POEMS, BY Several Persons.   Arrangement of woodcut printer's ornaments. 
DUBLIN, Printed by John Crook, Printer to the Kings Most Excellent Majesty, for Samuel Dancer next Door to the Bear and Ragged-Staffe in Castle-street. 1663.   


To Mr. Cowley on his Davideis.  

When to the World thy Muse thou first didst show,  
It caused in some Wonder and Sorrow too,  
That such vast parts God unto Thee had sent,  
And that, they were not in his Praises spent.  
But those which in this sacred Poem look;  
Now find thy Blossoms for thy Fruit they took.  
In differing Ages, differing Muses shined,  
Thy green, the sense did feast, thy ripe the Mind.  
In this are met the most admired extremes;  
The best of Poets, and the best of Themes.  
Writing for Heaven, thou art inspired from thence,  
Thy Subject thus becomes thy Influence.  
Scripture no more the Impious ear shall fright,  
Now the best Duty, is the best delight.   

Thou dost the Dammin Duel so express,  
We the Relation praise as the success;  
Though there thy Hero did at once subdue  
Goliath, Jonathan, and Michal too.  
That Act was Heavenly which at once could move,  
That Brother's Friendship, and that Sisters Love.  
Great Jonathan in whom such Friendship shone,  
That We like Him Prise it above a Throne;  
Yet know not which in most esteem to hold,  
The Friendship, or the Friendship so well told.  
His Character ne'er reached its just Degree,  
Unless when sung by David and by Thee.  
He to a Friend (such Acts can Friendship do)  
The Crown did yield and kept the Friendship too,  
Which clearly proved he for a Crown was fit,  
If but because so well he yielded it.  
But God gave him, who best Man's worth does rate,  
A Crown of Glory for a Crown of State.   

He that with so much ease Goliath killed,  
Does with more ease to michal's Beauty yield,  
And higher satisfaction does express  
In this submission, then in that success.  
If we her Beauties own not to thy wit,  
Saul did his word excel in breaking it.  
Whose wrongs to David, did a short way prove,  
To Crown him both with Empire and with Love.  
But how her eyes vast power can we suspect  
Since no less cause could show that great effect,  
Yet since with such Resistless light they shone,  
Which could not be but to her Father known,  
Why did he Israel in such danger bring?  
Her Eyes had done more than thy Hero's sling:  
That, but by death did act the Monsters fall;  
But those alive had lead him unto Saul.  
Led him in Love's strong Bonds which all excel;  
And are resistless as invisible.  
But sure 'twas fitter such a Nymph as she,  
The Conqueror of his Conqueror should be,  
And that those Laurel Triumphs which he wore,  
Should but see off her Myrtle Triumphs more:   

Had Joab spoke such things as thou dost write,  
He had been chief in Eloquence as fight;  
David, Goliath conquered by his sling,  
But Joabs' telling it did Moabs King.  
Such an effect Fate ne'er could have controlled,  
The Act considered and how well 'twas told.  
What more by highest virtue could be wrought  
It conquered when it but Protection sought.  
Thy Hero's virtue made itself amends,  
For but one Foe it made, and all else Friends.   

His Music's power so well thou dost Rehearse,  
That still we hear it Charming in thy verse.  
He made the Muse's glorious by his Pen,  
And They by Thine have made him so again,  
But where, thou makest him Jonathan commend,  
Thou showest thyself great Poet, and great Friend,  
For of a brave Friend none could write so much,  
But such a writer as is highly such.   

But why dost Thou thyself and us so wrong,  
As to begin and not conclude thy song?  
For though thy Hero by thy verse is grown  
Much greater now than when he filled the Throne.  
Yet place him there, for thou whose lofty strain.  
So well laments his wrongs shouldst sing his Reign.  
Thy foes too Envy, and thy Friends deplore,  
Those, that so much is writ, these, that no more.    

To Orinda.  
Madam,  

When I but knew you by report,  
I feared, the Praises of th' admiring Court  
Were but their Compliments, But now I must  
Confess, what I thought Civil is scarce just.  
For they imperfect Trophies to you raise,  
You deserve Wonder, and they pay but Praise,  
A Praise which is as short of your great Due,  
As all which yet have writ; come short of you.  
You to whom Wonder's paid by double right,  
Both for your Verses smoothness, and their height.   

In me it does not the least trouble breed  
That your fair Sex does Ours in Verse exceed.  
Since every Poet this great Truth does prove  
Nothing so much inspires a Muse, as Love.  
Thence has your Sex the best Poetic Fires,  
For what's inspired must yield to what inspires,  
And as our Sex resigns to yours the due,  
So all of your bright Sex must yield to you.  
Experience shows that never Fountain fed  
A stream which could ascend above its Head,  
For those whose Wit famed Helicor does give,  
To rise above its height durst never strive,  
Their double Hill too, though 'tis often clear,  
Yet often on it Clouds, and Storms appear,  
Let none admire then that the ancient wit,  
Shared in those Elements infused it;  
Nor that your Muse then theirs ascends much higher,  
She sharing in no Element but fire.  
Past Ages could not think those things you do,  
For their Hill was their Basis and Height too,  
So that 'tis Truth, not Compliment, to tell  
Your lowest height, their highest did excel.  
Your nobler thoughts warmed by a heavenly Fire  
To their bright Centre constantly aspire,  
And by the place to which they take their flight  
Leaves us no doubt from whence they have their light.   

Your Merit has attained this high degree  
'Tis above Praise as much as Flattery,  
And when in that we have drained all our store,  
All grant from this nought can be distant more.   

Though you have sung of Friendships' power, so well  
That you in that as well as wit excel,  
Yet my own Interest obliges me,  
To praise your practice more than Theory,  
For by that kindness you your Friend did show,  
The honour I obtained of knowing you.   

In Pictures none hereafter will delight,  
You draw more to the Life in Black and White,  
The Pencil to your Pen must yield the place,  
This draws the Soul, where that draws but the Face.   

Of blessed Retirement such great truths you writ:  
That 'tis my wish, as much as your delight,  
Our gratitude to praise it does think fit  
Since all you writ are but effects of it.   

You English Corneils, Pompey with such flame  
That you but raise our Wonder, and his Fame.  
If he could read it, he like us would call  
The Copy greater than th' Original.  
You cannot mend what is already done,  
Unless you'll finish what you have begun.  
Who your Translation sees, cannot but say  
That 'tis Orinda's work, and but his play.  
The French to learn our Language now will seek,  
To hear their greatest wit more nobly speak.  
Rome too would grant, were our tongue to her known,  
Caesar speaks better in't then in his own.  
And all those wreaths once circled Pompey's brow  
Exalt his fame less than your Verses now.   

From these clear Truths all must acknowledge this  
If there be Helicon, in Wales it is.  
Oh happy Country! which to our Prince gives  
His title, and in which Orinda lives.    

Ode.  
Upon occasion of a Copy of Verses of my Lord Broghills, upon Mr. Cowley 's Davideis.  

BE gone (said I) Ingrateful Muse, and see  
What others thou canst fool as well as me.  
Since I grew Man, and wiser ought to be,  
My business and my hopes I left for thee:  
For thee (which was more hardly given away)  
I left, even when a Boy, my Play.  
But say, Ingrateful Mistress, say,  
What, for all this, what didst Thou ever pay?  
Thou'lt say, Perhaps, that Riches are  
Not of the growth of Lands, where thou dost Trade.  
And I, as well my Country might upbraid  
Because I have no Vineyard there.  
Well, but in love, thou dost pretend to Reign,  
There thine the power and Lordship is,  
Thou badst me write, and write, and write again;  
'Twas such a way as could not miss.  
I, like a Fool, did thee Obey,  
I wrote and wrote, but still I wrote in vain,  
For after all my expense of Wit and Pain,  
A Rich, unwriting Hand, carried the Prize away.   

2.  
Thus I replied, and straight the Muse replied  
That she had given me Fame,  
Bounty Immense! And that too must be tried,  
When I myself am nothing but a name.  
Who now, what Reader does not strive  
T' invalidate the gift whilst w' are alive?  
For when a Poet, now himself does show,  
As if he were a common Foe;  
All draw upon him all around,  
And every part of him they wound,  
Happy the Man that gives the deepest Blow:  
And this is all, kind Muse, to thee we owe.  
Then in a rage I took  
And out o'the Window threw  
Ovid, and Horace all the chiming Crew,  
Homer himself went with them too,  
Hardly escaped the sacred Mantuan Book:  
I my own Offspring, like Agave tore,  
And I resolved, nay I think I swore,  
That I no more the Ground would Till and Sow,  
Where only flowery Weeds instead of Corn did grow.   

