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III. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY.
CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms,
Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize,
That call fame on such gentle acts as these,
Whatever clime the sun's bright circle warms.
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare
Of sad Electra's poet had the power
IV. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY,
Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green,
That labour up the hill of heavenly truth,
Chosen thou hast; and they that overween,
To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night
V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY.
Of England's Council, and her Treasury,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
Kill'd with report that old man eloquent.
Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you,
Madam, methinks I see him living yet ;
That all both judge you to relate them true,
VI. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON
MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES.
And woven close, both matter, form, and style ;
Numbering good intellects ; now seldom pored on.
A title-page is this ! and some in file
End Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than Gordon,
Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek,
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Hated not learning worse than toad or asp,
VII, ON THE SAME.
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs :
Rail'd at Latona's twin-born progeny,
But this is got by casting pearl to hogs;
And still revolt when truth would set them free.
Licence they mean when they cry Liberty ;
But from that mark how far they rove we see,
VIII. TO MR. H. LAWES ON THE PUBLISHING HIS AIRS.
HARRY, whose tuneful and well-measured song
First taught our English music how to span
With Midas' ears, committing short and long ;
With praise enough for Envy to look wan ;
That with smooth air couldst humour best our tongue.
To honour thee, the priest of Phoebus' choir,
That tunest their happiest lies in hymn or story.
Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing,
IX. ON THE RELIGIOUS MEMORY OF
MRS. CATHERINE THOMSON,
Had ripen'd thy just soul to dwell with God,
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;
Follow'd thee up to joy and bliss for ever.
Thy handmaids, clad them o'er with purple beams
And azure wings, that up they flew so drest,
Before the Judge, who thenceforth bid thee rest,
X. TO THE LORD GENERAL FAIRFAX. FAIRFAX, whose name in arms through Europe rings,
Filling each mouth with envy or with praise,
And rumours loud, that daunt remotest kings,
Victory home, though new rebellions raise
Her broken league to imp their serpent wings.
(For what can war, but endless war still breed ?)
Till truth and right from violence be freed,
Of public fraud. In vain doth valour bleed,
XI. TO THE LORD GENERAL CROMWELL. CROMWELL, our chief of men, who, through a cloud
Not of war only, but detractions rude,
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 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 renown'd than war : new foes arise
Help us to save free conscience from the paw
XII. TO SIR HENRY VANE THE YOUNGER.
Than whom a better senator ne'er held
The fierce Epirot and the African bold,
The drift of hollow states hard to be spellid,
Move by her two main nerves, iron and gold,
Both spiritual power and civil, what each means,
Therefore on thy firm hand Religion leans
XIII. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT.
Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold;
When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones,
Who were thy sheep, and in their ancient fold
Mother with infant down the rocks. Their moans
To heaven. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
O'er all the Italian fields, where still doth sway
A hundred fold, who, having learn'd thy way,
XIV. ON HIS BLINDNESS
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wilc,
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bert
My true account, lest he returning chide;
I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
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,
XV. TO MR. LAWRENCE.
Now that the fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Help waste a sullen day, what may be won
On smoother, till Favonius reinspire
The lily and rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
Of Attic taste, with wine, whence we may rise
To hear thie lute well-touch'd, or artful voice
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
XVI. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, whose grandsire, on the royal bench
Of British Themis, with no mean applause,
Which others at their bar so often wrench;
In mirth, that after no repenting draws;
Let Euclid rest, and Archimedes pause, And what the Swede intends, and what the French. To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day, And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
XVII. TO THE SAME.
To outward view, of blemish or of spot,