The Works of Mr Abraham Cowley :: :: University of Virginia Library

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

Cowley, Abraham (1618-1667)

[section]

[dedication]

[subsection]

To his deare Friend and Schoole-fellow Abraham Cowley, on his flourishing and hopefull Blossomes.

To his Friend and Schoole-fellow Abraham Cowley, on his Poeticall Blossomes.

[subsection]

To the Reader.

[subsection]

CONSTANTIA AND PHILETUS.

[subsection]

To the Right Worshipfull, my very loving Master, Master Lambert Osbolston, chiefe Schoolmaster of Westminster-Schoole.

THE TRAGICALL HISTORY OF Pyramus and Thisbe.

[subsection]

An Elegie on the Death of the Right Honourable, Dudley Lord Carleton, Viscount Dorchester, late Principall Secretary of State.

An Elegie on the death of my loving Friend and Cousen, Master Richard Clerke, late of Lincolns Inne, Gent.

A DREAME OF ELYSIUM.

SYLVA,

On his Majesties returne out of Scotland.

A Song on the same.

A Vote.

A Poeticall Revenge.

To the Duchesse of Buckingham.

To his very much honoured Godfather, Master A. B.

An Elegie on the Death of Mris Anne Whitfield.

An Elegie on the Death of John Littleton Esquire, Sonne and Heire to Sir Thomas Littleton, who was drowned leaping into the water to save his younger Brother.

A translation of Verses upon the B. Virgin, written in Latine by the right Worshipfull Dr. A.

Ave Maria.

Gratia Plena.

Dominus tecum.

Benedicta tu in mulieribus.

Et benedictus fructus ventris tui.

Spiritus Sanctus superveniet in te.

Et virtus altissimi obumbrabit tibi.

ODE I. On the praise of Poetry.

ODE II. That a pleasant Poverty is to be preferred before discontented Riches.

ODE III. To his Mistris.

ODE IV. On the uncertainty of Fortune. A Translation.

ODE V. In commendation of the time we live under the Reign of our gracious K. Charles.

ODE VI. Upon the shortnesse of Mans life.

An Answer to an Invitation to Cambridge.

A SATYRE. THE PURITAN AND THE PAPIST.

A DISCOURSE By way of VISION, Concerning the Government of Oliver Cromwell.

[Ah, happy Isle, how art thou chang'd and curst]

[Curst be the Man (what do I wish? as though]

[It is a Truth so certain, and so clear]

[When, Lo, e're the last words were fully spoke]

Several Discourses by way of Essays, in Verse and Prose.

1. Of Liberty.

[Who governs his own course with steddy hand]

[Magne Deus, quod ad has vitœ brevis attinet horas]

[Hail, old Patrician Trees, so great and good!]

3. Of Obscurity.

Seneca, ex Thyeste, Act. 2. Chor.

A Paraphrase upon the 10th Epistle of the first Book of Horace.

[I'dmire, Mecænas, how it comes to pass]

A Paraphrase on an Ode in Horace's third Book, beginning thus, Inclusam Danaen turris ahenea.

[8.] The dangers of an Honest man in much Company.

Claudian's Old Man of Verona.

9. The shortness of Life and uncertainty of Riches.

[Why dost thou heap up Wealth, which thou must quit]

10.

10. The danger of Procrastination.

Mart. Lib. 5. Epigr. 59.

Mart. Lib. 2. Ep. 90.

11.

11. Of My self.

[This only grant me, that my means may lye]

Martial. L. 10. Ep. 47.

Martial Book 10. Epigram 96.

To the Duke of Buckingham, upon his Marriage with the Lord Fairfax his Daughter.

[subsection]

A POEM On the late CIVIL WAR.

APPENDIX.

Coolyes verses uppon my Lady Elisabeth birth on Christmass even 1635. (From Harleian MSS. 6383: first printed by Dr Grosart in his Edition of Cowley.)

Upon the happie Birth of the Duke. From Voces Votivae ab Academicis Cantabrigiensibus etc. MDCXL.

