A POEM ON THE LATE CIVIL WAR.  
By Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY.  
LONDON, Printed 1679.   

The Publisher TO THE READER.  
MEeting accidentally with this Poem in Manuscript, and being informed that it was a Piece of the incomparable Mr. AC's, I thought it unjust to hide such a Treasure from the World. I remembered that our Author in his Preface to his Works, makes mention of some Poems written by him on the late Civil War, of which the following Copy is questionably a part. In his most imperfect and unfinished Pieces, you will discover the Hand of so great a Master. And (whatever his own Modesty might have advised to the contrary) there is not one careless stroke of his but what should be kept sacred to Posterity. He could write nothing that was not worth the preserving, being habitually a Poet and Always Inspired. In this Piece the judicious Reader will find the Turn of the Verse to be his; the same Copious and Lively Imagery of Fancy, the same Warmth of Passion and Delicacy of Wit that sparkles in all his Writings. And certainly no Labours of a Genius so Rich in its self, and so Cultivated with Learning and Manners, can prove an unwelcome Present to the World.   

A POEM On the late CIVIL WAR.  
WHat Rage does England from itself divide,  
More than the Seas from all the  
World beside.  
From every part the roaring Cannons play,  
From every part Blood roars as loud as they.  
What English Ground but still some Moisture bears,  
Of Young men's Blood, and more of Mother's Tears.  
What Airs unthickened with the Sighs of Wives,  
Tho' more of Maids for their dear Lovers Lives.  
Alas, what Triumphs can this Victory show,  
That dies us Red in Blood and Blushes too!  
How can we wish that Conquest, which bestows  
Cypress, not Bays, upon the Conquering Brows,  
It was not so when Henry's dreadful Name,  
Not Sword, nor Cause, whole Nations overcame.  
To farthest West did his swift Conquests run,  
Nor did his Glory set but with the Sun.  
In vain did Roderic to his Hold retreat,  
In vain had wretched Ireland called him Great.  
Ireland! which now most basely we begin  
To labour more to lose than he to win,  
It was not so when in the happy East,  
Richard our Mars, Venus' Isle possessed.  
Against the proud Moon, he the English Cross displayed,  
Eclipsed one Horn, and the other paler made.  
When our dear Lives we ventured bravely there,  
And digged our own to gain Christ's Sepulchre.  
That sacred Tomb which should we now enjoy,  
We should with as much zeal fight to destroy.  
The precious Signs of our dead Lord we scorn,  
And see his Cross worse than his Body torn.  
We hate it now both for the Greek and jew,  
To us 'tis Folishness and Scandal to.  
To what with Worship the fond Papist falls,  
That the fond Zealot a cursed Idol calls.  
So, 'twixt their double Madness here's the odds,  
One makes false Devils, t'other makes false Gods.  
It was not so when Edward proved his Cause,  
By a Sword stronger than the Salic Laws.  
Tho fetched from Pharamont, when the French did fight,  
With women's Hearts against the women's Right.  
The afflicted Ocean his first Conquest bore,,  
And drove Red Waves to the sad Gallique Shore▪  
As if he had Angry with that Element been,  
Which his wide Soul bound with an Island in.  
Where's now that spirit with which at Cressey we,  
And Poitiers forced from fate a Victory?  
Two Kings at once we brought sad Captives home,  
A Triumph scarcely known to ancient Rome;  
Two Foreign Kings, but now alas we strive,  
Our own, our own good Sovereign to Captive!  
It was not so when Agincourt was won,  
Under great Henry served the Rain and Sun,  
A Nobler Fight the Sun himself ne'er knew,  
Not when he stopped his Course a Fight to view!  
Then Death's old Archer did more skilful grow,  
And learned to shoot more sure from th' English bow;  
Then France was her own story sadly taught,  
And felt how Caesar and how Edward fought.  
It was not so when that vast Fleet of Spain,  
Lay torn and scattered on the English Main;  
Through the proud World, a Virgin, terror struck,  
The Austrian Crowns and Rome's seven hills she shook:  
To her great Neptune Homaged all his Streams  
And all the wide-stretched Ocean was her Thames.  
