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Expect not you his fate, though Hotham thrives We thank you for true real fears, at last,
In imitating Henry's tricks for wives;

Which free us from so many false ones past; Nor fewer churches hupes, than wives, to see We thank you for the blood which fats our coast, Buried, and then their lands his own to be.

As a just debt paid to great Strasford's ghost; Ye boundless tyrants ! how do you outvy

We thank you for the ills receiv'd, and all Th’Athenians: Thirty, Rome's Decemviry ! Which yet by your good care in time we shall; In rage, injustice, cruelty, as far

We thank you, and our gratitude's as great Abore those men, as you in number are.

As yours, when you thank'd Gud for being beat, What mysteries of iniquity do we see! New prisons made to defend liberty ! Our goods forc'd from us for property's sake; And all the real nonsense which ye make! Ship-money was unjustly ta'en, ye say ;

She that can sit three sermons in a day, L'njustlier far, you take the ships away.

And of those three scarce bear three words away; The High Commission you calld tyranny :

She that can rob her husband, to repair
Ye did! good God! what is the High Committee? | A budget-priest, that noses a long prayer;
Ye said that gifts and bribes preferments bought:

She that with lamp-black purifies her shoes,
By money and blood too they now are sought.

And with half-eyes and Bible softly goes ; To the king's will, the laws men strove to draw:

She that her pockets with lay-gospel stuifs, The subjects' will is now become the law.

And edifies her looks with little ruffs; 'Twas fear'd a new religion would begin:

She that loves sermons as she does the rest, All new relig ons, now, are enter'd in.

Still standing stiff that longest are the best ; The king delinquents to protect did strive :

She that will lye, yet swear she hates a lyar, What clubs,pikes, halberts,lighters, sav'd the Five! Except it be the man that will lie by her; You think th' parl'ment like your state of grace ;

She that at christenings thirsteth for more sack, Whatever sins men do, they keep their place.

And draws the broadest handkerchief for cake; Invasions then were fear'd against the state;

She that sings psalms devoutly next the street, And Strode swore last year: would be eighty-eight. And beats her maid i' th’ kitchen, where none You bring-in foreign aid to your designs,

see 't; First those great foreign forces of divines,

She that will sit in shop for five hours space, With which ships from America were fraught;

And register the sins of all that pass, Rather may stinking tobacco still be brought

Damn at first sight, and proudly cares to say, From thenee, I say; next, ye the Scots invite,

That none can possibly be sav'd but they Which you term brotherly-assistance, right;

That hang religion in a naked ear, Por England you intend with them to share :

And judge men's hearts according to their hair; They, who, alas! but younger brothers are,

That could afford to doubt, who wrote best sense, Must have the monies for their portion;

Moses, or Dod on the commandements; The houses and the lands will be your own.

She that can sigh, and cry “Queen Elizabeth," We thank you for the wounds which we endure, Rail at the pope, and scratch-out “sudden death :" Whilst scratches and slight prichs ye seek to cure;

Anri for all ihis can give no reason why :

This is an holy-sister, verily. * viz. 1642.

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II. DRINKING. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again, The plants suck-in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have bat little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done, The Moon and stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature 's sober found, But an eternal health go :s round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there ; for why Should every creature drink but I ; Why, man of morals, tell me why!

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Liberal Nature did dispense
To all things arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs or forked claws,
And some with horns or tusked jaws :
And some with scales, and some with wings,
And some with teeth, and some with stings.
Wisdom to man she did afford,
Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,
What arms, what armour, has sh' assign'd?
Beauty is both ; for with the fair
What arms, what armour, can compare ?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassible is found ?
And yet what flame, what lightning, e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like porcupines from every part.
Who can, alas ! their strength express,
Arm’d, when they themselves undress,
Cap-a-pie with nakedness?

