THEY were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts.

That a Mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality, is by Cowley thus expressed :

Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand,
Than woman can be plac'd by Nature's hand;
And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be,

To change thee, as thou 'rt there, for very thee.

That prayer and labour should co-operate, are thus taught by Donne:

In none but us, are such mix'd engines found,

As hands of double office: for the ground

We till with them; and them to heaven we raise :
Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,
Doth but one half, that's none.

By the same author, a common topick, the danger of procrastination, is thus illustrated :

That which I should have begun

In my youth's morning, now late must be done;
And I, as giddy travellers must do,

Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost

Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then ride post.

All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines:

Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie;
After, enabled but to suck and cry.

Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn,
A province pack'd up in two yards of skin,
And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage
Of sicknesses, or their true mother, age.
But think that death hath now enfranchis'd thee;
Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty;
Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd is flown
In pieces, and the bullet is his own,

And freely flies: this to thy soul allow,

Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but now.

THEY were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophises beauty:

-Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free!

Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! Thou murderer, which hast kill'd; and devil, which would'st damn me!

Thus he addresses his Mistress:

Thou who, in many a propriety,

So truly art the sun to me,

Add one more likeness, which I'm sure you can,

And let me and my sun beget a man.

Thus he represents the meditations of a Lover:

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have been
So much as of original sin,

Such charms thy beauty wears, as might

Desires in dying confest saints excite.

Thou with strange adultery

Dost in each breast a brothel keep;
Awake, all men do lust for thee,

And some enjoy thee when they sleep.

The true taste of Tears.

Hither with crystal vials, lovers, come,
And take my tears, which are love's wine,

And try your mistress' tears at home;

For all are false, that taste not just like mine.

This is yet more indelicate:

As the sweet sweat of roses in a still,

DONNE.

As that which from chaf'd musk-cat's pores doth trill,
As the almighty balm of th' early East;
Such are the sweet drops of my mistress' breast.
And on her neck her skin such lustre sets,

They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets:
Rank, sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles.

DONNE.

THEIR expressions sometimes raise horror, when

they intend perhaps to be pathetick :

As men in hell are from diseases free,
So from all other ills am I,
Free from their known formality:
But all pains eminently lie in thee.

COWLEY.

They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allusions.

The love within too strong for 't was,
Like poison put into a Venice-glass.

COWLEY.

IN forming descriptions, they looked out, not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common subject, which poets have contended to adorn. Dryden's Night is well known; Donne's is as follows:

Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest:
Time's dead low-water; when all minds divest
To-morrow's business; when the labourers have
Such rest in bed, that their last church-yard grave,
Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this;
Now when the client, whose last hearing is
To-morrow, sleeps; when the condemned man,
Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them then
Again by death, although sad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep;

Thou at this midnight seest me.

IT must be however confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common subjects often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtle; yet, where scholastick speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope shews an unequalled fertility of invention:

Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is,
Alike if it succeed and if it miss;

Whom good or ill does equally confound,

And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound;

Vain shadow! which dost vanish quite,

Both at full noon and perfect night!

The stars have not a possibility.

Of blessing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope, thou bold taster of delight,

Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st it quite!
Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor,

By clogging it with legacies before!

The joys which we entire should wed, Come deflower'd virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be,

Such mighty custom 's paid to thee:

For joy, like wine, kept close, does better taste;
If it take air before, its spirits waste.

To the following comparison of a man that travels and his wife that stays at home, with a pair of compasses, it may be doubted whether absurdity or ingenuity has better claim:

Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so

As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if th' other do.
And though it in the centre sit,

Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,

And grows erect, as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must

Like th' other foot obliquely run.
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.

DONNE.