A COLLECTION OF POEMS ON Affairs of State; Viz. 

Advice to a Painter.  
Hodge 's Vision.  
Britain and Raleigh.  
Statue at Stocks— M—  
Young Statesman.  
To the K—  
Nostradamus' Prophecy.  
Sir Edmundbury Godfrey 's Ghost.  
On the King's Voyage to Chattam.  
Poems on Oliver, by Mr. Dryden, Mr. Sprat, and Mr. Waller.    
By A— M— l Esq and other Eminent Wits.  
Most whereof never before Printed.  
LONDON, Printed in the Year, MDCLXXXIX.   


Advice to a Painter, by A. M. Esq  

Spread a large Canvas, Painter, to contain  
The great Assembly, and the numerous Train,  
Where all about him shall in Triumph sit  
Abhorring Wisdom and despising Wit,  
Hating all Justice and resolved to Fight.  
First draw His Highness prostrate to the South,  
Adoring Rome, with this Speech in his Mouth.   

Most Holy Father, being joined in League  
With Father P— s, D D —y, and with Teague,  
Thrown at your Sacred Feet, I humbly bow,  
I and the wise Associates of my Vow;  
A Vow, nor Fire nor Sword shall ever end,  
Till all this Nation to your Footstool bend:  
Thus armed with Zeal and Blessings from your Hands,  
I'll raise my Papists, and my Irish Bands;  
And by a Noble well-contrived Plot,  
Managed by wise Fitz— and by Scot,  
Prove to the World, I'll have Old England know,  
That common Sense is my Eternal Foe.  
I ne'er can fight in a more glorious Cause,  
Than to destroy their Liberty and Laws,  
Their House of Commons, and their House of Lords,  
Parliaments, Precedents and dull Records;  
Shall these e'er dare to contradict my Will,  
And think a Prince o'th' Blood can e'er do Ill?  
It is our Birthright to have Power to kill.  
Shall they e'er dare to think they shall decide  
The Way to Heaven, and who shall be my Guide?  
Shall they pretend to say, That Bread is Bread,  
Or there's no Purgatory for the Dead?  
That Extreme Unction is but common Oil,  
And not Infallibly the Roman Spoil?  
I will have Villains in our Notions rest,  
And I do say it, therefore it's the best.   

Next Painter draw his M— by his side,  
Conveying his Religion and his Bride;  
He who long since abjured the Royal Line,  
Does now in Popery with his Master join.   

Then draw the Princess with her golden Locks,  
Hastening to be envenomed with the P—  
And in her youthful Veins receive a Wound,  
Which sent N. H. before her, under Ground;  
The Wound of which the tainted Ch— fades,  
Laid up in Store for a new Set of Maids.  
Poor Princess, born under a sullen Star,  
To find such Welcome when you came so far!  
Better some jealous Neighbour of your own  
Had called you to a Sound, tho' petty Throne,  
Where 'twixt a wholesome Husband and a Page,  
You might have lingered out a lazy Age,  
Than on dull Hopes of being here a Q—  
ere twenty dye, and rot before fifteen.   

Now Painter show us in the Blackest Dye,  
The Counsellors of all this Villainy:  
Cl— d, who first appeared in humble guise,  
Was always thought too Gentle, Meek and Wise:  
But when he came to act upon the Stage,  
He proved the mad Cethegus of our Age;  
He and his D—ke had both too great a Mind,  
To be by Justice or by Law confined;  
Their boiling Heads can hear no other Sounds  
Than Fleets and Armies, Battles, Blood and Woun'ds;  
And to destroy our Liberty they hope,  
By Irish Talbot, and old doting Pope.   

Next Talbot must by his great Master stand,  
Laden with Folly, Flesh, and Illgot Land;  
He's of a size indeed to fill a Porch,  
But ne'er can make a Pillar of the Church;  
His Sword is all his Argument, not his Book,  
Alt ho no Scholar, he can act the Cook;  
And will cut Throats again, if he be paid;  
In th' Irish Shambles he first learned the Trade.   

Then Painter show thy Skill, and in fit place,  
Let's see the Nuncio A— ll's sweet Face.  
Let the Beholders by thy Art espy  
His Sense and Soul, as squinting as his Eye.   

Let B— s autumnal Face be seen,  
Rich with the Spoils of a poor Algerine,  
Who trusting in him, was by him betrayed;  
And so shall we when his Advice's obeyed:  
Great Heroes to get Honour by the Sword,  
He got his Wealth by breaking of his Word;  
And now his Daughter he hath got with Child,  
And Pimps to have his Family defiled,   

Next Painter draw the Rabble of the Plot,  
G— n, Fitz G— d, Loftus, Porter, Scot:  
These are fit Heads indeed, to turn a State,  
And change the Order of a Nations Fate;  
Ten thousand such as these shall ne'er control  
The smallest Atom of an English Soul.   

Old England on a strong Foundation stands,  
Defying all their Heads and all their Hands,  
It's steady Basis never could be shaken,  
When Wiser Men her Ruin undertook:  
And can her Guardian Angels let her stoop  
At last, to Madmen, Fools, and to the Pope?  
No Painter, no close up this Piece and See,  
This crowd of Traitors hanged in EFFIGY.    

Hodge, a Countryman, went up to the Pyramid, His VISION.  

WHen Hodge had numbered up, how many Score  
The airy Pyramid contained, he swore,  
No mortal Wight e'er climbed so high before.  
To th' best Advantage placed, he Views around,  
Th' Imperial Throne with lofty Turrets crowned,  
The wealthy Storehouse of the bounteous Flood,  
Whose paceful Tide overflows our Land with Good:  
Confused Forms fleet by his wondering Eyes,  
And his Soul too, seized by Divine surprise.  
Some God it seems had entered his plain Breast,  
And with's Abode that Rustic Mansion blest.  
A mighty Change he feels in every part;  
Light guides his Eyes, and Wisdom rules his Heart:  
So when her pious Son, fair Venus showed  
His flaming Troy, with slaughtered Dardan's Strowed,  
She purged his Optic Films, his clouded Sight,  
Then Troy's last Doom he read by Heaven's Light;  
Such Light Divine did seize the dazzling Eyes  
Of humble Hodge.   

