Thus fades the oak i'th' fprig, i'th'blade the corn; Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new-born. Muft then old three-legg'd grey-beards with their

gout,

Catarrhs, rheums, aches, live three ages out?
Time's offals, only fit for th' hofpital!
Or to hang antiquaries rooms withal!

Muft drunkards, lechers, spent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give?
None live, but fuch as should die? fhall we meet
With none but ghostly fathers in the street?
Grief makes me rail; forrow will force its way;
And show'rs of tears tempeftuous fighs beft lay,
The tongue may fail; but overflowing eyes
Will weep out lafting streams of elegies,
But thou, O virgin-widow, left alone,
Now thy beloved, heaven-ravish'd spouse is gone,
Whose skilful fire in vain ftrove to apply
Med'cines, when thy balm was no remedy,
With greater than platonic love, O wed
His foul, tho not his body, to thy bed:
Let that make thee a mother; bring thou forth
Th' ideas of his virtue, knowledge, worth;
Transcribe th' original in new copies; give
Hastings o'th' better part: fo fhall he live

In's nobler half; and the great grandfire be
Of an heroic divine progeny:

An iffue, which t'eternity fhall last,
Yet but th'irradiations which he caft.
Erect no maufoleums: for his best
Monument is his spouse's marble breast.

HEROIC STANZAS

On the DEATH of

OLIVER CROMWELL,

A

ND now 'tis time; for their officious hafte, Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past, Did let too foon the facred eagle fly.

II.

Tho our best notes are treason to his fame,
Join'd with the loud applause of public voice;
Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name,
Hath render'd too authentic by its choice.
III.

Tho 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:
IV.

Yet 'tis our duty, and our interest too,

Such monuments as we can build to raife; Left 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 fo truly circular?

For in a round what order can be shew'd,
Where all the parts fo equal perfect are?
VI.

His grandeur he deriv'd from heav'n alone';

For he was great ere fortune made him so: And wars, like mifts that rise against the fun,

Made him but greater seem, not greater grow.

VII.

No borrow'd bays his temples did adorn,
But to our crown he did fresh jewels bring;
Nor was his virtue poifon'd foon as born,
With the too early thoughts of being king,

VIII.

Fortune, that eafy mistress to the young,

But to her ancient fervants coy and hard, Him at that age her favourites rank'd among, When she her beft-lov'd Pompey did discard. · IX.

He private mark'd the fault of others fway.

And fet as fea-marks for himself to fhun: Not like rash monarchs, who their youth betray By acts their age too late would wish undone. X.

And yet dominion was not his defign;

We owe that bleffing, not to him, but heav'n, Which to fair acts unfought rewards did join; Rewards, that lefs to him than us were given.

XI.

Our former chiefs, like fticklers of the war,
First fought t'inflame the parties, then to poife:
The quarrel lov'd, but did the cause abhor;

And did not strike to hurt, but make a noise.