_Royal Party_ were in restraint, so
that we may in part think their Muses confin'd, as well as their
Bodies. Secondly, not to do it to the heighth, were in a manner to
dispraise him. However I shall adventure to give you an instance in
two, whereof the first of Mr. _Edward Martin_ of _London_.

Ye Muses do not me deny;
I ever was your Votary.
And tell me, seeing you do daign
T'inspire and feed the hungry Brain;
With what choice Cates? With what choice Fare?
To _Cleaveland's_ fancy still repair?
Fond Man, say they, why do'st thou question thus?
Ask rather with what Nectar he feeds us.

The other by Mr. _A.B._ printed before Mr. _Cleveland's_ Works.

_Cleaveland_ again his sacred head doth raise,
Even in the dust crown'd with immortal Bayes,
Again with verses arm'd that once did fright
_Lycambe's_ Daughters from the hated Light,
Sets his bold foot on Reformations neck,
And triumphs o'er the vanquisht Monster _Smec_;
That _Hydra_ whose proud heads did so encrease,
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 daies when reason, wit, and sence
Were by the Zealots grave Impertinence
_Ycliped_ 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 _William Prin_,
Himself might for a Poets share put in:
Yet then could write with so much art and skill,
That _Rome_ might envy his Satyrick Quill;
And crabbed _Persins_ his hard lines give ore,
And in disdain beat his brown Desk no more.
How I admire the _Cleaveland_! when I weigh
Thy close-wrought Sense, and every line survey!
They are not like those things which some compose,
Who in a maze of Words the Sense do lose.
Who spin one thought into so long a thread,
And beat their Wit we thin to make it spread;
Till 'tis too fine for our weak eyes to find,
And dwindles into Nothing in the end.
No; they'r 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 t