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“ Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and you shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you."

• I shall beg leave farther only to propose a few questions to all those, in general, who are pleased to call themselves Christians.

• First, whether there be any thing more directly opposite to the doctrine and practice of Jesus Christ, than to use any kind of force upon men in matters of religion; and consequently, whether all those that practise it (let them be of what church, or sect, they please) ought not justly to be called Antichristians ?

Secondly, whether there can be any thing more unmanly, more barbarous, or more ridiculous, than to go about to convince a man's judgment by any thing but by reason? It is so ridiculous, that boys at school are whipped for it; who, instead of answering an argument with reason, are loggerheads enough to go to cuffs.

And, thirdly, whether the practice of it has not always been ruinous and destructive to those countries where it has been used, either in monarchies or commonwealths? And whether the contrary practice has not always been successful to those countries where it has been used, either in monarchies or commonwealths ?

• I shall conclude with giving them this friendly advice: if they would be thought men of reason, or of a good conscience, let them endeavour by their good counsel and good example to persuade others to lead such lives as may save their souls: and not be perpetually quarrelling amongst themselves, and cutting one another's throats, about those things, which they all agree are not absolutely necessary to salvation.'


A Pindaric Poem on the Death of Lord Fairfax, Father to the

Duchess of Buckingham.


I. • UNDER this stone does lie

One born for victory;
Fairfax the valiant, and the only He,
Who ere for that alone a conqueror would be.
Both sexes' virtues were in him combined;
He had the fierceness of the manliest mind,
And yet

the meekness too of woman-kind: He never knew what envy was, nor hate;

His soul was fill'd with truth and honesty,
And with another thing quite out of date, call'd modesty.

He ne'er seem'd impudent, but in the place

Where impudence itself dares seldom show it's face:
Had any strangers spied him in the room

With some of those he had overcome,
And had not heard their talk, but only seen

Their gesture and their mein,
They would have sworn he had the vanquish'd been;
For as they bragg'd and dreadful would appear,

While they their own ill luck in war repeated,
His modesty still made him blush, to hear
How often he had them defeated.

Through his whole life, the part he bore

Was wonderful and great,
And yet it so appear'd in nothing more

Than in his private last retreat:
For 'tis a stranger thing, to find
One man of such a worthy mind

As can dismiss the power which he has got,
Than millions of the Polls and braves;
Those despicable fools and knaves,
Who such a pudder, make
Through dullness and mistake

In seeking after power, and get it not.


When all the nation he had won,

And with expense of blood had bought
Store great enough he thought
Of glory and renown,
He then his arms laid down,

With just as little pride

As if he had been of his enemies' side;
Or one of them could do that were undone.

He neither wealth, nor places sought;
He never for himself, but others fought :

He was content to know

(For he had found it so)
That when he pleased to conquer, he was able,
And left the spoil and plunder to the rabble.

He might have been a king,
But that he understood,

How much it was a meaner thing
To be unjustly great than honourably good.

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This from the world did admiration draw,
And from his friends both love and awe,
Remembering what he did in fight before:

And his foes loved him too,

As they were bound to do,
Because he was resolved to fight no more.
So bless'd by all, he died; but far more bless'd were we,
If we were sure to live, till we could see
A man as great in war, as just in peace as he.

The Lost Mistress, a Complaint against the Countess of -
BY THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM, in the Year 1675, June 12th,

• FORSAKEN Strephon in a lonesome glade,
By nature for despairing sorrows made,
Beneath a blasted oak had laid him down;
By lightning that, as he by love o'erthrown.
Upon the mossy root he lean'd his head,
While at his feet a murmuring current led
Her streams, that sympathised with his sad moans
The neighbouring echoes answer'd all his groans.


Then as the dewy morn restored the day,
While stretch'd on earth the silent mourner lay,
At last into these doleful sounds he broke,
Obdurate rocks dissolving whilst he spoke:

“ What language can my injured passion frame, .
That knows not how to give it's wrongs a name ;
My suffering heart can all relief refuse,
Rather than her it did adore accuse.
Teach me, ye groves, some art to ease my pain,
Some soft resentments that may

leave no stain
On her loved name, and then I will complain.
"Till then to all my wrongs I will be blind,
And whilst she's cruel, call her but unkind.
As all my thoughts to please her were employ'd,
When of her smiles the blessing I enjoy'd;
So now, by her forsaken and forlorn,
I'll rack invention to excuse her scorn.
While she to truth and me does unjust prove,
From her to fate the blame I will remove;
Say, 'twas a destiny she could not shun,
Fate made her change that I might be undone.
E'er with perfidious guilt her soul I'll tax,
I'll charge it on the frailty of her sex:
Doom'd her first mother's error to pursue ;
She ne'er was false, could woman have been true.
Let all her sex henceforth be ever so,
She had the power to make my bliss or woe,
And she has given my heart it's mortal blow.
In love the blessing of my life I closed,
And in her custody that love disposed.
In one dear freight all's lost! of her bereft,
I have no hope no second comfort left.
If such another beauty I could find,
A beauty too that bore a constant mind,
Ev’n that could bring me medicine for my pain,
I loved not at a rate to love again.
No change can ease for my sick heart prepare,
Widow'd to hope, and wedded to despair.”

Thus sigh'd the swain: at length, his o'erwatch'd eyes
A soft beguiling slumber did surprise ;
Whose flattering comfort proved both short and vain,
Refresh'd, like slaves from racks, to greater pain.'




HISTORIANS and political writers, both ancient and modern, have advanced it as an incontestable proposition; "That learning, and the liberal and polite arts, flourish in proportion to the freedom of civil societies. And upon this general maxim some have refined so far as to assert, “That they succeed better under republican, than under monarchical, governments. The latter opinion, however, seems to have been founded



of human knowledge under the ancient commonwealths of Greece; for it by no means holds universally true in modern times. Nor, indeed, is the general maxim itself totally free from exceptions.

France furnishes a splendid instance to prove, that the sun of science may pervade the dense clouds of despotism, and shine forth for a season, even amidst the ravages of tyranny and the carnage of war. Part of the reign of Louis XIV. was the golden age of her arts and sciences.

* AUTHORITIES. Birch's Life of Boyle, prefixed to the edition of his Works, in 5 vols. fol. 1744, Biographia Britannica, and Burnet's Funeral Sermon at his death.

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