Thus our Forefathers Fought, Thus bravely bled,  
Thus still they live, whilst we alive are dead;  
Such Acts they did that Rome and Caesar too,  
Might Envy those, whom once they did subdue.  
We're not their offspring, sure our Heralds Lie,  
But Born we know not how, as now we Die;  
Their precious Blood we could not venture thus:  
Some Cadmus' sure sowed Serpents teeth for us;  
We could not else by mutual Fury fall,  
Whilst Rhine and Sequan for our Armies call:  
Choose War or Peace, you have a Prince you know,  
As fit for both, as both are fit for you.  
Furious as Lightning when Wars Tempest came,  
But Calm in Peace, Calm as a Lambent Flame.  
Have you forgot those happy years of late,  
That saw nought ill, but us that were Ingrate;  
Such years, as if Earth's youth Returned had been,  
And that old Serpent Time had Cast his Skin:  
As Gloriously, and Gently did they move,  
As the bright Sun that Measures them above;  
Then only in Books the Learned could misery see,  
And the Unlearned ne'er heard of Misery.  
Then happy james with as deep Quiet Reigned,  
As in His heavenly Throne, by Death, he gained.  
And lest this blessing with his Life should Cease,  
He left us Charles the Pledge of future Peace.  
Charles under whom, with much ado, no less  
Than sixteen years, we endured our happiness;  
Till in a Moment, in the North we find,  
A Tempest Conjured up without a Wind.  
As soon the North her Kindness did Repent,  
First the Peacemaker, and next War she sent:  
Just Tweed that now had with long Peace forgot  
On which side dwelled the English, which the Scot:  
Saw glittering Arms shine sadly on his face;  
Whilst all the affrighted Fish sank down apace;  
No blood did then from this dark Quarrel grow,  
It gave blunt wounds, that bled not out till now!  
For jove, who might have used his thundering power,  
Chose to fall calmly in a Golden shower!  
A way we found to Conquer, which by none  
Of all our thrifty Ancestors was known;  
So strangely Prodigal of late we are,  
We there buy Peace, and here at home buy War.  
How could a war so sad and barbarous please,  
But first by slandering those blessed days of Peace?  
Through all the Excrements of State they pry,  
Like empirics to find out a Malady;  
And then with Desperate boldness they endeavour,  
Th' Ague to cure by bringing in a Favour:  
The way is sure to expel some ill no doubt,  
The Plague we know, drives all Diseases out.  
What strange wild fears did every Morning breed,  
Till a strange fancy made us sick indeed?  
And Cowardice did Valour's place supply,  
Like those that kill themselves for fear to die!  
What frantic Diligence in these Men appears,  
That fear all Ills, and act o'er all their Fears?  
Thus into War we scared ourselves; and who  
But Aaron's Sons, that the first Trumpet blew.  
Fond Men! who knew not that they were to keep  
For God, and not for Sacrifice, their Sheep.  
The Churches first this Murderous Doctrine sow,  
And learn to Kill as well as Bury now.  
The Marble Tombs where our Forefathers lie,  
Sweated with dread of too much company:  
And all their sleeping Ashes shaken for fear,  
Lest thousand Ghosts should come and shroud them there.  
Petitions next from every Town they frame,  
To be restored to them from whom they came.  
The same stile all, and the same sense does pen,  
Alas, they allow set Forms of Prayer to Men.  
Oh happy we, if Men would neither hear  
Their studied Form, nor God their sudden Prayer.  
They will be heard, and in unjustest wise,  
The many Headed-Rout for Justice cries,  
They call for Blood, which now I fear does call  
For Blood again, much louder than they all.  
In senseless Clamours, and confused Noise,  
We lost that rare, and yet unconquered Voice:  
So when the sacred Thracian Lyre was drowned,  
In the Bistonian Woman's mixed sound.  