3.  
When (see the subtle ways which Fate does find,  
Rebellious Man to bind,  
Just to the work for which he is assigned)  
The Muse came in more cheerful than before,  
And bid me quarrel with her now no more.  
Lo thy reward, look here and see,  
What I have made (said she)  
My Lover, and Beloved, my Broghill do for thee.  
Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give,  
Thou shalt at least in his for ever live.  
What Critics, the great Hector's now in Wit,  
Who Rant and Challenge all Men that have Writ,  
Will dare to oppose thee: when  
Broghill in thy defence has drawn his Conquering Pen?  
I risen and bowed my head,  
And pardon asked for all that I had said,  
Well satisfied and proud,  
I straight resolved, and solemnly I vowed:  
That from her Service, now, I ne'er would part.  
So strangely, large Rewards work on a grateful Heart.   

4.  
Nothing so soon the Drooping Spirits raise  
As Praises from the Men, whom all men praise.  
'Tis the best Cordial, and which only those  
Who have at home th' Ingredients can compose.  
A Cordial, that restores our fainting Breath,  
And keeps up Life even after Death.  
The only danger is, lest it should be  
Too strong a remedy:  
Lest, in removing cold, it should beget  
Too violent a heat;  
And into madness, turn the Lethargy.  
Ah! Gracious God that I might see  
A time when it were Dangerous for me  
To be o'er heat with Praise!  
But I within me bear (alas) too great alleys.   

5.  
'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,  
Did naked Women for his Pattern view,  
And with his powerful fancy did refine  
Their humane shapes, into a form Divine;  
None who had set could her own Picture see  
Or say one part was drawn for me:  
So, though this noble Painter when he writ,  
Was pleased to think it fit  
That my Books should before him sit,  
Not as a cause, but an occasion to his wit:  
Yet what have I to boast, or to apply  
To my advantage out of it, since I,  
Instead of my own likeness, only find  
The Bright Idea, there, of the great Writers mind.    

The Complaint.  

1.  
IN a deep Visions intellectual scene,  
Beneath a Bower for sorrow made,  
Th' uncomfortable shade,  
Of the black Yew's unlucky green,  
Mixed with the mourning Willows careful grey,  
Where Reverend Cham cuts out his Famous way,  
The Melancholy Cowley lay.  
And Lo! a muse appeared to his closed sight,  
The Muses oft in Lands of Visions play)  
Bodies arrayed, and seen, by an internal Light,)  
A golden Harp, with silver strings she bore,  
A wondrous Hieroglyphic Robe she wore,  
In which all Colours, and all figures were  
That Nature or the fancy can create,  
That Art can never imitate;  
And with lose Pride it wantoned in the Ayr.  
(In such a Dress, in such a well clothed Dream,  
She used, of old, near fair Ismena's Stream,  
Pindar her Theban Favourite to meet)  
A Crown was on her Head, and wings were on her Feet.   

2.  
She touched him with her Harp, and raised him from the Ground.  
The shaken strings Melodiously Resound.  
Art thou returned at last, says she,  
To this forsaken place and me?  
Thou Prodigal, who didst so loosely waste  
Of all thy Youthful years, the good Estate;  
Art thou returned here, to repent too late?  
And gather husks of learning up at last,  
Now the Rich Harvest time of Life is past,  
And Winter marches on so fast?  
But, when I meant t' Adopt Thee for my Son,  
And did as learned a Portion assign,  
As ever any of the mighty Nine  
Had to their dearest Children done;  
When I resolved t'exalt th' anointed Name,  
Amongst the Spiritual Lords of peaceful Fame;  
Thou changeling, thou, bewitched with noise and show  
Wouldst into Courts and Cities from me go;  
Wouldst see the World abroad, and have a share  
In all the follies, and the Tumults there,  
Thou wouldst, forsooth, be something in a State:  
And business thou wouldst find, and wouldst Create:  
Business! the frivolous pretence  
Of humane Lusts to shake off Innocence,  
Business! the grave impertinence:  
Business! the thing, which I of all things hate,  
Business! the contradiction of thy Fate.   

3.  
Go Renegado cast up thy Account,  
And see to what Amount  
Thy foolish gains by quitting me:  
The sale of Knowledge, Fame and Liberty,  
The Fruits of thy unlearned Apostasy.  
Thou thought'st if once the public storm were passed,  
All thy remaining Life should sunshine be:  
Behold the public storm is passed at last,  
The Sovereign is to sit at Sea no more,  
And, thou, which all the Noble Company,  
Art got at last to shore.  
But whilst thy fellow Voyagers, I see  
All marked up to possess the promised Land  
Thou still alone (alas) dost gapeing stand,  
Upon the naked beach, upon the Barren Strand.   

4.  
As a fair morning of the blessed spring,  
After a tedious stormy night;  
Such was the glorious Entry of our King,  
Enriching moisture dropped on every thing:  
Plenty he sowed below, and cast about him light.  
But then (alas) to thee alone,  
One of the gideon's Miracles was shown,  
For, every Tree, and every Herb around;  
With Pearly due was crowned.  
And upon all the quickened ground;  
The Fruitful seed of Heaven, did brooding lie,  
And nothing, but the Muse's Fleece was dry.  
It did all other Threats surpass,  
When God to his own People said,  
(The Men whom through long wand'ring he had led)  
That he would give them Heaven of Brass:  
They looked up to that Heaven in vain,  
That Bounteous Heaven, which God did not restrain,  
Upon the most unjust to shine and Rain.   

5.  
The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more,  
Thou didst with Faith, and labour serve,  
And didst (if Faith and labour can) deserve,  
Though she contracted was to thee,  
Given to another thou didst see,  
Given to another who had store  
Of fairer, and of Richer Wives before,  
And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be.  
Go on, twice seven years more, thy fortune try,  
Twice seven years more, God in his bounty may  
Give thee, to fling away  
Into the Courts deceitful Lottery.  
But think how likely, 'tis that thou  
With the dull work of thy unwieldy Plough,  
Shouldst in a hard and Barren season thrive,  
Shouldst even able be to live,  
Thou to whose share so little bread did fall,  
In the miraculous year, when Manna reigned on all.   

6.  
Thus spoke the Muse, and spoke it with a smile,  
That seemed at once to pity and revile.  
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,  
The Melancholy Cowley said,  
Ah wanton foe, darest thou upbraid,  
The Ills which thou thyself hast made?  
When, in the Cradle, innocent I lay,  
Thou wicked Spirit stolest me away,  
And my abused Soul didst bear,  
Into thy new found World, I know not where,  
Thy Gold Indies in the Air;  
And ever since I strive in vain  
My ravished Freedom to regain,  
Still I Rebel, still thou dost Reign,  
Lo, still in verse against thee I complain.  
There is a sort of stubborn Weeds  
Which, if the Earth but once, it ever breeds.  
No wholesome Herb can near them thrive,  
No useful Plant can keep alive:  
The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,  
Make all my Art and Labour fruitless now,  
Where once such Fairies dance, no grass will ever grow.   

7.  
When my new mind had no infusion known,  
Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thy own,  
That ever since I vainly try,  
To wash away th' inherent dye;  
Long work perhaps may spoil thy Colours quite,  
But never will reduce the native white:  
To all the Ports of Honour and of gain,  
I often steer my course in vain,  
Thy Gale comes cross, and drives me back again.  
Thou slack'nest all my Nerves of Industry,  
By making them so oft to be  
The tinkling strings of thy lose minstrelsy.  
Who ever this World's happiness would see,  
Must as entirely cast off thee,  
As they who only Heaven desire,  
Do from the World retire.  
This was my Error, This my gross mistake,  
Myself a demy-votary to make.  
Thus with Saphira, and her Husband's fate,  
(A fault which I like them, am taught too late)  
For all that I gave up, I nothing gain,  
And perish, for the part which I retain.   

8.  
Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse,  
The Court, and better King t' accuse;  
The Heaven under which I live is fair;  
The fertile soil will a full Harvest bear;]  
Thine, thine is all the Barrenness; if thou  
Makest me sit still and sing, when I should plough.  
When I but think, how many a tedious year  
Our patiented Sovereign did attend  
His long misfortunes fatal end;  
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear,  
On the great Sovereign, while he did depend:  
I ought to be accursed, if I refuse  
To wait on him, O thou fallacious Muse!  
King's have long hands (they say) and though I be  
So distant, they may reach at length to me.  
However, of all Princes thou,  
Shouldst not reproach Rewards for being small or slow;  
Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,  
And that too after death.    