Regions remote, Courts, Councils, Policies  
The Circling Wills of Tyrant's Treacheries  
He views, discerns, deciphers, penetrates,  
From Charle's Dukes, to Europe's armed States.  
He saw the Goatish King in his Alcove,  
With secret Scenes of his incestuous Love;  
To whom he spoke:   

Cease, cease, O Charles, thus to pollute our Isle;  
Return, return to thy long wished Exile;  
There with thy Court defile the neighbouring States.  
And by thy Crimes participate their Fates.  
He saw the Duke in his cursed Divan set  
To's vast Designs reaching his Pigmy-Wit,  
With a choice Knot of the Ignatian Crew,  
Who th' way to Murders and to Treasons show:  
Dissenters they oppress with Laws severe  
That whilst we wound these innocents', we fear  
Their cursed Seed we may be forced to spare.  
Twice the Reformed must fight a double Prize,  
That Rome and France may in their Ruins rise.  
Old Bonner single Heretics did burn,  
These Reformed Cities into Ashes turn,  
And every year new Fires make us mourn.  
Hibernian Tories plot his cruel Reign,  
And thirst for English Martyrs Blood again.  
Our Valiant Youth abroad must learn the Trade  
Of unjust War, their Country to invade;  
Others at home must grind us to prepare  
Our gallic Necks their Iron Yoke to wear.  
Ships, once our Safety and our glorious Might,  
Are doomed with Worms and Rottenness to fight;  
Whilst France rides Sovereign o'er the British Main,  
Our Merchants robbed, and brave Seamen slain:  
T' insure his Plot, France must his Legions send,  
Rome to restore, and to enthrone his Friend:  
Thus the rash Phaeton with Fury hurled,  
And rapid Rage, consumes the British World.  
Blast him, O Heaven, in his mad Career,  
And let these Isles no more his Frenzy fear:  
Cursed— whom all Mankind abhor;  
False to thyself, but to thy Friend much more,  
To him who did thy promised Pardon hope, (Coleman.  
And with pretended Transports kiss the Rope;  
O'erwhelmed with Grief, and gasping out a Lie,  
Deceived, and unprepared, thou lettest him die  
With equal Gratitude and Treachery.    

BRITANNIA and RALEIGH.  By A. M. Brit. 
AH Raleigh, when thou didst thy Breath resign  
To trembling James, would I had quitted mine.  
Cubs didst thou call them? Hadst thou seen this Brood  
Of Earls, Dukes, and Princes of the Blood;  
No more of Scottish Race thou wouldst complain  
These would be Blessings in this spurious Reign.  
Awake, arise from thy long blessed Repose;  
Once more with me partake of Morlace Woes.  Ra. 
What mighty Power hath forced me from my rest?  
Oh mighty Queen, why so untimely dressed?  Brit. 
Favoured by Night, concealed in this Disguise,  
Whilst the lewd Court in drunken Slumber lies,  
I stole away, and never will return,  
Till England knows who did her City burn;  
Till Cavaliers shall Favourites be deemed,  
And Loyal Sufferers by the Court esteemed,  
Till Liegh and Galloway shall Bribes reject;  
Thus Osburn's Golden Cheat I shall detect:  
Till Atheist L—le shall leave this Land,  
And Commons Votes shall Cut-Nose Guards disband;  
Till Kate a happy Mother shall become,  
Till Charles loves Parliaments, and James hates Room.  Ral. 
What fatal Crimes make you for ever fly  
Your once loved Court and Martyr's Progeny?  Brit. 

A Colony of French possess the Court;  
Pimps, Priests, Buffoons in the Privy Chamber sport;  
Such slimy Monsters ne'er approached a Throne  
Since Pharaoh's Days, nor so defiled a Crown.  
In sacred Ear Tyrannic Arts they croak,  
Pervert his Mind, and good Intentions choke;  
Tell him of Golden Indies, Fairy Lands,  
Leviathan, and absolute Commands.  
Thus Fairy-like the King they steal away,  
And in his room a Changeling Lewis lay.  
How oft have I him to himself restored,  
In's left the Scale, in's right hand placed the Sword?  
Taught him their use, what dangers would ensue,  
To them who strive to separate these two?  
The bloody Scotish Chronicle read o'er,  
Showed him how many Kings in purple gore  
Were hurled to Hell by cruel Tyrant Lore.   

The other day famed Spencer I did bring,  
In lofty Notes Tudor's blessed Race to sing;  
How Spain's proud Powers her Virgin Arms controlled,  
And Golden Days in peaceful Order roul'd;  
How like ripe Fruit she dropped from off her Throne,  
Full of grey Hairs, good Deeds, and great Renown.  
As the Jessean Hero did appease  
Saul's stormy Rage, and stopped his black Disease;  
So the learned Bard, with Artful Song suppressed  
The swelling Passion of his cankered Breast,  
And in his Heart kind Influences shed  
Of Country Lore by Truth and Justice bred:  
Then, to perform the Cure so full begun,  
To him I showed this glorious setting Sun.  
How by her People's Looks pursued from far,  
So mounted on a bright Celestial Car,  
Outshining Virgo, or the Julian Star.  
Whilst in Truth's Mirror this good Scene he spied,  
Entered a Dame, bedecked with spotted Pride,  
Fair Flower de Luce within an Azure Field,  
Her left Hand bears the Ancient gallic Shield,  
By her usurped; her Right a bloody Sword,  
Inscribed Leviathan, our Sovereign Lord;  
Her towry Front a fiery Meteor bears,  
An Exhalation bred of Blood and Tears;  
Around her Jove's lewd ravenous Curs complain,  
Pale Death, Lust, Tortures, fill her pompous Train:  
She from the easy King Truth's Mirror took,  
And on the Ground in spiteful Fall it broke;  
Then frowning thus, with proud Disdain she broke.   

Are threadbare Virtues Ornaments for Kings?  
Such poor Pedantic Toys teach Underlings.  
Do Monarches rise by Virtue or by Sword?  
Who e'er grew great by keeping of his Word?  
Virtue's a faint Green-Sickness to brave Souls,  
Dastards their Hearts, their active Heat controls:  
The Rival God, Monarches of th' other World,  
This mortal Poison amongst Princes hold;  
Fearing the mighty Projects of the great,  
Shall drive them from their proud Celestial Seat,  
If not o're-awed: This newfound holy Cheat,  
Those pious Frauds too slight, t' ensnare the brave,  
Are proper Acts of long-eared Rout t' enslave.  
Bribe hungry Priests to deify your Might,  
To teach your Will's, your only Rule to Right;  
And sound Damnation to all that dare deny't.  
Thus Heaven designs 'gainst Heaven you should turn,  
And make them fear those powers you once did scorn.  
When all the Gobbling Interest of Mankind,  
By Hirelings sold to you shall be resigned;  
And by Impostures God and man betrayed,  
The Church and State you safely may invade;  
So boundless Law in its full power shines,  
Whilst your starved power in Legal Fetters pines.  
Shake off those Baby Bands from your strong Arms,  
Henceforth be deaf to your old Witches Charms;  
Taste the delicious Sweets of Sovereign power,  
'Tis Royal Game whole Kingdoms to deflower.  
Three spotless Virgins to your Bed I'll bring,  
A Sacrifice to you their God and King:  
As these grow stale we'll harras human kind,  
Rack Nature till new pleasures you shall find,  
Strong as your Reign, and beauteous as your Mind.  
When she had spoke, a confused Murmur rose  
Of French, Scotch, Irish, all my mortal Foes,  
Some English too, O shame! disguised I spied,  
Led all by the wise Son-in-Law of Hyde;  
With Fury drunk, like Baccanels they Roar,  
Down with that common Magna Charta Whore:  
With joint Consent on helpless Me they flew,  
And from my Charles to a base Goal me drew;  
My Reverend Age exposed to Scorn and Shame,  
To Prigs, Bawds, Whores, was made the public Game.  
Frequent Addresses to my Charles I send,  
And my sad State did to his Care commend:  
But his fair Soul transformed by that French Dame,  
Had lost a sense of Honour, Justice, Fame.  
Like a tame Spinster in's Seraigl he sits,  
Besieg'id by Whores, Buffoons and Bastards Chits;  
Lulled in Security, rolling in Lust,  
Resigns his Crown to Angel Cromwel's Trust.  
Her Creature O— e, the Revenue steals,  
False F—ch, Knave Ang— ery, misguide the Seals;  
Mack-James the Irish Biggots does adore:  
His French and Teague commands on sea and shore:  
The Scotch Scalado of our Court two Isles,  
Fale L—le with Adure all defiles.  
Thus the States Right marred by this Hellish Court,  
And no one left these Furies to cast out:  
Ah Vindex come, and purge the poisoned State;  
Descend, Descend, ere the Cures desperate.   Ral. 
Once more great Queen thy Darling strive to save,  
Rescue him again from scandal and the Grave;  
Present to's Thoughts his long scorned Parliament,  
The Basis of his Throne and Government:  
In his deaf Ears sound his dead Father's Name,  
Perhaps that Spell may his ill Soul reclaim;  
Who knows what good Effects from thence may spring?  
'Tis Godlike Good to save a falling King.  Brit. 