The wondering Stones, that came before to hear,  
Forgot themselves, and turned his Murderers there.  
The same loud Storm, blew the Grave Mitre down;  
It blew down that, and with it shook the Crown.  
Then first a State, without a Church begun▪  
Comfort thyself dear Church, for than 'twas done.  
The same great Storm, to Sea great Mary drove,  
The Sea could not such dangerous Tempests move.  
The same drove Charles into the North, and then  
Would Readilier far have driven him back again.  
To fly from noise of Tumults is no shame,  
Ne'er will their Armies force them to the same:  
They all his Castles, all his Towns invade,  
He's a large Prisoner in all England made!  
He must not pass to Ireland's weeping Shore,  
The Wounds these Surgeons make must yield them more:  
He must not conquer his lewd Rebels there,  
Lest he should learn by that to do it here.  
The Sea they subject next to their command,  
The Sea that Crowns our Kings and all their Land.  
Thus poor they leave him, their base Pride and Scorn,  
As poor as these, now mighty Men, were born.  
When strait whole Armies meet in Charle's Right,  
How no Man knows, but here they are and Fight.  
A Man would swear that saw this altered State,  
Kings were called Gods, because they could Create  
Vain Men; 'tis Heaven this first Assistance brings,  
The same is Lord of Hosts, that's King of Kings.  
Had Men forsook him, Angels from above.  
(The Assyrian did less their Justice move.)  
Would all have mustered in his Righteous Aid,  
And Thunder against your Cannon would have played.  
It needs not so, for Man desires to right  
Abused Mankind, and wretches you must fight.  
Worster first saw't, and trembled at the view,  
Too well the Ills of Civil War she knew.  
Twice did the Flames of old her Towers invade,  
Twice called she in vain for her own Severn's Aid.  
Here first the Rebel Winds began to roar,  
Broke loose from the just Fetters which they bore.  
Here Mutinous Waves above their shore did swell,  
And the first Storm of that Dire Winter fell.  
But when the two great Brethren once appeared,  
And their bright Heads like Leda's offspring reared,  
When those Sea-calming Sons, from jove were spied,  
The Winds all fled, the Waves all sunk and died!  
How fought-great Rupert, with what Rage and Skill?  
Enough to have Conquered had his Cause been ill!  
Comely Young Man▪ and yet his dreadful sight,  
The Rebel's Blood to their saint Hearts does fright.  
In vain alas it seeks so weak defence;  
For his keen Sword brings it again from thence:  
Yet grieves heat the Laurels thence he bore;  
Alas poor Prince, they'll fight with him no more.  
His Virtue will be eclipsed with too much Fame,  
Henceforth he will not Conquer, but his Name:  
Here— with tainted Blood the Field did slain,  
By his own Sacrilege, and's Countries Curses slain.  
The first Commander did Heaven's Vengeance show,  
And led the Rebel's Van to shades below.  
On two fair Hills both Armies next are seen,  
The affrighted Valley sighs and sweats between;  
Here Angels did, with fair Expectance stay,  
And wished good things to a King as mild as they;  
There Fiends with hunger waiting did abide,  
And Cursed both, but spurred on the guilty side.  
Here stood Religion, her looks gently sage,  
Aged, but much more comely for her Age!  
There Schism Old Hag, tho' seeming young appears,  
As Snakes by casting skins, Renew their years;  
Undecent Rags of several Dies she wore,  
And in her hand torn Liturgies she bore.  
Here Loyalty an humble Cross displayed,  
And still as Charles passed by, she bowed and prayed.  
Sedition there her Crimson Banner spreads,  
Shakes all her Hands, and roars with all her Heads.  
Her knotty Hairs were with dire Serpent's twist,  
And every Serpent at each other hist.  
Here stood White Truth, and her own Host does bless,  
Clad with those Arms of Proof her Nakedness.  
There Perjuries like Cannons roar aloud,  
And Lies flew thick, like Cannons smoky Cloud.  
Here Learning and th' Arts met, as much they feared  
As when the Hunns of old and Goths appeared.  
