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neither love, thy beauty, nor thy tears, Invent some other way to make him know He need not hunt, that can have such a deer:

The Queen of Love did once Adonis woo,
But, hard of soul, with no persuasions won,

RICHARD CRASHAW, a religious poet, whose devoHe felt the curse of his disdain too soon.

tional strains and lyric raptures' evince the highest In vain I counsel her to put on wing;

genius, was the son of a preacher at the Temple Echo hath left her solitary grove;

church, London. The date of his birth is not And in the sale, the palace of the spring,

known, but in 1644 he was a fellow of Peterhouse Sits silently attending to her love;

college, Cambridge. Crashaw was, at all periods But round about, to catch his voice with care, of his life, of an enthusiastic disposition. He lived In every shade and tree she hid a snare.

for the greater part of several years in St Mary's Now do the huntsmen fill the air with noise,

church, near Peterhouse, engaged chiefly in reliAnd their shrill horns chafe her delighted ear,

gious offices and writing devotional poetry; and, as Which, with loud accents, give the woods a voice

the preface to his works informs us, like a primitive Proclaiming parley to the fearful deer:

saint, offering more prayers by night, than others

usually offer in the day.' He is said to have been She hears the jolly tunes; but every strain, As high and musical, she returns again.

an eloquent and powerful preacher. Being ejected

from his fellowship for non-compliance with the Rous'd is the game; pursuit doth put on wings;

rules of the parliamentary army, he removed to The sun doth shine, and gild them out their way;

France, and became a proselyte to the Roman The deer into an o'ergrown thicket springs,

Catholic faith. Through the friendship of Cowley, Through which he quaintly steals his shine away ; Crashaw obtained the notice of Henrietta Maria, The hunters scatter; but the boy, o'erthrown

then at Paris, and was recommended by her majesty In a dark part of the wood, complains alone.

to the dignitaries of the church in Italy. He beHim, Echo, led by her affections, found,

came secretary to one of the cardinals, and a canon Joy'd, you may guess, to reach him with her eye ; of the church of Loretto. In this situation, Crashaw But more, to see him rise without a wound

died about the year 1650. Cowley honoured his Who yet obscures herself behind some tree; memory with He, vexed, exclaims, and asking, Where am I ?' The unseen virgin answers, 'Here am I !'

The meed of a melodious tear. "Some guide from hence! Will no man hear l' he cries: The poet was an accomplished scholar. and his

She answers, in her passion, 'Oh man, hear ! translations from the Latin and Italian possess great 'I die, I die,' say both; and thus she tries,

freedom, force, and beauty. He translated part of With frequent answers, to entice his ear

the Sospetto d'Herode, from the Italian of Marino; And person to her court, more fit for love ;

and passages of Crashaw's version are not unworthy He tracks the sound, and finds her odorous grove. of Milton, who had evidently seen the work. He The way he trod was paved with violets,

thus describes the abode of Satan:Whose azure leaves do warm their naked stalks ; In their white double ruffs the daisies jet,

Below the bottom of the great abyss, And primroses are scattered in the walks,

There, where one centre reconciles all things, Whose pretty mixture in the ground declares The world's profound heart pants ; there placed is Another galaxy embossed with stars.

Mischief's old master ; close about him clings Two rows of elms ran with proportioned grace,

A curl'd knot of embracing snakes, that kiss Like nature's arras, to adorn the sides ;

His corresponding cheeks : these loathsome strings The friendly vines their loved barks embrace,

Hold the perverse prince in eternal ties
While folding-tops the chequered ground-work hides; Fast bound, since first he forfeited the skies.
Here oft the tired sun himself would rest,
Riding his glorious circuit to the west.

Fain would he have forgot what fatal strings
From hence delight conveys him unawares

Eternally bind each rebellious limb; Into a spacious green, whose either side

He shook himself, and spread his spacious wings, A hill did guard, whilst with his trees, like hairs, Which like two bosom'd sails, embrace the dim

The clouds were busy binding up his head ; Air with a dismal shade, but all in vain;
The flowers here smile upon him as he treads,

Of sturdy adamant is his strong chain.
And, but when he looks up, hang down their heads.

While thus Heaven's highest counsels, by the low Not far from hence, near an harmonious brook, Footsteps of their effects, he trac'd too well, Within an arbour of conspiring trees,

He toss'd his troubled eyes—embers that glow Whose wilder boughs into the stream did look, Now with new rage, and wax too hot for hell; A place more suitable to her distress,

With his foul claws he fenc'd his furrow'd brow, Echo, suspecting tbat her love was gone,

And gave a ghastly shriek, whose horrid yell Herself had in a careless posture thrown.

