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 thy Muse Some smooth weak Rhymer, that so gently flowes, That Ladies may his easy 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.

* * * * *

Sir JOHN BERKENHEAD.

Sir John Berkenhead was a Gentleman, whose Worth and deserts were too high for me to delineate.  He was a constant Assertor of his Majesties Cause in its lowest Condition, painting the Rebels forth to the life in his Mercurius Aulicus and other Writings; his Zany Brittanicus who wrote against him, being no more his Equal, than a Dwarf to a Gyant, or the goodness of his cause to that of the Kings; for this his Loyalty he suffered several Imprisonments, yet always constant to his first Principles.  His skill in Poetry was such, that one thus writes of him.

  Whil’st Lawrel sprigs anothers head shall Crown,
  Thou the whole Grove mayst challenge as thy Own.

He survived to see his Majesties happy Restoration, and some of them hanged who used their best endeavor to do the same by him.  As for his learned Writings, those who are ignorant of them, must plead ignorance both to Wit and Learning.

* * * * *

Dr. ROBERT WILD.

He was one, and not of the meanest of the Poetical Cassock, being in some sort a kind of an Anti-Cleaveland, writing as high, and standing up as stifly for the Presbyterians, as ever Cleaveland did against them:  But that which most recommended him to publick fame, was his Iter Roreale, the same in Title though not in Argument, with that little, but much commended Poem of Dr. Corbets mentioned before.  This being upon General Monk’s Journey out of Scotland, in order to his Majesties Restoration, and is indeed the Cream and flower of