Ode.  
Mr. Cowley 's Book presenting itself to the University Library of Oxford.  

HAil Learnings Pantheon! Hail the sacred Ark  
Where all the World of Sciences embark!  
Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long withstood,  
Insatiate Times devouring Flood.  
Hail Tree of Knowledge, thy leaves Fruit, which well  
Dost in the midst of Paradise arise,  
Oxford the Muse's Paradise,  
From which may never Sword the blessed expel.  
Hail Bank of all past Ages! where they lie  
T' enrich with interest Posterity!  
Hail Wits Illustrious Galaxy!  
Where thousand Lights into one brightness spread,  
Hail living University of the Dead!   

2.  
Unconfused Babel of all tongues which e'er  
The mighty Linguist Fame; or time the mighty Traveller  
That could speak, or this could hear.  
Majestic Monument and Pyramid,  
Where still the shapes of parted Souls abide:  
Embalmed in verse, exalted souls which now  
Enjoy those Arts they wooed so well below,  
Which now all wonders plainly see,  
That have been, are, or are to be,  
In the mysterious Library,  
The Beatific Bodley of the Deity.   

3.  
Will you into your Sacred throng admit  
The meanest British Wit?  
You gen'ral Council of the Priests of Fame,  
Will ye not murmur or disdain,  
That I place, among you claim,  
The humblest Deacon of her train?  
Will you allow me th' honourable chain?  
The Chain of Ornament which here  
Your noblest Prisoners proudly wear;  
A Chain which will more pleasant seem to me  
Then all my own Pindaric Liberty:  
Will ye to bind me with those mighty names submit,  
Like an Apocryphas with holy Writ?  
What ever happy book is chained here,  
No other place or People need to fear;  
His happy Chain's a Passport to go every where.   

4.  
As when a seat in Heaven,  
Is to an unmalicious Sinner given,  
Who casting round his wand'ring Eye,  
Does none but Patriarches and Apostles there espy;  
Martyrs who did their lives bestow,  
And Saints who Martyrs lived below;  
With trembling and amazement he gins,  
To recollect his frailty past and sins,  
He doubts almost his Station there,  
His soul says to itself, how came I here?  
It fairs not otherwise with me  
When I myself with conscious wonder see,  
Amidst this purified elected Company.  
With hardships they, and pain  
Did to this happiness attain:  
No labour I, nor merits can pretend,  
I think predestination only was my friend.   

5.  
Ah, that my Author had been tied like me  
To such a place, and such a Company!  
Instead of several Companies, several Men,  
And Business which the Muse's hate,  
He might have then improved that small Estate,  
Which nature sparingly did to him give,  
He might perhaps have thriven then,  
And settled, upon me his Child, some what to live.  
IT 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  
The best and noblest conversation.  
For though some errors will get in,  
Like Tinctures of Original sin:  
Yet sure we from our Father's wit  
Draw all the strength and Spirit of it:  
Leaving the grosser parts for conversation,  
As the best blood of Man 's employed in generation.    

Ode.  
Sitting and drinking in the Chair, made out of the Relics of Sir Francis Drakes Ship.  

Cheer up my Mates the wind does fairly blow,  
Clap on more sail and never spare;  
Farewell all Lands, for now we are  
In the wide Sea of Drink, and merrily we go.  
Bless me, 'tis hot! Another bowl of wine,  
And we shall cut the Burning Line:  
hay Boys! she scuds away, and by my head I know,  
We round the World are sailing now.  
What dull men are those who tarry at home,  
When abroad they might wantonly roam,  
And gain such experience, and spy too  
Such Countries, and Wonders as I do?  
But pray thee good Pilot, take heed what you do,  
And fail not to touch at Peru;  
With Gold, there the Vessel we'll store,  
And never, and never be poor,  
And never be poor any more.   

2.  
What do I mean, what thoughts do me misguide?  
As well upon a staff may Witches ride;  
Their fancied Journeys in the Air,  
As I sail round the Ocean in a Chair:  
'Tis true, but yet the Chair which here you see,  
For all its quiet now, and gravity:  
Has wandered, and has travailed more,  
Then ever Beast, or Fish, or Bird, or ever Tree before.  
In every Air, and every Sea it has been,  
IT has compassed all the Earth, and all the Heaven that's seen.  
Let not the Popes itself with this compare,  
This is the only Universal Chair.   

3.  
The pious Wanderers Fleet, saved from the flame,  
(Which still the Relics did of Troy pursue, And took them for its due)  
A Squadron of immortal Nymphs became:  
Still with their Arms they roaved about the Seas,  
And still made new, and greater Voyages;  
Nor has the first Poetic Ship of Greece,  
Though now a star she so Triumphant show,  
And guide her sailing Successors below,  
Bright as her ancient freight the shining fleece;  
Yet to this day a quiet harbour found,  
The tide of Heaven still carries her around.  
Only Drakes Sacred vessel which before  
Had done, and had seen more,  
Then those have done or seen,  
Even since they Goddesses, and this a star has been;  
As a reward for all her labour past,  
Is made the seat of rest at last.  
Let the case now quite altered be,  
And as thou wentest abroad the World to see;  
Let the World now come to see thee.   

4.  
The World will do't: for Curiosity  
Does, no less than devotion, Pilgrims make;  
And I myself who now love quiet too,  
As much almost as any Chair can do,  
Would yet a journey take,  
An old wheel of that Chariot to see,  
Which Phaeton so rashly broke:  
Yet what could that say more than these remains of Drake?  
Great Relic! thou too, in this Port of ease,  
Hast still one way of making Voyages,  
The breath of fame, like an auspicious Gale,  
The great tradewind which ne'er does fail,  
Shall drive thee round the World, and thou shalt run,  
As long around it as the Sun.  
The straits of time too narrow are for thee,  
Launch forth into an indiscovered Sea,  
And steer the endless course of vast Eternity,  
Take for thy sail this verse, and for thy Pilot me.    

The Country Mouse.  
A Paraphrase upon Horace 2. book, Satyr. 6.  

AT the large foot of a fair hollow tree,  
Close to plow'd ground, seated commodiously,  
His ancient and Hereditary house,  
There dwelled a good substantial Countrey-Mouse:  
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main,  
Yet, one, who once, did nobly entertain,  
A City Mouse well coated, sleek, and grey,  
A mouse of high degrees which lost his way,  
Wantonly walking forth to take the Air,  
And arrived early, and alighted there,  
For a day's Lodging: the good hearty Host,  
The ancient plenty of his hall to boast,  
Did all the stores produce, that might excite,  
With various tastes, the Courtier's appetite.  
Fitches and Beans, Peason, and Oats, and Wheat,  
And a large chestnut the delicious meat  
Which Jove himself, were he a mouse, would eat.  
And for a Haut goust there was mixed with these  
The sword of Bacon and the coat of Cheese.  
The precious Relics, which at Harvest he  
Had gathered from the Reaper's luxury.  
Freely (said he) fall on and never spare,  
The bounteous Gods will for the morrow care.  
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,  
And to their Genius sacrificed the day.  
Yet the nice guests Epicurean mind,  
(Though breeding made him civil seem and kind)  
Despised this Country feast, and still his thought  
Upon the Cakes and Pies of London wrought.  
Your bounty and civility (said he)  
Which I'm surprised in these rude parts to see,  
Shows that the Gods have given you a mind,  
Too noble for the fate which here you find.  
Why should a Soul, so virtuous, and so great,  
Lose itself thus in an Obscure retreat?  
Let savage Beasts lodge in a Country Den,  
You should see Towns and Manners know, and men:  
And taste the generous Luxury of the Court,  
Where all the Mice of quality resort;  
Where thousand beauteous she's about you move,  
And by high fare, are pliant made to love.  
We all ere long must render up our Breath,  
No cave or hole can shelter us from death.  
Since Life, is so uncertain, and so short,  
Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport.  
Come worthy Sir, come with me, and partake,  
All the great things that mortals happy make.   

