Even to the enemies' sight,

Then, when they're sure to lose the combat by't.

Now can the snow, which cold Age does shed
Upon thy reverend head,

Quench or allay the noble fires within;
But all which thou hast been,

And all that Youth can be, thou'rt yet!
So fully still dost thou

Enjoy the manhood and the bloom of Wit,
And all the natural heat, but not the fever too!
So contraries on Etna's top conspire;

Here hoary frosts, and by them breaks out fire!
A secure peace the faithful neighbours keep ;
The' embolden'd snow next to the flame does sleep,
And, if we weigh, like thee,

Nature and Causes, we shall see
That thus it needs must be-

To things immortal, Time can do no wrong,
And that which never is to die, for ever must be
young.

DESTINY.

"Hoc quoque Fatale est sic ipsum expendere Fatum."

MANIL.

STRANGE and unnatural! let's stay and see
This pageant of a prodigy.

Lo, of themselves the' enliven'd Chess-men move!
Lo, the unbred, ill-organ'd pieces prove

As full of art and industry,

Of courage and of policy,

[but we!

As we ourselves, who think there's nothing wise

Here a proud Pawn I admire,
That, still advancing higher,
At top of all became
Another thing and name;

Here I'm amazed at the' actions of a Knight,
That does bold wonders in the fight;
Here I the losing party blame,

For those false Moves that break the Game, That to their Grave, the Bag, the conquer'd Pieces bring,

And, above all, the' ill conduct of the Mated King.

"Whate'er these seem, whate'er philosophy
And sense or reason tell," said I,
"These things have life, election, liberty;
'Tis their own wisdom moulds their state,
Their faults and virtues make their fate.

They do, they do,” said I; but straight Lo! from my' enlighten'd eyes the mists and shadows fell,

That hinder spirits from being visible;

And lo! I saw two angels play'd the Mate.
With man, alas! no otherwise it

proves;

An unseen hand makes all their Moves;

And some are great, and some are small, Some climb to good, some from good fortune fall; Some wise men, and some fools, we call; Figures, alas! of speech, for Destiny plays us all.

Me from the womb the midwife Muse did take: She cut my navel, wash'd me, and mine head With her own hands she fashioned;

She did a covenant with me make,

And circumcised my tender soul, and thus she spake:

"Thou of my church shalt be;
Hate and renounce," said she,

"Wealth, honour, pleasures, all the world, for me.
Thou neither great at court, nor in the war,
Nor at the' exchange, shalt be, nor at the wrang-
ling bar:

Content thyself with the small barren praise,
That neglected verse does raise."
She spake, and all my years to come
Took their unlucky doom.

Their several ways of life let others choose,
Their several pleasures let them use,
But I was born for Love, and for a Muse.

With Fate what boots it to contend? Such I began, such am, and so must end. The star that did my being frame Was but a lambent flame,

And some small light it did dispense,

But neither heat nor influence.

No matter, Cowley! let proud Fortune see,

That thou canst her despise no less than she does

Let all her gifts the portion be

Of Folly, Lust and Flattery,
Fraud, Extortion, Calumny,
Murder, Infidelity,

Rebellion and Hypocrisy ;

Do thou not grieve, nor blush to be,

As all the' inspired tuneful men,

[thee.

And all thy great forefathers, were, from Homer

down to Ben.

BRUTUS.

EXCELLENT Brutus! of all human race
The best, till Nature was improved by Grace;
Till men above themselves Faith raised more
Than Reason above beasts before.

Virtue was thy life's centre, and from thence
Did silently and constantly dispense

The gentle, vigorous influence

To all the wide and fair circumference;
And all the parts upon it lean'd so easily,
Obey'd the mighty force so willingly,
That none could discord or disorder see
In all their contrariety:

Each had his motion natural and free,

And the whole no more moved than the whole world could be.

From thy strict rule some think that thou didst

swerve

(Mistaken, honest men!) in Cæsar's blood; What mercy could the tyrant's life deserve, From him who kill'd himself, rather than serve? The' heroic exaltations of Good

Are so far from understood,

We count them Vice: alas! our sight's so ill,
That things which swiftest move seem to stand still:
We look not upon Virtue in her height,
On her supreme idea, brave and bright,
In the original light;

But as her beams reflected pass

Through our own Nature or Ill-custom's glass:

As 'tis no wonder, so,

If with dejected eye

In standing pools we seek the sky,

That stars, so high above, should seem to us below.

Can we stand by and see

Our mother robbed, and bound, and ravish'd be, Yet not to her assistance stir,

Pleased with the strength and beauty of the ravishOr shall we fear to kill him, if before

The cancelled name of friend he bore?
Ingrateful Brutus do they call?

Ingrateful Cæsar, who could Rome enthrall!
An act more barbarous and unnatural
(In the' exact balance of true virtue try'd)
Than his successor Nero's parricide!

There's none but Brutùs could deserve

That all men else should wish to serve,

er?

And Cæsar's usurp'd place to him should proffer; None can deserve 't but he who would refuse the offer.

Ill Fate assum'd a body thee to' affright,
And wrapp'd itself i' the' terrors of the night:
"I'll meet thee at Philippi," said the sprite;
“I'll meet thee there,” saidst thou,

With such a voice, and such a brow,
As put the trembling ghost to sudden flight;
It vanish'd, as a taper's light

Goes out when spirits appear in sight.

One would have thought 't heard the morning crow, Or seen her well-appointed star

Come marching up the eastern hill afar.