Ran trembling through the hollow vault of night. But Time upon his wings had brought the boy To see this lodging of the airy queen,

While resident in Cambridge, Crashaw published Whom the dejected nymph espies with joy

a volume of Latin poems and epigrams, in one of Through a small window of eglantine;

which occurs the well-known conceit relative to the And that she might be worthy his embrace,

sacred miracle of water being turned into wine Forgets not to new-dress her blubber'd face.

The conscious water saw its God and blush'de With confidence she sometimes would go out, And boldly meet Narcissus in the way;

In 1646 appeared his English poems, Steps to the But then her fears present her with new doubt, Temple, The Delights of the Muses, and Carmen Deo And chide her over-rash resolve away.

Nostro. The greater part of the volume consists of Her heart with overcharge of love must break; religious poetry, in which Crashaw occasionally adGreat Juno will not let poor Echo speak.

dresses the Saviour, the Virgin Mary, and Mary Magdalen, with all the passionate earnestness and fer


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vour of a lover. He had an extravagant admiration All his leaves so fresh and sweet,
of the mystic writings of St Theresa, founder of the And lay them trembling at his feet.
Carmelites, which seems to have had a bad effect on I've seen the morning's lovely ray
his own taste, naturally prone, from his enthusiastic Hover o'er the new-born day,
temperament, to carry any favourite object, feeling, With rosy wings, so richly bright,
or passion, to excess. In these flights into the third As if he scorn'd to think of night,
heavens, with all his garlands and singing robes When a ruddy storm, whose scowl
about him,' Crashaw luxuriates among

Made Heaven's radiant face look foul,

Call'd for an untimely night
An hundred thousand loves and graces,

To blot the newly-blossom'd light.
And many a mystic thing
Which the divine einbraces

The felicity and copiousness of Crashaw's language Of the dear Spouse of Spirits with them will bring; are, however, best seen from his translations; and For which it is no shame

we subjoin, entire, his version of Music's Duel, from That dull mortality must not know a name. the Latin of Strada. It is seldom that so sweet and

luxurious a strain of pure description and sentiment Such seem to have been his daily contemplations, greets us in our poetical pilgrimage:the heavenly manna on which his young spirit fed with delight. This mystical style of thought and

Music's Duel. fancy naturally led to exaggeration and to conceits. The latter pervaded all the poetry of the time, and Now westward Sol had spent the richest beams Crashaw could hardly escape the infection, even if Of noon's high glory, when, hard by the streams there had not been in his peculiar case strong pre- Of Tiber, on the scene of a green plat, disposing causes. But, amidst all his abstractions, Under protection of an oak, there sat metaphors, and apostrophes, Crashaw is seldom A sweet lute’s-master ; in whose gentle airs tedious. His imagination was copious and various. He lost the day's heat, and his own hot cares. He had, as Coleridge has remarked, a power and Close in the covert of the leaves there stood opulence of invention,' and his versification is some- A nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood times highly musical. With more taste and judg- (The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree, ment (which riper years might have produced), Their muse, their syren, harmless syren she): Crashaw would have outstripped most of his con- There stood she list’ning, and did entertain temporaries, even Cowley. No poet of his day is so The music's soft report : and mould the same rich in .barbaric pearl and gold,' the genuine ore of In her own murmurs ; that whatever mood poetry. It is deeply to be regretted that his life had His curious fingers lent, her voice made good : not been longer, more calm and fortunate-realising The man perceiv'd his rival, and her art, his own exquisite lines

Dispos’d to give the light-foot lady sport,

Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to come
A happy soul, that all the way

Informs it in a sweet præludium
To heaven, hath a summer's day,

Of closer strains, and e'er the war begin, Amidst his visions of angels ascending and des- He lightly skirmishes on every string cending, Crashaw had little time or relish for earthly charged with a flying touch ; and straightway she love. He has, however, left a copy of verses en Carves out her dainty voice as readily, titled, Wishes to a Supposed Mistress, in which are

Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones, some fine thoughts. He desires his fair one to pos- Quick volumes of wild notes

, to let him know,
And reckons up in soft divisions

By that shrill taste, she could do something too.
Sydneian showers

His nimble hand's instinct then taught each string
Of sweet discourse, whose powers

A cap’ring cheerfulness, and made thein sing
Can crown old winter's head with flowers. To their own dance ; now negligently rash

He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash
Soft silken hours,

Blends all together ; then distinctly trips
Open suns, shady bowers;

From this to that, then quick returning, skips
'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

And snatches this again, and pauses there.
Whate'er delight

She measures every measure, everywhere
Can make day's forehead bright,

Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt
Or give down to the wings of night.

Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,

Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note, We are tempted also to quote two similes, the first | Through the sleek passage of her open throat, reminding us of a passage in Jeremy Taylor's Holy A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she point it Dying, and the second of one of Shakspeare's best With tender accents, and severely joint it Bonnets :

By short diminutives, that, being rear'd

In controverting warbles, evenly shar'd,
I've seen, indeed, the hopeful bud

With her sweet self she wrangles ; he amaz'd,
Of a ruddy rose, that stood,

That from so small a channel should be rais'd
Blushing to behold the ray

The torrent of a voice, whose melody
Of the new-saluted day;

Could melt into such sweet variety,
His tender top not fully spread ;

Strains higher yet, that, tickled with rare art,
The sweet dash of a shower new shed,

The tattling strings, each breathing in his part,
Invited him no more to hide

Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base
Within himself the purple pride

In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ;
Of his forward flower, when lo,

The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,
While he sweetly 'gan to show

Until his finger (moderator) hides
His swelling glories, Auster spied him; And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all
Cruel Auster thither hied him,

Hoarse, shrill at once; as when the trumpets call
And with the rush of one rude blast

Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo
Sham'd not spitefully to waste

Men's hearts into their hands: this lesson too


She gives them back : her supple breast thrills out
Sharp airs, and staygers in a warbling doubt
Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill,
And folds in war'd notes, with a trembling bill,
The pliant series of her slippery song;
Then starts she suddenly into a throng
Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys

And roll themselves over her lubric throat
In panting murmurs, still’d out of her breast;
That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest
Of her delicious soul, that there does lie
Bathing in streams of liquid melody;
Music's best seed-plot; when in ripen'd airs
A golden-headed harvest fairly rears
His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her breath
Which there reciprocally laboureth.
In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire,
Sounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre ;
Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes
Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throats
In cream of morning Helicon, and then
Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,
To woo them from their beds, still murmuring
That men can sleep while they their matins sing
(Most divine service): whose so early lay
Prerents the eyelids of the blushing day.
There might you hear her kindle her soft voice,
In the close murmur of a sparkling noise ;
And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song,
Still keeping in the forward stream so long,
Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out)
Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,
Till the fledg'à notes at length forsake their nest,
Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky,
Wing'd with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.
She opes the flood-gate, and lets loose a tide
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride
On the wav'd back of every swelling strain,
Rising and falling in a pompous train,
And while she thus discharges a shrill peal
Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal®
With the cool epode of a graver note ;
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat
Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird ;
Her little soul is ravish'd, and so pour'd
Into loose ecstacies, that she is plac'd
Above herself, music's enthusiast.

Shame now and anger mix'd a double stain
In the musician's face : 'yet, once again,
Mistress, I come : now reach a strain, my lute,
Above her mock, or be for ever mute.
Or tune a song of victory to me,
Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy.'
So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,
And with a quavering coyness tastes the strings :
The sweet-lipp'd sisters musically frighted,
Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted :
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs
Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs
Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre,
Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self look

From this to that, from that to this he flies,
Feels music's pulse in all her arteries ;
Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,
Following those little rills, he sinks into
A sea of Helicon ; his hand does go
Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's

cup :
The humorous strings expound his learned touch
By various glosses ; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle
In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single ;

Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke
Gives life to some new grace ; thus doth he invoke
Sweetness by all her names : thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heavd on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies ;
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies, here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;
Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell,
But whisper to the world : thus do they vary,
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears
By a strong ecstacy) through all the spheres
Of music's heaven ; and seat it there on high,
In th' empyreum of pure harmony.
At length (after so long, so loud a strife
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Of blest variety, attending on
His fingers' fairest revolution,
In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)
A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this ;
And she, although her breath's late exercise
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.
Alas ! in vain ! for while (sweet soul) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities
Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone ;.
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies :
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute : Oh fit to have
(That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave !

Temperance, or the Cheap Physician.

Go, now, and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease ; and, whilst they tug,
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go, take physic, dote upon
Some big-named composition,
The oraculous doctors' mystic bills
Certain hard words made into pills ;
And what at last shalt gain by these !
Only a costlier disease.
That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.
Hark, hither, reader ! wilt thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wilt see a man, all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health ;
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well ;
Her garments, that upon her sit,
As garments should do, close and fit;
A well-cloth'd soul that's not oppress'd
Nor chok'd with what she should be dress'd ;
A soul sheath'd in a crystal shrine,
Through which all her bright features shine ;
As when a piece of wanton lawn,
A thin aërial veil, is drawn
O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,
More sweetly shows the blushing bride;
A soul, whose intellectual beams
No mists do mask, no lazy steams-
A happy soul, that all the way
To heaven, hath a summer's day?
Would'st see a man, whose well-warm'd blood
Bathes him in a genuine flood ?

