So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urged his active star;
And, like the three-forked lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst,
Did thorough his own side
His fiery way divide;
For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous or enemy,
And with such to inclose
Is more than to oppose;
Then burning through the air he went, And palaces and temples rent;
And Caesar's head at last
Did through his laurels blast.
'Tis madness to resist or blame The face of angry Heaven's flame;
And if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,
Who from his private gardens, where He lived reserved and austere,
As if his highest plot
To plant the bergamot,
Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old
Into another mould.
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