University of Virginia Library

Search this document 
Poems, and phancies

written By the Thrice Noble, Illustrious, And Excellent Princess The Lady Marchioness of Newcastle [i.e. Margaret Cavendish]. The Second Impression, much Altered and Corrected

collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionI. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionII. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionIII. 
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
collapse sectionIV. 
  
  
The Brain compar'd to the Elysium.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse sectionV. 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
collapse section 
  
  
  
  

The Brain compar'd to the Elysium.

The Brain is like th'Elysian Fields, for there
All Ghosts and Spirits in strong Dreams appear;
In Gloomy Shades do Sleepy Lovers walk,
And Souls do entertain themselves with Talk;
And Heroes their great Actions do relate,
Telling both their Good Fortune and Sad Fate,
What Chanc'd to them, when they Awake did Live;
Their World the Light did Great Apollo give;
And what in Life they could a Pleasure call,
Here in these Fields they pass their Time withall;

202

Where Memory, the Ferry-man, with him
Brings Company, which through the Senses Swim;
The Boat, Imagination, 's always full,
Which Charon Roweth in the Region Scull,
In which the Famous River Styx doth Flow,
Wherein who's Dipt, strait doth Forgetfull grow.
And this Elysium Poets happy Call,
Where, as Great Gods, they do Register all
The Souls of those, which they will Chuse for Bliss,
And their Sweet Number'd Verse their Pasport is;
And those that strive this Happy place to have,
Must go to Bed, and Sleep as in a Grave.
Yet what a Stir do Poets make, when they
By their Wit, Mercury, those Souls Convey!
But what, cannot the God-head Wit Create,
VVhose Fancies are both Destiny and Fate?
Fame is the Thread, which long or short they Spin,
The World, as Flax, for th'Distaff is brought in;
This Distaff Spins fine Canvas of Conceit,
VVherein the Sense is VVoven ev'n and strait;
But if't in Knots and Snarls intangled be,
The Thread of Fame doth run Unevenly.
Those that care not to Live in Poets Verse,
Let them lye Dead upon Oblivion's Hearse.