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TO WILLIAM CAMDEN.

| 2. I have been gathering wolves' hairs,

The mad-dogs' foam, and the adders' ears ; CAMDEN, most reverend head, to whom I owe

The spurgings of a dead-man's eyes, All that I am in arts, all that I know

And all since the evening-star did rise. (How nothing's that!) to whom my country owes The great renown, and name wherewith she goes. Than thee the age sees not that thing more grave, 13. I, last night, lay all alone More high, more holy, that she more would crave. O’ the ground, to hear the mandrake groan; What name, what skill, what faith hast thou in And pluck'd him up, though he grew full low; things!

And, as I had done, the cock did crow.
What sight in searching the most antique springs!
What weight, and what authority in thy speech! 14. And I ha' been choosing out this skull,
Man scarce can make that doubt, but thou canst From charnel-houses, that were full;
teach.

| From private grots, and public pits, Pardon free truth, and let thy modesty,

And frighted a sexton out of his wits.
,Which conquers all, be once o'ercome by thee.
Many of thine this better could, than I,
But for their powers, accept my piety.

15. Under a cradle I did creep,
By day; and, when the child was asleep,
At night, I suck'd the breath; and rose,
And pluck'd the nodding nurse by the nose.

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DAME.

Still to be neat, still to be drest,
As you were going to a feast;
Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd :
Lady, it is to be presum’d,
Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not sweet, all is not sound.
Give me a look, give me a face,
That makes simplicity a grace ;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such sweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art;
They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Yes, I have brought (to help our vows)
Horned poppy, cypress boughs,
The fig-tree wild, that grows on tombs,
And juice, that from the larch-tree comes,
The basilisk's blood, and the viper's skin:
And, now, our orgies let's begin.

EPITAPH

HAGS.
1. I HAVE been, all day, looking after
A raven, feeding upon a quarter;
And, soon as she turn'd her beak to the south,
I snatch'd this morsel out of her mouth.

ON THE COUNTESS OF PEMBROKE, SISTER TO

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
UNDERNEATH this marble herse
Lies the subject of all verse,
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother;
Death, ere thou hast slain another,
Learn'd, and fair, and good as she,
Time shall throw his dart at thee.

FROM THE SHEPHERD'S HOLIDAY.

NYMPH I.
Thus, thus, begin : the yearly rites
Are due to Pan on these bright nights;
His morn now riseth, and invites
To sports, to dances, and delights :

All envious and profane, away,
This is the shepherd's holiday.

ON LUCY, COUNTESS OF BEDFORD. This morning, timely rapt with holy fire,

I thought to form unto my zealous Muse,
What kind of creature I could most desire,

To honor, serve, and love; as poets use.
I meant to make her fair, and free, and wise,

Of greatest blood, and yet more good than great;/ I meant the day-star should not brighter rise,

Nor lend like influence from his lucent seat. I meant she should be courteous, facile, sweet,

Hating that solemn vice of greatness, pride; I meant each softest virtue there should meet,

Fit in that softer bosom to reside. Only a learned, and a manly soul

I purpos'a her; that should, with even pow'rs, The rock, the spindle, and the shears control

Of Destiny, and spin her own free hours. Such when I meant to feign, and wish'd to see,

My Muse bade, Bedford write, and that was she.

NYMPH 1.
Strew, strew, the glad and smiling ground,
With every flower, yet not confound
The primrose drop, the spring's own spouse,
Bright daisies, and the lips of cows,

The garden-star, the queen of May,
The rose, to crown the holiday.

NYMPH III.
Drop, drop, you violets, change your hues,
Now red, now pale, as lovers use,
And in your death go out as well
As when you lived unto the smell :

That from your odor all may say ,
This is the shepherd's holiday

SONG TO CELIA

LOVE, A LITTLE BOY

FROM THE MASQUE ON LORD HADDINGTON'S MARRIAGE

Kiss me, sweet: the wary lover
Can your favors keep, and cover,
When the common courting jay
All your bounties will betray.
Kiss again: no creature comes.
Kiss, and score up wealthy sums
On my lips, thus hardly sund'red,
While you breathe. First give a hundred,
Then a thousand, then another
Hundred, then unto the tother
Add a thousand, and so more :
Till you equal with the store,
All the grass that Romney yields,
Or the sands in Chelsea fields,
Or the drops in silver Thames,
Or the stars, that gild his streams,
In the silent summer nights,
When youths ply their stol'n delights.
That the curious may not know
How to tell 'em as they flow,
And the envious, when they find
What their number is, be pin'd.

