SEVERAL COPIES OF VERSES ON THE DEATH OF Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY And his Burial in WESTMINSTER ABBEY.  

OUR wit, till Cowley did its lustre raise,  
May be resembled to the first three daies,  
In which did shine only such streaks of light  
As served but to distinguish Day from Night:  
But wit breaks forth, in all that he has done,  
Like Light when 'twas united in the Sun.   

The Poets formerly did lie in wait  
To rifle those whom they would imitate:  
We watched to rob all strangers when they writ,  
And learnt their Language but to steal their Wit.  
He from that need his Country does redeem,  
Since those who want may be supplied from him;  
And foreign Nations now may borrow more  
From Cowley than we could from them before:  
Who though he condescended to admit  
The Greeks and Romans for his Guides in Wit  
Yet he those ancient Poets does pursue  
But as the Spaniards great Columbus do;  
He taught them first to the New World to steer,  
But they possess all that is precious there.   

When first his spring of wit began to flow,  
It raised in some, wonder and sorrow too,  
That God had so much wit and knowledge lent,  
And that they were not in his praises spent.   

But those who in his Davideis look,  
Find they his Blossoms for his Fruit mistook:  
In differing Ages different Muses shined,  
His Green did charm the Sense, his Ripe the Mind.  
Writing for Heaven he was inspired from thence,  
And from his theme derived his influence.  
The Scripture will no more the wicked fright;  
His Muse does make Religion a delight.   

Oh how severely Man is used by Fate!  
The covetous toil long for an Estate;  
And having got more than their life can spend,  
They may bequeath it to a Son or Friend:  
But Learning( in which none can have a share,  
Unless they climb to it by time and care,  
Learning, the truest wealth which man can have)  
Does, with his Body, perish in his Grave:  
To Tenements of day it is confined,  
Though 'tis the noblest purchase of the mind:  
Oh why can we thus leave our friends possessed  
Of all our acquisitions but the best?   

Still when we study Cowley we lament,  
That to the world he was no longer lent;  
Who, like a Lightning, to our eyes was shown,  
So bright he shined and was so quickly gone.  
Sure he rejoiced to see his flamme expire,  
Since he himself could not have raised it higher;  
For when wise Poets can no higher fly,  
They would, like Saints, in their perfection die.   

Though beauty some affection in him bread,  
Yet only sacred Learning he would wed;  
By which th'illustrious off-spring of his brain  
Shall over Wits great Empire ever reign:  
His works shall live, when Pyramids of Pride  
Shrink to such ashes as they long did hid.   

That sacrilegious Fire( which did last year  
Level those Pil●s which Piety did rear)  
Dreaded near that majestic Church to fly  
Where English Kings and English Poets lie:  
It at an aweful distance did expire,  
Such power had sacred Ashes o'er that Fire;  
Such as it durst not near that Structure come  
Which Fate had ordered to be Cowley's Tomb;  
And 'twill be still preserved, by being so,  
From what the rage of future Flames can do.  
Material Fire dares not that place infest  
Where he who had immortal flamme does rest.   

There let his Urn remain; for it was fit  
Amongst our Kings to lay the King of wit:  
By which the Structure more renowned will prove  
For that part buried than for all above.   
ORRERY.  
FINIS.   

London, Printed for H. Herringman, at the Blew Anchor in the Lower-walk of the New Exchange. 1667.