A man whose tuned humours be

The attending world, to wait thy rise, A seat of rarest harmony?

First turn'd to eyes ; Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile And then, not knowing what to do, Age? Wouldst see December smile?

Turn'd them to tears, and spent them too. Wouldst see nests of new roses grow

Come, royal name ! and pay the expense In a bed of reverend snow !

Of all this precious patience : Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering

Oh, come away Winter's self into a spring ?

And kill the death of this delay. In sum, wouldst see a man that can

Oh see, so many worlds of barren years Live to be old, and still a man ?

Melted and measur'd out in seas of tears! Whose latest and most leaden hours

Oh, see the weary lids of wakeful hope Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers ; (Love's eastern windows) all wide ope And when life's sweet fable ends,

With curtains drawn, Soul and body part like friends;

To catch the daybreak of thy dawn! No quarrels, murmurs, no delay ;

Oh, dawn at last, long-look'd for day! A kiss, a sigh, and so away!

Take thine own wings and come away. This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?

Lo, where aloft it comes ! It comes, among
Hark, hither ? and thyself be he.

The conduct of adoring spirits, that throng
Like diligent bees, and swarm about it.

Oh, they are wise,
Hymn to the Name of Jesus.

And know what sweets are suck'd from out it.

It is the hive I sing the Name which none can say,

By which they thrive, But touch'd with an interior ray ;

Where all their hoard of honey lies. The name of our new peace ; our good ;

Lo, where it comes, upon the snowy dove's Our bliss, and supernatural blood ;

Soft back, and brings a bosom big with loves. The name of all our lives and loves :

Welcome to our dark world, thou womb of day! Hearken and help, ye holy doves !

Unfold thy fair conceptions; and display The high-born brood of day ; you bright

The birth of our bright joys.
Candidates of blissful light,

Oh, thou compacted
The heirs elect of love ; whose names belong Body of blessings ! spirit of souls extracted !
Unto the everlasting life of song ;

Oh, dissipate thy spicy powers,
All ye wise souls, who in the wealthy breast Cloud of condensed sweets ! and break upon us
Of this unbounded Name build your warm nest.

In balmy showers !
Awake, my glory! soul (if such thou be,

Oh, fill our senses, and take from us
And that fair word at all refer to thee),

All force of so profane a fallacy,
Awake and sing,

To think aught sweet but that which smells of thee.
And be all wing !

Fair flow'ry name ! in none but thee, Bring hither thy whole self; and let me see

And thy nectarcal fragrancy,
What of thy parent heaven yet speaks in thee.

Hourly there meets
O thou art poor

An universal synod of all sweets ;
Of noble powers, I see,

By whom it is defined thus-
And full of nothing else but empty me;

That no perfume Narrow and low, and infinitely less

For ever shall presume
Than this great morning's mighty business.

To pass for odoriferous,
One little world or two,

But such alone whose sacred pedigree
Alas! will never do ;

Can prove itself some kin, sweet name! to thee.
We must have store;

Sweet name ! in thy each syllable
Go, soul, out of thyself, and seek for more ;

A thousand blest Arabias dwell;
Go and request

A thousand hills of frankincense ;
Great Nature for the key of her huge chest

Mountains of myrrh and beds of spices, Of heav'ns, the self-involving set of spheres,

And ten thousand paradises,
Which dull mortality more feels than hears ;

The soul that tastes thee takes from thence.
Then rouse the nest

How many unknown worlds there are
Of nimble art, and traverse round

Of comforts, which thou hast in keeping ! The airy shop of soul-appeasing sound :

How many thousand mercies there
And beat a summons in the same

In pity's soft lap lie a-slceping !
All-sovereign name,

Happy he who has the art
To warn each several kind

To awake them,
And shape of sweetness-be they such

And to take them
As sigh with supple wind

Home, and lodge them in his heart.
Or answer artful touch-

Oh, that it were as it was wont to be,
That they convene and come away

When thy old friends, on fire all full of thee, To wait at the love-crowned doors of that illustrious Fought against frowns with smiles ; gave glorious chase day

To persecutions; and against the face

Of death and fiercest dangers, durst with brave Come, lovely name ! life of our hope !