To the Lord Falkland. For his safe Return from the Northern Expedition against the SCOTS.

On the Death of Sir Henry Wootton.

On the Death of Mr. Jordan,

On his Majesties Return out of Scotland.

On the Death of Sir Anthony Vandike,

Prometheus ill-painted.

ODE.

Friendship in Absence.

To the Bishop of Lincoln,

To a Lady who made Posies for Rings.

Prologue to the Guardian

The Epilogue.

On the Death of Mr. William Hervey.

ODE.

In imitation of Martials Epigram.

The Chronicle.

To Sir William Davenant.

An Answer to a Copy of Verses sent me to Jersey.

The Tree of Knowledge.

Reason.

On the Death of Mr. Crashaw.

II.

III.

IV.

VI.

VII.

VIII.

IX.

XI.

ELEGIE UPON ANACREON,

Written in Juice of Lemmon.

Leaving Me, and then loving Many.

My Heart discovered.

Answer to the Platonicks.

Resolved to be beloved.

The Heart fled again.

[Then like some wealthy Island thou shalt ly]

Looking on, and discoursing with his Mistress.

Verses lost upon a Wager.

Bathing in the River.

Love given over.

Pindarique ODES,

THE SECOND Olympique Ode OF PINDAR.

THE FIRST Nemeæan Ode OF PINDAR.

The Praise of Pindar.

The 34. Chapter of the Prophet Isaiah.

The Plagues of Egypt.

II.

III.

IV.

Verses written on several occasions.

CHRISTS PASSION

On Orinda's Poems.

ODE.

Upon the Death of the Earl of Balcarres.

ODE.

On the Queens Repairing Somerset House.

The Complaint.

The Adventures of Five hours.

On the death of Mrs. Katherine Philips.

Hymn. To light.

To the Royal Society.

Upon the Chair made out of Sir Francis Drakes ship, Presented to the University Library in Oxford, by John Davis of Deptford, Esquire.

Collapse All | Expand All expand section

SYLVA,

OR, DIVERS COPIES OF VERSES, Made upon sundry occasions by A. C.

On his Majesties returne out of Scotland.

Great Charles : there stop you Trumpeters of Fame,
(For he who speakes his Titles, his great Name
Must have a breathing time,) Our King: stay there,
Tel't by degrees, let the inquisitive eare
Be held in doubt, and ere you say, Is come,
Let every heart prepare a spatious roome
For ample joyes: then Iö sing as loud
As thunder shot from the divided cloud.

Let Cygnus plucke from the Arabian waves
The ruby of the rocke, the pearle that paves
Great Neptunes Court, let every sparrow beare
From the three Sisters weeping barke a teare.
Let spotted Lynces their sharpe tallons fill
With chrystall fetch'd from the Promethean hill.
Let Cythereas birds fresh wreathes compose,
Knitting the pale fac't Lillie with the Rose.
Let the selfe-gotten Phœnix rob his nest,
Spoile his owne funerall pile, and all his best
Of Myrrhe, of Frankincense, of Cassia bring,
To strew the way for our returned King.

Let every post a Panegyricke weare,
Each wall, each pillar gratulations beare:
And yet let no man invocate a Muse;
The very matter will it selfe infuse
A sacred fury. Let the merry Bells
(For unknowne joyes worke unknowne miracles)
Ring without helpe of Sexton, and presage
A new-made holy-day for future age.

And if the Ancients us'd to dedicate
A golden Temple to propitious fate,
At the returne of any Noble men,
Of Heroes, or of Emperours, wee must then
Raise up a double Trophee, for their fame
Was but the shadow of our CHARLES his name.
Who is there where all vertues mingled flow?
Where no defects, no imperfections grow?

