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ABRAHAM COWLEY.

41

Books should, not business, entertain

the light,

LIBERTY.

And sleep, as undisturbed as death, the WHERE honor or where conscience does night.

My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.

My garden painted o'er

With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield,

Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

Thus would I double my life's fading

space;

not bind,

No other law shall shackle me;
Slave to myself I will not be:
Nor shall my future actions be confined
By my own present mind.

Who by resolves and vows engaged does stand

For days that yet belong to Fate,
Does, like an unthrift, mortgage his

estate

Before it falls into his hand.

For he that runs it well twice runs his The bondman of the cloister so

race.

And in this true delight, These unbought sports, this happy state, I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;

But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, Or in clouds hide them; I have lived today.

All that he does receive does always owe; And still as time comes in, it goes away, Not to enjoy, but debts to pay. Unhappy slave! and pupil to a bell! Which his hour's work, as well as hours, does tell!

Unhappy to the last, the kind releasing knell.

FROM DRYDEN TO BURNS.

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