As easily learned Vertuoso's may  
With the Dog's Blood his gentle Kind Convey  
Into the Wolf, and make him Guardian turn,  
To the bleating Flock, by him so lately torn;  
If this Imperial Juice once taint his Blood,  
'Tis by no potent Antidote withstood.  
Tyrants, like Leprous Kings, for public weal,  
Should be immured, lest the Contagion steal  
Over the whole. Th' Elect of the Jessean Line,  
To this firm Law their Sceptre did resign.   

To the serene Venetian State I'll go,  
From her sage Mouth famed Principles to know;  
With her, the prudence of the ancients read,  
To teach my people in their steps to tread;  
By their great Pattern such a State I'll frame,  
Shall eternize a glorious lasting Name.  
Till then, my Raleigh teach our noble Youth,  
To love Sobriety and holy Truth:  
Watch and preside over their tender Age,  
Lest Court Corruption should their Soul engage:  
Tell them how Arts and Arms in thy young Days  
Employed our Youth, not Taverns, Stews and Plays:  
Tell them the generous Scorn their rise does owe  
To Flattery, Pimping and a Gaudy Show:  
Teach them to scorn the Corwells, P— s, Neils,  
The cleveland's, Osborns, Berties, Lau— ails,  
Poppea, Tegoline and Arteria's Name,  
Who yield to these in Lewdness, Lust and Fame.  
Make 'em admire the Talbots, Sidneys, Vere's,  
Drake, Cav'ndish, Blake, Men void of slavish Fears,  
True Sons of Glory, Pillars of the State,  
On whose famed Deeds all Tongues and Writers wait;  
When with bright Ardour their bright Souls do burn,  
Back to my dearest Country I'll return.  
Tarquin's just Judge and Caesar's equal Peers,  
With them I'll bring, to dry my People's Tears.  
Publicola with healing Hands shall pour  
Balm in their Wounds, and shall their Life restore:  
Greek Arts and Roman Arms in her conjoined,  
Shall England raise, relieve oppressed Mankind.  
As Jove's great Son th' infested Globe did free  
From noxious Monsters, hellbred Tyranny;  
So shall my England in a Holy War,  
In Triumph bear slain Tyrants from afar;  
Her true Crusado shall at last pull down  
The Turkish Crescent and the Persian Sun.  
Freed by my Labours, Fortunate Blessed Isle,  
The Earth shall rest, the Heaven shall on thee smile;  
And this kind Secret for Reward shall give,  
No Poisonous Serpent on the Earth shall live.    

On the Statue at Stock-market.  

AS Citizens, that to their Conquerors yield,  
Do at their own Charge their own Citadel build;  
So Sir Robert advanced the King's Statue, a Token  
Of a Broker defeated, and Lombardstreet broken.  
Some thought it a mighty and gracious Deed,  
Obliging the City with a King on a Steed;  
When with honour he might from his Word have gone back,  
Who that waits for a Calm, is absolved by a Wreck:  
By all, it appears from the first to the last,  
To be as Revenge and as Malice forecast,  
Upon the King's Birth Day to set up a Thing,  
That shows him a Monkey, more like than a King.  
When each one that passes, finds fault with the Horse,  
Yet all do assure that the King is much worse:  
And some by the Likeness, Sir Robert suspect,  
That he did for the K— his own Statue erect.  
To see him so disguised, the Herbwomen chide,  
Who upon their Panniers more decently ride:  
And so loose are his feet, that all men agree  
Sir William Peak sits more faster than he:  
But a Market they say doth fit the King well,  
Who oft Parliaments buys, and Revenues doth sell:  
And others, to make the Similitude hold,  
Say his Majesty himself is oft bought and sold.  
Surely this Statue is more dangerous far,  
Than all the Dutch Pictures that caused the War;  
And what the Exchequer for that took on trust,  
May henceforth be confiscated for Reasons most just.   

But Sir Robert, to take the Scandal away,  
Doth the fault upon the Artificer lay;  
And alleges the thing is none of his own;  
For he counterfeits only in Gold, not in Stone.  
But Sir Knight of the Vine, how cameed in your thought,  
That when to the Sc— Id your Liege you had brought,  
With Canvas and Deals you ere since do him cloud,  
As if you had meant it his Coffin and Shroud?  
Hath Blood him away, as his Crown he conveyed?  
Or is he to Clayton's gone in Masquerade?  
Or is he in his Cabal in his— set?  
Or have you to the Compter removed him for Debt?  
Methinks for the Equipage of this vile Scene,  
That to change him into a Jack-Pudding you mean,  
Or else thus expose him to Popular Flout,  
As tho' we had as good have a King of a Clout.  
Or do you his Errors out of Modesty veil  
With three shattered Planks, and the Rags of a Sail,  
To expose how his Navy was shattered and torn,  
The day that he was restored and born?  
If the Judges and Parliament do not him enrich,  
They will scarcely afford him a Rag to his Breech.  
Sir Robert affirms they do him much wrong;  
'Tis the Gravers Work to reform so long.  
But alas, he will never arrive at his end;  
For 'tis such a King no Chisel can mend:  
But with all his faults pray give us our King,  
As ever you hope December or Spring:  
For though the whole World cannot show such another,  
We had better have him than his P —'d Brother.    