Whose head is alwayes crown'd with victory,
Snatch'd from Bellonas hand, him luxury
In peace debilitates, whose tongue can win,
Tullies owne Garland, to him pride creeps in.
On whom (like Atlas shoulders) the propt state
(As he were Primum Mobile of fate)
Solely, relies, him blind ambition moves,
His tyranny the bridled subject proves.
But all those vertues which they all possest
Divided, are collected in thy brest,
Great Charles; Let Cœsar boast P[ha]rsalias fight,
Honorius praise the Parthians unfeyn'd fight.
Let Alexander call himself Joves peere,
And place his Image next the Thunderer,
Yet whilst our Charles with equall ballance reignes
'Twixt Mercy and Astrea, and maintaines
A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis onely he
Who is most neere, most like the Deitie.

A Song on the same.

Hence clouded lookes, hence briny teares
Hence eye, that sorrows livery weares.
What though a while Apollo please
To visit the Antipodes?
Yet he returnes, and with his light
Expels, what he hath caus'd, the night.
What though the spring vanish away,
And with it the earths forme decay?
Yet at's new birth it will restore
What it's departure tooke before.
What though we mist our absent King
Erewhile? Great Charles is come agin,
And, with his presence makes us know,
The gratitude to Heaven wee owe.
So doth a cruell storme impart
And teach us Palinurus art.
So from salt flouds, wept by our eyes,
A joyfull Venus doth arise.

A Vote.

1

Lest the misconstring world should chance to say,
I durst not but in secret murmurs pray,
To whisper in Joves eare,
How much I wish that funerall,
Or gape at such a great ones fall,
This let all ages heare,
And future times in my soules picture see
What I abhorre, what I desire to bee.

2

I would not be a Puritan, though he
Can preach two houres, and yet his Sermon be
But halfe a quarter long,
Though from his old mechanicke trade
By vision hee's a Pastor made,
His faith was growne so strong.
Nay though he thinke to gaine salvation,
By calling th'Pope the Whore of Babylon.

3

I would not be a School-master, though he
His Rods no lesse than Fasces deemes to be,
Though he in many a place,
Turnes Lilly oftner than his gownes,
Till at the last hee make the Nownes,
Fight with the Verbes apace.
Nay though he can in a Poeticke heat,
Figures, borne since, out of poore Virgill beat.

4

I would not be Justice of Peace, though he
Can with equality divide the Fee,
And stakes with his Clarke draw.
Nay though he sit upon the place
Of Judgement with a learned face
Intricate as the Law.
And whilst he mulcts enormities demurely,
Breaks Priscians head with sentences securely.

5

I would not be a Courtier, though he
Makes his whole life the truest Comedy:
Although he be a man
In whom the Taylors forming Art,
And nimble Barber claime more part
Than Nature her selfe can.
Though, as he uses men, 'tis his intent
To put off death too, with a Complement.

6

From Lawyers tongues, though they can spin with ease
The shortest cause into a Paraphrase,
From Usurers conscience
(For swallowing up young Heyres so fast
Without all doubt, they'l choakt at last)
Make me all innocence
Good Heaven; and from thy eyes, ô Justice keepe,
For though they be not blind, they're oft asleepe.

7

From Singing-mens Religion; who are
Alwayes at Church just like the Crowes, 'cause there
They build themselves a nest.
From too much Poetry, which shines
With gold in nothing but its lines,
Free, ô you powers, my brest.
And from Astronomy within the skies
Finds fish, and bulls, yet doth but Tantalize.

8

From your Court-Madams beauty, which doth carry
At morning May, at night a January.
From the grave City brow
(For though it want an R, it has
The letter of Pythagoras)
Keepe me ô Fortune now,
And chines of beefe innumerable send me,
Or from the stomacke of the Guard defend me.

9

This onely grant me: that my meanes may lye
Too low for envie, for contempt too high.
Some honour I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone,
Th'ignote are better than ill knowne
R[u]mor can ope the grave.
Acquaintance I would hug, but when't depends
Not from the number, but the choyse of friends.

10

Bookes should, not businesse, entertaine the light,
And sleepe, as undisturb'd as death the night.
My house a cottage more
Then palace, and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxurie.
My garden painted ore
With natures hand, not arts and pleasures yield,
Horace might envie in his Sabine field.

