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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 armor, has sh' assign'd?
Beauty is both; for with the fair
What arms, what armor, can compare?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassable 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?


OFT am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old:
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects, I do not know;
This I know, without being told
"Tis time to live, if I grow old;
"Tis time short pleasures now to take
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.


A MIGHTY pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss
But, of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit, by love is understood
Gold alone does passion move.
Gold monopolizes love.

A curse on her, and on the man
Who this traffic first began!

A curse on him who found the ore!
A curse on him who digg'd the store!
A curse on him who did refine it!
A curse on him who first did coin it!
A curse, all curses else above,
On him who us'd it first in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;
Gold does friendships separate;
Gold does civil wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.


FILL the bowl with rosy wine!
Around our temples roses twine!
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crown'd with roses, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours, what do we fear?
To-day is ours; we have it here:
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-me-row


UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds supinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love; nay, fill it up;
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.

Why do we precious ointments show'r?
Nobler wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,

Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses whilst I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,

Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.


HAPPY Insect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
"Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
The country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire,
Phoebus is himself thy sire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect, happy thou!

Dost neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.


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

With thy tuneless serenade?
Well't had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'd nest

Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
Free from the stormy seasons' noise,
Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou hast ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;

A dream, that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.




How shall I lament thine end,

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;
Love 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 inflam'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 should'st their idea be:
They, like thee, should thoroughly hate
Business, honor, 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.
Rumor 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 at Fortune's vain attire.
Nor ask what parents it can show;
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 cheerful 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 tongues 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.
I see,
Cursed Plant! 'tis true,
The old report that goes of thee-
That with giants' blood the Earth
Stain'd and poison'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 flames 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, traitorous Wine!
To be the Muses' friend and mine:
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'st learn't 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;

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But when their life, in its decline,

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.

I'd advise them, when they spy
Any illustrious piety,

To reward her, if it be she-
To reward him, if it be he-
With such a husband, such a wife,
With Acme's and Septimius' life.



WHILST on Septimius' panting breast
(Meaning nothing less than rest)
Acme lean'd her loving head,
Thus the pleas'd Septimius said:

My dearest Acme, if I be
Once alive, and love not thee
With a passion far above
All that e'er was called love;

In a Libyan desert may
I become some lion's prey;
Let him, Acme, let him tear
My breast, when Acme is not there."

The god of love, who stood to hear him,
(The god of love was always near him,)
Pleas'd and tickled with the sound,
Sneez'd aloud; and all around
The little Loves, that waited by,
Bow'd, and blest the augury.
Acme, inflam'd with what he said,
Rear'd her gently-bending head;
And, her purple mouth with joy
Stretching to the delicious boy,

Twice (and twice could scarce suffice)
She kiss'd his drunken rolling eyes.

"My little life, my all!" (said she)
So may we ever servants be

To this best god, and ne'er retain
Our hated liberty again!
So may thy passion last for me,
As I a passion have for thee,

Greater and fiercer much than can
Be conceiv'd by thee a man!

Into my marrow is it gone,
Fixt and settled in the bone;
It reigns not only in my heart,

But runs, like life, through every part."
She spoke; the god of love aloud
Sneez'd again; and all the crowd
Of little Loves, that waited by,
Bow'd, and bless'd the augury.

This good omen thus from Heaven
Like a happy signal given,

Their loves and lives (all four) embrace,
And hand in hand run all the race.

To poor Septimius (who did now
Nothing else but Acme grow)
Acme's bosom was alone

The whole world's imperial throne;
And to faithful Acme's mind
Septimius was all human-kind.

If the gods would please to be But advis'd for once by me,


IN a deep vision's intellectual scene,
Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
Th' uncomfortable shade

Of the black yew's unlucky green
Mixt with the mourning willow's careful grey
Where reverend Cham cuts out his famous way,
The melancholy Cowley lay.

And lo! a Muse appear'd to's closed sight,
(The Muses oft in lands of vision play,)
Body'd, array'd, and seen, by an internal light.
A golden harp with silver strings she bore;
A wondrous hieroglyphic robe she wore,
In which all colors and all figures were,
That Nature or that Fancy can create,
That art can never imitate;

And with loose pride it wanton'd in the air.
In such a dress, in such a well-cloth'd dream,
She us'd, of old, near fair Ismenus' stream,
Pindar, her Theban favorite, to meet;

A crown was on her head, and wings were on her feet.

