And so now with Daniel being delivered out of the Lyons Den, he was courted to several places, (which contended as emulously for his abode, as the seven Grecian Cities for Homers Birth;) at last he setled in Grays-Inn, which when he had enobled with some short time of his residence, an intermitting Fever seized him, whereof he dyed, on Thursday Morning, April the 29. 1658. from whence his Body was brought to Hunsden-House, and on Saturday being May-day, was buried at Colledgehill-Church; His dear Friend Dr. John Pearson (afterwards Lord Bishop of Chester) preached his Funeral Sermon, who rendred this Reason; why he cautiously declined all commending of the Party deceased, Because such praising of him would not be adequate to any expectation in that Auditory; seeing some, who knew him not, would think it far above him, while those, who knew him must needs know it far below him.

Many there were who sought to eternize their own Names by honouring his; some by Elegies, and other Devices, amongst the rest one made this Anagram upon his name.

JOHN CLEAVELAND.

HELICONIAN DEW.

The difficult Trifle (saith one) is rather well endeavoured, than exactly performed.  More happy were those Wits, who descanted on him and his works in Verse, although so eminent a Poet was never interred with fewer Elegies than he; for which we may assign two Reasons, One that at that time the best Fancies of the 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