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Thus he represents the meditations of a Lover:

Tho' in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have

been

So much as of original fin,

Such charms thy beauty wears as might
Defires in dying confeft faints excite.
Thou with ftrange adultery
Doft in each breast a brothel keep;
Awake, all men do luft for thee,
And fome enjoy thee when they fleep.

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 falfe, that taste not just like mine.

This is yet more indelicate :

As the sweet sweat of rofes in a still,

DONNE.

As that which from chaf'd musk-cat's pores doth trill,

As the almighty balm of th' early East,
Such are the sweet drops of my mistress' breast.
And on her neck her skin fuch luftre fets,
They feem to sweat drops, but pearl coronets:
Rank fweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles.

DONNE.

THEIR expreffions fometimes raise hor

for, when they intend perhaps to be pathetic :

As men in hell are from diseases free,

So from all other ills am I,

Free

Free from their known formality:
But all pains eminently lie in thee.

THEY

COWLEY.

HEY were not always ftrictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that fome falfehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allufions.

It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke;
In vain it something would have spoke :
The love within too strong for't was,
Like poison put into a Venice-glass.

IN

COWLEY.

forming descriptions they looked out not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common fubject, which poets have contended to adorn. Dryden's Night is well known; Donne's is as follows:

Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest: Time's dead low-water; when all minds diveft

To-morrow's business, when the labourers have

Such reft in bed, that their laft church-yard grave,

Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this,

Now when the client, whose last hearing is

To

To-morrow, fleeps; when the condemned

man,

Who when he opes his eyes, must shut them then

Again by death, altho' fad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little fleep,
Thou at this midnight feeft me.

Ir muft be however confeffed of these wri

T

ters, that if they are upon common fubjects often unneceffarily and unpoetically fubtle ; yet where fcholaftick fpeculation can be properly admitted, their copioufnefs and acutenefs may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope, fhews an unequalled fertility of invention:

Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is, Alike if it fucceeds, and if it mifs; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound. Vain fhadow, which doft vanish quite, Both at full noon and perfect night! The stars have not a poffibility

Of bleffing thee;

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

Hope, thou bold tafter of delight,

Who, whilft thou fhould'ft but tafte, devour'ft it quite!

Thou bring'ft us an estate, yet leav'ft us

poor,

By clogging it with legacies before!

The

The joys which we entire should wed, Come deflow'r'd virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty cuftom's paid to thee: For joy, like wine, kept close does better taste; If it take air before, its spirits waste.

To the following comparison of a man that travels, and his wife that stays at home, with a pair of compaffes, it may be doubted whether abfurdity or ingenuity has the better claim.

Our two fouls therefore, which are one,
Tho' I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two fo
As ftiff twin-compaffes are two,
Thy foul the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And tho' it in the centre fit,

Yet when the other far doth roam, It leans, and hearkens after it,

And grows erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must
Like th' other foot, obliquely run.

Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begun.

DONNE.

In all these examples it is apparent, that whatever is improper or vitious, is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in pur

fuit of fomething new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight, by their defire of exciting admiration.

Having

Aving thus endeavoured to exhibit a general representation of the ftile and fentiments of the metaphyfical poets, it is now proper to examine particularly the works of Cowley, who was almoft the laft of that race, and undoubtedly the best.

His Mifcellanies contain a collection of short compofitions, written fome as they were dictated by a mind at leisure, and fome as they were called forth by different occafions; with great variety of stile and fentiment, from burlefque levity to awful grandeur. Such an affemblage of diverfified excellence no other poet has hitherto afforded. To choose the beft, among many good, is one of the most hazardous attempts of criticism. I know not whether Scaliger himself has perfuaded many readers to join with him in his preference of the two favourite odes, which he estimates in his raptures at the value of a kingdom. will however venture to recommend Cowley's firft piece, which ought to be inscribed To my Mufe, for want of which the fecond couplet is without reference. When the title is added, there will ftill remain a defect; for every piece ought to contain in itself whatever is neceffary to make it intelligible. Pope has fome epitaphs without names, which are therefore epitaphs to be let, occupied indeed for the prefent, but hardly appropriated.

I

The

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