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Verfe fhould from their tongue fo flow,
As if it in the mouth did grow,
As swiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do thus difcover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
'Tis, my Anacreon! for thy fake
I of the grape no mention make.

Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
*Curfed plant! I lov'd thee well;
And 'twas oft my wanton ufe
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Curfed plant! 'tis true, I fee,
Th' old report that goes of thee—
That, with giants' blood the earth
Stain'd and poison'd, gave thee birth ;
And now thou wreak'ft thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thunder;
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worfe than his tigers, he delights.;
In all our heaven I think there be
No fuch ill-natur'd God as he.
Thou pretendeft, traiterous Wine!
To be the Mufes' friend and mine:
With love and wit thou doft begin,
Falfe fires, alas! to draw us in ;
Which, if our courfe we by them keep,
Mifguide to madness or to fleep.:


Sleep were well; thou 'aft learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I fee what fate
Does on the beft of mankind wait.
Poets or lovers let them be,

'Tis neither love nor poefy

Can arm, against death's fmalleft dart,
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life, in its decline,
Touches th' inevitable line,

All the world's mortal to them then,

And wine is aconite to men;

Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves As ftrong as thunder is in Jove's..






Taken out of a Greek Ode, written by Mr. Mafters of New-College in Oxford.

ENOUGH, my Mufe! of earthly things,

And infpirations but of wind;

Take up thy lute, and to it bind

Loud and everlasting ftrings;

And on them play, and to them fing,

The happy mournful stories,

The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucified King.
Mountainous heap of wonders! which doft rife

Till earth thou joineft with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,

To be half feen by mortal eye!


*Thefe verfes were not included among thofe which Mr. Cowley himself ftyled " Mifcellanies;" but were claffed by Bishop Sprat under the title by which they are here diftinguifhed. N..



How fhall I grasp this boundless thing? What fhall I play? what shall I fing ? I'll fing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,

Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed spirits With all their comments can explain;

[above, How all the whole world's life to die did not difdain !

I'll fing the fearchlefs depths of the compaffion Divine, The depths unfathom'd yet

By reafon's plummet and the line of wit;

Too light the plummet, and too short the line!
How the eternal Father did beftow

His own eternal Son as ranfom for his foe,

I'll fing aloud, that all the world may hear
The triumph of the buried Conquerer.
How hell was by its prifoner captive led,
And the great flayer, Death, flain by the dead.

Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice,
Mixt with the murderers' confused noise,
Sound from the top of Calvary;
My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see

Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three;

Oh, how unlike the others he!

[the tree!

Look, how he bends his gentle head with bleffings from His gracious hands, ne'er ftretch'd but to do good, Are nail'd to the infamous wood!

And finful man does fondly bind

The arms, which he extends t'embrace all human-kind.


Unhappy man! canft thou stand by and fee

All this as patient as he?

Since he thy fins does bear,

Make thou his fufferings thine own,

And weep,

and figh, and groan,

And beat thy breast, and tear

Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love,

Through all thy bleeding bowels move.
Doft thou not fee thy prince in purple clad all o'er,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?

Doft thou not fee the rofes which adorn
The thorny garland by him worn?
Doft thou not fee the livid traces
Of the fharp fcourges' rude embraces ?
If yet thou feelest not the fmart.
Of thorns and fcourges in thy heart;
If that be yet not crucify'd;

Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his fide!

Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine cyes,

And let them call

Their stock of moisture forth, where'er it lies!

For this will afk it all.

"Twould all, alas! too little be,

Though thy falt tears come from a fea.

Canft thou deny him this, when he

Has open'd all his vital fprings for thee?
Take heed; for by his fide's mysterious flood

May well be understood,

That he will ftill require fome waters to his blood.



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