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II. DRINKING.

THE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck-in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair;
The sea itself (which one would think
Should have but little need of drink)
Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy Sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done,
The Moon and stars drink up the Sun:
They drink and dance by their own light;
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in nature 's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
Fill up the bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the glasses there; for why
Should every creature drink but I
Why, man of morals, tell me why

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III. BEAUTY.

LIBERAL Nature did dispense
To all things arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs or forked claws,
And some with horns or tusked jaws :
And some with scales, and some with wings,
And some with teeth, and some with stings.
Wisdom to man she did afford,

Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,

What arms, what armour, has sh' assign'd?
Beauty is both; for with the fair
What arms, what armour, can compare ?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassible is found?

And yet what flame, what lightning, e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like porcupines from every part.
Who can,
alas! their strength express,
Arm'd, when they themselves undress,
. Cap-a-pie with nakedness?

Y

IV. THE DUEL.

ES, I will love then, I will love ;
I will not now Love's rebel prove,
Though I was once his enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the combat him defy.

An helmet, spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax, I did wield.
Love in one hand his bow did take,
In th' other hand a dart did shake;
But yet in vain the dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the bow;
So well my armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist:
But when I thought all danger past,
His quiver empty'd quite at last,
Instead of arrow or of dart
He shot himself into my heart.

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VI. THE ACCOUNT.

WHEN all the stars are by thee told
(The endless sums of heavenly gold);
Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From sickly Autumn's head that fall;
Or when the drops that make the sca,
Whilst all her sands thy counters be
Thou then, and thou alone, mays't prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.

An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more: ⚫
Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there.

Write then at Chios seventy-three;
Write then at Lesbos (let me see)
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one.
And, next to these, let me present
The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company;
Five hundred both effectively.

Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis, I'm sure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And every eye's an archer there.
Go on: this stop why dost thou make?
Thou think'st, perhaps that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a sum?
Why many thousands are to come ;.
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different nations in his host.
On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better secretary.

I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian loves, nor African;
Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names
Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone,
And cold ones in the frigid one,
Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the line.

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UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,

With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.

Why do we precious ointments show'r ?
Nobler wines why do we pour ?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses whilst I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.

X. THE GRASSHOPPER.
HAPPY Insect! what can be

In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon Earth.
Life is no longer than thy mirth,
Happy insect, happy thou!

Dost neither age nor winter know;

But, when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

XI. THE SWALLOW.
FOOLISH Prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade?
Well 't had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.

In thy undiscovered nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
Free from the stormy seasons' noise :
Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks-out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou hast ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream, that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the Spring

ELEGY UPON ANACREON.

WHO WAS CHOAKED BY A GRAPE-STONE,
SPOKEN BY THE GOD OF LOVE.

How shall I lament thine end,
My best servant and my friend?

Nay, and, if from a deity

So much deified as I,

It sound not too profane and odd,
Oh, my master and my god!
For 'tis true, most mighty poet!

(Though I like not men should know it)

I am in naked Nature less,

Less by much, than in thy dress.

All thy verse is softer far
Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or sparrows,
Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Or their riper following blisses,
Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound;
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy style,
The smooth-pac'd hours of every day
Glided numerously away.
Like thy verse each hour did pass;
Sweet and short, like that, it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Just what they by Nature owe me,
The time that's mine, and not their own,
The certain tribute of my crown:
When they grow old, they grow to be
Too busy, or too wise, for me.
Thou wert wiser, and didst know
None too wise for love can grow;
Love was with thy life entwin'd,
Close as heat with fire is join'd;
A powerful brand prescrib'd the date
Of thine, like Meleager's, fate.
Th' antiperistasis of age

More enflam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation,
As I have of generation,
Where I the matter must obey,
And cannot work plate out of clay,
My creatures should be all like thee,
"Tis thou shouldst their idea be:
They, like thee, should thoroughly hate
Business, honour, title, state;
Other wealth they should not know,
But what my living mines bestow;
The pomp of kings, they should confess,
At their crownings, to be less
Than a lover's humblest guise,
When at his mistress' feet he lies.
Rumour they no more should mind
Than men safe landed do the wind;
Wisdom itself they should not hear,
When it presumes to be severe;
Beauty alone they should admire,
Nor look at Fortune's vain attire,

Nor ask what parents it can shew;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
They should not love yet all, or any,
But very much and very many:
All their life should gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety;
Well remembering and applying
The necessity of dying.

Their chearful heads should always wear

All that crowns the flowery year :

They should always laugh, and sing,

And dance, and strike th' harmonious string; Verse should from their tongue so flow,

As if it in the mouth did grow,

As swiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do thus discover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
"Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake
I of the Grape no mention make.
Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well;
And 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice,
Cursed Plant! 'tis true, I see,
Th' old report that goes of thee-
That with giants' blood the Earth
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thunder
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worse than his tigers, he delights;
In all our Heaven I think there be
No such ill-natur'd god as he.
Thou pretendest, traiterous Wine!
To be the Muses' friend and mine:
With love and wit thou dost begin,
False fires, alas! to draw us in;
Which, if our course we by them keep,
Misguide to madness or to sleep:
Sleep were well; thou 'ast learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I see what fate
Does on the best of mankind wait.
Poets or lovers let them be,
'Tis neither love nor poesy

Can arm, against Death's smallest dart,
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life, in its decline,
Touches th' inevitable line,

All the world's mortal to them then,
And wine is aconite to men;

Nay, in Death's hand, the grape-stone proves
As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

VERSES

WRITTEN ON

SEVERAL OCCASIONS'.

