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Sonnet XVI: to the Lord General Cromwell

Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud,
     Not of war only, but detractions rude,
     Guided by faith and matchless fortitude,
     To peace and truth thy glorious way hast ploughed,
And on the neck of crownèd Fortune proud
     Hast reared God’s trophies, and His work pursued,
     While Darwen stream, with blood of Scots imbrued,
     And Dunbar field, resounds thy praises loud,
And Worchester’s laureate wreath: yet much remains
     To conquer still; peace hath her victories
     No less renowned than war: new foes arise,
Threatening to bind our souls with secular chains.
     Help us to save free conscience from the paw
     Of hireling wolves, whose gospel is their maw.
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