Alas what virtue hath sufficient Arms,  
T' oppose bright honour, or soft Pleasure's Charms?  
What wisdom can their magic force repel?  
It was the time, when witty Poets tell,  
That Phoebus into Thetis bosom fell:  
She blushed at first, and then put out the light,  
And drew the modest Curnains of the night.  
Plainly, the troth to tell, the Sun was set,  
And to the Town our wearied Travellours get,  
To a Lords house, as Lordly as can be  
Made for the use of Pride, and Luxury.  
They come, the gentle Courtier at the door,  
Stops, and will hardly enter in before.  
But this Sir, you command, and being so,  
I'm sworn t' obedience, and so in they go.  
Behind a hanging in a spacious room,  
(The richest works of Morclakes noblest Loom)  
They wait awhile their wearied Limbs to rest,  
Till silence should invite them to the feast.  
About the hour that Cynthia's Silver light,  
Had touched the pale Meridies of the night;  
At last the various Supper being done,  
It happened that the Company was gone.  
Into a room remote, Servants and all  
To please their noble fancies with a Ball.  
Our Host leads forth his Stranger, and does find,  
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.  
Still on the Table half filled dishes stood,  
And with delicious bits the floor was strowed.  
The Courteous Mouse presents him with the best,  
And both, with fat varieties are blest.  
Th' industrious Peasant every where does range,  
And thanks the Gods for his Life's happy change.  
Lo, in the midst of a well freighted Pie,  
They both at last glutted and wanton lie.  
When see the sad Reverse of prosperous fate,  
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait.  
With hideous noise, down the rude Servants come,  
Six dogs before run barking in the room;  
The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright,  
And hate the fullness which retards their flight.  
Our trembling Peasant wishes now in vain,  
That Rocks and Mountains covered him again.  
Oh how the the change of his poor life he cursed  
This, of all lives (said he) sure is the worst.  
Give me again ye Gods my Cave, and wood,  
With peace let Tares, and Acorns be my food.    

A Paraphrase upon the 10 th'. Epistle of the first book of Horace.  
Horace to Fuscus Aristius.  

HEalth, from the lover of the Country me,  
Health, to the lover of the City thee,  
A difference in our souls, this only proves,  
In all things else, w' agree like married doves.  
But the warm nest, the crowded dove-house thou  
Dost like, I loosely fly from bough to bough.  
And Rivers drink and all the shining day,  
Upon fair Trees, or mossy Rocks I play,  
In fine, I live and Reign when I retire  
From all, that you equal with Heaven admire.  
Like, one at last, from the Priest service fed,  
Loathing the honey Cakes, I long for bread.  
Would I a house for happiness erect,  
Nature alone should be my Architect.  
She'd build it more convenient, then great,  
And doubtless in the Country choose her seat.  
Is there a place, doth better help supply,  
Against the wounds of Winter's cruelty?  
Is there an Air that gentl'er does assuage  
The mad Celestial Dogs, or Lion's rage.  
Is it not there that sleep (and only there)  
Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear?  
Does art through pipes, a purer water bring,  
Then that which nature strains into a spring?  
Can all their Tapestries, and their Pictures show,  
More beauties then in Herbs and flowers do grow?  
Fountains and Trees our wearied Pride do please  
Even in the midst of guilded Palaces.  
And in our towns, that prospect gives delight,  
Which opens round the Country to our sight.  
Men to the good from which they rashly fly,  
Return at last, and their wild Luxury.  
Does but in vain with those true joys contend,  
Which nature did to mankind recommend.  
The Man who changes gold for burnished brass  
Or small right Gems, for larger ones of Glass:  
Is not, at length, more certain to be made  
Ridiculous, and wretched by the trade,  
The he, who sells a solid good to buy,  
The painted goods of Pride and Vanity.  
If thou, be wise, no glorious fortune choose,  
Which 'tis but pain to keep, yet grief to lose.  
For, when we place, even trifles, in the heart  
With trifles too, unwillingly we part.  
An humble Roof, plain bed, and homely board,  
More clear, untainted pleasures do afford.  
Then all the Tumult of vain greatness brings  
To Kings, or to the favourites of Kings,  
The horned deer, by nature, armed so well,  
Did with the horse, in common pasture dwell;  
And when they fought, the field it always won,  
Till the ambitious horse, begged help of Man;  
And took the bridle, and thenceforth did reign,  
Bravely alone, and Lord of all the plain:  
But never after, could the Rider get  
From off his back, or from his mouth the bit.  
So they, who poverty too much do fear,  
T' avoid that weight, a greater burden bear,  
That they might Power above their equals have,  
To cruel Masters, they themselves enslave.  
For gold, their Liberty exchanged we see  
The fairest flower, which crowns humanity,  
And all this mischief, does upon them light;  
Only, because they know not how, aright,  
That great, but secret happiness, to prise,  
That's laid up in a little, for the wise.  
That is the best, and easiest Estate,  
Which to a man sits close but not too strait,  
It's like a shoe, it pinches, and it burns,  
Too narrow, and too large, it overturns,  
My dearest friend, stop thy desires at last,  
And cheerfully enjoy the wealth thou hast.  
And, if, me, still seeking for more you see,  
Chide, and reproach, despise and laugh at me.  
Money was made, not to command our will,  
But all our lawful pleasures to fulfil.  
Shame be to us, if we our wealth obey,  
The Horse doth with the horse man run away.    

O Fortunati nimium etc.  
A Translation out of Virgil.  

OH happy (if his happiness he knows)  
The Country Swain, on whom kind Heaven bestows  
At home, all Riches that wild Nature needs,  
Whom the just Earth with easy plenty feeds.  
'Tis true, no morning Tide of Clients comes,  
And fills the painted Channels of his rooms;  
Adoring the rich Figures as they pass,  
In Tapestry wrought, or cut in Living Brass:  
Nor is his Wool superfluously died  
With the dear Poison of Assyrian pride:  
Nor do Arabian Perfumes vainly spoil  
The Nature, Use, and Sweetness of his Oil.  
Instead of these, his calm and harmless life  
Free from the Alarm's of Fear, and storms of Strife,  
Doth with substantial Blessedness abound,  
And the soft wings of Peace cover him round:  
Through artless Grotts the murmuring waters glide;  
Thick Trees both against Heat and Cold provide:  
From whence the Birds salute him, and his ground  
With lowing Herds, and bleating Sheep does sound;  
And all the Rivers, and the Forests nigh  
Both Food and Game and Exercise supply.  
Here a well hardened, active Youth we see  
Taught the great Art of cheerful Poverty.  
Here in this place alone, there still do shine  
Some streaks of Love, both Humane and Divine,  
From whence Astraea took her flight, and here  
Still her last Footsteps upon Earth appear.  
'Tis true, the first which does control  
All the inferior wheels that move my Soul,  
Is that the Muse me her high Priest would make;  
Into her holiest Scenes of Mystery take,  
And open there to my minds purged eye  
Those wonders which to Sense the Gods deny;  
How in the Moon such change of shapes is found:  
The Moon the changing Worlds eternal bound.  
What shakes the solid Earth, what strong disease,  
Dares trouble the firm Centre's ancient ease,  
What makes the Sea retreat, and what advance:  
Varieties too regular for chance.  
What drives the Chariot on of Winter's light,  
And stops the lazy Wagon of the night.   

But if my dull and frozen Blood deny,  
To send forth Spirits that raise a Soul so high.  
In the next place, let Woods and Rivers be,  
My quiet, though unglorious destiny.  
In Life's cool vail let my low, scene be laid,  
Cover me Gods, with Tempe's thickest shade.  
Happy the Man (I grant, thrice happy he)  
Who can through gross effects their causes see:  
Whose courage from the deeps of knowledge springs,  
Nor vainly fears inevitable things:  
But does his walk of, virtue calmly go,  
Through all th' alarm's of Death and Hell below.  
Happy! but next such Conquerors happy they,  
Whose humble Life lies not in fortune's way.  
They unconcerned from their safe distant seat,  
Behold the Rods and Sceptres of the great.  
The quarrels of the mighty without fear,  
And the descent of foreign Troops they hear.  
Nor can even Rome their steady course misguide,  
With all the lustre of her perishing Pride.  
Them never yet did strife or avarice draw,  
Into the noiseful markets of the Law,  
The Camps of Gowned War, nor do they live  
By rules or forms that many mad men give.  
Duty for Nature's Bounty they repay,  
And her sole Laws religiously obey.   