VI. THE ACCOUNT. When all the stars are by thee told (The endless sums of heavenly gold); Or when the hairs are reckon'd all, From sickly Autumn's head that fall; Or when the drops that make the sca, Whilst all her sands thy counters be ; Thou then, and thou alone, mays't prove Th'arithmetician of my love. An hundred loves at Athens score, At Corinth write an humdred more : Fair Corinth does such beauties bear, So few is an escaping there. Write then at Chios seventy-three ; Write then at Lesbos (let me see) Write me at Lesbos ninety down, Full ninety loves, and half a one. And, next to these, let me present The fair Ionian regiment ; And next the Carian company; Five hundred both effectively. Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ; Three hundred 'tis, I'm sure, complete; For arms at Crete each face does bear, And every eye's an archer there. Go on: this stop why dost thon make? Thou think'st, perhaps that I mistake. Seems this to thee too great a sum? Why many thousands are to come i The mighty Xerxes could not boast Such different nations in his host. On; for my love, if thou be'st weary, Must find some better secretary. I have not yet my Persian told, Nor yet my Syrian loves cnrolld, Nor Indian, nor Arabian; Nor Cyprian lores, nor African ; Nor Scythian nor Italian flames; There's a whole map behind of namen Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone, And cold ones in the frigid one, Cold frozen loves, with which I pine, And parched loves beneath the lines


Yes, I will love then, I will love ;
I will not now Love's rebel prove,
Though I was once his enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the combat him defy.
An helmet, spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax, I did wield.
Love in one hand his bow did take,
In th' other hand a dart did shake;
But yet in vain the dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the bow;
So well my armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist :
But when I thought all danger past,
His quiver empty'd quite at last,
Instead of arrow or of dart
He shot himself into my heart.


X. THE GRASSHOPPER. A MICHTY pain to love it is,


appy Insect! what can be And 'tis a pain that pain to miss ;

In happiness compard to thee? But, of all pains, the greatest pain

Fed with nourishment divine, It is to lure, but love in vain.

The dewy Morning's gentle wine ! Virtue now, nor noble blood,

Nature waits upon thee still, Nor wit by love is understood ;

And thy verdant cup does fill; Gold alune does passion move,

'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Gold monopolizes love ;

Nature's self's thy Ganymede. A curse on her, and on the man.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; Who this traffic first began !

Happier than the happiest king! A curse on him who found the ore!

All the fields which thou dost see, A curse on him who digg'd the store !

All the plants, belong to thee; A curse on him who did refine it!

All that summer-hours produce, A curse on him who first did coin it!

Fertile made with early juice. A curse, all curses else above,

Man for thee dues sow and plow; On him who usd it first in love!

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! Gold begets in brethren hate;

Thou dust imiocently joy; Gold in families debate ;

Nor does thy luxury destroy ; Gold does friendships seperate ;

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, Gold dues civil wars create.

More harmonious than he. These the smallest harms of it!

Thee country binds with gladness hear,
Gold, alas ! does love beget.

Prophet of the ripen’d year!
Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire;

Phæbus is himself thy sire.

To thee, of all things upon Earth.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine !

Life is no longer than thy mirth,

Happy insect, happy thou ! Around our temples roses twine!

Dost neither age nor winter know; And let us cheerfully awhile,

But, when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and suns Like the wine and roses, smile.

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among Crown'd with roses, we contemn

(Voluptuous, and wise withal, Gyges' wealthy diadem.

Epicurean animal!) To day is ours, what do we fear?

Sated with thy summer feast,
To day is ours; we have it here:

Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.

Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to morrow.

Foolish Prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,

With thy tuneless serenade?

Well 't had been had Tereus made
UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,

Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well. On flowery beds supinely laid,

In thy undiscovered nest With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,

Thou dost all the winter rest, And around it roses growing,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, What should I do but drink away

Free from the stormy seasons' noise : The heat and troubles of the day

Free from th’ill thou'st done to me; In this more than kingly state

Who disturbs or seeks-out thee? Love himself sball on me wait.

Hadst thou all the charming notes Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up ;

Of the wood's poetic throats, And mingled cast into the cup

All thy art could never pay Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,

What thou hast ta'en from me away. Vigorous health and gay desires.

Cruel bird ! thou'st ta’en away
The wheel of life no less will stay

A dream out of my arms to-day;
In a smooth than rugged way :
Since it equally duth flee,

A dream, that ne'er must equall'd be

By all that waking eyes may see. Let the motion pleasant be.

Thou, this damage to repair,
Why do we precious ointments show'r?

Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nobler wines why do we pour ?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,

Nothing half so good, canst bring,

Though men say thou bring'st the Spring. l'pon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show,

ELEGY UPON ANACREON. Or bones that hasten to be so. Crown me with roses whilst I live,

WHO WAS CHOAKED BY A GRAPE-STONE Now your wines and ointments give;

After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have,

How shall I lament thine end,
All are Stoics in the grave,

My best servant and my friend?

