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Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep,
When love into their veins doth creep,
That law of nature cease to keep.
Who then can blame the amorous boy,
Who, the fair Helen to enjoy,
To quench his own, fet fire on Troy?
Such is the world's prepofterous fate,
Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
Love (though immortal) doth create.
But love may beafts excufe, for they
Their actions not by reason fway,
But their brute appetites obey.
But man 's that favage beaft, whofe mind
From reafon to felf-love declin'd,
Delights to prey upon his kind.
On Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S Death, and Burial amongst the ancient Poets.
LD Chaucer, like the morning ftar,
To us discovers day from far;
His light thofe mifts and clouds diffolv❜d,
Which our dark nation long involv'd :
But he defcending to the shades,
Darkness again the age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spenfer rofe,
Whose purple blush the day foreshews;
The other three, with his own fires,
Phœbus, the poets' god, infpires;
By Shakespeare's, Jonfon's, Fletcher's lines,
Our stage's luftre Rome's out-fhines :
These poets near our princes fleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep.
They liv'd to fee fo many days,
Till time had blafted all their bays :
But curfed be the fatal hour
That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower
That in the Mufes' garden grew,
And amongst wither'd laurels threw.
Time, which made them their fame out-live,
To Cowley scarce did ripenefs give.
Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;
In Spenfer, and in Jonson, Art
Of flower Nature got the start;
But both in him fo equal are,
None knows which bears the happiest share ;
To him no author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient gold,
Nor, with Ben Jonfon, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman ftores
Of poets, and of orators :
Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,
He did not steal, but emulate!
And when he would like them appear,
Their garb, but not their cloaths, did wear:
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,
Like Jafon, brought the golden fleece ;
To him that language (though to none
Of th' others) as his own was known.
On a stiff gale (as Flaccus fings)
The Theban fwan extends his wings,
When through th' ætherial clouds he flies,
To the fame pitch our fwan doth rife;
Old Pindar's flights by him are reach'd,
When on that gale his wings are stretch'd ;]
His fancy and his judgment fuch,
Each to the other feem'd too much,
His fevere judgment (giving law)
His modest fancy kept in awe :
As rigid husbands jealous are,
When they believe their wives too fair.
His English ftreams fo pure
As all that faw and tafted know.
But for his Latin vein, fo clear,
Strong, full, and high it doth appear,
That were immortal Virgil here,
Him, for his judge, he would not fear;
Of that great portraiture, so true
A copy, pencil never drew.
My Mufe her fong had ended here,
But both their Genii ftraight appear,
Joy and amazement her did strike,
Two twins fhe never faw fo like.
'Twas taught by wife Pythagoras,
One foul might through more bodies pafs.
Seeing fuch transmigration there,
She thought it not a fable here.
Such a resemblance of all parts,
Life, death, age, fortune, nature, arts;
Then lights her torch at theirs, to tell,
And fhew the world this parallel:
Fixt and contemplative their looks,
Still turning over Nature's books:
Their works chafte, moral, and divine,
Where profit and delight combine;
They, gilding dirt, in noble verse
Ruftic philosophy rehearse.
When heroes, gods, or god-like kings,
They praise, on their exalted wings
To the celeftial orbs they climb,
And with th' harmonious spheres keep time:
Nor did their actions fall behind
Their words, but with like candour fhin'd;
Each drew fair characters, yet none
Of these they feign'd, excels their own.
Both by two generous princes lov'd,
Who knew, and judg'd what they approv'd.
Yet having each the fame defire,
Both from the busy throng retire.
Their bodies, to their minds refign'd,
Car'd not to propagate their kind :
Yet though both fell before their hour,
Time on their off-spring hath no power,
Nor fire nor fate their bays fhall blast,
Nor death's dark veil their day o'ercast.
To the tune of, "I went from England."
UT will you now to peace incline,
And languish in the main defign,
And leave us in the lurch?
I would not monarchy destroy,
But as the only way t' enjoy
The ruin of the church.
Is not the bishops' bill deny'd,
And we still threaten'd to be try'd?
You fee the king embraces
Those counfels he approv'd before :
Nor doth he promife, which is more,
That we shall have their places.
Did I for this bring in the Scot? (For 'tis no fecret now) the plot
Was Saye's and mine together:
Did I for this return again,
And spend a winter there in vain,
Once more t' invite them hither?
Though more our money than our cause
Their brotherly affiftance draws,
My labour was not loft,