11

Thus would I double my lifes fading space,
For he that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, and happy state,
I would nor feare, nor wish my fate,
But boldly say each night,
To morrow let my Sunne his beames display,
Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to day.

A Poeticall Revenge.

Westminster-Hall a friend and I agreed
To meet in; hee (some busines 'twas did breed
His absence) came not there; I up did goe,
To the next Court for though I could not know
Much what they meant, yet I might see and heare
(As most spectators doe at Theater)
Things very strange; Fortune did seeme to grace
My comming there, and helpt me to a place.

But being newly setled at the sport,
A semi-gentleman of th'Innes of Court,
In a Sattin suite, redeem'd but yesterday;
One who is ravisht with a Cock-pit Play,
Who prayes God to deliver him from no evill
Besides a Taylors bill, and feares no Devill
Besides a Serjeant, thrust me from my seat:
At which I gan to quarrell, till a neat
Man in a ruffe (whom therefore I did take
For Barrister) open'd his mouth and spake;
Boy, get you gone, this is no Schoole: Oh no;
For if it were, all you gown'd-men would goe
Up for false Latin: they grew straight to be
Incenst, I fear'd they would have brought on me
An Action of Trespas, till th'young man
Aforesaid, in the Sattin suit, began
To strike me: doubtlesse there had beene a fray,
Had not I providently skipp'd away,
Without replying; for to scould is ill,
Where every tongue's the clapper of a Mill,
And can out-sound Homers Gradivus; so
Away got I: but ere I farre did goe,
I flung (the Darts of wounding Poetrie)
These two or three sharpe curses backe: May hee
Be by his Father in his Study tooke
At Shakespeares Playes, in stead of my L. Cooke.
May hee (though all his Writings grow as soone
As Butters out of estimation)
Get him a Poets name, and so ne'r come
Into a Sergeants, or dead Judges roome.
May hee (for 'tis sinne in a Lawyer)
True Latin use to speake, even at the Barre.
May hee become some poore Physicians prey,
Who keepes men with that conscience in delay
As he his Clyents doth, till his health bee
As farre fetch'd as a Greeke Nownes pedigree.
Nay, for all that, may the disease be gone
Never but in the long Vacation.
May Neighbours use all Quarrels to decide;
But if for Law any to London ride,

Of all those Clyents may no one be his,
Unlesse he come in Forma Pauperis.

Grant this you Gods, that favour Poetry,
That so at last these ceaselesse tongues may be
Brought into reformation, and not dare
To quarrell with a thredbare Black; but spare

Them who beare Scholars names, lest some one take

Spleene, and another Ignoramus make.

To the Duchesse of Buckingham.

If I should say, that in your face were seene
Natures best Picture of the Cyprian Queene;
If I should sweare under Minerva's Name,
Poets (who Prophets are) fore-told your fame,
The future age would thinke it flatterie,
But to the present which can witnesse be,
'Twould seeme beneath your high deserts, as farre,
As you above the rest of Women are.

When Mannors name with Villiers joyn'd I see,
How doe I reverence your Nobilitie!
But when the vertues of your Stock I view,
(Envi'd in your dead Lord, admir'd in you)
I halfe adore them: for what woman can
Besides your selfe (nay I might say what man)
Both Sexe, and Birth, and Fate, and yeeres excell
In minde, in fame, in worth, in living well?

Oh, how had this begot Idolatrie,
If you had liv'd in the Worlds infancie,
When mans too much Religion, made the best
Or Deities, or Semi-gods at least?
But wee, forbidden this by pietie,
Or, if wee were not, by your modestie,
Will make our hearts an Altar, and there pray
Not to, but for you, nor that England may
Enjoy your equall, when you once are gone,
But what's more possible, t'enjoy you long.

To his very much honoured Godfather, Master A. B.

I love (for that upon the wings of Fame
Shall perhaps mock Death or times Darts) my Name.
I love it more, because 'twas given by you;
I love it most, because 'twas your name too.
For if I chance to slip, a conscious shame
Plucks me, and bids me not defile your name.

