FORCERS OF CONSCIENCE,
Under the Long Parliament.
BECAUSE you have thrown off your prelate lord, And with stiff vows renounced his Liturgy, To seize the widow'd whore Plurality
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr'd;
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 Rotherford? 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, Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent; That so the Parliament
May, with their wholesome and preventive shears, Clip your phylacteries, though balk your ears,
And succour our just fears,
When they shall read this clearly in your charge, New Presbyter is but Old Priest writ large.
THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, Lib. I.
WHAT slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours, Courts thee on roses in some pleasant cave, Pyrrha? For whom bind'st thou In wreaths thy golden hair,
Plain in thy neatness? O, how oft shall he On faith, and changed gods, complain; and seas Rough with black winds, and storms Unwonted shall admire!
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold, Who always vacant, always amiable, Hopes thee, of flattering gales
Unmindful. Hapless they,
To whom thou untried seem'st fair! Me, in my vow'd
Picture, the sacred wall deelares to have hung
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern god of sea.
FROM GEOFFREY OF MONMOUTH.
Brutus thus addresses Diana in the Country of Leogecia.
GODDESS of shades, and huntress, who at will Walk'st on the rolling spheres, and through the
On thy third reign, the earth, look now, and tell What land, what seat of rest, thou bidd'st me seek, What certain seat, where I may worship thee For aye, with temples vow'd and virgin quires.
To whom, sleeping before the Altar, Diana an swers in a Vision the same Night.
BRUTUS, far to the west, in the ocean wide, Beyond the realm of Gaul, a land there lies, Sea-girt it lies, where giants dwelt of old; Now void, it fits thy people: thither bend Thy course; there shalt thou find a lasting seat; There to thy sons another Troy shall rise,
And kings be born of thee, whose dreadful might Shall awe the world, and conquer nations bold.
AH Constantine, of how much ill was cause, Not thy conversion, but those rich domains That the first wealthy pope received of thee!
FOUNDED in chaste and humble poverty, 'Gainst them that raised thee dost thou lift thy horn? Impudent whore, where hast thou placed thy hope? In thy adulterers, or thy ill-got wealth? Another Constantine comes not in haste.
THEN pass'd he to a flowery mountain green, Which once smelt sweet, now stinks as odiously: This was the gift, if you the truth will have, That Constantine to good Sylvester gave.
WHOM do we count a good man? Whom but he Who keeps the laws and statutes of the senate, Who judges in great suits and controversies, Whose witness and opinion wins the cause? But his own house, and the whole neighbourhood, Sees his foul inside through his whited skin.
THIS is true liberty, when freeborn men, Having to advise the public, may speak free; Which he who can, and will, deserves high praise; Who neither can, nor will, may hold his peace; What can be juster in a state than this?
FROM HORACE.
LAUGHING, to teach the truth,
What hinders? As some teachers give to boys Junkets and knacks, that they may learn apace.
FROM HORACE.
JOKING decides great things,
Stronger and better oft than earnest can.
'TIS you that say it, not I. You do the deeds, And your ungodly deeds find me the words.
FROM SENECA.
THERE can be slain
No sacrifice to God more acceptable,
Than an unjust and wicked king.
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