A Young Gentleman, desirous to be a Minister of State, thus pretends to qualify himself.  
TO make myself for this Employment fit,  
I'll learn as much as I can ever get  
Of the Honourable G G —y of R—Wit:  
In Constancy and sincere Loyalty,  
I'll imitate the grateful Shaftsbury;  
And that we may assume the Church's weal,  
And all Disorder in Religion heal,  
I will espouse Lord H—'s Zeal:  
To pay Respect to Sacred Revelation,  
To scorn th' affected Wit of Profanation,  
And rout Impiety out of the Nation:  
To suppress Vice and Scandal to prevent,  
Buck— 's Life shall be my Precedent,  
That living Modal of good Covernment.  
To dive into the depth of Statesman's Craft,  
To search the Secrets of the subtlest Heart,  
And hide my own designs with prudent Art:  
To make each Man my Property become,  
To frustrate all the Plots of France or Rome,  
None can so well instruct as my Lord Moon;  
For Moral Honesty in Deed and Word,  
Lord W— r Example will afford;  
That, and his Courage too, are on Record.   

To the King.  
GReat Charles, who full of Mercy, wouldst command  
In Peace and Pleasure this, his Native Land;  
At last take pity of this tottering Throne,  
Shaken by the Faults of others, not thine own.  
Let not thy Life and Crown together end,  
Destroyed by a false Brother and a Friend.  
Observe the danger that appears so near,  
That all your Subjects do each minute fear:  
One drop of Poison, or a Papist-Knife,  
Ends all the Joy of England with thy Life.  
Brothers, 'tis true, by Nature, should be kind;  
But a too zealous and ambitious Mind,  
Bribed with a Crown on Earth, and one above,  
Harbours no Friendship, Tenderness, or Love:  
See in all Ages what Examples are  
Of Monarches murdered by their impatient Heir.  
Hard Fate of Princes, who will ne'er believe  
Till the Stroke's struck which they can ne'er retrieve▪   

Nostradamus's PROPHECY.  By A. M. 

FOR Faults and Follies London's Doom shall fix,  
And She must sink in Flames in Sixty six;  
Fire-Balls shall fly, but few shall see the Train,  
As far as from Whitehall to Pudding-Lane,  
To burn the City, which again shall rise,  
Beyond all hopes, aspiring to the Skies,  
Where Vengeance dwells. But there is one thing more  
(Though its Walls stand) shall bring the City lower:  
When Legislators shall their Trust betray,  
Saving their own, shall give the rest away;  
And those false men by th' easy People sent,  
Give Taxes to the King by Parliament:  
When barefaced Villains shall not blush to cheat,  
And Chequer-Doors shall shut up Lumbard-street:  
When Players come to act the part of Queens,  
Within the Curtains, and behind the Scenes:  
When Sodomy shall be prime Min'sters Sport,  
And Whoring shall be the least Crime at Court:  
When Boys shall take their Sisters for their Mate,  
And practice Incests between Seven and Eight:  
When no man knows in whom to put his trust,  
And even to rob the Chequer shall be just;  
When Declarations, Lie, and every Oath  
Shall be in use at Court but Faith and Troth;  
When two good Kings shall be at Brentford Town,  
And when in London there shall be not one;  
When the seats given to a talking Fool,  
Whom wise men laugh at, and whom Women rule;  
A Min'ster able only in his Tongue,  
To make harsh, empty speeches two hours long;  
When an old Scotch Covenant shall be  
The Champion for th' English Hierarchy;  
When Bishops shall lay all Religion by,  
And strive by Law t' establish Tyranny;  
When a lean Treasurer shall in one year  
Make himself fat, his King and People bare;  
When th' English Prince shall English men despise,  
And think French only Loyal, Irish Wise;  
When Wooden Shoes shall be the English wear,  
And Magna Charta shall no more appear;  
Then th' English shall a greater Tyrant know  
Than either Greek or Latin Story show;  
Their Wives to's Lust exposed, their Wealth to's Spoil,  
With Groans to fill his Treasury they toil;  
But like the Bellides must sigh in vain;  
For that still filled flows out as fast again;  
Then they with envious Eyes shall Belgium see,  
And wish in vain Venetian Liberty.   

The Frogs too late, grown weary of their pain,  
Shall pray to Jove to take him back again.    

Sir Edmondbury Godfrey 's Ghost.  

IT happened in the Twilight of the Day,  
As England's Monarch in his Closet lay,  
And Chiffinch stepped to fetch the Female Prey;  
The bloody shape of Godfrey did appear,  
And in sad Vocal sounds these things declare:  
" Behold, Great Sir, I from the Shades am sent,  
" To show these Wounds that did your Fall prevent.  
" My panting Ghost, as Envoy, comes to call,  
" And warn you, lest, like me, ye untimely fall;  
" Who against Law your Subjects Lives pursue,  
" By the same rate may dare to murder you.  
" I, for Religion, Laws, and Liberties,  
" Am mangled thus, and made a Sacrifice.   

" Think what befell Great Egypt's hardened King,  
" Who scorned the Profit of admonishing.  
" Shake off your brandy slumbers; for my Words  
" More Truth than all your close Cabal affords:  
" A Court you have with Luxury oregrown,  
" And all the Vices ere in Nature known;  
" Where Pimps and Panders in their Coaches ride,  
" And in Lampoons and Songs your Lust deride.  
" Old Bawds and slighted Whores, there tell, with shame,  
" The dull Romance of your Lascivious Flame.  
" Players and Scaramouches are your Joy;  
" Priests and French Apes do all your Land annoy;  
" Still so profuse, you are insolvent grown,  
" A Mighty Bankrupt on a Golden Throne.  
" Your nauseous Palate the worst Food doth crave;  
" No wholesome Viands can an entrance have:  
" Each Night you lodge in that French Syren's Arms  
" She straight betrays you with her wanton Charms;  
" Works on your Heart, softened with Love and Wine,  
" And than betrays you to some Philistine.  
" Imperial Lust does o'er your Sceptre sway;  
" And though a Sovereign makes you to obey.  
" Yet thoughts so stupid have your Soul possessed,  
" As if enchanted by some Magic Priest.  
" Next he who 'gainst the Senate's Vote did wed,  
" Took defiled H. and Hesti to his Bed:  
" Fiend in his Face, Apostle in his Name,  
" Contrived to Wars to your eternal shame.  
" He ancient Laws and Liberties defies;  
" On standing Guards and new raised Force relies:  
" The Teagues he courts, and doth the French admire,  
" And fain he would be mounted one step higher.  
" All this by you must needs be plainly seen,  
" And yet he awes you with his darling Spleen.  
" Th' unhappy Kingdom suffered much of Old,  
" When Spencer and loose Gaveston controulled;  
" Yet they by just Decrees were timely sent,  
" To suffer a perpetual Banishment.  
" But your bold Statesmen nothing can restrain,  
" Their most enormous Courses you maintain;  
" Witness that Man, who had for divers years  
" Paid the Cubb-Commons, Pensions and Arrears;  
" Though your Exchequer was at his Command,  
" Durst not before his just Accuser stand,  
" For Crimes and Treasons of so black a hue,  
" None dare to prove his Advocate but you.  
" Trust not in Prelates false Divinity,  
" Who wrong their Prince, and shame their Deity,  
" Making their God so partial in their Cause,  
" Exempting Kings alone from humane Laws.  
" These lying Oracles they did infuse  
" Of old, and did your Martyred Sire abuse.  
" Their strong delusions did him so enthral,  
" No Cautions would anticipate his Fall.  
" Repent in time, and banish from your sight  
" The Pimp, the Whore, Buffoon, Church-parasite;  
" Let Innocence deck your remaining days,  
" That After-ages may unfold your Praise.  
" So may Historians in new Methods write,  
" And draw a Curtain 'twixt your black and white.   

