VI.

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
Mile-

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 taught'st Cambridge, and king Edward, Greek.

VII.

ON THE SAME.

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 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.

VIII.

ΤΟ

MR. H. LAWES,

ON THE

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 age 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.

IX.

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

sever.

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 Thy 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.

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.