What should they do, unapt themselves to fight,  
They promised noble Pens the Acts to write.  
There Ignorance advanced, and joyed to spy  
So many that durst fight they know not why.  
From those, who most the slow-souled Monk's disdain,  
From those she hopes the Monks dull Age again,  
Here Mercy wars with sad but gentle look,  
Never alas had she her Charles forsaken!  
For Mercy on her Friends, to Heaven the cries,  
Whilst justice pulls down Vengeance from the Skies.  
Oppression there, Rapine and Murder stood  
Ready as was the Field to drink their Blood.  
A thousand wronged Spirits amongst them moaned,  
And thrice the Ghost of mighty Strafford groaned.  
Now flew their Cannon thick through wounded Air,  
Sent to defend, and kill their Sovereign there.  
More than he them, the Bullets feared his Head,  
And at his Feet lay innocently Dead.  
They knew not what those Men that sent them meant,  
And acted their pretence not their intent.  
This was the Day, this the first Day that showed  
How much to Charles for our long Peace we owed:  
By his Skill here, and Spirit we understood,  
From War naught kept him but his Country's good.  
In his great Looks, what cheerful Anger shone,  
Sad War, and joyful Triumphs mixed in one.  
In the same Beams of his Majestic Eye,  
His own Men Life, his Foes did Death espy.  
Great Rupert this, that Wing great Willmott leads,  
White-seathered Conquest, flies o'er both their Heads.  
They charge, as if alone, they'd beat the Foe;  
Whether their Troops followed them up or no.  
They follow close and haste into the fight,  
As swift as straight the Rebels make their flight.  
So swift the Miscreants fly, as if each fear  
And jealousy they framed, had met them there.  
They heard Wars Music, and away they flew,  
The Trumpets fright worse than the Organs do.  
Their Souls which still, new byways do invent,  
Out at their wounded Backs perversely went.  
Pursue no more, ye Noble Victors stay,  
Lest too much Conquest lose so brave a day:  
For still the Battle sounds behind, and Fate  
Will not give all; but sets us here a Rate:  
Too dear a rate she sets, and we must pay  
One honest Man, for ten such Knaves as they.  
Streams of Black tainted Blood the Field besmear,  
But pure well coloured drops shine here and there:  
They scorn to mix with floods of base veins,  
Just as the nobler moisture, Oil disdains.  
Thus fearless Lindsey, thus bold Aubigny,  
Amidst the Corpse of slaughtered Rebels lie:  
More honourably then— e'er was found,  
With troops of living Traitors circled round.  
Rest valiant Souls in peace, ye sacred pair,  
And all whose Deaths attended on you there:  
You're kindly welcomed to Heavens peaceful coast,  
By all the reverend Martyrs Noble Host.  
Your soaring Souls they meet with triumph, all  
Led by great Stephen their old General.  
Go— now prefer thy flourishing State,  
Above those murdered Heroes doleful fate.  
Enjoy that life which thou durst basely save,  
And thought'st a Saw-pit nobler than a Grave,  
Thus many saved themselves, and Night the rest,  
Night that agrees with their dark Actions best.  
A dismal shade did Heavens sad Face o'er flow,  
Dark as the night, slain Rebels found below.  
No gentle Stars their cheerful Glories reared,  
Ashamed they were at what was done, and feared  
Lest wicked Men their bold excuse should frame  
From some strange Influence, and so veil their shame.  
To Duty thus, Order and Law incline,  
They who ne'er Err from one eternal Line.  
As just the Ruin of these Men they thought,  
As Sisera's was, against whom themselves had fought.  
Still they Rebellions ends remember well  
Since Lucifer the Great, their shining Captain fell.  
For this the Bells they ring, and not in vain,  
Well might they all ring out for thousands slain.  
For this the Bonfires, their glad Lightness spread,  
When Funeral Flames might more befit their dead.  
For this with solemn thanks they tyre their God,  
And whilst they feel it, mock th' Almighty's Rod.  