The Ghost spoke thus, groaned thrice, and said no more:  
Strait in came Chiffinch hand in hand with Whore:  
The King tho' much concerned with Joy and Fear,  
Starts from the Couch and bid the Dame draw near.    

Upon the King's Voyage to Chatham, to make Bulwarks against the Dutch: And the Queen's miscarriage thereupon.  
WHen James our great Monarch, so Wise and Discreet:  
Was gone with three Barges, to face the Dutch Fleet▪  
Our young Prince of Wales (by inheritance stout!)  
Was coming to aid him and peeped his Head out;  
But seeing his Father without Ships or Men,  
Commit the defence of us all to a Chain,  
Taffee was frighted, and skulked in again;  
Nor thought, while the Dutch domineered on our Road▪  
It was safe to come further, and venture abroad:  
Not Walgrave, or th' Epistle of Seignieur le Duke,  
Made Her Majesty Sick, and her Royal Womb puke:  
But the Dutchmen Pickeering at Dover and Harwich,  
Gave the Ministers Agues, and the Queen a Miscarriage;  
And to see the poor King stand in Ships of such need,  
Made the Catholics quake, and Her Majesty bleed;  
And I wish the sad Accident don't spoil the young Prince,  
Take off all his Manhood, and make him a Wench:  
But the Hero his Father no courage did lack;  
Who was sorry on such a pretext to come back:  
He marked out his ground, and mounted a Gun,  
And 'tis thought without such a pretence he had run;  
For his Army and Navy were said to increase,  
As appears (when we have no occasion) in Peace:  
Nay, if the Dutch come, we despise 'em so much,  
Our Navy Incognito will leave 'em i'th' Lurch,  
And (to their eternal Disgrace) we are able  
To beat 'em by way of a Post and a Cable;  
Why was this, Sir, left out of the Wise Declaration,  
That flattered with Hopes of more Forces, the Nation?  
'Twould have done us great good to have said, you intended,  
The strength of the Nation the CHAIN should be mended;  
Though we thank you, for Passing so kindly your Word,  
(Which never was broke) that you'd Rule by the Sword;  
This Promise we know you meant to fulfil;  
And therefore you have reason (by Gad) to take't ill,  
That the Bishops, the Bishops did throw out the Bill.    

Three POEMS on the Death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell.  Written by Mr. John Dryden, Mr. Sprat of Oxford, and Mr. Edm. Waller. 

Heroic Stanza's, on the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell, written after his Funeral, by Mr. Dryden.  

I.  
AND now 'tis time; for their officious haste,  
Who would before have born him to the Sky,  
Like eager Romans ere all Rites were passed,  
Did let to soon the sacred Eagle fly.   

II.  
Though our best Notes are Treason to his Fame,  
Joined with the loud applause of public Voice;  
Since Heaven, what praise we offer to his Name,  
Hath rendered too Authentic by its choice;   

III.  
Though in his praise no Arts can liberal be,  
Since they whose Muses have the highest flown,  
Add not to his Immortal Memory;  
But do an act of Friendship to their own:   

IU.  
Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,  
Such Monuments as we can build, to raise,  
Lest all the World prevent what we should do,  
And claim a Title in him by their Praise.   

V.  
How shall I then begin, or where conclude,  
To draw a Fame so truly Circular?  
For in a round, what order can be showed,  
Where all the parts so equal perfect are?   

VI  
His Grandeur he derived from Heaven alone,  
For he was great ere Fortune made him so,  
And Wars like Mists that rise against the San,  
Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.   

VII.  
No borrowed Bays his Temples did adorn,  
But to our Crown he did fresh Jewels bring;  
Nor was his Virtue poisoned soon as born,  
With the too early thoughts of being King.   

VIII.  
Fortune (that easy Mistress to the young,  
But to her ancient Servants coy and hard)  
Him, at that age, her Favourites ranked among,  
When she her best loved Pompey did discard.   

IX.  
He private, marked the Faults of others sway,  
And set as Sea-marks for himself to shun;  
Not like rash Monarches, who their youth betray,  
By Acts their Age too late would wish undone.   

X.  
And yet Dominion was not his design,  
We owe that blessing not to him but Heaven,  
Which to fair acts unsought rewards did join,  
Rewards that less to him, than us were given.   

XI.  
Our former Chief like Sticklers of the War,  
First sought t'inflame the parties, then to poise:  
The quarrel loved, but did the cause abhor,  
And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.   

XII.  
War, our Consumption, was their gainful Trade;  
He inward bled, whilst they prolonged our pain;  
He fought to end our fight, and assayed  
To staunch the blood by breathing of the Vein.   

XIII.  
Swift and resistless through the Land he passed,  
Like that bold Greek, who did the East subdue,  
And made to Battles such Heroic haste,  
As if on Wings of Victory he flew.   

XIV.  
He Fought secure of Fortune as of Fame,  
Still by new Maps the Island might be shown,  
Of Conquests which he strewed where ere he came,  
Thick as the Galaxy with Stars is sown.   

XV.  
His Palms, though under weights they did not stand,  
Still thrived, no Winter could his Laurels fade:  
Heaven in his Portrait showed a Workman's hand,  
And drew it perfect, yet without a shade.   

XVI.  
Peace was the prize of all his toil and care,  
Which War had banished, and did now restore:  
Bolognia's Walls thus mounted in the Air,  
To seat themselves more surely than before:   

XVII.  
Her safety, rescued Ireland, to him owes,  
And treacherous Scotland to no interest true,  
Yet blessed that Fate which did his Arms dispose  
Her Land to civilize, as to subdue.   

XVIII.  
Nor was he like those Stars which only shine,  
When to pale Mariners, they Storms portend;  
He had his calmer influences, and his Mien  
Did Love and Majesty together blend.   

XIX.  
'tis true his Countenance did imprint an awe,  
And naturally all Souls to his did bow,  
As wands of Divination downward draw,  
And point to beds where sovereign Gold doth grow.   

XX.  
When past all offerings to Pheretrian Jove,  
He Mars deposed, and Arms to Gowns made yield,  
Successful Counsels did him soon approve,  
As fit for close Intrigues, as open Field.   

XXI.  
To suppliant Holland he vouchsafed a Peace,  
Our once bold Rival in the British Main,  
Now tamely glad her unjust claim to cease,  
And buy our Friendship with her Idol, Gain.   

