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.

An Elegy upon the Arch-Bishop of Canterbury.

I Need no Muse to give my Passion vent, He brews his Tears that studies to lament. Verse chymically weeps, that pious rain Distill'd by Art is but the sweat o'th' Brain. Who ever sob'd in Numbers? Can a Groan Be quaver'd out in soft Division?

'Tis true, for common formal Elegies Not Bushel's Wells can Match a Poet's Eyes In wanton Water-Works; he'll tune his Tears From a Geneva-Jig up to the Spheres: But then he mourns at distance, weeps aloof, Now that the Conduit Head is our own Roof, Now that the Fate is Publick, (we may call It Britain's Vespers, England's Funeral) Who hath a Pencil to express the Saint, But he hath Eyes too washing off the Paint? There is no Learning but what Tears surround, Like to Seth's Pillars in the Deluge drown'd. There is no Church, Religion is grown So much of late that she's encreast to none. Like an Hydropick Body full of Rheumes, First swells into a bubble, then consumes. The Law is dead, or cast into a Trance, And by a Law dough-bak'd an Ordinance. The Liturgy, whose doom was voted next, Did as a Comment upon him the Text. There's nothing lives, Life is, since he is gone, But a Nocturnal Lucubration. Thus you have seen Death's Inventory read, In the Summ total Canterbury's dead. A sight would make a Pagan to baptize Himself a Convert in his bleeding Ey••s.

Would thaw the Rabble, that fierce Beast of ours, That which Hyena-like weeps and devours Tears that flow brackish from their Souls within, Not to repent, but pickle up their Sin. Mean time no squalid Grief his Look defiles, He guilds his sadder Fate with nobler Smiles. Thus the World's Eye with reconciled Streams Shines in his showers, as if he wept his beams. How could Success such Villanies applaud? The State in Strafford fell, the Church in Land, The Twins of publick rage, adjudg'd to die For Treasons they should act by Prophecie. The Facts were done before the Laws were made, The Trump turn'd up after the Game was play'd. Be dull great Spirits, and forbear to climb; For Worth is Sin, and Eminence a Crime. No Church-man can be Innocent and High, 'Tis height makes Grantham Steeple stand awry.