Obrazy na stronie
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Thou kind, well-natur'd tyranny! Thou chaste committer of a rape! Thou voluntary destiny, Which no man can, or would escape! So gentle, and so glad to spare, So wondrous good, and wondrous fair, (We know) ev'n the destroying-angels are.


me. What have we done? what cruel passion mov'd thee, Thus to ruin her that lov’d thee? Me thou’ast robb'd; but what art thou Thyself the richer now? Shame succeeds the short-liv'd pleasure; So soon is spent, and gone, this thy ill-gotten treasure!

II. We have done no harm; nor was it theft in
But noblest charity in thee.
I'll the well-gotten pleasure
Safe in my memory treasure:
What though the flower itself do waste,
The essence from it drawn does long and
sweeter last.

She. No: Prm undone; my honour thou hast slain,
And nothing can restore’t again.
Art and labour to bestow,
Upon the carcase of it now,
Isbutt' embalm a body dead;
The figure may remain, the life and beauty's

e. Never, my dear, was Honour yet undone
By Love, but Indiscretion.
To th' wise it all things does allow;
And cares not what we do, but how.
Like tapers shut in ancient urns,
Unless it let in air, for ever shines and burns.

She. Thou first, perhaps, who didst the fault
Wilt make thy wicked boast of it;
For men, with Roman pride, above
The conquest do the triumph love;
Northink a perfect victory gain'd,
Unless they through the streets their captive
lead enchain'd.

He. Whoe'er his secret joys has open laid,
The bawd to his own wife is made;
Beside, what boast is left for me,
Whose whole wealth's a gift from thee?
'Tis you the conqueror are, 'tis you
Who have not only ta'en, but bound and
gagg'd me too.
She. Though public punishment we escape, the
Will rack and torture us within: [sin
Guilt and sin our bosom bears;
And, though fair yet the fruit appears,
That worm which now the core does
When long't has gnaw’d within, will break the
skin at last.
He. That thirsty drink, that hungry food, I

sought, That wounded balm is all my fault;

And thou in pity didst apply The kind and only remedy: The cause absolves the crime; since me So mighty forcedid move, so mighty goodness thee.

She, Curse on thine arts! methinks I hate thee
now ;
And yet I'm sure 1.love thee too!
I’m angry; but my wrath will prove
More innocent than did thy love.
Thou hast this day undone me quite;
Yet wilt undome more should'st thou notcome
at night,


As soon hereafter will I wagers lay
'Gainst what an oracle shall say;
Fool that I was, to venture to deny
A tongue so us’d to victory !
Atongue so blest by Nature and by Art,
That never yet it spoke but gain’d an heart:
Though what you said had not been true,
If spoke by any else but you;
Your speech will govern Destiny,
And Fate will change rather than you should lye.

'Tis true, if human Reason were the guide,
Reason, methinks, was on my side;
Butthat 's a guide, alas! we must resign,
When th’ authority's divine.
She said, she said herselfit would be so;
And I, bold unbeliever! answer'd no :
Never sojustly, sure, before,
Errour the name of blindness bore;
For whatso'er the question be,
There's no man that has eyes would bet for me.

If Truth itself (as other angels do
When they descend to human view)
In a material form would deign to shine,
*Twould imitate or borrow thine:
So dazzling bright, yet so transparent clear,
So well-proportion'd would the parts appear !
Happy the eye which Truth could see
Cloath'd in a shape like thee;
But happier far the eye
Which could thy shape naked like Truth espy.

Yet this lost wager costs me nothing more
Than what I ow'd to thee before:
Who would not venture for that debt to play,
Which he were bound howe'er to pay ?
If Nature gave me power to write in verse,
She gave it me thy praises to rehearse:
Thy wondrous beauty and thy wit
Has such a sovereign right to it,
That no man's Muse for public vent is free,
Till she has paid her customs first to thee.


The fish around her crowded, as they do
To the false light that treacherous fishers shew,
And all with as much ease might taken be,
As she at first took me ;
For ne'er did light so clear
Among the waves appear,
Though every night the Sun himself set there,

Why to mute fish should thou thyself discover,
And not to me thy no less silent lover ?
some from men their buried gold commit
To ghosts, that have no use of it;
Half their rich treasures so
Maidsbury: and, for aught we know,
(Poor ignorants!) they're mermaids all below.

The amorous waves would fain about her stay,
But still new amorous waves drive them away,
And with Swift current to those joys they haste,
That do as swiftly waste:
I laugh'd the wanton play to view;
But 'tis, alas! at land so too,
And still old lovers yield the place to new.

Kissher, and as you part, you amorous waves,
(My happier rivals, and my fellow-slaves)
Point to your flowery banks, and to her shew
The good your bounties do;
Then tell her what your pride doth cost,
And how your use and beauty's lost,
When rigorous Winter binds you up with frost.

