[Cowley.]

    Nature work’d Wonders then; when Shakespear dy’d
  Her Cowley rose, drest in her gaudy Pride. 
  So from great Ruins a new Life she calls,
  And Builds an Ovid[3] when a Tully Falls.

[3] Ovid was born the same year in which Cicero dy’d.

    With what Delight he tunes his Silver-Strings,
  And David’s Toils in David’s numbers Sings? 
  Hark! how he Murmurs to the Fields and Groves,
  His rural Pleasures, and his various Loves,
  Yet every Line so Innocent and Clear,
  Hermits may read them to a Virgin’s Ear. 
  Unstoln Promethean Fire informs his Song,
  Rich is his Fancy, his Invention strong. 
  His Wit, unfathom’d, has a fresh Supply,
  Is always flowing-out, but never Dry.

  Sure the profuseness of a boundless Thought,
  Unjustly is imputed for a Fault. 
  A Spirit, that is unconfin’d and free,
  Should hurry forward, like the Wind or Sea. 
  Which laughs at Laws and Shackles, when a Vain
  Presuming Xerxes shall pretend to Reign,
  And on the flitting Air impose his pond’rous Chain.

    Hail English Swan? for You alone could dare
  With well-pois’d Pinions tempt th’ unbounded Air: 
  And to your Lute Pindaric Numbers call,
  Nor fear the Danger of a threatned Fall. 
  O had You liv’d to Waller’s Reverend Age,
  Better’d your Measures, and reform’d your Page! 
  Then Britain’s Isle might raise her Trophies high,
  And Solid Rome, or Witty Greece outvy. 
  The Rhine, the Tyber, and Parisian Sein,
  When e’re they pay their Tribute to the Main,
  Should no sweet Song more willingly rehearse,
  Than gentle Cowley’s never-dying Verse. 
  The Thames should sweep his briny way before,
  And with his Name salute each distant Shore.

[Milton.]

    Then You, like Glorious Milton had been known
  To Lands which Conquest has insur’d our Own.
  Milton! whose Muse Kisses th’ embroider’d Skies,
  While Earth below grows little, as She Flies. 
  Thro’ trackless Air she bends her winding Flight,
  Far as the Confines of retreating Light. 
  Tells the sindg’d Moor, how scepter’d Death began
  His Lengthning Empire o’er offending Man. 
  Unteaches conquer’d Nations to Rebel,
  By Singing how their Stubborn Parents fell.

    Now Seraphs crown’d with Helmets I behold,
  Helmets of Substance more refin’d than Gold: 
  The Skies with an united Lustre shine,
  And Face to Face th’ Immortal Armies joyn. 
  God’s plated Son, Majestically gay,
  Urges his Chariot thro’ the Chrystal-Way
  Breaks down their Ranks, and Thunders, as he Flies,
  Arms in his Hands, and Terrour in his