Devils pretences always were Divine,
  A Knave may have an Angel for a Sign.

He wrote also a Book called The Presbyterian Bramble; with several other Pieces, in Defence of the King and the Church.  Now to shew you the Acuteness of his Wit, I will give you an Instance:  The first year that Poor Robin’s Almanack came forth (about Six and Twenty Years ago) there was cut for it a Brass Plate; having on one side of it the Pictures of King Charles the First, the Earl of Stafford, the Arch-Bishop of Canterbury, the Earl of Darby, the Lord Capel, and Dr. Hewit; all six adorned with Wreaths of Lawrel.  On the other side was, Oliver Cromwell, Bradshaw, Ireton, Scot, Harrison, and Hugh Peters, hanging in Halters:  Betwixt which was placed the Earl of Essex, and Mr. Christopher Love; upon which plate he made these Verses.

Bless us, what have we here!  What sundry Shapes Salute our Eyes! have Martyrs too their Apes?  Sure ’tis the War of Angels, for you’d Swear That here stood Michael, and the Dragon there. Tredescan is out vy’d, for we engage Both Heaven and Hell in an Octavo Page. Martyrs and Traytors, rallied six to six, Half fled unto Olimpus, half to Styx.  Joyn’d with two Neuters, some Condemn, some Praise, They hang betwixt the Halters and the Bayes; For ’twixt Nolls Torment, and Great Charles’s Glory, There, there’s the Presbyterian purgatory.

He died (as I am informed) at Colcester, about the Year of our Lord 1670.

* * * * *

JOHN DAUNCEY.

John Dauncey, a true Son of Apollo, and Bacchus; was one who had an Excellent Command of his Pen, a fluent Stile, and quick Invention:  nor did any thing come amiss to his undertaking.  He wrote a compleat History of the late times; a Chronicle of the Kingdom of Portugal; the English Lovers, a Romance; which for Language and Contrivance, comes not short of either of the best of French or Spanish.  He Translated a Tragi Comedy out of French, called Nichomede, equal in English to the French Original; besides several other things, too long to recite.  His English Lovers was Commended by divers of sound Judgment; amongst others, Mr. Lewis Griffin, our forementioned Poet, made these verses in commendations of it.

  Rich Soul of Wit and Language, thy high strains
  So plunge and puzzle unrefined brains;
  That their Illiterate Spirits do not know,
  How much to thy Ingenious Pen they owe,
  Should my presumptuous Muse attempt to raise
  Trophies to thee, she might as well go blaze
  Bright Planets with base Colours, or display
  The Worlds Creation in a Puppet-Play. 
  Let this suffice, what Calumnies may chance,
  To blur thy Fame, they spring from Ignorance.