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On the detraction which followed upon my writing

certain treatises.

A BOOK was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon,

And woven close, both matter, form, and stile; The subject new: it walk’d the Town awhile,

Numbering good intellects ; now seldom por’d on. Cries the stall-reader, Bless us ! what a word on

A title page is this! and some in file
Stand spelling false, while one might walk to

End 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 taughat'st Cambridge, and king Ed-

ward, Greek,



I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs
By the known rules of ancient liberty,
When straight a barbarous noise environs me

Of owls and cuckoos, asses, apes and dogs :
As when those binds 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 hog's ;
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.





Publishing his Airs.

HARRY, whose tuneful and well measur'd song

First taught our English musick 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


thou shalt be writ the man, That with smooth air could'st 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 happiest lines in hymn, or story. Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher

Than his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.


On the religious memory of Mrs. CATHERINE THOMSON, my christian friend, deceased

16 Decemb. 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


Thy works, and alms, and all thy good endeavour,

Staid 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
Tly hand-maids, clad them o'er with purple

beams And azure wings, that up they flew so drest, 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,




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 publick faith clear'd from the shameful brand

Of publick fraud. In vain doth Valour bleed,
While Avarice and Rapine share the land.

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