I'm glad that Citie t'whom I ow'd before,
(But ah me! Fate hath crost that willing Score)
A Father, gave me a Godfather too,
And I'm more glad, because it gave me you;
Whom I may rightly thinke, and terme to be
Of the whole Citie an Epitomie.

I thanke my carefull Fate, which found out one
(When Nature had not licenced my tongue
Farther then cryes) who should my office doe;
I thanke her more, because shee found out you:
In whose each looke, I may a sentence see;
In whose each deed, a teaching Homily.

How shall I pay this debt to you? My Fate
Denyes me Indian Pearle or Persian Plate.
Which though it did not, to requite you thus,
Were to send Apples to Alcinoüs,
And sell the cunning'st way: No, when I can
In every Leafe, in every Verse write Man,
When my Quill relisheth a Schoole no more,
When my pen-feather'd Muse hath learnt to soare,
And gotten wings as well as feet; looke then
For equall thankes from my unwearied Pen:
Till future ages say; 'twas you did give
A name to me, and I made yours to live.

An Elegie on the Death of Mris Anne Whitfield.

Shee 's dead, and like the houre that stole her hence,
With as much quietnesse and innocence.
And 'tis as difficult a taske to winne
Her travelling soule backe to its former Inne,
As force that houre, fled without tract away,
To turne, and stop the current of the day.

What, shall we weepe for this? and cloath our eye
With sorrow, the Graves mourning Liverie?
Or shall we sigh? and with that pious winde
Drive faster on what we alreadie finde
Too swift for us, her soule? No; shee who dy'de
Like the sicke Sunne, when Night entombes his pride;
Or Trees in Autumne, when unseene decay
And slow consumption steales the leaves away,
Without one murmur, shewes that she did see
Death as a good, not as a miserie.

And so she went to undiscovered Fields,
From whence no path hope of returning yeelds
To any Traveller, and it must be
Our solace now to court her memorie.
Wee'l tell how love was dandled in her eye,
Yet curb'd with a beseeming gravitie.
And how (beleeve it you that heare or reade)
Beautie and Chastitie met and agreed
In her, although a Courtier: Wee will tell
How farre her noble spirit did excell
Hers, nay our Sexe: wee will repeat her Name,
And force the Letters to an Anagram.
Whitfield wee'l cry, and amorous windes shall be
Ready to snatch that words sweet harmonie
Ere 'tis spoke out: Thus wee must dull griefes sting,
And cheat the sorrow that her losse would bring:
Thus in our hearts wee'l bury her, and there
Wee'l write, Here lyes Whitfield the chast, and faire.

Art may no doubt a statelier Tombe invent,

But not like this, a living Monument.

An Elegie on the Death of John Littleton Esquire, Sonne and Heire to Sir Thomas Littleton, who was drowned leaping into the water to save his younger Brother.

And must these waters smile againe? and play
About the shore, as they did yesterday?
Will the Sun court them still? and shall they show
No conscious wrinckle furrowed on their brow,
That to the thirsty Travellor may say,
I am accurst, goe turne some other way?

It is unjust; black floud, thy guilt is more,
Sprung from his losse, then all thy watry store
Can give thee teares to mourne for: Birds shall bee
And Beasts henceforth afraid to drinke of thee.

What have I said? my pious rage hath beene
Too hot, and acts whilst it accuseth sinne.
Thou'rt innocent I know, still cleare, and bright,
Fit whence so pure a soule should take it's flight.
How is my angry zeale confin'd? for hee
Must quarrell with his love and pietie,
That would revenge his death. Oh I shall sinne,
And wish anon he had lesse vertuous beene.
For when his Brother (teares for him I'de spill,
But they're all challeng'd by the greater ill)
Strugled for life with the rude waves, he too
Leapt in, and when hope no faint beame could show,
His charitie shone most; thou shalt, said hee,
Live with me, Brother, or Ile dye with thee;
And so he did: had he beene thine, ô Rome,
Thou wouldst have call'd this death a Martyrdome,
And Saynted him; my conscience give me leave,
Ile doe so too: if fate will us bereave
Of him we honour'd living, there must be
A kinde of reverence to his memorie,