Nay, and, if from a deity
So much deified as I,
It sound not too profane and odd,
Oh, my master and my god !
For 'tis true, most mighty poet!
(Though I like not men should know it)
I am in naked Nature less,
Less by much, than in thy dress.
All thy verse is softer far

Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or sparrows,
Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Or their riper following blisses,
Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound;
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy style,
The smooth-pac'd hours of every day
Glided numerously away.
Like thy verse each hour did pass;
Sweet and short, like that, it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Just what they by Nature owe me,
The time that's mine, and not their own,
The certain tribute of my crown:
When they grow old, they grow to be
Too busy, or too wise, for me.
Thou wert wiser, and didst know
None too wise for love can grow;
Jove was with thy life entwin'd,
Close as heat with fire is join'd;
A powerful brand prescrib'd the date
Of thine, like Meleager's, fate.
Th' antiperistasis of age
More enflam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation, As I have of generation, Where I the matter must obey, And cannot work plate out of clay, My creatures should be all like thee, 'Tis thou shouldst their idea be: They, like thee, should thoroughly hate Business, honour, title, state; Other wealth they should not know, But what my living mines bestow; The pomp of kings, they should confess, At their crownings, to be less Than a lover's humblest guise, When at his mistress' feet he lies. Rumour they no more should mind Than men safe landed do the wind; Wisdom itself they should not hear, When it presumes to be severe; Beauty alone they should admire, Nor look tune's vain attire,

Nor ask what parents it can shew;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
They should not love yet all, or any,
But very much and very many:
All their life should gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety;
Well remembering, and applying
The necessity of dying.
Their chearful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flowery year:
They should always laugh, and sing,
And dance, and strike th’ harmonious string ;
Verse should from their tongue so flow,
As if it in the mouth did grow,
As swiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do thus discover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
"Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake
I of the Grape no mention make.

Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Cursed Plant ! I lov'd thee well;
And 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed Plant ! 'tis true, I see,
Th’old report that goes of them,
That with giants' blood the Earth
Stain'd and poisun'd gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in Aames and thunder ;
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worse than his tigers, he delights;
In all our Heaven I think there be
No such ill-natur'd god as he.
Thou pretendest, traiterous Wine!
To be the Muses' friend and inine:
With love and wit thou dost begin,
False fires, alas ! to draw us in;
Which, if our course we by them keep,
Misguide to madness or to sleep:
Sleep were well; thou 'ast learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I see what fate
Does on the best of mankind wait.
Poets or lovers let them be,
'Tis neither love nor poesy
Can arm, against Death's smallest dart,
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life, in its declino,
Touches th' inevitable line,
All the world's mortal to them then,
And wine is aconite to men;
Nay, in Death's hand, the grape-stone proves
As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

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How the eternal Father did bestow

His own eternal Son as ransom for his foe. TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR.

I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFORD.

The triumph of the buried Conqueror.

How Hell was by its prisoner captive led, Enough, my Muse! of earthly things,

And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead. And inspirations but of wind;

Methinks, I hear of murdered men the voice, 'Take up thy lute, and to it bind

Mixt with the murderers' confused noise, Loud and everlasting strings;

Sound from the top of Calvary ; And on them play, and to them sing,

My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see The happy mournful stories,

Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three ; The lamentable glories,

Oh, how unlike the others he! Of the great crucified King.

Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise

from the tree! Till Earth thou joinest with the skies!

His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good, Too large at bottom, and at top too high,

Are nail'd to the infamous wood ! To be half seen by mortal eye!

And sinful man dues fondly bind How shall I grasp this boundless thing? The arms, which he extends t embrace all humanWhat shall I play; what shall I sing?

kind. I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see

All this as patient as he? spirits above,

Since he thy sins does bear, With all their comments can explain;

Make thou his sufferings thine own, How all the whole world's life to die did not dis

And weep, and sigh, and groan, dain!

And beat thy breast, and tear
I'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion

Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love, The depths unfathom'd yet

Through all thy bleeding bowels move. By reason's plummet and the line of wit; Dost thou not see thy prince in purple clad all o'er, Too light the plummet, and too short the line! Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,

But made at home with richer gore? * These verses were not included among those Dost thou not see the roses which adorn which Mr. Cowley himselt styled Miscellanies; The thorny garland by him worn ? but were classed by Bishop Sprat under the title Dost thou not see the livid traces by which they are here distinguished. N.

Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces ?

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