Cromwell, I charge thee, fling away ambition:
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by it?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:
Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's; then if thou fall'st, O Cromwell,
Thou fall'st a blessed martyr! . . .
O Cromwell, Cromwell!
Had I but served my God with half the zeal

There are many ways to die
Here among the rocks in any weather:
Wind, down the eastern gap, will lie
Level along the snow, beating the cedar,
And lull the drowsy head that it blows over
To startle a cold and crystalline dream forever.

The hound's black paw will print the grass in May,
And sycamores rise down a dark ravine,
Where a creek in flood, sucking the rock and clay,
Will tumble the laurel, the sycamore away.
Think how a body, naked and lean
And white as the splintered sycamore, would go
Tumbling and turning, hushed in the end,

To-night we strive to read, as we may best,
This city, like an ancient palimpsest:
And bring to light, upon the blotted page,
The mournful record of an earlier age,
That, pale and half effaced, lies hidden away
Beneath the fresher writing of to-day.

Rise, then, O buried city that hast been;
Rise up, rebuilded in the painted scene,
And let our curious eyes behold once more
The pointed gable and the pent-house door,
The meeting-house with leaden-latticed panes,
The narrow thoroughfares, the crooked lanes!

The essence of ink
is brushed into fog,
cold as autumn:
half the surface of this fine silk
is swept by mist and rain.
And in the fan painting is a man
painting another fan:
look closely among the flecks of mica dust
and you'll see him in a little boat.

But now a sport more formidable
Had raked together village rabble;
'Twas an old way of recreating,
Which learnèd butchers call bear-baiting.
A bold adventurous exercise
With ancient heroes in high prize,
For authors do affirm it came
From Isthmian and Nemæan game:
Others derive it from the Bear
That's fixed in northern hemisphere,
And round about the pole does make
A circle, like a bear at stake.

We read, in Nero's time, the Heathen
When they destroyed the Christian brethren,
They sewed them in the skins of bears,

What have they done or what left undone,
That might advance the Cause at London?
March'd rank and file with Drum and Ensign,
T'entrench the City for defence in;
Rais'd Rampiers with their own soft hands,
To put the enemy to stands;
From Ladies down to Oyster-wenches
Labour'd like Pioneers in Trenches,
Fell to their Pick-axes and Tools,
And help'd the men to dig like Moles?

Did Saints, for this, bring in their Plate,
And crowd as if they came too late.
For when they thought the Cause had need on't,
Happy was he that could be rid on't,
Did they coin Piss-Pots, Bowls, and Flaggons,
Int' officers of horse and dragoons;
And into pikes and musquetteers,
Stamp beakers, cups, and porringers?
A thimble, bodkin, and a spoon,
Did start up living men, as soon
As in the furnace they were thrown,
Just like the dragon's teeth being sown.
Then was the Cause of Gold and Plate,
The brethren's offerings, consecrate,

What makes a knave a child of God,
And one of us?--A livelihood.
What renders beating out of brains,
And murther godliness?--Great gains,
What's tender conscience?--'Tis a botch
That will not bear the gentlest touch,
But breaking out, dispatches more
Than the epidemical'st plague-sore.
What makes y'encroach upon our trade,
And damn all others?--To be paid.
What's orthodox, and true believing
Against a conscience?--A good living.
What makes rebelling against kings
A Good Old Cause?--Administ'rings.

For his religion it was fit
To match his learning and his wit:
'Twas Presbyterian true blue,
For he was of that stubborn crew
Of errant Saints, whom all men grant
To be the true Church Militant:
Such as do build their faith upon
The holy text of pike and gun;
Decide all controversies by
Infallible artillery;
And prove their doctrine orthodox
By apostolic blows and knocks;
Call fire and sword and desolation
A godly-thorough-Reformation,
Which always must be carried on,
And still be doing, never done:

The Egyptians say, The Sun has twice
Shifted his setting and his rise;
Twice has he risen in the West,
As many times set in the East;
But whether that be true, or no,
The Devil any of you know.
Some hold, the Heavens, like a Top,
Are kept by Circulation up;
And 'twere not for their wheeling round,
They'd instantly fall to the ground:
As sage Empedocles of old,
And from him Modern Authors hold.
Plato believ'd the Sun and Moon,
Below all other Planets run.
Some Mercury, some Venus seat
Above the Sun himself in height.