She touch'd him with her harp, and rais'd him from the ground;

The shaken strings melodiously resound.
"Art thou return'd at last," said she,
"To this forsaken place and me?
Thou prodigal! who didst so loosely waste
Of all thy youthful years the good estate;
Art thou return'd here, to repent too late,
And gather husks of learning up at last,
Now the rich harvest-time of life is past,
And Winter marches on so fast?
But, when I meant t'adopt thee for my son,
And did as learn'd a portion assign,
As ever any of the mighty Nine

Had to their dearest children done,
When I resolv'd t'exalt thy anointed name,
Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame;
Thou, changeling! thou, bewitch'd with noise and

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All thy remaining life should sunshine be;
Behold! the public storm is spent at last,
The sovereign's tost at sea no more,
And thou, with all the noble company,
Art got at last to shore.

But, whilst thy fellow-voyagers I see
All march'd up to possess the promis'd land,
Thou, still alone, alas! dost gaping stand
Upon the naked beach, upon the barren sand!

"As a fair morning of the blessed spring, After a tedious stormy night,

Such was the glorious entry of our king;
Enriching moisture drop'd on every thing:
Plenty he sow'd below, and cast about him light!
But then, alas! to thee alone,

One of old Gideon's miracles was shown;
For every tree and every herb around

With pearly dew was crown'd,

And upon all the quicken'd ground

The fruitful seed of Heaven did brooding lie,
And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry.

It did all other threats surpass,

When God to his own people said

The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my art and labor fruitless now;
Where once such fairies dance, no grass doth ever


"When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own, That ever since I vainly try

To wash away th' inherent dye : Long work perhaps may spoil thy colors quite, But never will reduce the native white:

To all the ports of honor and of gain,
I often steer my course in vain ;
Thy gale comes cross, and drives me back again.
Thou slack'nest all my nerves of industry,
By making them so oft to be

The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy
Whoever this world's happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only Heaven desire
Do from the world retire.

This was my error, this my gross mistake,
Myself a demi-votary to make.

Thus, with Sapphira and her husband's fate,

(The men whom through long wanderings he had led)|(A fault which 1, like them, am taught too late,, That he would give them ev'n a Heaven brass:

They look'd up to that Heaven in vain,

of For all that I gave up I nothing gain,
And perish for the part which I retain

That bounteous Heaven, which God did not re-Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse! strain

Upon the most unjust to shine and rain

"The Rachel, for which twice seven years and more Thou didst with faith and labor serve,

And didst (if faith and labor can) deserve,
Though she contracted was to thee,
Given to another thou didst see,
Given to another, who had store

Of fairer and of richer wives before,
And not a Leah left, thy recompense to be!
Go on; twice seven years more thy fortune try;
Twice seven years more God in his bounty may
Give thee, to fling away

Into the court's deceitful lottery:

But think how likely 'tis that thou,
With the dull work of thy unwieldly plow,
Should'st in a hard and barren season thrive,
Should'st even able be to live;

Thou, to whose share so little bread did fall,
In that miraculous year, when manna rain'd on all."

Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem'd at once to pity and revile.
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The melancholy Cowley said-
"Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid
The ills which thou thyself hast made?
When in the cradle innocent I lay,
Thou, wicked spirit! stolest me away,

And my abused soul didst bear

Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where,
Thy golden Indies in the air;
And ever since I strive in vain

My ravish'd freedom to regain;

Still I rebel, still thou dost reign;
Lo! still in verse against thee I complain.
There is a sort of stubborn weeds,
Which, if the earth but once, it ever, breeds;
No wholesome herb can near them thrive,
No useful plant can keep alive:

The court, and better king, t' accuse:
The heaven under which I live is fair,
The fertile soil will a full harvest bear:
Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou
Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plow
When I but think how many a tedious year
Our patient sovereign did attend
His long misfortunes' fatal end;
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend;
I ought to be accurst, if I refuse

To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
Kings have long hands, they say; and, though I be
So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all the princes, thou

Should'st not reproach rewards for being small or


Thou! who rewardest but with popular breath, And that too after death."


FIRST-BORN of Chaos, who so fair didst come
From the old Negro's darksome womb!
Which, when it saw the lovely child,
The melancholy mass put on kind looks and

Thou tide of glory, which no rest dost know,
But ever ebb and ever flow!

