The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley Consisting of Those which were formerly Printed: And Those which he Design'd for the Press, Now Published out of the Authors Original Copies ... The Text Edited by A. R. Waller |
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An Answer to an Invitation to
Cambridge.
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 | The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley |  |
66
An Answer to an Invitation to Cambridge.
1
Nichols , my better selfe, forbeare,For if thou telst what Cambridge pleasures are,
The Schoole-boyes sinne will light on me,
I shall in mind at least a Truant be.
Tell me not how you feed your minde
With dainties of Philosophy,
In Ovids Nut I shall not finde,
The taste once pleased me.
O tell me not of Logicks diverse cheare,
I shall begin to loath our Crambe here.
2
Tell me not how the waves appeareOf Cam, or how it cuts the learned shiere,
I shall contemne the troubled Thames,
On her chiefe Holiday, even when her streames,
Are with rich folly guilded, when
The quondam Dungboat is made gay,
Just like the bravery of the men,
And graces with fresh paint that day:
When th' Citie shines with Flagges and Pageants there,
And Sattin Doublets, seen not twice a yeere.
3
Why doe I stay then? I would meetThee there, but plummets hang upon my feet:
'Tis my chiefe wish to live with thee,
But not till I deserve thy company:
Till then wee'l scorne to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts:
Write to me, and I shall enjoy,
Friendship, and wit, thy better parts.
Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings,
Wee'l easely see each other, Love hath wings.
The three-volume edition of Cowley's works published in 1711 contains, at the end of Sylva, the following verses:
To a Lady who desired a Song of Mr. Cowley,
he presented this following.
Come, Poetry, and with you bring along
A rich and painted Throng
Of noblest Words into my Song.
Into my Numbers let them gently flow,
Soft and pure, and thick as Snow,
And turn thy Numbers still to prove
Smooth as the smoothest Sphere above,
And like a Sphere, like a Sphere, harmoniously move.
Little dost thou, vain Song, thy Fortune know,
What thou art destin'd to,
And what the Stars intend to do.
Among a thousand Songs but few can be
Born to the Honour promis'd thee.
Eliza's self shall thee receive,
And a blest Being to thee give,
Thou on her sweet and tuneful Voice shalt live.
Her warbling Tongue shall freely with thee play,
Thou on her Lips shalt stray,
And dance upon the rosie Way.
No Prince alive that would not envy thee,
And count thee happier far than he.
And how shalt thou thy Author crown!
When fair Eliza shall be known
To sing thy Praise, when she but speaks her own.
A rich and painted Throng
Of noblest Words into my Song.
Into my Numbers let them gently flow,
Soft and pure, and thick as Snow,
And turn thy Numbers still to prove
Smooth as the smoothest Sphere above,
And like a Sphere, like a Sphere, harmoniously move.
Little dost thou, vain Song, thy Fortune know,
What thou art destin'd to,
And what the Stars intend to do.
Among a thousand Songs but few can be
Born to the Honour promis'd thee.
Eliza's self shall thee receive,
And a blest Being to thee give,
Thou on her sweet and tuneful Voice shalt live.
Her warbling Tongue shall freely with thee play,
Thou on her Lips shalt stray,
And dance upon the rosie Way.
No Prince alive that would not envy thee,
And count thee happier far than he.
And how shalt thou thy Author crown!
When fair Eliza shall be known
To sing thy Praise, when she but speaks her own.
| The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley | |