Y,
And then my birth-right, PROPERTY;
But can that be, when it is knowne,
There's nothing you can call your owne?

VIII.
A REFORMATION I would have,
As for our griefes a SOV'RAIGNE salve;
That is, a cleansing of each wheele
Of state, that yet some rust doth feele.

IX.
But not a reformation so,
As to reforme were to ore'throw,
Like watches by unskilfull men
Disjoynted, and set ill againe.

X.
The PUBLICK FAITH<25.2> I would adore,
But she is banke-rupt of her store:
Nor how to trust her can I see,
For she that couzens all, must me.

XI.
Since then none of these can be
Fit objects for my love and me;
What then remaines, but th' only spring
Of all our loves and joyes, the King?

XII.
He who, being the whole ball
Of day on earth, lends it to all;
When seeking to ecclipse his right,
Blinded we stand in our owne light.

XIII.
And now an universall mist
Of error is spread or'e each breast,
With such a fury edg'd as is
Not found in th' inwards of th' abysse.

XIV.
Oh, from thy glorious starry waine
Dispense on me one sacred beame,
To light me where I soone may see
How to serve you, and you trust me!

<25.1> This was written, perhaps, during the poet's confinement
in Peterhouse, to which he was committed a prisoner on his return
from abroad in 1648. At the date of its composition, there can be
little doubt, from expressions in stanzas vi. and xii. that the
fortunes of Charles I. were at their lowest ebb, and it may be
assigned without much risk of error to the end of 1648.

<25.2> "The publick faith? why 'tis a word of kin,
A nephew that dares COZEN any sin;
A term of art, great BEHOMOTH'S younger brother,
Old MACHAVIEL and half a thousand other;
Which, when subscrib'd, writes LEGION, names on truss,
ABADDON, BELZEBUB, and INCUBUS."
Cleaveland's POEMS, ed. 1669, p. 91.

LUCASTA'S FANNE, WITH A LOOKING-GLASSE IN IT.<26.1>

I.
Eastrich!<26.2> thou featherd foole, and easie prey,
That larger sailes to thy broad vessell needst;
Snakes through thy guttur-neck hisse all the day,
Then on thy iron messe at supper feedst.<26.3>

II.
O what a glorious transmigration
From this to so divine an edifice
Hast thou straight made! heere<26.4> from a winged stone
Tr