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Stand spelling false, while one might walk to MileEnd Green. Why is it harder, Sirs, than Gordon, Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp?

Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek, That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek! Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward, Greek.

ON THE SAME.

I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of aucient liberty,
When straight a barbarous noise environs me
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs:
As when those hinds that were transform'd to frogs
Rail'd 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.

TO MR. H. LAWES, ON HIS AIRS, 1645.

HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measur'd 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 could humour best our

tongue.

Thou honour'st verse, and verse must lend her wing
To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' quire,
That tun'st their bappiest lines in hymn, or story.
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Than his Cassella, whom he woo'd to sing.
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.

ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF MRS. CATHARINE THOMSON, MY CHRISTIAN FRIEND,

Deceased 16th of December, 1646.

WHEN faith and love, which parted from thee never, Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God, Meekly thou didst resign this earthly load

Of death, call'd life; which us from life doth sever. Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour, Stay'd not behind, nor in the grave were trod; But, as Faith pointed with her golden rod, Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever. Love led them on; and Faith, who knew them best Thy hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple beams And azure wings, that up they flew so dress'd, And spake the truth of thee on glorious themes Before the Judge: who thenceforth bid thee rest, And drink thy fill of pure immortal streams.

TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX.

FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And all her jealous monarchs with amaze
And rumours loud, that daunt.remotest kings;

Thy firm, unshaken virtue, ever brings
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Their Hydra heads, and the false North displays
Her broken league, to imp their serpent wings.
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 clear'd from the shameful brand
Of public fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed,
While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL.

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 plough'd,

And on the neck of crowned fortune proud

Hast rear'd God's trophies, and his work pursued, While Derwen stream, with blood of Scots imbued, And Dunbar field resounds thy praises loud, And Worcester's laureat wreath. Yet much remains To conquer still; Peace hath her victories

No less renown'd than War: new foes arise Threat'ning 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,

Than whom a better senator ne'er held

The helm of Rome, when gowns not arms, repell'd The fierce Epiriot, and th' African bold,

Whether to settle peace, or to unfold
The drift of hollow states hard to be spell'd;
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 learn'd, which few have done :

The bounds of either sword to thee we owe;
Therefore on thy firm hand religion leans
In peace, and reckons thee her eldest son.

ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN
PIEDMONT.

AVENGE, 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,
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Forget not in thy book record their groans
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Stain by the bloody Piedmontese, that roll'd
Mother with infant down the rocks.
Their moans
The vales redoubled to the hills, and they

To Heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all th' Italian fields, where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant; that from these may grow
A hundred fold, who having learn'd thy way,
Early may fly the Babylonian woc.

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, Lodg'd 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; They also serve who only stand and wait.

TO MR. LAWRENCE

LAWRENCE, of virtuous father virtuous son,
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help waste 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 clothe in fresh attire
The lily' and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun,
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attic taste, with wine whence we may rise
To hear the lute well touch'd, or artful voice,
Warble immortal notes, and Tuscan air?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise,

TO CYRIAC SKINNER,

CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause
Pronounc'd, and in his volumes taught, our law,