To a lady who wrote poesies for rings.

They who above do various circles find,

Say, like a ring, th' equator heaven does bind.
When heaven shall be adorn'd by thee,
(Which then more heav'n than 'tis will be)

'Tis thou must write the poesy there,

For it wanteth one as yet

Then the sun pass through't twice a-year,

The sun, which is esteem'd the god of wit.

COWLEY.

The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are by Cowley with still more perplexity applied to love:

Five years ago (says story) I lov❜d you,

For which you call me most inconstant now;
Pardon me, Madam, you mistake the man;
For I am not the same that I was then;
No flesh is now the same 'twas then in me,
And that my mind is chang'd yourself may see.
The same thoughts to retain still, and intents,
Were more inconstant far: for accidents

Must of all things most strangely inconstant prove,

If from one subject they t' another move :

My members then the father members were,

From whence these take their birth which now are here.

If then this body love what th' other did,

'T'were incest, which by nature is forbid.

The love of different women is, in geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries:

Hast thou not found each woman's breast
(The land where thou hast travelled)

Either by savages possest,

Or wild, and uninhabited?

What joy could'st take, or what repose,
In countries so unciviliz'd as those?
Lust, the scorching dog-star, here
Rages with immoderate heat;
Whilst pride, the rugged northern bear,
In others makes the cold too great.
And where these are temperate known,
The soil's all barren sand, or rocky stone.

A lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to

Egypt:

The fate of Egypt I sustain,

And never feel the dew of rain

From clouds which in the head appear;
But all my too much moisture owe
To overflowings of the heart below.

COWLEY.

The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury and rites of sacrifice :

And yet this death of mine, I fear,
Will ominous to her appear:

When sound in every other part,

Her sacrifice is found without a heart.
For the last tempest of my death

Shall sigh out that too with my breath.

That the chaos was harmonised, has been recited of old; but whence the different sounds arose remained for a modern to discover:

Th' ungovern'd parts no correspondence knew ;
An artless war from thwarting motions grew ;
Till they to number and fixt rules were brought.
Water and air he for the tenor chose,
Earth made the base; the treble flame arose.

COWLEY.

The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds, If the lines are not easily understood, they may be read again.

On a round ball

A workman, that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Asia,

And quickly make that which was nothing all.
So doth each tear,

Which thee doth wear,

A globe, yea world, by that impression grow,

Till thy tears mixt with mine do overflow

This world, by waters sent from thee my heaven dis.

solved so.

On reading the following lines, the reader may perhaps cry out-Confusion worse confounded:

Here lies a she sun, and a he moon here,

She gives the best light to his sphere,

Or each is both, and all, and so

They unto one another nothing owe.

DONNE.

Who but Donne would have thought that a good

man is a telescope?

Though God be our true glass through which we see

All, since the being of all things is he;

Yet are the trunks, which do to us derive

Things in proportion fit, by perspective

Deeds of goodmen; for by their living here,
Virtues indeed remote, seem to be near.

Who would imagine it possible that in a very few lines so many remote ideas could be brought together?

Since 'tis my doom, Love's undershrieve,

By every wind that comes this way,

Send me at least a sigh or two,

Such and so many I'll repay

As shall themselves make wings to get to you.

VOL. IX.

C

COWLEY.

In tears I'll waste these eyes,

By love so vainly fed;

So lust of old the deluge punished.

COWLEY.

All arm'd in brass, the richest dress of war,
(A dismal glorious sight!) he shone afar.
The sun himself started with the sudden fright,
To see his beams return so dismal bright.

An universal consternation :

COWLEY.

His bloody eyes he hurls round, his sharp paws
Tear up the ground: then runs he wild about,
Lashing his angry tail, and roaring out.

Beasts creep into their dens, and tremble there;
Trees, though no wind is stirring, shake with fear;

Silence and horror fill the place around;

Echo itself dares scarce repeat the sound. COWLEY. Their fictions were often violent and unnatural. Of his Mistress bathing.

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.

COWLEY.

The poetical effect of a lover's name upon glass :

My name engrav'd herein

Doth contribute my firmness to this glass;

Which ever since that charm, hath been

As hard as that which grav'd it was.

DONNE.

Their conceits were sentiments slight and trifling.

On an inconstant woman:

He enjoys the calmy sunshine now,
And no breath stirring hears,

In the clear heaven of thy brow,

No smallest cloud appears.

He sees thee gentle, fair, and gay,

And trusts the faithless April of thy May.

COWLEY.

Upon a paper written with the juice of lemon, and

read by the fire:

Nothing yet in thee is seen,

But when a genial heat warms thee within,
A new-born wood of various lines there grows;
Here buds an L, and there a B,

Here spouts a V, and there a T,

And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.

COWLEY.

As they sought only for novelty, they did not much inquire whether their allusions were to things high or low, elegant or gross: whether they compared the little to the great, or the great to the little.

Physick and chirurgery for a lover.

Gently, ah gently, madam, touch

The wound, which you yourself have made;
That pain must needs be very much,
Which makes me of your hand afraid.
Cordials of pity give me now,
For I too weak of purgings grow.

The world and a clock.

Mahol th' inferior world's fantastick face

COWL.EY.

Through all the turns of matter's maze did trace;
Great nature's well-set clock in pieces took :
On all the springs and smallest wheels did look
Of life and motion, and with equal art

Made up the whole again of every part.

COWLEY.

A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but, that it may not want its due honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the sun:

The moderate value of our guiltless ore
Makes no man atheist, and no woman whore;
Yet why should hallow'd vestal's sacred shrine
Deserve more honour than a flaming mine?
These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be,
Than a few embers, for a deity

Had he our pits, the Persian would admire
No sun, but warm's devotion at our fire