XXII.  
Fame of the asserted Sea through Europe blown,  
Made France and Spain ambitious of his Love;  
Each knew that side must conquer he would own,  
And for him fiercely, as for Empire strove.   

XXIII.  
No sooner was the Frenchman Cause embraced,  
Than the light Monsieur, the grave Don outweighed;  
His Fortune turned the Scale where it was cast;  
Though Indian Mines where in the other laid.   

XXIV.  
When absent, yet we conquered in his Right;  
For though that some mean Artist's Skill were shown  
In mingling Colours, or in placing Light;  
Yet still the fair Designment was his own.   

XXV.  
For from all Tempers he could Service draw;  
The worth of each with its allay he knew;  
And as the Confident of Nature saw  
How she Complexions did divide and brew.   

XXVI.  
Or he their single Virtues did survey,  
By intuition in his own large Breast,  
Where all the rich Ideas of them lay,  
That were the Rule and Measure to the rest.   

XXVII.  
When such Heroic Virtue, Heaven set out:  
The Stars like Commons sullenly obey;  
Because it drains them when it comes about;  
And therefore is a Tax they seldom pay.   

XXVIII.  
From this high Spring, our Foreign Conquests flow,  
Which yet more glorious Triumphs do portend;  
Since their Commencement to his Arms they owe,  
If springs as high as Fountains may ascend.   

XXXIX.  
He made us Freemen of the Continent,  
Whom Nature did like Captives treat before;  
To Nobler preys the English Lion sent,  
And taught him first in Belgian Walks to roar.   

XXX.  
That old unquestioned Pirate of the Land,  
Proud Rome, with dread the Fate of Dunkirk heard;  
And trembling wished behind more Alps to stand,  
Although an Alexander were her Guard.   

XXXI.  
By his Command, we boldly crossed the Line,  
And bravely fought where Southern Stars arise,  
We traced the far-fetched Gold unto the Mine,  
And that which bribed our Fathers made our Prize.   

XXXII.  
Such was our Prince, yet owned a Soul above  
The highest Acts it could produce or show:  
Thus poor Mechanic Arts in public move,  
Whilst the deep Secrets beyond Practice go.   

XXXIII.  
Nor died he when his ebbing Fame went less,  
But when the fresh Laurels courted him to live;  
He seemed but to prevent some new Success,  
As if above what Triumphs Earth can give.   

XXXIV.  
His lafoy test Victories still thickest came,  
As near the Centre, Motion doth increase;  
Till he pressed down by his own weighty Name,  
Did, like the Vestal, under spoils decease.   

XXXV.  
But first the Ocean as a Tribute sent  
That Giant Prince of all her wat'ry Herd;  
And th' Isle, when her protecting Genius went,  
Upon his Obsequies loud sighs conferred.   

XXXVI.  
No civil broils have since his Death arose,  
But Faction now by habit does obey;  
And Wars have that respect for his Repose,  
As Winds for Halcyons when they breed at Sea.   

XXXVII.  
His Ashes in a peaceful Urn shall rest,  
His Name a great Example stands to show,  
How strangely high Endeavours may be blest,  
Where Piety, and Valour jointly go.    

To the Reverend Dr. Wilkins, Warden of Wadham College in Oxford.  
SIR,  
SEeing you are pleased to think fit that these Papers should come into the public, which were at first designed to live only in a Desk, or some private Friends Hands; I humbly take the boldness to commit them to the security, which your Name and protection will give them, with the most knowing part of the World. There are two things especially, in which they stand in need of your defence: One is, That they fall so infinitely below the full and lofty Genius of that excellent Poet, who made this way of Writing Free of our Nation: The other, That they are so little proportioned and equal to the renown of that Prince, on whom they were written. Such great Actions and Lives, deserving rather to be the subjects of the noblest Pens and most Divine Fancies, than of such small Beginners and week Essayers in Poetry as myself. Against these dangerous prejudices, there remains no other shield, than the Universal Esteem and Authority, which your Judgement and Approbation carries with it. The right you have to them, Sir, is not only on the account of the Relation you had to this great Person, nor of the general favour which all arts receive from you; but more particularly by reason of that Obligation and Zeal, with which I am bound to dedicate myself to your service: For having been a long time the Object of your Care and Indulgence towards the advantage of my Studies and Fortune, having been moulded (as it were) by your own Hands, and form under your Government; not to entitle you to any thing which my meanness produces, would not only be Injustice, but Sacrilege: So that if there be any thing here tolerably said, which deserves Pardon, it is yours Sir, as well as he, who is  
Your most Devoted and Obliged Servant.   

To the happy memory of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell. By Mr. Sprat of Oxon. Pindaric Odes.  

I.  
'TIS true, great Name, thou art secure  
From the forgetfulness and rage  
Of Death, or Envy, or devouring Age;  
Thou canst the Force and Teeth of Time endure:  
Thy Fame like Men, the elder it doth grow,  
Will of its self turn whiter too,  
Without what needless art can do;  
Will live beyond thy breath, beyond thy Hearse,  
Though it were never heard or sung in Verse.  
Without our help, thy Memory is safe;  
They only want an Epitaph,  
That does remain alone  
Alive in an Inscription,  
Remembered only on the Brass, or Marble stone.  
'Tis all in vain what we can do:  
All our Roses and Perfumes  
Will but officious folly show,  
And pious Nothings, to such mighty Tombs.  
All our Incense, Gums, and Balm,  
Are but unnecessary duties here:  
The Poets may their Spices spare,  
Their costly numbers and their tuneful feet:  
That need not be embalmed, which of itself is sweet.   

II.  
We know to praise thee is a dangerous proof  
Of our Obedience and our Love:  
For when the Sun and Fire meet,  
Th' one's extinguished quite;  
And yet the other never is more bright:  
So they that write of thee, and join  
Their feeble names with Thine,  
Their weaker sparks with thy illustrious light,  
Will lose themselves in that ambitious thought;  
And yet no Fame to thee from thence he brought.  
We know, blessed Spirit, thy mighty name  
Wants no addition of another's beam;  
It's for our pens too high, and full of Theme:  
The Muses are made great by thee, not thou by them.  
Thy Fame's Eternal Lamp will live,  
And in thy Sacred Urn survive,  
Without the food of Oil, which we can give.  
'Tis true; but yet our duty calls our Songs,  
Duty Commands our Tongues.  
Though thou want not our praises, we  
Are not excused for what we owe to thee;  
For so Men from Religion are not freed.  
But from the Altars clouds must rise,  
Though Heaven itself doth nothing need,  
And though the Gods don't want an earthly Sacrifice   

