The works of Mr. John Cleveland containing his poems, orations, epistles, collected into one volume, with the life of the author.

To the HECTORS, upon the unfortunate death of H. COMPTON.

YOu Hectors! tame Professors of the Sword! Who in the chair state Duels, whose black word Bewitches Courage, and like Devils too Leaves the bewitch'd, when't comes to fight and do. Who on your errand our best Spirits send, Not to kill Swine or Cows, but Man and Friend; Who are in whole Court-Martial in your drink, And dispute Honour, when you cannot think Not orderly, but part out Valour, as You grow inspir'd by th' Oracle of the Glass: Then (like our zeal-drunk Presbyters) cry down All Law of Kings and God, but what's their own. Then y'have the gift of Fighting, can discern Spirits, who's fit to act, and who to learn; Who shall be baffled next, who must be beat, Who kill'd, that you may drink, and swear and eat: Whilst you applaud those murthers which you teach, And live upon the Wounds your Riots preach.

Meer booty Souls! Who bid us fight a Prize To feast the Laughter of our Enemies? Who shout, and clap at Wounds, count it pure Gain, Meer Providence to hear a Compton's slain.

A name they dearly hate, and justly; shou'd They lov't 'twere worse, their love would taint the bloud. Bloud always true, true as their Swords and Cause, And never vainly lost, till your wild Laws Scandal'd their actions in this Person, who Truly durst more than you dare think to do. A man made up of Graces, every Move Had entertainment in it, and drew Love From all but him who kill'd him, who seeks a Grave And fears a Death more shameful than he gave.

Now you, dread Hectors! you whom Tyrant drink Drags thrice about the Town; what do you think? (If you be sober) is it Valour? say! To overcome, and then to run away. Fie, fie, your lusts and Duels both are one, Both are repented of as soon as done.