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wants, methinks, but the conversion of that and the Jews, for the accomplishment of the kingdom of Christ. And as men, before their receiving of the faith, do not without some carnal reluctancies apprehend the bonds and fetters of it, but find it afterwards to be the truest and greatest liberty: it will fare no otherwise with this art, after the regeneration of it; it will meet with wonderful variety of new, more beautiful, and more delightful objects; neither will it want room, by being confined to Heaven.

There is not so great a lye to be found in any poet, as the vulgar conceit of men, that lying is essential to good poetry. Were there never so wholesome nourishment to be had (but alas! it breeds nothing but diseases) out of these boasted feasts of love and fables; yet, methinks,, the unalterable continuance of the diet should make us nauseate it: for it is almost impossible to serve up any new dish of that kind. They are all but the cold-meats of the ancients, new-heated, and new set forth. I do not at all wonder that the old poets made some rich crops out of these grounds; the heart of the soil was not then wrought out with continual tillage: but what can we expect now, who come a gleaning, not after the first reapers, but after the very beggars? Besides, though those mad stories of the gods and heroes seem in themselves so ridiculous; yet they were then the whole body (or rather chaos) of the theology of those times. They were believed by all, but a few philosophers, and perhaps some atheists, and served to good purpose among the vulgar (as pitiful things as they are), in strengthening the authority of law with the terrours of conscience, and expectation of certain rewards and unavoidable punishments. There was no other religion; and therefore that was better than none at all. But to us, who have no need of them; to us, who deride their folly, and are wearied with their impertinencies; they ought to appear no better arguments for verse, than those of their worthy successors, the knights-errant. What can we imagine more proper for the ornaments of wit or learning in the story of Ducalion than in that of Noah? Why will not the actions of Sampson afford as plentiful matter as the labours of Hercules? Why is not Jeptha's daughter as good a woman as Iphigenia? and the friendship of David and Jonathan more worthy celebration than that of Theseus and Perithous? Does not the passage of Moses and the Israelites into the Holy Land yield incomparably more poetical variety than the voyages of Ulysses or Æneas? Are the obsolete thread-bare tales of Thebes and Troy half so stored with great, heroical, and supernatural actions (since verse will needs find or make such), as the wars of Joshua, of the Judges, of David, and divers others? Can all the transformations of the gods give such copious hints to flourish and expatiate on, as the true miracles of Christ, or of his prophets and apostles? What do I instance in these few particulars? All the books of the Bible are either already most admirable and exalted pieces of poesy, or are the best materials in the world for it.

Yet, though they be in themselves so proper to be made use of for this purpose; none but a good artist will know how to do it; neither must we think to cut and polish diamonds with so little pains and skill as we do marble. For, if any man design to compose a sacred poem, by only turning a story of the Scripture, like Mr. Quarle's, or some other godly matter, like Mr. Heywood of angels, into rhyme; he is so far from elevating of poesy, that he only abases divinity. In brief, he who can write a prophane poem well, may write a divine one better; but he who can do that but ill, will do this much worse. The same fertility of invention; the same wisdom of disposition; the same judgment in observance of decencies; the same lustre and vigour of elocution; the same modesty and majesty of number; briefly, the same kind of habit, is required to both: only this latter allows better stuff, and therefore would look more deformidly, ill drest in it. I am far from assuming to myself to have fulfilled the duty of this weighty undertaking: but sure I am, there is nothing yet in our language (nor perhaps in any) that is in any degree answerable to the idea that I conceive of it. And I shall be ambitious of no other fruit from this weak and imperfect attempt of mine, but the opening of a way to the courage and industry of some other persons, who may be better able to perform it thoroughly and successfully.




THE following Poems of Mr. Cowley being much inquired after, and very scarce (the town hardly affording one book, though it hath been four times printed) we thought this fifth edition could not fail of be ng well received by the world. We presume one reason why they were omitted in the last collection, was, because the propriety of this copy belonged not to he same person that published those : but the reception they had found appears by the several impressions through which they had passed. We dare not say they are equally perfect with those written by the author in his riper years, yet certainly they are such as deserve not to be buried in obscurity. We presume the author's judgment of them is most reasonable to appeal to; and you will find him (allowing grains of modesty) give them no small character. His words are in the 3d page of his preface before his former published poems.

You find our excellent author likewise mentioning and reciting part of these poems, in his "Several Discourses by way of Essays in Verse and Prose, in the 11th Discourse treating of himself." These we suppose a sufficient authority for our reviving them; and sure there is no ingenuous reader to whom the smallest remains of Mr. Cowley will be unwelcome. His poems are every where the copy of his mind; so that by this supplement to his other volume you have the picture of that so deservedly eminent man from almost his childhood to his latest years, the bud and bloom of his spring; the warmth of his summer; the richness and perfection of his autumn. But, for the reader's further curiosity, we refer him to the author's following preface to them, published by himself.

See the Author's Preface above, p. 45.