Some with bold Labour plough the faithless main,  
Some rougher storms in Princes Courts sustain.  
Some swell up their sleight sails with popular fame.  
Charmed with the foolish whistlings of a name.  
Some their vain wealth to Earth again commit,  
With endless cares some brooding o'er it sit.  
Country and Friends are by some Wretches sold,  
To lie on Tyrian Beds, and drink in Gold;  
No price too high for profit can be shown,  
Not Brother's blood, nor hazards of their own.  
Around the World in search of it they roam,  
It makes even their Antipodes their home;  
Mean while, the prudent Husbandman is found,  
In mutual duties striving with his ground,  
And half the year he care of that does take,  
That half the year grateful return does make.  
Each fertile month does some new gifts present,  
And with new work his industry content.  
This, the young Lamb, that, the soft Fleece doth yield,  
This, loads with hay, and that, with Corn the Field:  
All sorts of Fruit, crown the rich Autumn's Pride:  
And on a swelling Hills warm stony side,  
The powerful Princely Purple of the Vine,  
Twice died with the redoubled Sun does shine;  
In th' Evening to a fair ensuing day,  
With joy he sees his Flocks and Kids to play.  
And loaded Cows about his Cottage stand.  
Inviting with known sound, the Milkers hand.  
And when from wholesome labour he doth come.  
With wishes to be there, and wished for home,  
He meets at home the softest humane blisses,  
His chaste Wives welcome and dear children's kisses.  
And when the Rural Holy days invite,  
His Genius forth to innocent delight.  
On Earth's fair bed beneath some sacred shade,  
Amidst his equal friends carelessly laid;  
He sings thee Bacchus Patron of the Vine,  
The Beechen Boul foams with a flood of Wine,  
Not to the loss of reason or of strength:  
To active games and manly sport at length,  
Their mirth ascends, and with filled veins they see,  
Who can the best at better trials be.  
Such was the Life the prudent Sabins chose  
From such the old Hetrurian virtue risen.  
Such, Remus and the God his Prother led,  
From such firm footing Rome grew the VVorld's head.  
Such was the Life that even till now does raise,  
The honour of poor Satur's golden days:  
Before Men born of Earth and buried there,  
Let in the Sea their mortal fate to share.  
Before new ways of perishing were sought,  
Before unskilful Death on Anvils wrought.  
Before those Beasts which humane Life sustain,  
By men unless to the God's use were slain.    

Claudians' Old Man of Verona.  

HAppy the Man, who his whole time doth bound,  
Within th' enclosure of his little ground.  
Happy the Man, whom the same humble place,  
(Th' hereditary Cottage of his Race)  
From his first rising infancy has known,  
And by degrees sees gently bending down,  
With natural propensions to that Earth  
Which both preserved his Life and gave him birth.  
Him no false distant lights by fortune set,  
Can ever into foolish wander get.  
He never dangers either saw, or feared:  
The dreadful storms at Sea he never heard.  
He never heard the shrill alarms of war,  
Or the worse noises of the Lawyer's bar.  
No change of Consul's mark's to him the year,  
The change of seasons is his Calendar.  
The cold and heat, Winter and Summer shows,  
Autumn by fruits and spring by flourish knows.  
He measures time by Landmarks, and has found,  
For the whole day the Dial of his ground.  
A neighbouring wood borne with himself he sees,  
And loves his old contemporary trees.  
He only heard of near Verona's Name,  
And knows it like the Indies, but by fame.  
Does with a like concernment notice take,  
Of the Red-Sea, and of Benacoes' lake.  
Thus Health and Strength to a third age enjoys,  
And sees a long Posterity of Boys.  
About the spacious World let others roam,  
The Voyage life is longest made at home.    

Martial Book 10. Epigram 96. An Epigram.  

ME who have lived so long among the great,  
You wonder to hear talk of a Retreat.  
And a retreat so distant as may show,  
No thoughts of a return when once I go.  
Give me a Country, how remote so e'er.  
Where happiness a moderate rate does bear.  
Where poverty itself in plenty flows,  
And all the solidness of Riches knows.  
The ground about the house maintains it there,  
The house maintains the ground about it here.  
Here even hunger's dear, and a full board,  
Devours the vital substance of the Lord.  
The Land itself does there the feast bestow,  
The Land itself must here to Market go.  
Three or four suits one Winter here does waste,  
One suit does there three or four Winters last.  
Here every frugal Man must oft be cold,  
And little Luke-warm-fires are to you sold,  
There fires an Element as cheap and free,  
Almost as any of the other be.  
Stay you then here, and live amongst the Great,  
Attend their sports and at their tables eat.  
When all the bounties here, of men you score:  
The places bounty there, shall give you more.    

A Paraphrase on the 9 th'. Ode of Horace his third book, that gins with Donec gratus eram tibi.  

1.  
WHile but thyself, I did think nothing fair,  
And all thy heart fell to my share,  
And others did at distance gaze  
On the glories of thy face,  
Like Persians worshipping the Sun,  
My Empire o'er thy Soul was great,  
Thy power o'er mine too was complete,  
And then my greatest Power and Wealth begun;  
When to thee I most tribute paid,  
When to thee I myself was tribute made.  
'Twas then myself, I did repute  
Even than a Persian, King more absolute,  
And then him to be happier far,  
Though he were Brother to his God, the Sun and every Star.   Lydia. 

2.  
Before you did my Beauty's power depose  
And Chloe was my bright Successor chose;  
I was far happier too,  
Then Persian Queens, or Kings, or you:  
Although I grant it is a nobler thing  
To be a Roman Poet, than a Persian King.  
Honour, which Women value more,  
Than Men their beauties can adore,  
I did enjoy, while I was wooed by thee,  
More than the Roman Ilia, that great she  
Who brought forth him that did to Rome give birth,  
Rome the great Queen, and Mistress of the Earth.  
Rome that is thirty thousand strong in Gods,  
Yet of them all, with ease I got the odds,  
While I did worship only thee,  
And thou too, didst as much for me,  
And the World thought our love a Deity.   Horace. 

3.  
I have another Empress at this hour,  
And own fair Chloe as the present power.  
O when ever Chloe sings,  
And her Theorbos' trembling strings,  
The passions of her voice express,  
(As her voice doth those of her soul confess.)  
I think not of her face and hand,  
Nor of the wit her tongue doth then command.  
Nor of her quick and sparkling eye,  
From whence Meridian beams do always fly:  
Her voice alone doth all my thoughts control,  
In that Air lies the Centre of my Soul,  
Just as the Earth the Centre of the World,  
Is fixed in ambient air about it hurled:  
And when I hear her Voice both loud and sweet,  
Where all imagined charms of sounds do meet,  
One note calls my soul away  
And another bids it stay,  
And I to every note cry, I obey.  
I, the most solemn sentences of death,  
Can gladly hear, if but sung by her breath,  
And in that doom would place my Joy and Pride,  
If she would sing still as I died.  
But, for her, I'd expire my soul as readily,  
Might it but reach this immortality,  
To live in her's not otherwise than now  
And fate, me that survivorship allow,  
As the sweet steem of balm, or what is sweeter far,  
Her breath, mix Natures with the common air.   Lydia. 

4.  
Calais, now, the sweetest youth  
That ever boasted love with truth,  
Doth love for love to me return,  
And both our hearts in equal ardours burn.  
His love shall raise him monuments more high  
Than Chloes' voice, and all your Poetry  
To either of you can supply.  
For him I'd die, and die again  
And suffer all th' Experiments of pain,  
And would even many lingering Deaths sustain,  
That to his life a minute gained might be:  
And in that minute sure, he'd think of me.  
For since to live the greatest lover, is  
The highest step of Honour and of bliss;  
When once I cease to live,  
I, that high fame to Calais give.  
So when to love, and death, and him I yield,  
And he with Conquest keeps the Field,  
My name shall be too, in his Triumphs crowned,  
Since I by dying make him so renowned.  
But know O death thou hast no dart,  
So sharp as those of love, which pierced my Heart.  
I that have loved twice, can die once with case:  
Death if compared with love 's but a disease.   

5.  
But Lydia what if I no trial make  
Of suffering death for Chloes' sake,  
Nor you for Calais, and we retrieve  
Those joys our ancient mutual love did give,  
For it is very long ago,  
Or at least to me seems so,  
Since both our hearts a bright example shone,  
For following lovers imitation:  
And what if we ourselves should prove  
Imitators of that love,  
And again my Lydia's fame  
Obscure the Roman Ilia's name,  
And Chloes' voice, and Chloes' Lute  
Should be to me for ever mute?  
And having been by wand'ring fires misled  
That in Chloes' eyes were bred,  
I walk in loves blest paths I knew before  
And Lydia's eyes do me to them restore,  
As Trav'llers who by false fires lost their way  
At night, the sun at last, relieves by day?   

6.  
Though he be then the morning Star more bright,  
Yet he shall vanish out of sight,  
Like that star at the suns approaching light.  
Though in the Sea there floats no peace of rind  
More light than is thy poor unsteady mind,  
And though with every small occasions wind,  
Your anger more tempestuous be  
Then the Adriatic Sea,  
I'll try if from the angry foam  
Venus a second time can come.  
And my kind heart that to a wrack was near  
By false lights Calais his eyes did rear,  
(As those who dwell on Seacoasts oft betray  
Mariners that sail by night,  
To rocks and Sands by a false Pharus light,  
And so the shipwrecked goods become their prey,)  
Now further than thy eyes shall never try  
A guiding Polar star to spy  
And if with thee, I may but live and die,  
The powerful Gods have done enough for me.  
But if they can, let them do more for thee.    

