'Tis not such Lines as almost crack the Stage
When Bajazet begins to rage.

Nor a tall Metaphor in the Bombast way,
Nor the dry chips of short lung'd Seneca.
Nor upon all things to obtrude,

And force some odd Similitude.

What is it then, which like the Power Divine
We only can by Negatives define?

In a true piece of Wit all things must be,
Yet all things there agree.

As in the Ark, joyn'd without force or strife,

All Creatures dwelt; all Creatures that had Life.
Or as the Primitive Forms of all

(If we compare great things with small)

Which without Discord or Confusion lie,
In that strange Mirror of the Deitie.

But Love that moulds One Man up out of Two,
Makes me forget and injure you.

I took you for my self sure when I thought
That you in any thing were to be Taught.
Correct my error with thy Pen;

And if any ask me then,

What thing right Wit, and height of Genius is,
I'll onely shew your Lines, and say, 'Tis This.

Abraham Cowley.

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Against Hope.

TOpe, whose weak Being ruin'd is,

H

Alike if it succeed, and if it miss ;

Whom Good or Ill does equally confound,

And both the Horns of Fates Dilemma wound.
Vain shadow which dost 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,

Who whilst thou shouldst but tast, devour'st it quite!
Thou bringst us an Estate, yet leav'st us Poor,

By clogging it with Legacies before!

The Joys which we entire should wed,

Come deflowr'd Virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be,

Such mighty Custom's paid to Thee.

For Joy, like Wine, kept close does better tast;
If it take air before, its spirits wast.

Hope, Fortunes cheating Lottery!

Where for one prize an hundred blanks there be;
Fond Archer, Hope, who tak'st thy aim so far,
That still or short, or wide thine arrows are!

Thin, empty Cloud, which th'eye deceives
With shapes that our own Fancy gives!
A Cloud, which gilt and painted now appears,
But must drop presently in tears!
When thy false beams o're Reasons light prevail,
By Ignes fatui for North-Stars we sail.

ΙΟ

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Brother of Fear, more gaily clad!
The merrier Fool o'th' two, yet quite as Mad:
Sire of Repentance, Child of fond Desire!
That blow'st the Chymicks, and the Lovers fire!
Leading them still insensibly'on

By the strange witchcraft of Anon!

By Thee the one does changing Nature through
Her endless Labyrinths pursue,

And th' other chases Woman, whilst She goes
More ways and turns than hunted Nature knows.

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Abraham Cowley.

Answer for Hope.

Ear hope! earth's dowry, & heavn's debt!
The entity of those that are not yet.
Subtlest, but surest beeing! Thou by whom
Our nothing has a definition!

Substantiall shade! whose sweet allay
Blends both the noones of night & day.

Fates cannot find out a capacity

Of hurting thee.

From Thee their lean dilemma, with blunt horn,
Shrinkes, as the sick moon from the wholsome morn.
Rich hope! love's legacy, under lock

Of faith! still spending, & still growing stock!
Our crown-land lyes above yet each meal brings
A seemly portion for the sonnes of kings.

Nor will the virgin joyes we wed

Come lesse unbroken to our bed,

Because that from the bridall cheek of blisse
Thou steal'st us down a distant kisse.

ΤΟ

Hope's chast stealth harmes no more joye's maidenhead
Then spousall rites prejudge the marriage bed.

Fair hope! our earlyer heav'n by thee

Young time is taster to eternity.

Thy generous wine with age growes strong, not sowre.
Nor does it kill thy fruit, to smell thy flowre.

Thy golden, growing, head never hangs down
Till in the lappe of loves full noone

It falls; and dyes! o no, it melts away
As does the dawn into the day.

As lumpes of sugar lose themselves; and twine
Their supple essence with the soul of wine.

Fortune? alas, above the world's low warres

Hope walks ; & kickes the curld heads of conspiring starres. Her keel cutts not the waves where These winds stirr,

Fortune's whole lottery is one blank to her.

Sweet hope! kind cheat! fair fallacy by thee

We are not WHERE nor What we be,

But WHAT & WHERE we would be. Thus art thou
Our absent PRESENCE, and our future Now.
Faith's sister! nurse of fair desire!
Fear's antidote! a wise & well-stay'd fire!
Temper twixt chill despair, & torrid joy!
Queen Regent in yonge love's minority!

Though the vext chymick vainly chases
His fugitive gold through all her faces;
Though love's more feirce, more fruitlesse, fires assay
One face more fugitive then all they;

True hope's a glorious hunter & her chase,
The GOD of nature in the feilds of grace.

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VIVE JESU.

Richard Crashaw.

On the Death of Mr. Crashaw.

Oet and Saint! to thee alone are given

The two most sacred Names of Earth and Heaven.

The hard and rarest Union which can be

Next that of Godhead with Humanitie.

Long did the Muses banisht Slaves abide,
And built vain Pyramids to mortal pride;

Like Moses Thou (though Spells and Charms withstand)
Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.
Ah wretched We, Poets of Earth! but Thou

Wert Living the same Poet which thou'rt Now,
Whilst Angels sing to thee their ayres divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine.
Equal society with them to hold,

Thou need'st not make new Songs, but say the Old.
And they (kind Spirits!) shall all reioyce to see
How little less then They, Exalted Man may be.
Still the old Heathen Gods in Numbers dwell,
The Heav'enliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell.
Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian Land;
Still Idols here, like Calves at Bethel stand.
And though Pans Death long since all Oracles broke,
Yet still in Rhyme the Fiend Apollo spoke :
Nay with the worst of Heathen dotage We
(Vain men!) the Monster Woman Deifie;
Find Stars, and tye our Fates there in a Face,
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus?
Wanton as Girles, as old Wives, Fabulous!

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain

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