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Blisters with pride fwell'd, which through's flesh

did sprout

Like rofe-buds, ftuck i'th' lilly-fkin about.
Each little pimple had a tear in it,

To wail the fault its rifing did commit:
Which, rebel-like, with it's own lord at ftrife,
Thus made an infurrection 'gainst his life.
Or were thefe gems fent to adorn his skin,
The cab'net of a richer foul within ?
No comet need foretel his change drew on,
Whofe corps might feem a constellation.
O! had he dy'd of old, how great a ftrife
Had been, who from his death fhould draw their
life?

Who fhould, by one rich draught, become whate'er
Seneca, Cato, Numa, Cæfar, were?

Learn'd, virtuous, pious, great; and have by this An univerfal metempfychofis.

Muft all these aged fires in one funeral

Expire all die in one fo young, fo fmall? Who, had he liv'd his life out, his great fame Had fwol'n 'bove any Greek or Roman name. But hafty winter, with one blaft, hath brought The hopes of autumn, fummer, fpring, to nought.

Thus fades the oak i'th'fprig, i'th' blade the corn; Thus without young, this Phoenix dies, new-born. Must 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, fpent with finning, live
With fuch helps as broths, poffets, phyfic give?
None live, but fuch as fhould die? fhall we meet
With none but ghoftly 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 ftreams 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 fpoufe's marble breast,

HERO

HEROIC STANZAS

On the DEATH of

OLIVER CROMWELL,

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Written after his FUNERAL,

I.

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 treafon 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 raise;
Left all the world prevent what we should do,
And claim a title in him by their praise.
V.

How fhall I then begin, or where conclude,
To draw a fame fo truly circular?

For in a round what order can be fhew'd,

Where all the parts so equal perfect are?
VI.

His grandeur he deriv'd from heav'n alone ;
For he was great ere fortune made him fo:
And wars, like mists that rise against the sun,

Made him but greater feem, not greater grow,

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