Have I fo often past between
Windfor and Westminster, unfeen,
And did myself divide :

To keep his excellence in awe,
And give the parliament the law?
For they knew none befide.

Did I for this take pains to teach
Our zealous ignorants to preach,

And did their lungs inspire;

Gave them their texts, fhew'd them their parts, And taught them all their little arts,

To fling abroad the fire?

Sometimes to beg, fometimes to threaten,
And fay the cavaliers are beaten,

To stroke the people's ears;

Then straight when victory grows cheap,
And will no more advance the heap,
To raise the price of fears.

And now the books, and now the bells,
And now our act the preacher tells,

To edify the people;

All our divinity is news,

And we have made of equal use

The pulpit and the steeple.

And fhall we kindle all this flame

Only to put it out again,

And must we now give o'er,

And

And only end where we begun ?

In vain this mischief we have done,
If we can do no more.

If men in peace can have their right,
Where's the neceffity to fight,

That breaks both law and oath ?
They 'll fay they fight not for the cause,
Nor to defend the king and laws,
But us against them both.

Either the cause at firft was ill,
Or being good, it is so still;

And thence they will infer,

That either now or at the firft

They were deceiv'd; or, which is worft,
That we ourselves may err.

But plague and famine will come in,
For they and we are near of kin,
And cannot go afunder:

But while the wicked starve, indeed
The faints have ready at their need
God's providence, and plunder.

Princes we are if we prevail,
And gallant villains if we fail :

When to our fame 'tis told,

It will not be our least of praise,
Since a new state we could not raise,

To have destroy'd the old.

Then

Yet timorous deer, and harmless fheep,
When love into their veins doth creep,
That law of nature cease to keep.

Who then can blame the amorous boy,
Who, the fair Helen to enjoy,
To quench his own, fet fire on Troy?

Such is the world's prepofterous fate,
Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
Love (though immortal) doth create.

But love may beafts excufe, for they
Their actions not by reason fway,
But their brute appetites obey.

But man's that favage beaft, whose mind
From reafon to felf-love declin'd,

Delights to prey upon his kind.

On Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S Death, and Burial amongst the ancient Poets.

LD Chaucer, like the morning star,

OLD

To us difcovers day from far;

His light thofe mifts and clouds diffolv'd,
Which our dark nation long involv'd :
But he descending to the fhades,
Darkness again the age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose,
Whose purple blush the day forefhews;

The

The other three, with his own fires,

Phoebus, the poets' god, inspires;

By Shakespeare's, Jonfon's, Fletcher's lines,
Our stage's luftre Rome's out-fhines :
These poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their manfion keep. !
They liv'd to fee so many days,
Till time had blafted all their bays :
But curfed be the fatal hour

That pluck'd the faireft, fweeteft flower
That in the Mufes' garden grew,

And amongst wither'd laurels threw.

Time, which made them their fame out-live,

To Cowley scarce did ripenefs give.

Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;
In Spenfer, and in Jonfon, Art
Of flower Nature got the start;

But both in him fo equal are,

None knows which bears the happiest share :
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben Jonfon, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman ftores
Of poets, and of orators :
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,

He did not fteal, but emulate!

And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their cloaths, did wear :

He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jafon, brought the golden fleece;
To him that language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
On a ftiff gale (as Flaccus fings)
The Theban fwan extends his wings,
When through th' ætherial clouds he flies,
To the fame pitch our fwan doth rife;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd,
When on that gale his wings are ftretch'd;"
His fancy and his judgment fuch,
Each to the other feem'd too much,
His fevere judgment (giving law)
His modeft fancy kept in awe :
As rigid husbands jealous are,
When they believe their wives too fair.
His English ftreams fo pure did flow,
As all that faw and tafted know,
But for his Latin vein, fo clear,
Strong, full, and high it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Him, for his judge, he would not fear;
Of that great portraiture, so true
A copy, pencil never drew.

My Mufe her fong had ended here,
But both their Genii straight appear,
Joy and amazement her did strikę,
Two twins fhe never faw fo like.
'Twas taught by wife Pythagoras,

One foul might through more bodies pafs.