And sober pace march on to meet a grave. Lo, we hold our hearts wide ope !

On their bold breasts about the world they bore thee, Unlock thy cabinet of day,

And to the teeth of hell stood up to teach thee; Dearest sweet, and come away.

In centre of their inmost souls they wore thee,
Lo, how the thirsty lands

Where racks and torments striv'd in vain to reach
Gasp for thy golden show'rs, with long-stretch'd hands! thee.
Lo, how the labouring earth,

Little, alas ! thought they
That hopes to be

Who tore the fair breasts of thy friends,
All heaven by thee,

Their fury but made way.
Leaps at thy birth?
For thee, and serv'd them in thy glorious ends.

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What did their weapons, but with wider pores
Enlarge thy flaming-breasted lovers,

More freely to transpire

That impatient fire The heart that hides thee hardly covers ! What did their weapons, but set wide the doors For thee I fair purple doors, of love's devising ; The ruby windows which enrich'd the east Of thy so oft-repeated rising. Each wound of theirs was thy new morning, And re-enthron'd thee in thy rosy nest, With blush of thine own blood thy day adorning : It was the wit of love o'erflow'd the bounds Of wrath, and made the way through all these wounds. Welcome, dear, all-adored name !

For sure there is no knee

That knows not thee;
Or if there be such sons of shame,

Alas! what will they do,
When stubborn rocks shall bow,
And hills hang down their hear'n-saluting heads

To seek for humble beds
Of dust, where, in the bashful shades of night,
Next to their own low nothing they may lie,
And couch before the dazzling light of thy dread

They that by love's mild dictate now

Will not adore thee,
Shall then, with just confusion, bow

And break before thee.

SIR RICHARD FANSHAWE. Sir RICHARD FANSHAWE, knight, brother of Thomas Lord Fanshawe, was born in 1607. He joined the royalists, and was secretary at war to Prince Rupert. After the Restoration, he was appointed ambassador to Spain and Portugal, in which character he died at Madrid in 1666. Fanshawe translated the Lusiad of Camoens, and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. With the latter production, published in 1648, he gave to the world some miscellaneous poems, from which the following are selected :

A Rose. Thou blushing rose, within whose virgin leaves The wanton wind to sport himself presumes, Whilst from their rified wardrobe he receives For his wings purple, for his breath perfumes ! Blown in the morning, thou shalt fade ere noon : What boots a life which in such haste forsakes thee? Thou’rt wondrous frolic being to die so soon : And passing proud a little colour makes thee. If thee thy brittle beauty so deceives, Know, then, the thing that swells thee is thy bane; For the same beauty doth in bloody leaves The sentence of thy early death contain. Some clown's coarse lungs will poison thy sweet flower, If by the careless plough thou shalt be torn : And many Herods lie in wait each hour To murder thee as soon as thou art born; Nay, force thy bud to blow; their tyrant breath Anticipating life, to hasten death.

You musu waamo

The clean contrary way.
'Tis for Religion that you fight,

And for the kingdom's good,
By robbing churches, plundering men,

And shedding guiltless blood.
Down with the orthodoxal train,

All loyal subjects slay ;
When these are gone, we shall be blest,

The clean contrary way.
When Charles we've bankrupt made like us,

Of crown and power bereft him, And all his loyal subjects slain,

And none but rebels left him.
When we've beggar'd all the land,

And sent our trunks away,
We'll make him then a glorious prince,

The clean contrary way.
'Tis to preserve his majesty,

That we against him fight, Nor are we ever beaten back,

Because our cause is right:
If any make a scruple on't,

Our declarations say,
Who fight for us, fight for the king

The clean contrary way.
At Keynton, Branford, Plymouth, York,

And divers places more,
What victories we saints obtain'd,

The like ne'er seen before !
How often we Prince Rupert kill'd,

And bravely won the day;
The wicked cavaliers did run

The clean contrary way.
The true religion we maintain,

The kingdom's peace and plenty ;
The privilege of parliament

Not known to one of twenty ;
The ancient fundamental laws;

And teach men to obey
Their lawful sovereign ; and all these

The clean contrary way.
We subjects' liberties preserve,

By prisonments and plunder,
And do enrich ourselves and state

By keeping the wicked under.
We must preserve mechanics now,

To lecturise and pray;
By them the Gospel is advanced

The clean contrary way.
And though the king be much misled

By that malignant crew;
He'll find us honest, and at last

Give all of us our due.
For we do wisely plot, and plot,

Rebellion to destroy,
He sees we stand for peace and truth,
The clean contrary way.


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