They proudly now abuse his Justice more,  
Than his long Mercies they abused before.  
Yet these the Men that true Religion boast,  
The Pure and Holy, Holy, Holy, Host!  
What great reward for so much Zeal is given▪ Heaven.  
Why, Heaven has thanked them since as they thanked  
Witness thou Brainford, say thou Ancient Town,  
How many in thy Streets fell grovelling down.  
Witness the Red Coats weltering in their Gore,  
And died anew into the Name they bore.  
Witness their Men blowed up into the Air,  
All Elements their Ruins joyed to share.  
In the wide Air quick Flames their Bodies tore,  
Then drowned in Waves, they're tossed by Waves to shore.  
Witness thou Thames, thou wast amazed to see  
Men madly run to save themselves in thee.  
In vain, for Rebels Lives thou wouldst not save,  
And down they sunk beneath thy conquering Wave.  
Good reverend Thames, the best beloved of all  
Those noble Blood, that meet at Neptune's Hall;  
London's proud Towers, which do thy Head adorn,  
Are not thy Glory now, but Grief and Scorn.  
Thou grievest to see the White named Palace shine,  
Without the Beams of its own Lord and thine:  
Thy Lord which is to all as good and free,  
As thou kind Flood to thine own Banks can be.  
How does thy peaceful Back disdain to bear  
The Rebels busy Pride at Westminster.  
Thou who thyself dost without murmuring pay  
Eternal Tribute to thy Prince the Sea.  
To Oxford next Great Charles in Triumph came,  
Oxford the British Muses second Fame.  
Here Learning with some State and Reverence looks,  
And dwells in Buildings lasting as her Books;  
Both now Eternal, but they had Ashes been,  
Had these Religious Vandals once got in.  
Not Bodley's Noble Work their Rage would spare,  
For Books they know the chief Malignants are.  
In vain they silence every Age before,  
For Pens of Time to come will wound them more.  
The Temples decent Wealth, and modest State,  
Had suffered, this their Avarice, that their Hate.  
Beggary and Scorn into the Church they'd bring,  
And make God Glorious, as they made the King,  
O happy Town, that to Loved Charles' Sight,  
In those sad Times givest Safety and Delight.  
The Fate which Civil War itself doth bless,  
Scarce wouldst thou change; for Peace this happiness.  
Amidst all the Joys which Heaven allows thee here,  
Think on thy Sister, and then shed a tear.  
What Fights did this sad Winter see each day,  
Her Winds and Storms came not so thick as they!  
Yet naught these far lost Rebels could recall,  
Not Marlborough's nor Cirencester's fall.  
Yet still for Peace the gentle Conqueror sues,  
By his Wrath they Perish, yet his Love refuse.  
Nor yet is the plain Lesson understood,  
Writ by kind Heaven, in B— and H's— Blood.  
Chad and his Church saw where their Enemy lay,  
And with just Red, new marked their Holy day.  
Fond Men, this Blow the injured Crosier struck,  
Naught was more fit to perish but thy Book.  
Such fatal Vengeance did wronged Charlegrove show,  
Where— both begun and ended to.  
His cursed Rebellion, where his Soul's repaid  
With separation, great as that he made.  
— Whose Spirit moved o'er this mighty Frame,  
O'th' British Isle, and out this Chaos came.  
— The Man that taught Confusion's Art,  
His Treasons restless and yet noisless Heart.  
His Active Brain, like Aetna's Top appeared,  
Where Treason's forged, yet no noise outward heard.  
'Twas he continued what e'er bold M— said,  
And all the popular noise that P— has made.  
'Twas he that taught the Zealous Rout to rise,  
And be his Slaves for some feigned Liberties.  
Him for this Black Design, Hell thought most fit,  
Ah! wretched Man, cursed by too good a Wit.  
If not all this your stubborn Hearts can fright,  
Think on the West, think on the Cornish might:  
The Saxon Fury, to that far stretched place,  
Drove the torn Relics of great Brutus' Race.  