Ode.  

1.  
I Often prayed my uninspiring Muse,  
That she would for me some great Subject choose.  
Some Hero highly loved, and highly famed,  
Whose thoughts might raise my soul, and make my verses live,  
And (as she ought) then ORRERY she named,  
And said, all to them would acceptance give,  
If but of him they sung,  
How e'er my Lute were strung:  
As men almost adorers prove  
Of Priests that for them worship Gods they love.  
Do but (said she) recite matters of fact,  
Tell, but the things which he did act  
On the World's stage; thus writ of him and try,  
If every thing thou write'st will not be great and high.  
Fear not; I will thy Name advance:  
All great inventions were the births of chance.  
No longer then with trembling, gaze  
On the great Ocean of his praise,  
But boldly through it make thy way,  
And boldly there my Sovereign Power obey.  
And as the needle is drawn by the North,  
So his attractive virtues shall call forth,  
Both North and South, and all the World t' exalt his worth.  
Though round the World none sail but lose a day,  
Thou a poor minute's loss shalt never see,  
Behold what I, thy Muse will do for thee,  
Sail here I say, and gain Eternity.   

2.  
Thus spoke my Muse; and strait I did acquire,  
What I ne'er felt before, Poetic fire.  
And now it burns, and now 'tis upward bend  
To his high praise, as its own Element.  
And by his verses now I see  
What Wit is, and what Wit can be,  
Wit, that does scorn to be admired as good,  
But as such only would be understood;  
Wit, to make which as many things do go,  
As did to make the World from Chaos grow  
(Let there be wit, when the first being says, 'tis so)  
Wit that from all the Creatures tribute takes,  
And them far richer, and more glorious makes.  
As the Earth's steem we call the Air,  
Helps the Sun's light, and is thereby more fair.  
He is a judicious Wit  
And has of things as Nature made them writ:  
Just to the likeness of the Life he draws,  
In colours too that proper are,  
In verse he goes by Mathematic Laws,  
Better proportion keeps then Durer far:  
Never Man writ so before,  
Never Man will write so more;  
Ah, to be equalled he has done too much;  
For in all his Poetry,  
The most impartial Eyes do see,  
Corregio's sweetness, Titians' boulder touch.   

3.  
Great was his verse, and great too was his Prose;  
In both he did new Worlds of wit disclose.  
The truth in his Romantic stories told,  
Is but the Silver that allays their Gold.  
I once Romances disesteemed,  
And full of ill forged miracles they seemed;  
The Heroes they described were such,  
As either did too little or too much.  
In such a glass should nature see her face,  
She either would break that, or break the glass.  
This cannot be I cried,  
This never yet was tried  
And them as prose Burlesque I did deride.  
But when I once read Parthenissa o'er  
(Weeping, because I read it not before)  
There, I saw Nature's restauration,  
I saw it, and I saw it on a Throne:  
There, if what's Noble, shall unpractised be  
The guilty World should blush, not he:  
There Greek and Roman Authors are more classic grown,  
And give soft charming pleasures to the World,  
o'er which those Empires, Blood and Rapine hurled:  
And there the fires, and stings, and wounds of love,  
Sweeter than Life, and then death stronger prove:  
Thence Kings unborn shall learn to love and fight,  
And noble things to do, and noble things to write.   

1.  
Wonderful man, who to the World conveys  
Of Love and Knowledge all the ways!  
He has a strange creating pen,  
And can too uncreate again  
All the effects of that, when he  
An Orator thinks fit to be.  
Witness some English Senates where his words,  
Did more than blunt the edge of Legislative swords.  
They his words power like lightning felt  
And could not in their sheaths but melt,  
And as he all the envious clouds broke through,  
His words were Lightning and Thunder too.  
A trembling in him I have seen.  
When to speak he did begin,  
But having then gone on, it was not long  
E'er trembling seized on the attentive throng.  
'Twas strange to see on one Man's tongue,  
The Ears and Hearts of thousands hung:  
'Twas strange, that words should charm that were not sung:  
'Twas strange, a little air articulate,  
Should bind ' men's souls like chains of Fate.  
But as air penned in th' Earth, does Earthquakes make,  
So did these Sons of Earth and all their models shake,  
By that their souls did feel from what he spoke;  
And come what ever time can cause,  
He by persuasion will give laws;  
While men have ears, and while his tongue is free,  
He will perpetual Dictator be.   

5.  
Those Arts in which the Romans strove t' excel,  
Fight, and speaking well.  
By him their most renowned effects have shown.  
Valour and Wit have not been known,  
To be an ordinary conjunction,  
And curious Wits of fear admit,  
Because, than others, they more dangersspy:  
And it has seldom happened yet  
But they indulged some vice, which made them loath to die.  
But long since he has learned Life's noblest use,  
Which is at Fames call, living to refuse:  
Thus no Man can so well set off perfumes,  
While in their mass, as when he them consumes.  
When Honour calls to take up arms  
There is loud music in alarms,  
Pale Death has lovely kill charms.  
O at that call he answered still with haste!  
Behold thy Lover fame said he,  
Behold thy Lover Echoed Victory.  
Th' assassinating Irish knives,  
Through many English Throats had passed,  
Till by his sword he did revenge at last,  
The God of Nature's cause on Barbarous Rebels Lives.   

6.  
Nor is his conduct in affairs of State,  
Then in the Wars less fortunate,  
His Counsel is the prosperous breath of fate.  
By doubtful words I've many Statesmen known,  
For Wisdom's Oracles to have gone:  
O Wisdom that that then Wit we more mistaken see,  
And placed by many in formality:  
In being still impertinent with a grace,  
And speaking nonsense with a solemn face;  
In praising, or in blaming former times,  
Or thinking to amend the Age's crimes.  
Perfectly what thou art I cannot tell,  
But perfectly I know where thou dost dwell,  
And 'tis in ORREREY'S Capacious Brain;  
Long may he live and then thou long wilt reign.  
Nor does of Gold the thirst inflame his Breast,  
But of that Luscious bliss of making others blessed.  
Gold that makes and unties the knots  
Of statesmen's suttlest Plots,  
And makes them say, the business may be done,  
They swore before could never be begun:  
Accursed Gold, in whose Idolatry,  
All Religions agree,  
No Man once did so much prize,  
As He always did despise,  
And wondered how it came to tempt the Wise.  
And Business too that others makes Chagrin,  
In his looks was never seen,  
For they were always clear,  
And there nothing did appear,  
But what was sweet, serene, bright and Divine,  
Like Stars that give their influence, and shine.   

7.  
Great ORRERY, how can I make an end,  
Of praising thee, thou, the most active Friend;  
Which of few Statesmen can be said:  
But thou a Statesman's Life hast led,  
To show, that Friendship may consist with it:  
Ah, else for Devil's power were only fit.  
From the Addresses of a multitude,  
What pleasure could into thy thoughts intrude,  
Thy thoughts, which nature meant to entertain  
Angels and God, and mankind's noblest uses,  
Reasons great depths, and at the worst, the Muses?  
Thou knewst the worship power can gain,  
Is received and paid with pain;  
And Beasts that came not willingly,  
As offerings to fictitious Gods do die,  
By every Priest were disapproved;  
How can that Beast the People then be loved,  
That does but forced and feigned oblations give  
To God's true Viceroys with designs to live?  
But lo! a Sacrifice thyself thou art,  
And with thy Heaven on Earth, for thy friend's sake didst part,  
Retirement, where on smooth Seas quietly,  
Thou mightst have passed from this World to the next,  
And thee no Hirricans of fate perplexed.  
So does the vast Pacific Sea  
Reach to both World's, and is from dangers free,  
That can from Storms, or Rocks, or Pirates be:  
And there the equal trade winds blow,  
And Ships nor met, nor overtaen go;  
And there the Pilot may the helm forsake  
And there long sleeps the passengers may make,  
Till by shrill Trumpets sounds they gladly wake.    

Christ's passion.  

1.  
ENough, my Muse, of earthly things,  
And inspirations but of wind,  
Take up thy Lute, and to it bind  
Loud, and everlasting strings,  
And on 'em play, and to 'em sing,  
The happy mournful stories,  
The Lamentable glories,  
Of the great crucified King.  
Mountainous heap of Wonders! which dost rise  
Till Earth thou joinest with the Skies!  
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,  
To be half seen with mortal eye.  
How shall I grasp this boundless thing?  
What shall I play? what shall I sing?  
I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love,  
Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed Spirits above  
With all their Comments can explain;  
How all the whole VVorld's Life to die did not disdain.   

