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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 illuftrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that fome falfehoods are continued by tradition, because they fupply commodious allufions.

It gave a piteous groan, and fo it broke; In vain it fomething would have spoke : The love within tob ftrong for't was, Like poifon put into a Venice-glass.

COWLEY.

IN forming defcriptions they looked

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

Thou feeft me here at midnight, now all reft:

'Time's dead low-water; when all minds diveft

To-morrow's bufinefs, when the labourers have

Such reft in bed, that their laft church

yard grave,

Subject to change, will scarce be a type

of this,

Now when the client, whose last hear

ing is

To-morrow, fleeps; when the con

demned man,

Who when he opes his eyes, muft shut them then

Again by death, altho' fad watch he

keep,

Doth practife dying by a little fleep,
Thou at this midnight feest me.

IT must be however confeffed of these writers, that if they are upon common fubjects often unneceffarily and unpoetically subtle; yet where fcholaftick fpeculation can be properly admitted, their copioufnefs and acutenefs may juftly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope, fhews an unequalled ferti

lity of invention:

Hope,

G 3

Hope, whofe weak being ruin'd is,

Alike if it fucceed, and if it mifs; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound.

Vain shadow, which doft vanish quite,
Both at full noon and perfect night!
The ftars have not a poffibility
Of bleffing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call,

'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of

all.

Hope, thou bold tafter of delight, Who, whilft thou fhould'ft but tafte, devour'ft it quite !

Thou

Thou bring'ft us an eftate, yet leay'ft

us poor,

By clogging it with legacies before! The joys which we entire fhould

wed,

Come deflow'r'd virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty cuftom's paid to thee: For joy, like wine, kept clofe does better tafte;

If it take air before, its fpirits waste.

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

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