III.  
Great Life of wonders, whose each year  
Full of new Miracles did appear!  
Whose every Month might be  
Alone a Chronicle, or a History!  
Others great Actions are  
But thinly scattered here and there;  
At best, but all one single Star;  
But thine the Milky-way,  
All one continued light of undistinguished day;  
They thronged so close, that nought else could be seen,  
Scarce any common Sky did come between:  
What shall I say or where begin?  
Thou may'st in double shapes be shown,  
Or in thy Arms, or in thy Gown;  
Like Jove sometimes with Warlike Thunder, and  
Sometimes with peaceful Sceptre in his Hand,  
Or in the Field, or on the Throne.  
In what thy Head, or what thy Arm hath done,  
All that thou didst was so refined,  
So full of substance, and so strongly joined,  
So pure, so weighty Gold,  
That the least Grain of it  
If fully spread and beat,  
Would many Leaves and mighty Volumes hold▪   

IU.  
Before thy Name was published, and whilst yet  
Thou only to thyself were't great,  
Whilst yet thy happy bud  
Was not quite seen, or understood,  
It then sure signs of future greatness showed:  
Then thy Domestic worth  
Did tell the World what it would be,  
When it should fit occasion see,  
When a full Spring should call it forth:  
As Bodies, in the dark and night,  
Have the same Colours, the same red and white,  
As in the open Day and Light,  
The Sun doth only show  
That they are bright, not make them so:  
So whilst but private Walls did know  
What we to such a mighty Mind should owe,  
Then the same Virtues did appear,  
Though in a less and more contracted Sphere,  
As full, though not as large as since they were:  
And like great Rivers, Fountains, though  
At first so deep thou didst not go;  
Though then thine was not so enlarged a Flood;  
Yet when 'twas little, 'twas as clear as good.   

V.  
'Tis true thou wast not born unto a Crown,  
Thy sceptre's not thy Father's, but thy own:  
Thy purple was not made at once in haste,  
And after many other Colours past,  
It took the deepest Princely Dye at last.  
Thou didst begin with lesser Cares,  
And private thoughts took up thy private Years:  
Those Hands, which were ordained by Fates,  
To change the World, and alter States,  
Practised at first that vast Design  
On meaner things with equal Mind.  
That Soul, which should so many Sceptres sway,  
To whom so many Kingdoms should obey:  
Learned first to rule in a Domestic way:  
So Government itself, began  
From Family, and single Man,  
Was by the small Relations, first,  
Of Husband, and of Father Nursed,  
And from those less beginnings past,  
To spread itself o'er all the World at last.   

VI  
But when thy Country, (than almost enthralled)  
Thy Virtue, and thy Courage called;  
When England did thy Arms entreat,  
And 't had been Sin in thee not to be Great:  
When every Stream, and every Flood,  
Was a true Vein of Earth, and run with Blood;  
When unused Arms, and unknown War  
Filled every Place, and ever Ear;  
When the great Storms, and dismal Night  
Did all the Land affright;  
'Twas time for thee, to bring forth all our Light.  
Thou left'st thy more delightful Peace,  
Thy private Life, and better ease;  
Then down thy Steel and Armour took,  
Wishing that it still hung upon the Hook.  
When Death had got a large Commission out,  
Throwing her Arrows, and her Stings about;  
Then thou (as once the healing Serpent rose)  
Waste lifted up, not for thyself, but us.   

VII.  
Thy Country wounded was, and sick before  
Thy Wars and Arms did her restore:  
Thou knewest where the Disease did lie,  
And like the Cure of Sympathy,  
Thy strong, and certain Remedy,  
Unto the Weapon didst apply;  
Thou didst not draw the Sword, and so  
Away the Scabbard throw;  
As if thy Country should  
Be the Inheritance of Mars and Blood;  
But that when the great work was spun,  
War in itself should be undone;  
That Peace might Land again upon the shore,  
Richer and better than before:  
The Husbandmen no Steel should know,  
None but the useful Iron of the Blow;  
That Bays might creep on every Spear:  
And though our Sky was overspread  
With a destructive red;  
'Twas but till thou our Sun didst in full Light appear.   

VIII.  
When Ajax died, the Purple Blood  
That from his gaping Wound had flowed,  
Turned into Letters, every Leaf  
Had on it wrote his Epitaph:  
So from that Crimson Flood  
Which thou, by fate of times, wert led  
Unwillingly to shed,  
Letters, and Learning rose, and were renewed:  
Thou foughtest not out of Envy, Hope, or Hate,  
But to refine the Church and State,  
And like the Romans, what e'er thou  
In the Field of Mars didst mow,  
Was, that a holy Island thence might grow.  
Thy Wars, as Rivers raised by a Shower,  
With welcome Clouds do pour:  
Though they at first may seem,  
To carry all away with an enraged Stream;  
Yet did not happen that they might destroy,  
Or the better parts annoy:  
But all the Filth and Mud to scour,  
And leave behind another slime,  
To give a Birth to a more happy Power.   

IX.  
In Fields unconquered, and so well  
Thou didst in Battles and in Arms excel,  
That steely Arms themselves, might be  
Worn out in War as soon as thee.  
Success, so close upon thy Troops did wait,  
As if thou first hadst conquered Fate;  
As if uncertain Victory  
Had been first overcome by thee;  
As if her Wings were clipped, and could not flee,  
Whilst thou didst only serve,  
Before thou hadst what first thou didst deserve.  
Others by thee did great things do,  
Triumph'd'st thyself, and made'st them triumph too;  
Though they above thee did appear,  
As yet in a more large, and higher Sphere:  
Thou, the great Sun gav'st Light to every Star.  
Thyself an Army wert alone,  
And mighty Troops contain'dst in one:  
Thy only Sword did guard the Land,  
Like that which flaming in the Angel's Hand,  
From Men God's Garden did defend:  
But yet thy Sword did more than his,  
Not only guarded, but did make this Land a Paradiee.   

X.  
Thou foughtest not to be high or great,  
Not for a Sceptre, or a Crown,  
Or Ermyn, People, or the Throne:  
But as the Vestal Heat▪  
Thy Fire was kindled from above alone;  
Religion putting on thy Shield,  
Brought thee victorious to the Field.  
Thy Arms like those, which ancient Heroes wore,  
Were given by the God thou didst adore;  
And all the Words thy Armies had,  
Were on an heavenly Anvil made;  
Not Interest, or any weak desire  
Of Rule, or Empire did thy mind inspire;  
Thy Valour like the holy Fire,  
Which did before the Persian Armies go,  
Lived in the Camp, and yet was sacred too:  
Thy mighty Sword anticipates,  
What was reserved for Heaven and those blessed Seats,  
And makes the Church Triumphant here below.   

XI.  
Though Fortune did hang on thy Sword,  
And did obey thy mighty Word;  
Though Fortune for thy side and thee,  
Forgot her loved Unconstancy;  
Amidst thy Arms and Trophies thou  
Wert valiant and gentle too,  
Wounded'st thyself, when thou didst kill thy Foe;  
Like Steel, when it much Work has past,  
That which was rough does shine at last:  
Thy Arms by being oftener used did smother grow;  
Nor did thy Battles make the proud or high;  
Thy Conquest raised the State, not thee:  
Thou overcam'st thyself in every Victory:  
As when the Sun, in a director Line,  
Upon a polished golden Shield doth shine,  
The Shield reflects unto the Sun again his Light:  
So when the Heavens smiled on thee in Fight,  
When thy propitious God had lent  
Success, and Victory to thy Tent,  
To Heaven again the Victory was sent.   