2.  
I'll sing the Searchless depths of the Compassion Divine,  
The depths unfathomed yet  
By reason's Plummet, and the line of Wit,  
Too light the Plummet, and too short the line!  
How the Eternal Father did bestow  
His own Eternal Son, as ransom for his foe,  
I'll sing aloud, that all the World may hear,  
The triumph of the buried Conqueror.  
How hell was by its Prisoner Captive led,  
And the great slayer death slain by the dead.   

3.  
Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice,  
Mixed 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!  
Look how he bends his gentle head with blessings from the tree!  
His gracious hands, ne'er stretched but to do good,  
Are nailed to the infamous wood:  
And sinful Man does fond bind  
The Arms, which he extends t' embrace all humane kind.   

4.  
Unhappy Man, canst thou stand by, and see  
All this as patiented, as he?  
Since he thy Sins does bear,  
Make thou his sufferings thine own,  
And weep, and sigh, 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,  
Dost thou not see thy Prince, in Purple clad all o'er,  
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,  
But made at home with richer gore?  
Dost thou not see the Roses, which adorn  
The thorny Garland, by him worn?  
Dost thou not see the horrid traces  
Of the sharp scourges, rude embraces;  
If yet thou feelest not the smart  
Of Thorns and Scourges in thy heart,  
If that be yet not Crucified,  
Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side.   

5.  
Open, Oh! open wide the Fountains of thine eyes  
And let 'em call  
Their stock of moisture forth, where ere it lies,  
For this will ask it all.  
'Twould all (alas) too little be,  
Though thy salt tears came from the Sea:  
Canst thou deny him this, when he  
Has opened all his vital Springs for thee?  
Take heed; for by his sides mysterious flood  
May well be understood,  
That he will still require some waters to his blood.    

On Orinda's Poems. Ode.  

WE allowed Your Beauty, and we did submit  
To all the Tyrannies of it;  
Ah! Cruel Sex will you depose us too in Wit?  
Orinda does in that too reign,  
Does Man behind her in Proud Triumph draw,  
And Cancel great Apollo's Salic Law.  
We our old Title plead in vain,  
Man may be head, but VVoman's now our Brain.  
Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore,  
In Beauty's Camp it was not known,  
Too many Arms besides that Conqueror bore:  
'Twas the great Canon we brought down  
T' assault a stubborn Town,  
Orinda first did a bold sally make,  
Our strongest Quarter take,  
And so successful proved, that she  
Turned upon Love himself his own Artillery.   

2.  
Women as if the Body were there whole,  
Did that, and not the soul  
Transmit to their Posterity;  
If in it something they conceived  
Th' abortive Issue never lived,  
'Twere shame and pity, Orinda if in thee  
A Spirit so rich, so noble, and so high  
Should unmanured or barren lie.  
But thou industriously has sowed, and tilled  
The fair, and fruitful field;  
And 'tis a strange increase, that it doth yield.  
As when the happy Gods above  
Meet altogether at a feast,  
A secret Joy unspeakably does move,  
In their great Mother Cybele's contented breast:  
With no less pleasure thou methinks shouldst see,  
This thy no less Immortal Progeny:  
And in their Birth thou no one touch dost find,  
Of th' ancient Curse to Womankind.  
Thou bring'st not forth with pain,  
It neither travel is nor labour of thy brain,  
So easily they from thee come  
And there is so much room  
In th' unexhausted and unfathomed Womb.  
That like the Holland Countess thou mayst bear  
A child for every day of all the fertile year.   

3.  
Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy raise  
If to be praised I loved more than to praise,  
Where e'er I see an excellency.  
I must admire to see thy well knit sense  
Thy Numbers gentle, and thy passions high,  
Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as thy eye.  
'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,  
Or rather 'tis Angelical,  
For as in Angels we  
Do in thy Verses see  
Both improved Sexes eminently meet,  
They are than Man more strong, and more than Woman sweet.   

4.  
They talk of Nine, I know not who  
Female Chimeras that o'er Poet's reign  
I ne'er could find that fancy true,  
But have invoked them oft I'm sure in vain:  
They talk of Sapph, but alas the shame!  
Ill manners soil the lustre of her Fame:  
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,  
That like a Lanthorn's fair enclosed Light,  
It through the paper shines where she does write.  
Honour and Friendship, and the Generous scorn,  
Of things for which we were not born  
Things which of Custom by a fond Disease,  
Like that of Girls our vicious Stomaches please.  
Are the instructive Subjects of her pen,  
And as the Roman Victory  
Taught our rude Land, Arts, and Civility,  
At once she takes, enslaves, and governs Men.   

5.  
But Rome with all her Arts could ne'er inspire,  
A Female Breast with such a fire.  
The warlike Amazonian train,  
Which in Elysium now do peaceful reign,  
And wits mild Empire before Arms prefer  
Find 'twill be settled in their sex by her.  
Merlin the Prophet, and sure he will not lie  
In such an awful Company,  
Does Prophecies of Learned Orinda show,  
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago.  
Even Boadicia's angry Ghost  
Forgets her own misfortune, and disgrace,  
And to her injured Daughters now does boast,  
That Rome's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her Race.    

Ode. On Retirement.  

NO, no, unfaithful World, thou hast  
Too long my easy Heart betrayed,  
And me too long thy restless ball hast made:  
But I am wiser grown at last,  
And will improve by all that I have passed.  
I know 'twas just I should be practised on,  
For I was told before,  
And told in sober, and instructive Lore,  
How little all that trusted thee, have won;  
And yet I would make haste to be undone:  
But by my sufferings I am better taught,  
And shall no more commit that stupid fault.  
Go get some other fool,  
Whom thou may'st next Cajole,  
On me, thy frowns thou wilt in vain bestow,  
For I know how  
To be as coy, and as reserved as thou.   

2.  
In my remote and humble seat,  
Now I'm again possessed  
Of that late fugitive my breast,  
From all thy Tumult, and from all thy heat,  
I'll find a quiet, and a cool Retreat.  
And on the Fetters I have worn,  
Look with experienced, and revengeful scorn,  
In this my Sovereign Privacy.  
'Tis true I cannot govern thee,  
But yet myself I can subdue,  
And that's the nobler Empire of the two.  
If every passion had got leave,  
It's satisfaction to receive,  
Yet, I would it, a higher pleasure call,  
To conquer one, then to indulge them all.   

3.  
For thy inconstant Sea, no more  
I'll leave that safe, and solid shore,  
No, though to prosper in the cheat,  
Thou shouldst my Destiny defeat,  
And make me be beloved, or Rich, or Great.  
Nor from myself shouldst me reclaim,  
With all the noise, and all the pomp of Fame.  
Judiciously I'll these despise,  
Too small the Bargain, and too great the price,  
For them to cousin twice.  
At length this secret I have learned,  
Who will be happy must be unconcerned,  
Must all their comfort in their Bosom wear,  
And seek their Power, and their Treasure there.   

4.  
No other wealth, will I aspire  
But that of Nature to admire,  
Nor envy on a Laurel will bestow,  
Whilst I have any in my Garden grow.  
And when I would be Great,  
'Tis but ascending to a seat,  
Which Nature in a lofty Rock has built,  
A Throne as free from trouble, as from Gild.  
Where, when my soul her wings does raise,  
Above what mortals fear or praise,  
With Innocent, and quiet Pride, I'll sit.  
And see the humble Waves pay tribute to my feet  
O! Life divine! when free from joys diseased,  
Not always merry, but 'tis always pleased.   

5.  
A Heart, which is too great a thing  
To be a present for a Persian King,  
Which God himself, would have to be his Court,  
And where bright Angels gladly would resort,  
From its own height would much decline,  
If this converse it should resign  
Ill natured World, for Thine.  
Thy unwise rigour hath thy Empire lost,  
It has not only set me free,  
But it has let me see  
They only, can of thy possession boast,  
Who do enjoy thee least, and understand thee most.  
For lo! the Man, whom all mankind admired,  
Whom every grace adorned, and every Muse inspired,  
Is now Triumphantly retired:  
The mighty Cowley this hath done,  
And over thee a Parthian Conquest won,  
Which future Ages shall adore,  
And which, in this subjects thee more,  
Then either Greek; or Roman ever could before.    

