Another, on the same.

HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove
That he could never die while he could move;
So hung his destiny, never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.

Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime
'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And like an engine, mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended straight.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm,

Too long vacation hasten'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd;

Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd "Nay, "quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretch'd,

If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,

But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers, For one carrier put down to make six bearers."

Ease was his chief disease; and to judge right,
He died for heaviness that his cart went light :
His leisure told him that his time was come
And lack of load made his life burdensome,

That even to his last breath, (there be that say't)
As he were press'd to death, he cried, More weight ;
But, had his doings lasted as they were,

He had been an immortal carrier.

Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate
Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,

Yet (strange to think) his wain was his encrease :
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,

Only remains this superscription.

On the new Forcers of Conscience under the
Long Parliament.

BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord,
And with stiff vows renounc'd his Liturgy,
To seise the widow'd whore Plurality

From them whose sin ye envied, not abhor'd;
Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword

To force our consciences that Christ set free, And ride us with a classick hierarchy Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford ? Men, whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent, Would have been held in high esteem with Paul, Must now be nam'd and printed Hereticks By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call: But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent, That so the Parliament,

May, with their wholesome and preventive shears, Clip your phylacteries, though bauk your ears,

And succour our just fears. When they shall read this clearly in your charge, New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large.

TRANSLATIONS.