Here they of old, did in long safety lie,  
Compassed with Seas, and a worse Enemy.  
Ne'er till this time, ne'er did they meet with Foes  
More Cruel and more Barbarous than those.  
Ye noble Britain's, who so oft with Blood  
Of Pagan Hosts, have died old Tamar's Flood.  
If any drop of mighty Uther still,  
Or Vther's mighty'r Son your Veins does fill.  
Show then that Spirit, till all Men think by you  
The doubtful Tales of your great Arthur true.  
You have shown it Britain's, and have often done  
Things that have cheered the weary setting Sun.  
Again did Tamar your dread Arms behold,  
As just and as successful as the Old:  
It kissed the Cornish Banks, and vowed to bring  
His richest Waves to feed the ensuing Spring;  
But murmured sadly, and almost denied  
All fruitful Moisture to the Devon side.  
Ye Sons of War, by whose bold Acts we see  
How great a thing exalted Man may be;  
The World remains your Debtor, that as yet  
Ye have not all gone forth and conquered it.  
I knew that Fate some wonders for you meant,  
When matchless Hopton to your Coasts the sent.  
Hopton! so wise, he needs not Fortune's Aid,  
So fortunate his Wisdom's useless made.  
Should his so often tried Companions fail,  
His Spirit, alone, and Courage would prevail.  
Miraculous Man! how would I sing thy praise,  
Had any Muse crowned me with half the Bays  
Conquest hath given to thee; and next thy Name  
Should Berkly, Stanning, Digby press to Fame.  
Godolphin thee, thee Greenvil I'd rehearse,  
But Tears break off my Verse,  
How oft has vanquished Stamford backward fled,  
Swift as the parted Souls of those he led!  
How few did his huge Multitudes defeat,  
For most are cyphers when the Number's great.  
Numbers alas of Men, that made no more,  
Than he himself Ten Thousand times told o'er.  
Who hears of Stratton Fight, but must confess  
All that he heard or read before was less.  
Sad Germany can no such Trophy boast,  
For all the Blood these twenty years she has lost.  
Vast was their Army, and their Arms were more  
Than th' Host of Hundred-handed Giants bore.  
So strong their Arms, it did almost appear  
Secure, had neither Arms nor Men been there.  
In Hopton breaks, in breaks the Cornish Powers,  
Few and scarce Armed, yet was the advantage ours.  
What doubts could be, their outward strength to win,  
When we bore Arms and Magazine within.  
The violent Swords outdid the Musket's ire,  
It struck the Bones, and there gave dreadful fire:  
We scorned their Thunder and the reaking Blade,  
A thicker Smoke than all their Cannon made.  
Death and loud Tumults filled the place around;  
With fruitless rage; fallen Rebels bite the Ground,  
The Arms we gained, were Wealth, Bodies, of the Foe,  
All that a full fraught Victory can bestow.  
Yet stays not Hopton thus, but still proceeds,  
Pursues himself through all his glorious deeds.  
With Hertford, and the Prince, he joins his fate,  
The Belgian Trophies on their journey wait.  
The Prince who oft had checked proud W— fame.  
And fooled that flying Conquerors empty name:  
Till by his loss that fertile Monster thrived,  
This Serpent cut in parts rejoined and lived.  
It lived and would have stung us deeper yet,  
But that bold Greenvil its whole fury met.  
He sold like Decius his devoted Breath,  
And left the Commonwealth Heir to his Death.  
Hail mighty Ghost! look from on high and see  
How much our Hands and Swords remember thee.  
At Roundway Heath, our Rage at thy great fall,  
Whet all our Spirits and made us Greenvils all.  
One thousand Horse beat all their numerous power;  
Bless me! and where was then their Conqueror!  
Coward of Fame, he flies in haste away,  
Men, Arms, and Name leaves us the Victor's Prey.  
What meant those Iron Regiments which he brought,  
That moving Statues seemed and so they fought.  
No way for Death but by Disease appeared,  
Cannon and Mines a Siege they scarcely feared:  
Till against all hopes they proved in this sad sight,  
Too weak too stand, and yet too slow for fight.  