After his death: and where more just then here,
Where life and end were both so singuler?
Of which th'one griefe, the other imitation
Of all men vindicates, both admiration.
He that had onely talkt with him, might finde
A little Academie in his minde;
Where Wisedome, Master was, and Fellowes all
Which we can good, which we can vertuous call.
Reason and Holy Feare the Proctors were,
To apprehend those words, those thoughts that erre.
His learning had out-run the rest of heyres,
Stolne Beard from time, and leapt to twentie yeares.
And as the Sunne, though in full glorie bright,
Shines upon all men with impartiall light,
And a good morrow to the begger brings
With as full rayes as to the mightiest Kings:
So he, although his worth just state might claime,
And give to pride an honourable name,
With curtesie to all, cloath'd vertue so,
That 'twas not higher then his thoughts were low.
In's body too, no Critique eye could finde
The smallest blemish, to belye his minde;
He was all purenesse, and his outward part
The looking-glasse and picture of his heart.
When waters swallow'd mankinde, and did cheat
The hungry Worme of its expected meat;
When gemmes, pluckt from the shore by ruder hands,
Return'd againe unto their native sands;
'Mongst all those spoyles, there was not any prey
Could equall what this Brooke hath stolne away.

Weepe then, sad Floud; and though thou'rt innocent,
Weepe because fate made thee her instrument:
And when long griefe hath drunke up all thy store,
Come to our eyes, and we will lend thee more.

A translation of Verses upon the B. Virgin, written in Latine by the right Worshipfull Dr. A.

Ave Maria.

Once thou rejoycedst, and rejoyce for ever,
Whose time of joy shall be expired never:
Who in her wombe the Hive of Comfort beares,
Let her drinke Comforts Honey with her eares.
You brought the word of joy, which did impart
An Haile to all, let us An Haile redart.
From you God save into the World there came;
Our Eccho Haile is but an empty name.

Gratia Plena.

How loaded Hives are with their Honie fill'd,
From diverse Flowres by Chimicke Bees distill'd:
How full the Collet with his Jewell is,
Which, that it cannot take, by love doth kisse:
How full the Moone is with her Brothers ray,
When shee drinks up with thirsty orbe the day,
How full of Grace the Graces dances are,
So full doth Mary of Gods light appeare.
It is no wonder if with Graces she
Be full, who was full with the Deitie.

Dominus tecum.

The fall of mankind under deaths extent
The quire of blessed Angels did lament,
And wisht a reparation to see
By him, who manhood joyn'd with Deitie.
How gratefull should Mans safety then appeare
T'himselfe, whose safety can the Angels cheare?

Benedicta tu in mulieribus.

Death came, and troopes of sad diseases led
To th'earth, by womans hand solicited.
Life came so too, and troopes of Graces led
To th'earth, by womans faith solicited.
As our lifes spring came from thy blessed wombe,
So from our mouthes springs of thy praise shall come.
Who did lifes blessing give, 'tis fit that she
Above all women should thrice blessed be.

Et benedictus fructus ventris tui.

With mouth divine the Father doth protest,
Hee a good word sent from his stored brest,
'Twas Christ: which Mary without carnall thought,
From the unfathom'd depth of goodnesse brought,
The word of blessing a just cause affoords,
To be oft blessed with redoubled words.

Spiritus Sanctus superveniet in te.

As when soft West winds strooke the Garden Rose,
A showre of sweeter ayre salutes the Nose.
The breath gives sparing kisses, nor with powre
Unlocks the Virgin bosome of the Flowre.
So th'Holy Spirit upon Mary blow'd,
And from her sacred Box whole rivers flow'd.
Yet loos'd not thine eternall chastity,
Thy Roses folds doe still entangled lye.
Beleeve Christ borne from an unbruised wombe,
So from unbruised Barke the Odors come.

Et virtus altissimi obumbrabit tibi.

