I ANONYMOUS. SONG. Do confess thou'rt smooth and fair, And I might have been brought to love thee; But that I found the slightest pray'r That breath could move, had power to move thee; But I can leave thee now alone As worthy to be lov'd by none. I do confess thou'rt sweet, but find The virgin rose, that untouch'd stands, Such fate, ere long, will thee betide, And I shall sigh, while some will smile. Hath brought thee to be lov'd by none! 尊 WHAT COWLEY. THE MOTTO. "Tentanda via est, &c." WHAT shall I do to be for ever known, Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ; If I, her vulgar stone, for either look, Yet I must on; What sound is 't strikes mine ear? It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all, Hence, the desire of honours or estate, Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days! Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on; "Tis time that I were gone, Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do; He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet: Thou art the first of Orators; only he Who best can praise thee, next must be. But you have clim'd the mountain's top, there sit ODE. OF WIT. TELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit, Thou who master art of it? For the first matter loves variety less; London, that vents of false ware so much store, For men, led by the colour and the shape, And sometimes, if the object be too far, Hence 't is a Wit, that greatest word of fame, And Wits by our creation they become, 'T is not a tale, 't is not a jest Admir'd with laughter at a feast, Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; 'T is not to force some lifeless verses meet All, every-where, like man's, must be the soul, Such were the numbers which could call Such miracles are ceas'd; and now we see Yet 't is not to adorn and gild each part; Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' th' sky, If those be stars which paint the Galaxy. 'Tis not when two like words make up one noise (Jests for Dutch men and English boys); In which who finds out Wit, the same may see In an'grams and acrostick poetry: Much less can that have any place At which a virgin hides her face; Such dross the fire must purge away: 't is just 'Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage And force some odd similitude. What is it then, which, like the Power Divine, In a true piece of Wit all things must be, Yet all things there agree; As in the ark, join'd without force or strife, (If we compare great things with small) Which, without discord or confusion, lie In that strange mirror of the Deity. But Love, that moulds one man up out of two, I took you for myself, sure, when I thought And, if any ask me then What thing right Wit and height of Genius is, ON THE DEATH OF Mr. W. HERVEY. "Immodicis brevis est atas, & rara senectus." Mart. IT was a dismal and a fearful night, Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light, When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast, My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow, Of some intolerable fate. What bell was that? ah me! too much I know. My sweet companion, and my gentle peer, Thy soul and body, when Death's agony |