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.

On Mr. Clieveland and his Poems.

CLieveland again his sacred head doth raise Ev'n in the dust crown'd with immortal Bays, Again with Verses arm'd, that once did fright Lycambes's Daughters from the hated light, Sets his bold foot on Reformations neck, And triumphs o'r the vanquish'd Monster Smeck, That Hydra whose proud heads did so en∣crease That it deserv'd no less an Hercules. This, this is he who in Poetick rage With Scorpions lash'd the madness of the Age, Who durst the fashions of the Times despise And be a Wit when all mankind grew Wise, When formal Beards at twenty one were seen And Men grew Old almost as soon as Men, Who in those days when Reason, Wit, and Sense Were by the Zealots grave Impertinence Y••leped Folly, and in Ve-ri-ty Did savour rankly of Carnality, When each notch'd Prentice might a Poet prove For warbling through the Nose a Hymn of Love, When Sage George Withers and Grave Wil∣liam Pryn Himself might for a Poets share put in, Yet then could write with so much art & skill That Rome might envy his Satyrick Quill,

And crabbed Persius his hard lines give o'r, And in disdain beat his brown Desk no more. How I admire thee, Clieveland! when I weigh Thy close wrought sense, and every line survey? They are not like those things which some com∣pose Who in a Maze of words the wandring sense do loose, Who spin one thought into so long a thread, And beat their Wit too thin to make it spread; Till 'tis too fine for our weak eyes to find And dwindles into nothing in the end. No; they're above the Genius of this Age Each word of thine swells pregnant with a Page. Then why do some Mens nicer Ears complain Of the uneven harshness of thy strain? Preferring to the Vigour of thy Muse Some smooth, weak Rhymer, that so gently flows, That Ladies may his easie strains admire And melt like Wax before the softning fire. Let such to Women write, you write to Men; We study Thee, when we but Play with Them.

By A. B.