The Furies howled aloud through trembling Air,  
Th' astonished Snakes fell sadly from their Hair,  
To Lud's proud Town their hasty flight they took,  
The Towers and Temples at their entrance shook:  
In vain their Loss the attempted to disguise,  
And mustered up new Troops of fruitless lies:  
God fought himself, nor could th' event be less,  
Bright Conquest walks the Fields in all her dress.  
Could this white day a Gift more grateful bring?  
Oh yes! it brought blessed Mary to the King!  
In Keynton Field they met, at once they view  
Their former Victory and enjoy a new.  
Keynton the Place that Fortune did approve,  
To be the noblest Scene of War and Love;  
Through the Glad vail, Ten thousand Cupids fled  
And Chased the wand'ring spirits of Rebels dead,  
Still the lewd scent of Powder did they fear,  
And scattered Eastern smells through all the Air.  
Look happy Mount, look well, for this is she,  
That Toiled and Travelled for thy Victory,  
Thy flourishing Head to her with reverence bow,  
To her thou owest that Fame which Crowns thee now.  
From far stretched Shores they felt her spirit, and might:  
Princes and God at any distance fight.  
At her return well might she a Conquest have,  
Whose very absence such a Conquest gave.  
This in the West, nor did the North bestow  
Less 'Cause their usual gratitude to show;  
With much of state brave Cavendish led them forth,  
As swift and fierce as tempest from the North.  
Cavendish whom every Grace and every Muse,  
Kissed at his Birth; and for their own did choose:  
So good a Wit they meant not should excel  
In Arms, but now they see't and like it well:  
So large is that rich Empire of his heart,  
Well may they rest contented with a Part;  
How soon he forced the Northern Clouds to flight,  
And struck Confusion into Form and Light!  
Scarce did the Power Divine in fewer days,  
A peaceful World out of a Chaos raise.  
Bradford and Leeds propped up their sinking fame,  
They bragged of Hosts, and Fairfax was a name.  
Leeds, Bradford, Fairfax Powers are straight their own,  
As quickly as they vote Men overthrown.  
Boots from his Wain looked down below,  
And saw our Victory move not half so slow.  
I see the Gallant Earl break through the Foes,  
In Dust and Sweat how gloriously he shows.  
I see him lead the Pikes; What will he do?  
Defend him Heaven, Oh whither will he go?  
Up to the Cannon's mouth he leads! in vain  
They speak loud Death and threaten till they're ta'en.  
So Capaneu's two Armies filled with Wonder,  
When he charged jove & grappled with his Thunder.  
Both Hosts with silence, and with terror shook,  
As if not he, but they were thunderstruckk:  
The Courage here, and Boldness was no less,  
Only the Cause was better and Success.  
Heaven will let naught be by their Cannon done,  
Since at Edghil they sinned and Burlington.  
Go now your silly Calumnies repeat,  
And make all Papists whom you cannot beat.  
Let the World know some way, with whom you are vexed,  
And vote 'em Turks when they overthrow you next.  
Why will you die fond Men, why will you buy  
At this fond rate, your Country's slavery?  
Is't liberty! what are those threats we hear,  
Why do you thus th' Old and New Prison fill?  
When that's the only why; because you will?  
Fain would you make God too thus tyrannous be,  
And damn poor Men by such a stiff Decree:  
Is't property? why do such numbers then▪  
From God beg Vengeance and Relief from Men?  
Why are the Estates and Good's seized on of all  
Whom Covetous or Malicious Men miscall?  
What's more our own than our own Lives? But oh  
Could Yeoman's, or could Bourchier find it so?  
The Barbarous Coward always used to fly,  
Did know no other way to see men die.  
Or is't Religion? What then mean your Lies  
Your Sacrileges and Pulpit Blasphemies,  
Why are all Sects let loose, that ere had Birth,  
Since Luther's noise waked the Lethargic Earth,  
The Author went no further.