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Love, making all things elfe his foes,
Like a fierce torrent, overflows
Whatever doth his course oppose
This was the cause the poets fung,
Thy mother from the sea was sprung,
But they were mad to make thee young.
Her father, not her son, art thou :
From our defires our actions grow;
And from the cause th' effect muft flow,
Love is as old as place or time ;
'Twas he the fatal tree did climb,
Grandfire of father Adam's crime.
Well may'st thou keep this world in awe;
Religion, wisdom, honour, law,
The tyrant in his triumph draw.
'Tis he commands the powers above ; Phæbus resigns his darts, and Jove His thunder, to the God of Love.
To him doth his feignd mother yield;
Nor Mars (her champion) 's flaming shield
Guards him, when Cupid takes the field.
He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss
Much higher than fruition is ;
But less than nothing, if it miss.
When matches Love alone projects,
The cause transcending the effects,
That wild-fire's quench'd in cold neglects.
Whilft those conjunctions prove the best,
Where Love 's of blindness dispossest,
By perspectives of intereft.
Though Solomon with a thousand wives,
To get a wise successor strives,
But one (and he a fool) survives.
Old Rome of children took no care,
They with their friends their beds did share,
Secure t'adopt a hopeful heir.
Love, drowsy days and stormy nights
Makes ; and breaks friendship, whose delights
Feed, but not glut our appetites.
Well-chosen friendship, the most noble
Of virtues, all our joys makes double,
And into halves divides our trouble.
But when th' unlucky knot we tie,
Care, avarice, fear, and jealousy,
Make friendship languish till it die.
The wolf, the lion, and the bear,
When they their prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themselves forbear.
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, set fire on Troy?
Such is the world's preposterous fate,
Amongst all creatures, mortal hate
Love (though immortal) doth create.
But love may beasts excuse, for they
Their actions not by reason sway,
But their brute appetites obey.
But man 's that savage beast, whose mind
From reason to self-love declin'd,
Delights to prey upon his kind.
On Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S Death,
and Burial amongst the ancient Poets.
Chaucer, like the morning star,
To us discovers day from far ;
His light those mists and clouds diffolvid,
Which our dark nation long involv'd :
But he descending to the shades,
Darkness again the age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spenser rose,
Whose purple blush the day foreshews ;
The other three, with his own fires,
Phæbus, the poets' god, inspires ;
By Shakespeare's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines,
Our stage's lustre Rome's out-shines :
These poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep.
They liv'd to see so many days,
Till time had blasted all their bays :
But cursed be the fatal hour
That pluck’d the fairest, sweetest flower
That in the Muses' garden grew,
And amongst wither'd laurels threw.
Time, which made them their fame out-live,
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.
Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;
In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art
Of flower Nature got the start;
But both in him so 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 Jonson, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores
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 Jason, 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 sings)
The Theban fwan extends his wings,
When through th'atherial clouds he flies,
To the same pitch our swan doth rise ;
Old Pindar's fights by him are reach'd,
When on that gale his wings are stretch'd ;)
His fancy and his judgment such,
Each to the other seem'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 streams so pure
As all that saw and tasted know.
But for his Latin vein, so 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 Muse her fong had ended here,
But both their Genii straight appear,
Joy and amazement her did strike,
Two twins she never saw so like.
'Twas taught by wise Pythagoras,
One foul might through more bodies pafs.