God his great Sonne begot ere time begunne,
Mary in time brought forth her little Sonne.
Of double substance, one, life hee began,
God without Mother, without Father Man.
Great is this birth, and 'tis a stranger deed,
That shee no man, then God no wife should need.

A shade delighted the Child-bearing Maid,
And God himselfe became to her a shade.
O strange descent! who is lights Author, hec
Will to his creature thus a shadow bee.
As unseene light did from the Father flow,
So did seene light from Virgin Marie grow.
When Moses sought God in a shade to see,
The Fathers shade was, Christ the Deitie.
Let's seeke for day we darknesse, whil'st our sight
In light findes darknesse, and in darknesse light.

ODE I. On the praise of Poetry.

'Tis not a Pyramide of Marble stone,
Though high as our ambition,
'Tis not a Tombe cut out in Brasse, which can
Give life to th'ashes of a man,
But Verses onely; they shall fresh appeare,
Whil'st there are men to reade, or heare.
When Time shall make the lasting Brasse decay,
And eate the Pyramide away,
Turning that Monument wherein men trust
Their names, to what it keepes, poore dust:
Then shall the Epitaph remaine, and be
New graven in Eternitie.
Poets by death are conquered, but the wit
Of Poets triumph over it.
What cannot Verse? When Thracian Orpheus tooke
His Lyre, and gently on it strooke,
The learned stones came dancing all along,
And kept time to the charming song.
With artificiall pace the Warlike Pine,
Th'Elme, and his Wife the Ivy twine,
With all the better trees, which erst had stood
Unmov'd, forsooke their native Wood.

The Lawrell to the Poets hand did bow,
Craving the honour of his brow:
And every loving arme embrac'd, and made
With their officious leaves a shade.
The beasts too strove his auditors to be,
Forgetting their old Tyrannie.
The fearefull Hart next to the Lion came,
And Wolfe was Shepheard to the Lambe.
Nightingales, harmlesse Syrens of the ayre,
And Muses of the place, were there.
Who when their little windpipes they had found
Unequall to so strange a sound,
O'recome by art and griefe they did expire,
And fell upon the conquering Lyre.
Happy, ô happy they, whose Tombe might be,
Mausolus, envied by thee!

ODE II. That a pleasant Poverty is to be preferred before discontented Riches.

1

Why ô doth gaudy Tagus ravish thee,
Though Neptunes Treasure-house it be?
Why doth Pactolus thee bewitch,
Infected yet with Midas glorious Itch?

2

Their dull and sleepie streames are not at all
Like other Flouds, Poeticall,
They have no dance, no wanton sport,
No gentle murmur, the lov'd shore to court.

3

No Fish inhabite the adulterate Floud,
Nor can it feed the neighbouring Wood,
No Flower or Herbe is neere it found,
But a perpetuall Winter sterves the ground.

4

Give me a River which doth scorne to shew
An added beauty, whose cleere brow
May be my looking-glasse, to see
What my face is, and what my mind should be.

5

Here waves call waves, and glide along in ranke,
And prattle to the smiling banke.
Here sad King fishers tell their tales,
And fish enrich the Brooke with silver scales.

6

Dasyes the first borne of the teeming Spring,
On each side their embrodery bring,
Here Lillies wash, and grow more white,
And Daffadills to see themselves delight.

7

Here a fresh Arbor gives her amorous shade,
Which Nature, the best Gard'ner made.
Here I would set, and sing rude layes,
Such as the Nimphs and me my selfe should please.

8

Thus I would waste, thus end my carelesse dayes,
And Robin-red-brests whom men praise
For pious birds, should when I dye,
Make both my Monument and Elegie.

ODE III. To his Mistris.

1

Tyrian dye why doe you weare
You whose cheekes best scarlet are?
Why doe you fondly pin
Pure linnens ore your skin,
Your skin that's whiter farre,
Casting a duskie cloud before a Starre?

2

Why beares your necke a golden chayne?
Did Nature make your haire in vaine,
Of Gold most pure and fine?
With gemmes why doe you shine?
They, neighbours to your eyes,
Shew but like Phosphor, when the Sunne doth rise.