MIGHT well fear, lest these my rude and unpolished lines should offend your honourable survey; but that I hope your nobleness will rather smile at the faults committed by a child, than censure them, Howsoever I desire your lordship's pardon, for presenting things so unworthy to your view; and to accept the good-will of him, who in all duty is bound to be

your lordship's

most humble servant,






READER! (I know not yet whether gentle or no) some, I know, have been angry (I dare not assume

the honour of their envy) at my poetical boldness, and blamed in mine, what commends other fruits, earliness: others, who are either of a weak faith, or strong malice, have thought me like a pipe, which never sounds but when it is blowed in, and read me, not as Abraham Cowley, but Authorem Anonymum. To the first 1 answer, that it is an envious frost which nips the blossoms, because they appear quickly: to the latter, that he is the worst homicide who strives to murder another's fame: to both, that it is a ridiculous folly to condemn or laugh at the stars, because the Moon and Sun shine brighter. The small fire I have is rather blown than extinguished by this wind. For the itch of poesy, by being angered, increaseth; by rubbing, spreads farther; which appears in that I have ventured upon this third edition. What though it be neglected? It is not, I am sure, the first book which hath lighted tobacco, or been employed by cooks and grocers. If in all men's judgments it suffer shipwreck, it shall something content me, that it hath pleased myself and the bookseller. In it you shall find one argument (and I hope I shall need no more) to confute unbelievers: which is, that as mine age, and consequently experience (which is yet but little) hath increased, so they have not left my poesy flagging behind them. I should not be angry to see any one burn my Piramus and Thisbe, nay, I would do it myself, but that I hope a pardon may easily be gotten for the errours of ten years age. My Constantius and Philetus confesses me two years older when I writ it. The rest were made since, upon several occasions, and perhaps do not Such as they are, they were created by me: but their fate lies in your hands; it is only you can effect, that neither the bookseller repent himself of his charge in printing them, nor I of my labour in composing them. Farewell.

belie the time of their birth.



I CALLED the buskin'd muse, Melpomene,

And told her what sad story I would write:
She wept at hearing such a tragedy,
Though wont in mournful ditties to delight.

If thou dislike these sorrowful lines, then know,
My muse with tears, not with conceits, did flow:

And, as she my unabler quill did guide,
Her briny tears did on the paper fall;

If then unequal numbers be espied,

Oh, Reader! do not that my errour call;

But think her tears defac'd it, and blame then
My Muse's grief, and not my missing pen.








ISING two constant lovers' various fate,

The hopes and fears that equally attend
Their loves; their rivals' envy, parents' hate:
I sing their woeful life and tragic end.

Aid me, ye gods, this story to rehearse,
This mournful tale, and favour every verse!
In Florence, for her stately buildings fam'd,
And lofty roofs that emulate the sky,
There dwelt a lovely maid, Constantia named,
Fam'd for the beauty of all Italy.

Her, lavish Nature did at first adorn
With Pallas' soul in Cytherca's form:
And, framing her attractive eyes so bright,
Spent all her wit in study, that they might
Keep Earth from chaos and eternal night;
But envious Death destroyed their glorious light.
Expect not beauty then, since she did part;
For in her Nature wasted all her art.

Her hair was brighter than the beams which are
A crown to Phoebus; and her breath so sweet,
It did transcend Arabian odours far,
Or smelling flowers, wherewith the Spring doth greet
Approaching Summer; teeth, like falling snow
For white, were placed in a double row.
Her wit, excelling praise, even all admire ;
Her speech was so attractive, it might be
A cause to raise the mighty Pallas' ire,
And stir up envy from that deity.

The maiden lilies at her sight

Wax'd pale with envy, and from thence grew white. She was in birth and parentage as high As in her fortune great or beauty rare; And to her virtuous mind's nobility The gifts of Fate and Nature doubled were ; That in her spotless soul and lovely face You might have seen each deity and grace. The scornful boy, Adonis, viewing her, Would Venus still despise, yet her desire; Each who but saw, was a competitor And rival, scorch'd alike with Cupid's fire.

The glorious beams of her fair eyes did move,
And light beholders on their way to love.
Among her many suitors, a young knight,
'Bove others wounded with the majesty
Of her fair presence, presseth most in sight;
Yet seldom his desire can satisfy

With that blest object, or her rareness see;
For Beauty's guard is watchful Jealousy.
Oft times, that he might see his dearest fair,
Upon his stately jennet he in th' way
Rides by her house; who neighs, as if he were
Proud to be view'd by bright Constantia.

But his poor master, though to see her move
His joy, dares show no look betraying love.
Soon as the Morning left her rosy bed,
And all Heaven's smaller lights were driven away,
She, by her friends and near acquaintance led,
Like other maids, would walk at break of day:
Aurora blush'd to see a sight unknown,

To behold cheeks more beauteous than her own. Th' obsequious lover follows still her train, And where they go, that way his journey feigns: Should they turn back, he would turn back again; For with his love, his business does remain.

Nor is it strange he should be loth to part
From her, whose eyes had stole away his heart.
Philetus he was call'd, sprung from a race
Of noble ancestors; but greedy Time
And envious Fate had laboured to deface
The glory which in his great stock did shine:
Small his estate, unfitting her degree;
But blinded Love could no such difference see.
Yet he by chance had hit his heart aright,
And dipt his arrow in Constantia's eyes,
Blowing a fire that would destroy him quite,
Unless such flames within her heart should rise.
But yet he fears, because he blinded is,
Though he have shot him right, her heart he'll

Unto Love's altar therefore he repairs,
And offers up a pleasing sacritice;
Entreating Cupid, with inducing prayers;
To look upon and ease his miserics:

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