Thou golden shower of a true Jove! Who does in thee descend, and Heaven to Earth make love!

Hail, active Nature's watchful life and healtn
Her joy, her ornament, and wealth!
Hail to thy husband, Heat, and thee!
Thou the world's beauteous bride, the lusty bride.
groom he!

Say, from what golden quivers of the sky
Do all thy winged arrows fly?
Swiftness and Power by birth are thine:
From thy great sire they came, thy sire, the Word

"Tis, I believe, this archery to show,

That so much cost in colors thou,
And skill in painting, dost bestow

Upon thy ancient arms, the gaudy heavenly bow.

Swift as light thoughts their empty career run,
Thy race is finish'd when begun;
Let a post-angel start with thee,

And thou the goal of Earth shalt reach as soon as he.

Thou in the Moon's bright chariot, proud and gay,
Dost thy bright wood of stars survey!
And all the year dost with thee bring
Of thousand flowery lights thine own nocturnal

Thou, Scythian-like, dost round thy lands above
The Sun's gilt tents for ever move,
And still, as thou in
dost go,
The shining pageants of the world attend thy

Nor amidst all these triumphs dost thou scorn
The humble glow-worms to adorn,
And with those living spangles gild

(O greatness without pride!) the bushes of the field.

Night, and her ugly subjects, thou dost fright,

And Sleep, the lazy owl of night;
Asham'd, and fearful to appear,

The ghosts, and monster-spirits, that did presume
A body's privilege to assume,
Vanish again invisibly,

And bodies gain again their visibility.

All the world's bravery, that delights our eyes,
Is but thy several liveries;

Thou the rich dye on them bestow'st, Thy nimble pencil paints this landscape as thou go'st.

A crimson garment in the rose thou wear'st;
A crown of studded gold thou bear'st;
The virgin-lilies, in their white,

Are clad but with the lawn of almost naked light.

The violet, Spring's little infant, stands

Girt in thy purple swaddling-bands.
On the fair tulip thou dost doat;
Thou cloth'st it in a gay and party-color'd coat.

With flame condens'd thou do'st thy jewels fix,
And solid colors in it mix:
Flora herself envies to see
Flowers fairer than her own, and durable as she

Ah, goddess! would thou could'st thy hand withhold And be less liberal to gold!

Did'st thou less value to it give,

Of how much care, alas! might'st thou poor man relieve!

To me the Sun is more delightful far,

And all fair days much fairer are. But few, ah! wondrous few, there be, Who do not gold prefer, O goddess! ev'n to thee

They screen their horrid shapes with the black Through the soft ways of Heaven, and air, and sea hemisphere.

Which open all their pores to thee, Like a clear river thou dost glide,

With them there hastes, and wildly takes th'alarm, And with thy living stream through the close chan

Of painted dreams a busy swarm:

At the first opening of thine eye

The various clusters break, the antic atoms fly.

The guilty serpents, and obscener beasts,

Creep, conscious, to their secret rests:
Nature to thee does reverence pay,

Ill omens and ill sights removes out of thy way.

At thy appearance, Grief itself is said

To shake his wings, and rouse his head: And cloudy Care has often took A gentle beamy smile, reflected from thy look.

At thy appearance, Fear itself grows bold;

Thy sun-shine melts away his cold.
Encouraged at the sight of thee,

nels slide.

But, where firm bodies thy free course oppose,
Gently thy source the land o'erflows;
Takes there possession, and does make
Of colors mingled light, a thick and standing lake

But the vast ocean of unbounded day,

In th' empyrean Heaven does stay. Thy rivers, lakes, and springs, below, From thence took first their rise, thither at last must flow.


HOPE! whose weak being ruin'd is,

To the cheek color comes, and firmness to the Alike, if it succeed, and if it miss; knee.

Ev'n Lust, the master of a harden'd face,
Blushes, if thou be'st in the place,
To Darkness' curtains he retires;

In sympathizing night he rolls his smoky fires.

When, goddess! thou lift'st up thy waken'd head,
Out of the morning's purple bed,
Thy quire of birds about thee play,
And all the joyful world salutes the rising day.

Whom good or ill does equally confound,
And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound :
Vain shadow! which does vanish quite,
Both at full noon and perfect night!

The stars have not a possibility

Of blessing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call, "Tis hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope! thou bold taster of delight, [quite! Who, whilst thou should'st but taste, devour'st i

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