Clievelandi Vindiciæ, or, Clieveland's genuine poems, orations, epistles, &c. purged from the many false and spurious ones which had usurped his name, and from innumerable errours and corruptions in the true copies : to which are added many never printed before, with an account of the author's life.

To the Earl of Westmorland.

My Lord.

IT were high Presumption in me not to be proud of this Occasion; and I should be no less than a Rebel to Eloquence, if your Lines you sent me had not rais'd me above my ordinary Level; so that to ex∣press my Gratitude, I must renounce my Humility, and purchase one Virtue at the

price of another. And well may my Mo∣desty suffer in the Service, when my Rea∣son it self is overwhelmed with the Favour. To see a Person of your Lordship's Emi∣nency possess'd of Nobility by a double Tenure, both of Birth and Brain, so to bend his Greatness as to stoop to me, who live in the Vale both of Parts and Fortune, is so high an Honour, that who justly con∣siders it, if he be not stupidly sensless, will be stupid with Ecstasie. I, for my part, am lost in Amazement, and it is mine In∣terest to be so; for not knowing other∣wise how to give your Present a fit Rece∣ption, it is the best of my play to be be∣side my self in the Action. You see, my Lord, how I ••mpty my self of my Native Faculty to be ready for those of your In∣spirings, as the Prophets of old in a Sacred Fury ran out of their Wits to make room for the Deity. I shall not need hereafter to digest my Love-passions, I shall speak by Instinct: for when your Honour deign'd to visit me with your Lofty Numbers, what was it else but to make me the Priest of your Lordship's Oracle? Such is the Strength and Spirit of your Phancy, that methought your Poems (like the Richest Wine) sent forth a Steam at the opening. What flowed from your Brain sum'd into

mine. It was almost impossible to read your Lines and be sober. You, You, my Lord, are the Favourite of the Muses. Your Strain is so happy and hath the Repu∣tation for so Matchless, as if you had a double Key to the Temple of Honour to let in your Lordship's self and exclude Competitors. It's you, my Lord, have cut the Clouds and reach'd Perfection, who having mounted the Cliff, lends an hand to me, who am labouring in the Craggy Ascent. So towring are the Praises you please to bestow on me, and my Desert so groveling, that to shew you my Head is not worthy your Height, it is not able to bear them; it grows giddy with the Pre∣cipice. It pains me to be on the Last of an Hyperbole; you do but crucifie my tender Merits, to distend them thus at length and breadth. Consider, I pray you, that the Leanest Endowments would be plump and full, thus blown up with a Quill; and that there are some so Dwarfish whom the Rack will not stretch to a proper Man. It is an excellent Breathing for a puissant Wit to overbear the World in the Defence of a Paradox; and a good Advocate will weather out the Cause, when there is nei∣ther Truth nor Invention. I perswade my self you had never undertaken to write my

Panegyrick, but that you saw it was to combat with the Tide, and to put your Abilities to the utmost Test in so unlikely a Subject. Little do you think what store of Opposers your Opinion will breed you; for though you be so powerful in the Art of perswasion, that should you turn Apo∣state, there would need no more but to Towl the Bell for Religion, yet this is an Heresie where you stand alone, and like Scaeva in the Breach, with your single Va∣lour duel an Army. Now, my Lord, if I be not mistaken, I have found the Motive that induced you to oblige me; you are tyed by your Order to give Protection to the Weak and Succourless; so I must change my Addresses, and thank your Red Rib∣band for my Commendations. Such, and so many are the Flowers of Rhetorick you have heap'd upon me, that I run the ha∣zard of the Olympick Victor, who was stifled with Posies cast upon him in appro∣bation of his Worth; which Fragrant Fate, if I should sustain, what is there more to make me enamour'd of Death, but that the same Flowers should straw my Corps in a Funeral Oration? Could you think (my Lord) that your suppressing your Name was able to conceal you, when it is easie to wind you by your Phrase? The

Sweetness of the Language discover'd the Author, like that Roman Senator, who hiding himself in time of Proscription, his Perfumes betray'd him. But I shall not arrest your Lordship too far with a farther Interruption. My Lord, you have En∣nobled me with your Testimony, and I shall keep your Paper as the Diploma of my Honour. Yet give me lieve to tell you, that among all the Epithets you pile so Artificially to raise my Fame, there is one wanting to accomplish my Ambition, and that which I beseech your Lordship I may enjoy for the future; that is, to be e∣steem'd

SIR, Your Honour's &c. John Cleveland.