Tell her, her beauties and her youth, like thee,
Haste without stop to a devouring sea;
Where they will mix'd and undistinguish'd lie
With all the meanest things that die;
As in the ocean thou
No privilege dost know -
Above th' impurest streams that thither flow.
Tell her, kind Flood when this has made her sad,
Tell her there's yet one remedy to be had : [find
Show her how thou, though long since past, dost
Thyself yet still behind:
Marriage (say to her) will bring
About the self-same thing.
But she, fond maid, shuts and seals up the spring.

LOPE GIPEN OPER. It is enough; enough of time and pain Hast thou consum'd in vain; 1.eave, wretched Cowley ! leave Thyself with shadows to deceive; Think that already lost which thou must never gain. Three of thy lustiest and thy freshest years, (Toss'd in storms of hopes and fears) Like helpless ships that be Set on fire i' th' midst o' the sea, Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd in tears. Resolve then on it, and by force or art Free thy unlucky heart; Since Fate does disapprove Th’ ambition of thy love, And not one star in Heaven offerstotake thy part.

If e'er 1 clear my heart of this desire,
lfe'er it home to its breast retire,
It he'er shall wander more about,
Though thousand beauties call it out:

A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire.

The pox, the plague, and every small disease
May come as oft as ill-fate please;
But Death and Love are never found
To give a second wound:
We're by those serpents bit; but we're devour'd
by these,

Alas! what comfortis't that I am grown
Secure of being again o'erthrown 2
Since such an enemy needs not fear
Lest any else should quarter there,
Who has not only sack'd, but quite burnt down,
the town.


PRESERVED FROM. An old Manuscript. Thnow an apple up an hill, Down the apple tumbles still; Roll it down, it never stops Till within the vale it drops: So are all things prone to Love, All below, and all above.

Down the mountain flows the stream,
Up ascends the lambent flame;
Smoke and vapour mount the skies;
All preserve their unities;
Nought below, and nought above,
Seems averse, but prone to Love.

Stop the meteor in its flight,
Or the orient rays of light; .
Bid Dan Phoebus ilot to shine;
Bid the planets not incline;
'Tis as vain, below, above,
To impede the course of Love:

Salamanders live in fire,
Eagles to the skies aspire,
Diamonds in their quarries lie,
Rivers do the sea supply:
Thus appears, below, above,
A propensity to Love.
Metals grow within the mine,
Luscious grapes upon the vine;
Still the needle marks the pole;
Parts are equal to the whole:
'Tis a truth as clear, that Love
Quickens all, below, above.

Man is born to live and die,
Snakes to creep, and birds to fly;
Fishes in the waters swim,
Doves are mild, and lions grim :
Nature thus, below, above,
Pushes all things on to Love.

Does the cedar love the mountain? Or the thirsty deer the fountain : Does the shepherd love his crook? Or the willow court the brook? Thus by nature all things move, Like a runningstream, to Love.

Is the valiant hero bold
Does the miser doat on gold?
Seek the birds in spring to pair?
Breathes the rose-bud scented air?
Should you this deny, you'll prove
Nature is averse to Love.

As the wencher loves a lass,
As the toper loves his glass,
As the friar loves his cowl,
Or the miller loves the toll,
So do all, below, above,
Fly precipitate to Love.

When young maidens courtship shuto When the Moon out-shines the Sun;

when the tigers lambs beget, when the snow is black asjet, When the planets cease to move, Then shall Nature cease to love.

EPIGR.AM, OW THE Power of Lore,

a production of Cowley; and was spoken at the Westminster-School election, on the following subject: Nullis amor est medicabilis herbis. Ovid. Sol. Daphne sees, and seeing her admires,

Which adds new flames to his celestial fires: Had any remedy for Love been known,

N. B. This is delivered down by tradition as The god of physic, sure, had cur'd his own,

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is a man should undertake to translate Pindar word for word, it would be thought, that one madman had translated another; as may appear, when he that understands not the original, reads the verbal traduction of him into Latin prose, than which nothing seems more raving. And sure, rhyme, without the addition of wit, and the spirit of poetry, (quod nequeo monttrare & sentio tantum) would but make it ten times more distracted than it is in prose. We must consider in Pindar the great difference of time betwixt his age and ours, which changes, as in pictures, at least the colours of poetry; the no less difference betwixt the religions and customs of our countries; and a thousand particularities of places, persons, and manners, which do but onfusedly appear to our eyes at so great a distance. And lastly (which were enough alone for my purpose) we must consider, that our £ars are strangers to the music of his numbers, which, sometimes (especially in songs and odes)

almost without anything else, makes an exceslent poet; for though the grammarians and critics have laboured to reduce his verses into regular feet and measures (as they have also those of the Greek and Latin comedies) yet in effect they are little better than prose to our ears. And I would gladly know what applause our best pieces of English poesy could expect from a Frenchman or Italian, if converted faithfully, and word for word, into French or Italian prose. And when we have considered all this, we must needs confess, that, after all these losses sustained by Pindar, all we can add to him by our wit or invention (not deserting still his subject) is not like to make him a richer man than he was in his own country. This is in some measure to be applied to all translations; and the not observing of it, is the cause that all which ever I yet saw are so much inferior to their originals. The like happens too in pictures, from the same root of exact imitation; which, being a vile and un

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