CHRIST'S PASSION,

TAKEN OUT OF A greek ode, WRITTEN BY MR.

MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFORD.

ENOUGH, my Muse! of earthly things,
And inspirations but of wind;
Take up thy lute, and to it bind
Loud and everlasting strings;

And on them play, and to them sing,
The happy mournful stories,
The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise

Till Earth thou joinest with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half seen by mortal eye!
How shall I grasp this boundless thing?
What shall I play; what shall I sing?
'I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed
spirits above,

With all their comments can explain;

How all the whole world's life to die did not disdain!

I'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion

Divine,

The depths unfathom'd yet

By reason's plummet and the line of wit;
Too light the plummet, and too short the line!

'These verses were not included among those which Mr. Cowley himself styled Miscellanies; but were classed by Bishop Sprat under the title by which they are here distinguished. N.

How the eternal Father did bestow His own eternal Son as ransom for his foe. I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear The triumph of the buried Conqueror. How Hell was by its prisoner captive led, And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead. Methinks, I hear of murdered men the voice, Mixt with the murderers' confused noise,

Sound from the top of Calvary;

My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see
Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three;
Oh, how unlike the others he!

Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree!

His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good,
Are nail'd to the infamous wood!

And sinful man does fondly bind

The arms, which he extends t' embrace all humankind,

Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see
All this as patient as he?
Since he thy sins does bear,

Make thou his sufferings thine own,
And weep, and sigh, and groan,
And beat thy breast, and tear

Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love,
Through all thy bleeding bowels move.

Dost thou not see thy prince in purple clad all o'er,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?
Dost thou not see the roses which adorn
The thorny garland by him worn?
Dost thou not see the livid traces
Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces ?

If yet thou feelest not the smart

Of thorns and scourges in thy heart;
If that be yet not crucified;

Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side!
Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,
And let them call

Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies!
For this will ask it all.

'Twould all, alas! too little be,

Though thy salt tears come from a sea.
Canst thou deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital springs for thee?
Take heed; for by his side's mysterious flood
May well be understood,

That he will still require some waters to his blood.

ODE.

ON ORINDA'S POEMS.

WE allow'd you beauty, and we did submit
To all the tyrannies of it;

Ah! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?
Orinda 2 does in that too reign;

Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,
And cancel great Appollo's Salique law.
We our old title plead in vain,

Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauty's campit was not known;
Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:
'Twas the great cannon we brought down
T" assault a stubborn town;
Orinda first did a bold sally make,

Our strongest quarter take,

And so successful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.
Women, as if the body were their whole,
Did that, and not the soul,
Transmit to their posterity;
If in it sometime they conceiv'd,
Th' abortive issue never liv'd.
'Twere shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,
Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou industriously hast sow'd and till'd
The fair and fruitful field;

And 'tis a strange increase that it does yield.
As, when the happy gods above
Meet altogether at a feast,

A secret joy unspeakable does move

In their great mother Cybele's contented breast:
With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see,
This, thy no less immortal progeny;

And in their birth thou no one touch dost find,
Of th' ancient curse to woman-kind :
Though bring'st not forth with pain;
It neither travail is nor labour of the brain:
So easily they from thee come,
And there is so much room

In the unexhausted and unfathom'd womb,
That, like the Holland countess, thou may'st bear
A child for every day of all the fertile year.

Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise :

*Mrs. Catharine Phillips,

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They talk of Nine, I know not who,
Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;

I ne'er could find that fancy true,
But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:
They talk of Sapphò; but, alas! the shame!
Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,

That, like a lantern's fair enclosed light,
It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn

Of things for which we were not born
(Things that can only by a fond disease,
Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please)
Are the instructive subjects of her pen;

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And, as the Roman victory
Taught our rude land arts and civility,
At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.
But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire
A female breast with such a fire:
The warlike Amazonian train,

Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild empire before arms prefer,
Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her.
Merlin, the seer, (and sure he would not lye,
In such a sacred company)

Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;

Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,

And to her injur'd daughters now does boast, That Rome's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her race,

ODE

UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY LORD
BROGHILL'S.

BE gone (said I) ingrateful Muse! and see
What others thou canst fool, as well as me.
Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be,
My business and my hopes I left for thee:
For thee (which was more hardly given away)
I left, even when a boy, my play.
But say, ingrateful mistress! say,
What for all this, what didst thou ever pay?

Thou 'It say, perhaps, that riches are
Not of the growth of lands where thou dost trade,
And I as well my country might upbraid

Because I have no vineyard there.

Well but in love thou dost pretend to reign;

There thine the power and lordship is; Thou bad'st me write, and write, and write again; 'Twas such a way as could not miss.

I, like a fool, did thee obey:

I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain;
For, after all my expense of wit and pain,

A rich, unwriting hand, carried the prize away.

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