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oneet from recenes of
As the authors of this race were perhaps more de-
The phenix Truth did on it rest,
Each leaf did learned notions give,
And th' apples were demonstrative:
Love was with thy life entwin’d,
More enflam'd thy amorous rage.
Variety I ask not: give me one
Like manna, has the taste of all in it.
In every thing there naturally grows
But you, of learning and religion,
A mithridate, whose operation
Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have something in them too scholastick, they are not inelegant: This twilight of two years, not past nor next,
Some emblem is of me, or I of this,
Whose what and where in disputation is,
If I should call me any thing, should miss.
Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to th’ new.
DONNE. ( Yet more abstruse and profound is Donne's reflection upon Man as a Microcosm :)
If men be worlds, there is in every one
Of thoughts so far-fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full.
To a Lady, who wrote poesies for rings.
They, who above do various circles find,
When Heaven shall be adornd by thee,
"Tis thou must write the poesy there,
For it wanteth one as yet,
The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are by Cowley with still more perplexity applied to Love:
Five years ago (says story) I lov’d you,
The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries :
Hast thou not found each woman's breast
(The land where thou hast travelled)
Or wild, and uninhabited ?
Lust, the scorching dog-star, here
Rages with immoderate heat ;
In others makes the cold too great.
A Lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt:
The fate of Egypt I sustain,
And never feel the dew of rain
But all my too much moisture owe
Cowley. The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury and rites of sacrifice:
And yet this death of mine, I fear,
When sound in every other part,
For the last tempest of my death
That the chạos was harmonized, has been recited of old; but whence the different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover :
Th’ungovern'd parts no correspondence knew;
The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again.
On a round ball
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,
So doth each tear,
Which thee doth wear,
On reading the following lines, the reader may perhaps cry out-Confusion worse confounded.
Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope ?
we S see
Though God be our true glass through which we see