254 SYLVA BOOK iv 



implacable of enemies have express'd a resolution 

 more barbarous. 



For, as our own incomparable poet describes it, 



'Twas not enough alone to take the spoils 



Of God's, and the king's houses ; these unjust 

 And impious men destroy the stately piles : 

 Of very ruin there's a wicked lust. 



In every place the groaning carts are fill'd 

 With beams and stones, so busie and so loud 



Are the proud victors, as they meant to build, 

 But they to ruin and destruction crowd. 



Timber, which had been buried many years 

 Under such royal towers, they invade : 



'Tis sure that hand the living never spares, 

 Which is so wicked to disturb the dead. 



Then all the woods the barbarous victors seize, 

 (The noble nursery of the fleet and town, 



The hopes of war, and ornaments of peace) 

 Which once religion did as sacred own. 



Now publick use, and great convenience claims, 

 The woods from private hands inviolate ; 



Which greedy men to less devouring flames, 

 Do for sweet lucre freely dedicate. 



No age they spare, the tender elm and beech, 

 Infants of thirty years they overthrow ; 



Nor could old age it self their pity reach, 

 No reverence to hoary barks they know. 



Th' unhappy birds, an ever-singing quire, 

 Are driven from their ancient shady seats, 



And a new grief does Philomel inspire 



With mournful notes, which she all night repeats. 