XII.  
England till thou didst come,  
Confined her Valour home;  
Then our own Rocks did stand  
Bounds to our Fame as well as Land,  
And were to us as well,  
As to our Enemies unpassable.  
We were ashamed at what we read,  
And blushed at what our Fathers did,  
Because we came so far behind the Dead▪  
The British Lion hung his main, and drooped,  
To Slavery and Burden stooped,  
With a degenarate Sleep and Fear  
Lay in his Den, and languished there;  
At whose least Voice before,  
A trembling echo ran through every Shore,  
And shook the World at every roar;  
Thou his subdued Courage didst restore,  
Sharpen his Claws, and in his Eyes  
Mad'st the same dreadful Lightning rise;  
Mad'st him again affright the Neighbouring Floods,  
His mighty Thunder sound through all the Woods▪  
Thou hast our Military Fame redeemed,  
Which was lost, or clouded seemed:  
Nay more, Heaven did by thee bestow  
On us, at once an Iron Age, and happy too.   

XIII.  
Till thou command'st, that Azure Chains of Waves,  
Which Nature round about us sent,  
Made us to every Pirate Slaves,  
Was rather Burden than an Ornament;  
Those Fields of Sea, that washed our Shores,  
Were ploughed, and reaped by other Hands than ours.  
To us, the liquid Mass,  
Which doth about us run,  
As it is to the Sun,  
Only a Bed to sleep on was:  
And not, as now a powerful Throne,  
To shake and sway the World thereon.  
Our Princes in their Hand a Globe did show,  
But not a perfect one,  
Composed of Earth, and Water too.  
But thy Commands the Floods obeyed,  
Thou all the Wilderness of Water swayed;  
Thou didst but only wed the Sea,  
Not make her equal, but a Slave to thee.  
Neptune himself did bear thy Yoke,  
Stooped, and trembled at thy stroke:  
He that ruled all the Main,  
Acknowledged thee his Sovereign.  
And now the Conquered Sea, doth pay  
More Tribute to thy Thames, than that unto the Sea.   

XIV.  
Till now our Valour did ourselves more hurt;  
Our Wounds to other Nations were a sport;  
And as the Earth, our Land produced  
Iron and Steel, which should to tear ourselves be used.  
Our strength within itself did break,  
Like thundering Canons crack,  
And killed those that were near,  
While the Enemies secured and untouched were.  
But now our Trumpets thou hast made to sound,  
Against our Enemy's Walls in Foreign Ground;  
And yet no echo back to us returning found.  
England is now the happy peaceful Isle,  
And all the World the while,  
Is exercising Arms and Wars,  
With Foreign, or intestine Jars.  
The Torch extinguished here, we lend to others Oil,  
We give to all, yet know ourselves no Fear;  
We reach the Flame of Ruin, and of Death,  
Where e'er we please, our Swords to unsheathe,  
Whilst we in calm, and temperate Regions breath;  
Like to the Sun, whose heat is hurled  
Through every Corner of the World;  
Whose Flame through all the Air doth go;  
And yet the Sun himself, the while no Fire doth know.   

XV.  
Besides the Glories of thy Peace,  
Are not in Number, nor in value less.  
Thy Hand did cure, and close the Stars  
Of our bloody Civil Wars;  
Not only lanced; but healed the Wound,  
Made us again as healthy, and as sound,  
When now the Ship was well nigh lost,  
After the Storm upon the Coast,  
By its Mariners endangered most;  
When they their Ropes and helms had left,  
When the Planks asunder cleft,  
And Floods came roaring in with mighty sound;  
Thou a safe Land, and harbour for us found,  
And saved'st those that would themselves have drowned:  
A Work which none but Heaven and thee could do,  
Thou made'st us happy▪ whenever we would or no:  
Thy Judgement, Mercy, Temperance so great,  
As if those Vettues only in thy Mind had seat:  
Thy Piety not only in the Field, but Peace,  
When Heaven seemed to be wanted least:  
Thy Temples not like Janus open were,  
Open in time of War,  
When thou hadst greater cause of fear  
Religion and the awe of Heaven possessed  
All places and all times alike thy breast.   

XVI:  
Nor didst thou only for thy age provide,  
But for the years to come beside;  
Our aftertimes, and late Posterity,  
Shall pay unto thy Fame as much as we;  
They too are made by thee:  
When Fate did call thee to a higher Throne,  
And when thy Mortal Work was done,  
When Heaven did say it, and thou must be gone,  
Thou him to bear thy burden chose,  
Who might (if any could) make us forget thy loss:  
Nor hadst thou him designed,  
Had he not been  
Not only to thy Blood, but Virtue kin;  
Not only Heir unto thy Throne, but Mind,  
'Tis he shall perfect all thy Cures,  
And with as fine a thread wove out thy loom:  
So one did bring the chosen People from  
Their Slavery and Fears,  
Led them through their pathless road,  
Guided himself by God.  
He brought them to the Borders; but a second Hand  
Did settle, and secure them in the promised Land.    

Upon the late Storm, and Death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell ensuing the same, By Mr. Waller.  
WE must resign; Heaven his great Soul does claim,  
In Storms as loud, as his Immortal Fame;  
His dying Groans, his last breath shakes our Isle,  
And trees uncut fall for his Funeral Pile.  
About his Palace their broad roots are tossed  
Into the Air: So Romulus was lost.  
New Rome in such a Tempest missed their King,  
And from obeying-fell to Worshipping.  
On Oeta's top thus Hercules lay dead,  
With ruin'd Oaks and Pines about him spread;  
The Poplar too, whose bough he want to wear  
On his Victorious head, lay prostrate there:  
Those his last Fury from the Mountain rend;  
Our dying Hero, from the Continent,  
Ravished whole Towns, and Forts from Spaniards reft,  
As his last Legacy to Britain left;  
The Ocean which so long our hopes confined,  
Could give no limits to his vaster mind;  
Our bounds enlargement, was his latest toil,  
Nor hath he left us Prisoners to our Isle:  
Under the Tropic is our Language spoke,  
And part of Flanders hath received our Yoke.  
From Civil broils, he did us disengage,  
Found Nobler Objects for our Martial rage;  
And with wise Conduct to his Country showed,  
Their ancient way of Conquering abroad:  
Ungrateful then, if we no tears allow  
To him, that gave us Peace and Empire too;  
Princes that feared him, grieved, concerned to see  
No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free;  
Nature herself, took notice of his Death,  
And sighing swelled the Sea with such a breath,  
That to remotest shores her Billows rolled,  
Th' approaching Fate of her great Ruler told.   
FINIS.