FIRST GRACE. BEAUTIES, have ye seen this toy, Called Love, a little boy, Almost naked, wanton, blind. Cruel now; and then as kind ? If he be amongst ye, say ; He is Venus' run-away.

SECOND GRACE. She, that will but now discover Where the winged wag doth hover, Shall, to-night, receive a kiss, How, or where herself would wish : But, who brings him to his mother, Shall have that kiss, and another.

TO THE SAME.
DRINK to me only with thine eyes,

And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,

And I'll not look for wine.
The thirst, that from the soul doth rise,

Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove's nectar sup,

I would not change for thine.

THIRD GRACE. He hath of marks about him plenty: You shall know him among twenty. All his body is a fire, And his breath a flame entire, That being shot, like lightning, in, Wounds the heart, but not the skin.

FIRST GRACE. At his sight, the Sun hath turned, Neptune in the waters burned ; Hell hath felt a greater heat: Jove himself forsook his seat: From the centre, to the sky, Are his trophies reared high.

I sent thee, late, a rosy wreath,

Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there

It could not wither'd be.
But thou thereon did'st only breathe,

And sent'st it back to me:
Since when, it grows, and smells, I swear,

Not of itself, but thee.

SECOND GRACE. Wings he hath, which though ye clip, He will leap from lip to lip,

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ABRAHAM COWLEY.

ABRAHAM Cowley, a poet of considerable dis- virtue of a degree which he obtained, by mandamus tinction, was born at London, in 1618. His father, from Oxford, in December, 1657. who was a grocer by trade, died before his birth; After the death of Cromwell, Cowley returned but his mother, through the interest of her friends, to France, and resumed his station as an agent in procured his admission into Westminster school, the royal cause, the hopes of which now began to as a king's scholar. He has represented himself as revive. The Restoration reinstated him, with other so deficient in memory, as to have been unable to royalists, in his own country; and he naturally exretain the common rules of grammar: it is, how- pected a reward for his long services. He had ever, certain that, by some process, he became an been promised, both by Charles I. and Charles II., elegant and correct classical scholar. He early the Mastership of the Savoy, but was unsuccessful imbibed a taste for poetry; and so soon did it germi- in both his applications. He had also the misfortune nate in his youthful mind, that, while yet at school, of displeasing his party, by his revived comedy of in his fifteenth or sixteenth year, he published a "The Cutter of Coleman-street," which was concollection of verses, under the appropriate title of strued as a satire on the cavaliers. At length Poetical Blossoms.

through the interest of the Duke of Buckingham In 1636 he was elected a scholar of Trinity col- and the Earl of St. Alban's, he obtained a lease of lege, Cambridge. In this favorable situation he ob- a farm at Chertsey, held under the queen, by which tained much praise for his academical exercises ; his income was raised to about 3001. per annum. and he again appeared as an author, in a pastoral From early youth a country retirement had been comedy, called Love's Riddle, and a Latin comedy, a real or imaginary object of his wishes; and, entitled, Naufragium Joculare; the last of which though a late eminent critic and moralist, who had was acted before the university, by the members himself no sensibility to rural pleasures, treats this of Trinity college. He continued to reside at Cam- taste with severity and ridicule, thore seems little bridge till 1643, and was a Master of Arts when reason to decry a propensity, nourished by the fahe was ejected from the university by the puritani- vorite strains of poets, and natural to a mind long cal visitors. He thence removed to Oxford, and tossed by the anxieties of business, and the vicissi. fired himself in St. John's college. It was here tudes of an unsettled condition. that he engaged actively in the royal cause, and Cowley took up his abode first at Barn-elms, on was present in several of the king's journeys and the banks of the Thames; but this place not agree. expeditions, but in what quality, does not appear. ing with his health, he removed to Chertsey. Here He ingratiated himself, however, with the principal his life was soon brought to a close. According to persons about the court, and was particularly hon- his biographer, Dr. Sprat, the fatal disease was an ored with the friendship of Lord Falkland. affection of the lungs, the consequence of staying

When the events of the war obliged the queen- too late in the fields among his laborers. Dr. mother to quit the kingdom, Cowley accompanied Warton, however, from the authority of Mr. Spence, her to France, and obtained a settlement at Paris, gives a different account of the matter. He says, in the family of the earl of St. Alban's. During an that Cowley, with his friend Sprat, paid a visit on absence of nearly ten years from his native coun- foot to a gentleman in the neighborhood of Chert. try, he took various journeys into Jersey, Scotland, sey, which they prolonged, in free conviviality, til) Holland, and Flanders; and it was principally midnight; and that missing their way on their rethrough his instrumentality that a correspondence turn, they were obliged to pass the night under a was maintained between the king and his consort. hedge, which gave to the poet a severe cold and The business of ciphering and deciphering their fever, which terminated in his death. He died on letters, was intrusted to his care, and often occu- July 28, 1667, and was interred, with a most honpied his nights, as well as his days. It is no won-orable attendance of persons of distinction, in Westder that, after the Restoration, he long complained minster-abbey, near the remains of Chaucer and of the neglect with which he was treated. In Spenser. King Charles II. pronounced his eulogy, 1656, having no longer any affairs to transact by declaring, “that Mr. Cowley had not left a abroad, he returned to England ; still, it is sup- better man behind him in England.” posed, engaged in the service of his party, as a me- At the time of his death, Cowley certainly ranked dium of secret intelligence. Soon after his arrival, as the first poet in England; for Milton lay under he published an edition of his poems, containing a cloud, nor was the age qualified to taste him. most of those which now appear in his works. In And although a large portion of Cowley's celebrity a search for another person, he was apprehended by has since vanished, there still remains enough to the messengers of the ruling powers, and committed raise him to a considerable rank among the British to custody ; from which he was liberated, by that poets. It may be proper here to add, that as a generous and learned physician, Dr. Scarborough, prose writer, particularly in the department of who bailed him in the sum of a thousand pounds. essays, there are few who can compare with him This, however, was possibly the sum at which he in elegant simplicity. Wis rated as a physician, a character he assumed by

THE MOTTO.

Noisy nothing ! stalking shade!

By what witchcraft wert thou made ?
TENTANDA VIA EST, &c.

Empty cause of solid harms!
What shall I do to be for ever known,

But I shall find out counter-charms And make the age to come my own

Thy airy devilship to remove
I shall, like beasts or common people, die,

From this circle here of love.
Unless you write my elegy ;
Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ;

Sure I shall rid myself of thee
Their mothers' labor, not their own.

By the night's obscurity,
In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,

And obscurer secrecy !
The weight of that mounts this so high.

Unlike to every other sprite,
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Thou attempt'st not men to fright,

Brought forth with their own fire and light :/ Nor appear'st but in the light.
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

Out of myselt it must be strook.
Yet I must on. What sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:

OF MYSELF.
It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can

This only grant me, that my means may lie Raise up the buried man.

Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,

Some honor I would have, And march, the Muses' Hannibal.

Not from great deeds, but good alone; Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay

Th' unknown are better than ill known: Nets of roses in the way!

Rumor can ope the grave. Hence, the desire of honors or estate,

Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends And all that is not above Fate!

Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days! Which intercepts my coming praise.

Books should, not business, entertain the light, Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on; And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. 'Tis time that I were gone.

My house a cottage more Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now Than palace; and should fitting be All I was born to know:

For all my use, no luxury. Thy scholar's victories thou dogt far outdo;

My garden painted o'er He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Welcome, learn'd Cicero! whose blest tongue and Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet:

Thus would I double my life's fading space; Thou art the first of orators; only he

For he, that runs it well, twice runs his race. Who best can praise thee, next must be. | And in this true delight, Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise! These unbought sports, this happy state,

Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age,

But boldly say each night,
And made that art which was a rage. | To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
Tell me, ye mighty Three! what shall I do Or in clouds hide them; I have liv'd to-day.

To be like one of you?
But you have climb'd the mountain's top, there sit

On the calm flourishing head of it,
And, whilst with wearied steps we upwards go

THE CHRONICLE.
See us, and clouds, below

A BALLAD.
MARGARITA first possest,

If I remember well, my breast,
HONOR.

Margarita first of all;

But when awhile the wanton maid She loves, and she confesses too;

With my restless heart had play'd,
There's then, at last, no more to do ;

Martha took the flying ball.
The happy work's entirely done ;
Enter the town which thou hast won;

Martha soon did it resign
The fruits of conquest now begin;

To the beauteous Catharine. ló, triumphe! enter in.

Beauteous Catharine gave place

(Though loth and angry she to part What's this, ye gods! what can it be?

With the possession of my heart)
Remains there still an enemy?

To Eliza's conquering face.
Bold Honor stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;

Eliza till this hour might reign,
Have I o'ercome all real foes,

Had she not evil counsels ta'en. And shall this phantom me oppose ?

Fundamental laws she broke,

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