In the clear heaven of thy brow,
No smallest cloud appears.

He sees thee gentle, fair and gay,

And trusts the faithless April of thy May.

COWLEY.

Upon a paper written with the juice of lemon,

and read by the fire:

Nothing yet in thee is seen,

But when a genial heat warms thee within,
A new-born wood of various lines there grows;
Here buds an L, and there a B,

Here spouts a V, and there a T,

And all the flourishing letters stand in rows.

COWLEY.

As they sought only for novelty, they did not much inquire whether their allusions were to things high or low, elegant or gross: whether they compared the little to the great, or the great to the little.

Physick and Chirurgery for a Lover:
Gently, ah gently, madam, touch

The wound, which you yourself have made;
That pain must needs be very much,
Which makes me of your hand afraid. -
Cordials of pity give me now,
For I too weak of purgings grow.

The World and a Clock:

COWLEY.

Mahol th' inferior world's fantastic face
Thro' all the turns of matter's maze did trace;
Great Nature's well-set clock in pieces took;
On all the springs and smallest wheels did look
Of life and motion, and with equal art
Made up the whole again of every part.

COWLEY.

A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but, that it may not want its due honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the Sun:

The moderate value of our guiltless ore

Makes no man atheist, and no woman whore;
Yet why should hallow'd vestal's sacred shrine
Deserve more honour than a flaming mine?
These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be,
Than a few embers, for a deity.

Had he our pits, the Persian would admire
No sun, but warm's devotion at our fire:
He'd leave the trotting whipster, and prefer
Our profound Vulcan 'bove that waggoner.
For wants he heat, or light? or would have store,
Or both? 'tis here: and what can suns give more?
Nay, what's the sun but, in a different name,
A coal-pit rampant, or a mine on flame!
Then let this truth reciprocally run,

The sun's heaven's coalery, and coals our sun.

Death, a Voyage:

No family

E'er rigg'd a soul for Heaven's discovery,
With whom more venturers might boldly dare
Venture their stakes, with him in joy to share.

DONNE.

THEIR thoughts and expressions were sometimes grossly absurd, and such as no figures or license can reconcile to the understanding.

A Lover neither dead nor alive;

Then down I laid my head

Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead,
And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled.

Ah, sottish soul, said I,

When back to its cage again I saw it fly
Fool to resume her broken chain,

And row her galley here again!
Fool, to that body to return

Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn!

Once dead, how can it be,

Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee,

That thou should'st come to live it o'er again in me?

A Lover's heart a hand grenado :

Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine come
Into the self same room;

*Twill tear and blow up all within,

Like a grenado shot into a magazin.

Then shall Love keep the ashes, and torn parts,
Of both our broken hearts:

Shall out of both one new one make:

From her's th' allay, from mine the metal take.

COWLEY

The poetical Propagation of Light:

The prince's favour is diffus'd o'er all,

From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall.

Then from those wombs of stars, the Bride's bright eyes,

At every glance a constellation flies,

And sowes the court with stars, and doth prevent,
In light and power, the all-ey'd firmament:

First her eye kindles other ladies' eyes,

Then from their beams their jewels' lustres rise:
And from their jewels torches do take fire,
And all is warmth, and light, and good desire.

DONNE.

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.

ger

By the same author, a common topick, the danof 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 murtherer, which hast kill'd, and devil, which
would'st damn me!

Thus he addresses his Mistress:

Thou who, in many a propriety,

So truely 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 -95% 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 fake, that taste not just like mine.

DONNE