[The Lord Silences His Questioners.][29]

'Neither durst any man from that day aske Him any more questions.'

St. Matthew xxii.

Mid'st all the darke and knotty snares, Black wit or malice can, or dares, Thy glorious wisedome breaks the nets, And treds with uncontrouled steps; Thy quell'd foes are not onely now Thy triumphs, but Thy trophies too: They both at once Thy conquests bee, And Thy conquests' memorie. Stony amazement makes them stand Wayting on Thy victorious hand, Like statues fixed to the fame Of Thy renoune, and their own shame, As if they onely meant to breath To be the life of their own death. 'Twas time to hold their peace, when they Had ne're another word to say; Yet is their silence unto Thee, The full sound of Thy victorie; Their silence speaks aloud, and is Thy well pronounc'd panegyris. While they speak nothing, they speak all Their share, in Thy memoriall. While they speake nothing, they proclame Thee, with the shrillest trump of Fame. To hold their peace is all the wayes These wretches have to speak Thy praise.