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

A Tower of Brass, one would have said  
And Locks, and Bolts and Iron bars  
And Guards, as strict, as in the heat of wars  
Might have preserved one Innocent Maidenhead.  
The Jealous Father thought he well might spare,  
All further Jealous Care,  
And as he walked, t' himself alone he smiled  
To think how Venus Arts he had beguiled,  
And when he slept, his rest was deep,  
But Venus laughed to see and hear him sleep.  
She taught the Amorous Jove  
A Magical receipt in Love,  
Which armed him stronger and which helped him more,  
Than all his thunder did, and his Almighty ship before.   

2.  
She taught him Love's Elixir by which Art,  
His Godhead into Gold he did convert.  
No Guards did then his passage stay,  
He passed with ease Gold was the word  
Subtle as lightning, bright and quick and fierce;  
Gold through Doors and Walls did pierce,  
And as that works sometimes upon the sword,  
Melted the Maidenhead away,  
Even in the secret scabbard where it lay.  
The Prudent Macedonian King,  
To blow up Towns a Golden Mine, did spring.  
He broke through Gates with this Petar,  
'Tis the great Art of peace, the Engine 'tis of War;  
And Fleets and Armies follow it afar,  
The Engine 'tis at Land, and 'tis the Seaman's Star.   

3.  
Let all the World, slave to this Tyrant be  
Creature to this disguised Deity,  
Yet it shall never conquer me.  
A Guard of Virtues will not let it pass,  
And wisdom is a Tower of stronger brass.  
The Muse's Laurel round my Temples spread  
Does from this Light'ning force secure my head.  
Nor will I lift it up so high,  
As in the violent Meteor's way to lie.  
Wealth for its power d' we honour and adore?  
The things we hate, ill Fate, and death, have more.   

4.  
From Towns and Courts, Camps of the Rich and Great,  
The vast Xerxean Army I retreat.  
And to the small Laconic forces fly,  
Which hold the straits of Poverty.  
Sellars and Granaries in vain we fill,  
With all the bounteous Summer's store,  
If the mind thirst and hunger still.  
The poor rich man's emphatically poor.  
Slaves to the things we too much prize,  
We Masters grow of all that we despise.   

5.  
A field of corn, a Fountain and a Wood,  
Is all the Wealth by Nature understood.  
That Monarch on whom fertile Nile bestows,  
All which the grateful Earth can bear,  
Deceives himself, if he suppose  
That more than this falls to his share.  
Whatever an Estate does beyond this afford,  
Is not a rent paid to the Lord;  
But is a tax illegal and unjust,  
Exacted from it by that Tyrant Lust.  
Much will always wanting be,  
To him who much desires.  
Thrice happy he to whom the wise indulgency of Heaven,  
With sparing hand, but just enough has given.    

To the Right Honourable, the Lady Mary Butler, at Her Marriage to the Lord Cavendish.  

AT such a time as this when all conclude  
Nothing but unconcernment can be rude;  
The Muses, Madam, will not be denied  
To be the Bridemaids, where you are the Bride:  
They know, in what those wishes have designed,  
What bright opposers they are like to find,  
Whose Birth and Beauty never will give way  
To such obscure Competitors as they.  
But yet as injured Princes always strive,  
To keep their Title and their Claim alive:  
So they affirm they do but ask their due,  
Having Hereditary right in you:  
And they again would rather undergo,  
All that Malicious Ignorance could do,  
When Fortune all things sacred did oppress,  
Than in this brave ambition want success:  
Admit them, Beauteous Madam, then to be  
Attendants on this great solemnity,  
And every Muse will in a charming strain  
Your Honour and their own pretence maintain.  
The first your high extraction shall proclaim,  
And what endeared your Ancestors to fame.  
Who do not more excel another stem  
Than your Illustrious Father hath done them,  
Who fortunes Stratagems hath so surpassed,  
As flattery cannot reach, nor envy blast.  
In whom Vicegerency's a greater thing  
Than any Crown, but that of England's King;  
Whom foreign Princes do with envy See,  
And would be Subjects, to be such as he.   

Another shall your Mother's glory raise,  
And much her Beauty, more her Virtue praise,  
Whose suffering in that noble Way and Cause,  
More Veneration than her greatness draws;  
And yet how justly is that Greatness due!  
Which she with so much ease can govern too.   

Another shall of your Great Lover sing  
And with his fame inspire some nobler string,  
Whom Nature made so handsome and so brave,  
And Fortune such a lovely Mistress gave;  
This shall relate how fervently he wooed,  
And that how generously 'twas understood:  
Shall tell the charms which did his Heart invade,  
And then the merits which did yours persuade.  
But all the Muses on you both shall treat  
Who are as justly kind, as you are great.  
And by observing you, assure Mankind  
That Love and Fortune are no longer blind.    

On Good-Friday and Easter day.  

Jesus!   

ALmighty Lowness! whose free power  
Can or contract itself, or spread  
THE Eternity, or to an hour  
Who art all Life and canst be dead;  
Where shall I seek thee? If I hope to have  
Thee in thy Heaven, thou 'rt shrunk into the Grave.   

Yet low as Graves slow Nature's foot  
First traced and found thee, she did pry  
Into some herbs poor flower or root,  
 she durst ask the Stars and Sky:  
Shall I then seek thee there? no the deaf stone,  
Dumb muffling  can tell that thou art gone.   

But there's a place hollow and dark,  
Hard too as Tombs in Rocks, yet where  
A little would both flame and spark  
If hourly kept with busy care,  
Shall I then seek thee there? lend me thy Art  
And light to search: that place may prove my Heart.   

For Hearts are every thing, and thou  
Art every where; in Hearts which shine  
All day sun-full, and hearts which show  
Nightsom as Graves, and such is mine:  
Oh might I find thee there, I'd beg thy stay;  
Rise what thou wouldst, thou shouldst not go away.    

The Irish Greyhound.  

BEhold this Creature's form and State,  
Which Nature therefore did Create,  
That to the World might be expressed,  
What mien there can be in a Beast.  
And that we in this shape might find  
A Lion of another kind.  
For this Heroic Dog does seem  
In Majesty to Rival him.  
And yet vouchsafes to Man to show  
Both service and submission too.  
By which we this distinction have  
That Beast is fierce, but this is brave:  
This Dog hath so himself subdued  
That Hunger cannot make him rude.  
And his behaviour does confess,  
True Courage dwells with Gentleness:  
With sternest Wolves he dares engage,  
And Acts on them successful rage.  
Yet too much Courtesy may chance  
To put him out of Countenance.  
And when in his opposers blood  
Fortune does make his virtue good,  
This Creature from an Act so brave  
Grows not more sullen, but more grave.  
He would Man's Guard be not his sport;  
Believing he hath ventured for't.  
But yet no blood or shed or spent  
Can ever make him Insolent.  
Few Men of him, to do great things have learned,  
Or when th' are done, to be so unconcerned.     

The Table.  


TO Mr Cowley on his Davedeis, by a Person of Honour.  
To Orinda, by the same.  
Ode, upon oceasion of a Copy of Verses of the Earl of Orreries upon Mr. Cowley's Davideis, by Mr. Abraham Cowley. Page 1.  
Ode. The Complaint by Mr. A. C. Page 4.  
Ode. Mr. Cowley's book presenting itself to the University Library of Oxford, by the same. Page 10.  
Ode. Sitting and Drinking in the Chair, made out of the Relics of Sir Francis Drakes ship, by the same. Pag. 13.  
The Country Mouse. A Paraphrase upon Horace second Book, satire 6. by the same. Page 15.  
A Paraphrase upon the 10 th'. Epistle of the first Book of Horace, by the same. Page 18.  
A Translation of Virgil's, O Fortunati Nimium, etc. by the same. Page 21.  
Claudian's Old Man of Verona, by the same. Page 25.  
Martial Book 10. Epigram 96. Translated by the same. Page 26.  
Ode. A Paraphrase on the 9th. Ode of Horace his third book, that gins with Donec gratus eram tibi. By Sir Peter Pett. Page 27.  
Ode. To the Earl of Orrery, by the same. Page 22.  
Ode. On the Passion of our Saviour, by Mr. Abraham Cowley. Page 39  
Ode. On Orinda's Poems, by the same. Page 42.  
Ode. On Retirement. By a Lady. Page 45.  
Ode. Paraphrase on the Ode of Horace, which gins, Inclusam Danaen, by Mr. Abraham Cowley. Page 48.  
To the Right Honourable the Lady Mary Butler, at her Marriage to the Lord Cavendish, by a Lady. Page 51.  
On Good-friday and Easter day. Jesus! by Dr. Paman. Page 53.  
The Irish Greyhound. By a Lady. Page 54.    
FINIS.