Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-bappy Spirits indu'tb.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in Strictest measure eev'n,
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;
All is, if I bave grace to use it so,

As ever in my great task Masters eye.

Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,

Whose chance on these defenceless dores may sease, If ever deed of bonour did thee please,

Guard them, and him within protect from barms, He can requite thee, for he knows the charms That call Fame on such gentle acts as these, And be can pred thy Name o're Lands and Seas, What ever clime the Suns bright circle warms. Lift not thy spear against the Muses Bowre, The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when Temple and Towre Went to the ground: And the repeated air Of sad Electra's Poet had the power To save th' Athenian Walls from ruine bare.

Lady that in the prime of earliest youth,

Wisely bath shun'd the broad way and the green,
And with those few art eminently seen,
That labour up the Hill of heav'nly Truth,

The better part with Mary and with Ruth,
Chosen thou hast, and they that overween,
And at thy growing vertues fret their spleen,
No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.
Thy care is fixt and zealously attends

To fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light,
And Hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure
Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastfull friends
Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night,
Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.

Daughter to that good Earl, once President
Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,
Who liv'd in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,
And left them both, more in himself content,
Till the sad breaking of that Parlament
Broke him, as that dishonest victory
At Charonéa, fatal to liberty
Kil'd with report that Old man eloquent,
Though later born, then to bave known the dayes
Wherin your Father flourisht, yet by you
Madam, me thinks I see him living yet;
So well your words bis noble vertues praise,
That all both judge you to relate them true,
And to possess them, Honour'd Margaret.

Arcades

Part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager of Darby at Harefield, by som Noble persons of her Family, who appear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of State with this Song

1. Song

Look Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
What sudden blaze of majesty
Is that which we from bence descry
Too divine to be mistook:
This this is she

To whom our vows and wishes bend,
Heer our solemn search bath end.

Fame that her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise,
Less than half we find exprest,
Envy bid conceal the rest.
Mark what radiant State she Spreds,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting ber beams like silver threds,
This this is she alone,

Sitting like a Goddes bright,
In the center of her light.
Might she the wise Latona be,
Or the toured Cybele,
Mother of a bunderd gods;
Juno dare's not give her odds;
Who bad thought this clime bad held
A deity so unparalel'd?

As they com forward, the genius of the Wood appears, and turning toward them, speaks.

Gen. Stay gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,
I see bright bonour sparkle through your eyes,
Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung
Of that renowned flood, so often sung,
Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluse,
Stole under Seas to meet his Arethuse;
And ye the breathing Roses of the Wood,
Fair silver-buskind Nymphs as great and good,
I know this quest of yours, and free intent
Was all in bonour and devotion ment
To the great Mistres of yon princely shrine,
Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,
And with all helpful service will comply
To further this nights glad solemnity;
And lead ye where ye may more neer bebold
What shallow-searching Fame bath left untold;
Which I full oft amidst these shades alone
Have sate to wonder at, and gaze upon:
For know by lot from Jove I am the powr
Of this fair Wood, and live in Oak'n bowr,
To nurse the Saplings tall, and curl the grove
With Ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.
And all my Plants I save
Plants I save from nightly ill,
Of noisom winds, and blasting vapours chill.
And from the Boughs brush off the evil dew,
And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blew,
Or what the cross dire-looking Planet smites,
Or burtfull Worm with canker'd venom bites.