3

I would have all my Mistris parts,
Owe more to Nature then to Arts,
I would not woe the dresse,
Or one whose nights give lesse
Contentment, then the day.
Shee's faire, whose beauty onely makes her gay.

4

For 'tis not buildings make a Court
Or pompe, but 'tis the Kings resort:
If Jupiter downe powre
Himselfe, and in a showre
Hide such bright Majestie
Lesse then a golden one it cannot be.

ODE IV. On the uncertainty of Fortune. A Translation.

Leave off unfit complaints, and cleere
From sighs your brest, and from black clouds your brow,
When the Sunne shines not with his wonted cheere,
And Fortune throwes an adverse cast for you.
That Sea which vext with Notus is,
The merry Eastwinds will to morrow kisse.

The Sunne to day rides drousily,
To morrow 'twill put on a looke more faire,
Laughter and groaning doe alternately
Returne, and teares sports neerest neighbours are.
'Tis by the Gods appointed so
That good fate should with mingled dangers flow.

Who drave his Oxen yesterday,
Doth now over the Noblest Romanes reigne.
And on the Gabii, and the Cures lay
The yoake which from his Oxen he had tane.
Whom Hesperus saw poore and low,
The mornings eye beholds him greatest now.

If Fortune knit amongst her play
But seriousnesse; he shall againe goe home
To his old Country Farme of yesterday,
To scoffing people no meane jest become.
And with the crowned Axe, which he
Had rul'd the World, goe backe and prune some Tree.
Nay if he want the fuell cold requires,
With his owne Fasces he shall make him fires.

ODE V. In commendation of the time we live under the Reign of our gracious K. Charles.

1

Curst be that wretch (Deaths Factor sure) who brought
Dire Swords into the peacefull world, and taught
Smiths, who before could onely make
The Spade, the Plowshare, and the Rake;
Arts, in most cruell wise
Mans life t'epitomize.

2

Then men (fond men alas) rid post to th'grave,
And cut those threads, which yet the Fates would save.
Then Charon sweated at his trade,
And had a bigger Ferry made,
Then, then the silver hayre,
Frequent before, grew rare.

3

Then Revenge married to Ambition,
Begat blacke Warre, then Avarice crept on.
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a Godhead gain'd.
To men before was found,
Besides the Sea, no bound.

4

In what Playne or what River hath not beene
Warres story, writ in blood (sad story) seene?
This truth too well our England knowes,
'Twas civill slaughter dy'd her Rose:
Nay then her Lillie too,
With bloods losse paler grew.

5

Such griefes, nay worse than these, we now should feele,
Did not just Charles silence the rage of steele;
He to our Land blest peace doth bring,
All Neighbour Countries envying.
Happy who did remaine
Unborne till Charles his reigne!

6

Where dreaming Chimicks is you[r] paine and cost?
How is your oyle, how is your labour lost?
Our Charles, blest Alchymist (though strange,
Beleeve it future times) did change
The Iron age of old,
Into an age of Gold.

ODE VI. Upon the shortnesse of Mans life.

Marke that swift Arrow how it cuts the ayre,
How it out-runnes thy hunting eye,
Use all perswasions now, and try
If thou canst call it backe, or stay it there.
That way it went, but thou shalt find
No tract of 't left behind.
Foole 'tis thy life, and the fond Archer, thou,
Of all the time thou'st shot away
Ile bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a taske to doe.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?
Our life is carried with too strong a tyde,
A doubtfull Cloud our substance beares,
And is the Horse of all our yeares.
Each day doth on a winged whirle-wind ride.
Wee and our Glasse run out, and must
Both render up our dust.
But his past life who without griefe can see,
Who never thinkes his end too neere,
But sayes to Fame, thou art mine Heire.
That man extends lifes naturall brevity,
This is, this is the onely way
T' out-live Nestor in a day.

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 appeare
Of 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 meet
Thee 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.

FINIS.