Page:Three Poems upon the death of the late Usurper Oliver Cromwell (1682).djvu/28

 When death had got a large Commission out Throwing her Arrows and her Stings about; Then thou (as once the healing Serpent rose) Was't lifted up, not for thy self but us.

Thy Country wounded 'twas, and sick before, Thy Wars and Arms did her restore: Thou knew'st where the disease did lye And like the Cure of Simpathy, Thy strong and certain Remedy Unto the Weapon didst apply, Thou didst not draw the Sword, and so Away the Scabbard throw; As if thy Country shou'd Be the inheritance of Mars and Blood; But that when the great work was spun War in it self should be undone: That Peace might land again upon the shore Richer and better than before. The Husbandman no Steel should know None but the useful Iron of the Plow; That bays might creep on every Spear. And though our Sky was over-spread With a destructive Red, 'Twas but till thou, our Sun, didst in full light appear.

When Ajax dyed, the Purple Blood That from his Gaping Wounds had flow'd Turn'd into Letters, every Leaf Had on it writ his Epitaph: Rh