The printing of these rhimes afflicts me more Than all the drubs I in Rose-Alley bore; This shows my nauseous, mercenary pen, Would praise the vilest and the worst of men. A rogue like Hodge[4] am I, the world well know it; Hodge was his fiddler, and I, John, his poet. This may prevent the pay for which I write; For I for pay against my conscience fight. I must confess, so infamous a knave Can do no service, though the humblest slave: Villains I praise, and patriots accuse; } My railing and my fawning talents use; } Just as they pay, I flatter or abuse } But I to men in power a ---- am still, To rub on any honest face they will. Thus on I'll go; for libels I declare; } Best friends no more than worst of foes I'll spare; } And all this I can do, because I dare. } He who writes on, and cudgels can defy, And, knowing he'll be beaten, still writes on, am I. _London, printed for J. Smith, 1681._ J. D. ] [Footnote 4: Sir Roger L'Estrange, whose skill in music is said to have amused Cromwell, who had some turn that way.] [Footnote 5: Thou, as once the healing serpent rose, Was lifted up, not for thyself, but us. ] [Footnote 6: When Ajax died, the purple blood, That from his gaping wound had flowed, Turned into letters; every leaf Had on it wrote his epitaph: So from that crimson flood, Which thou by fate of times wert led Unwillingly to shed, Letters and learning rose, and arts renewed. ] [Footnote 7: Like steel, when it much work hath past, That which was rough does shine at last; Thy arms, by being oftener used, did smoother grow. ] [Footnote 8: Beneath the tropics is our language spoke, And _part of Flanders_ has received our yoke. ] HEROIC STANZAS CONSECRATED TO THE MEMORY OF HIS HIGHNESS OLIVER, LATE LORD PROTECTOR OF THIS COMMONWEALTH, WRITTEN AFTER THE CELEBRATING OF HIS FUNERAL. I. And now 'tis time; for their officious haste, Who would before have borne him to the sky, Like eager Romans, ere all rites were past, Did let too soon the sacred eagle fly.[9] II. Though our best notes are treason to his fame, Joined with the loud applause of public voice; Since heaven, what praise we offer to his name, Hath rendered too authentic by its choice. III. Though 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; Lest all the world prevent what we should do, And claim a title in him by their praise. V.