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The Mufe came in more chearful than before,
"My lover and belov'd, my Broghill, do for thee!
"What criticks, the great Hectors now in wit,
"Will dare t' oppose thee, when
"Broghill in thy defence has drawn his conquering I rofe, and bow'd my head,
And pardon ask'd for all that I had said :
I ftrait refolv'd, and folemnly I vow'd,
That from her fervice now I ne'er would part;
The only danger is, left it should be
Too ftrong a remedy;
Left, in removing cold, it fhould beget
And into madness turn the lethargy.
Ah! gracious God! that I might fee A time when it were dangerous for me
To be o'er-heat with praise !
But I within me bear, alas! too great allays.
'Tis faid, Apelles, when he Venus drew,
That my book should before him fit,
Not as a caufe, but an occafion, to his wit;
The bright idea there of the great writer's mind?
O D E.
Mr. COWLEY'S Book prefenting itself to the University Library of O x F O R D.
HALL, Pantheon! Hail, the
AIL, Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the facred ark
Which ever shall withstand, and haft fo long withstood,
Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well
Oxford! the Muse's paradise,
From which may never fword the bless'd expel!
Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie
Hail Wit's illuftrious Galaxy!
Where thousand lights into one brightness spread;
Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er
The mighty linguift Fame, or Time, the mighty traveThat could speak, or this could hear.
Majestick monument and pyramid!
Where still the shades of parted fouls abide
The beatific Bodley of the Deity;
you into your facred throng admit
You, general-council of the priests of Fame,
Will you not murmur and difdain,
The humbleft deacon of her train?
The chain of ornament, which here
Your noble prifoners proudly wear;
A chain which will more pleasant seem to me
Than all my own Pindaric liberty!
Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit, Like an Apocrypha with holy Writ ?
Whatever happy book is chained here,
As when a feat in heaven
Is to an unmalicious finner given,
Who, cafting round his wondering eye, Does none but patriarchs and apoftles there espy; Martyrs who did their lives bestow,
And faints, who martyrs liv'd below;
With trembling and amazement he begins
His foul fays to itself, "How came I here ?"
When I myself with confcious wonder see
Did to this happiness attain :
No labour I, nor merits, can pretend;
Ah, that my author had been ty'd like me
And business, which the Mufes hate,
He might perhaps have thriven then,
T had happier been for him, as well as me ;
For when all, alas ! is done,
We books, I mean, You books, will prove to be
For, though fome errors will get in,
Yet fure we from our fathers' wit
Draw all the strength and spirit of it,
O D E.
Sitting and drinking in the Chair made out of the Relicks of Sir FRANCIS DRAKE's Ship.
HEAR up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow,
Farewell all lands, for now we are
In the wide fea of drink, and merrily we go. Blefs me, 'tis hot! another bowl of wine,
And we shall cut the burning Line :
Hey, boys! fhe fcuds away, and by my head I know
What dull men are those that tarry at home,
And gain fuch experience, and fpy too
But pr'ythee, good pilot, take heed what you do,