The Perfon Love does to us fit,

Like manna, has the tafte of all in it.

Thus Donne fhews his medicinal knowledge in fome encomiaftick verses:

In every thing there naturally grows A Balfamum to keep it fresh and new,

If 'twere not injur'd by extrinfique blows; Your youth and beauty are this balm in you. But you, of learning and religion, And virtue and fuch ingredients, have made A mithridate, whofe operation

Keeps off, or cures what can be done or faid.

Though the following lines of Donne, on the last night of the year, have fomething in them too fcholaftic, they are not inelegant :

This twilight of two years, not past nor next,
Some emblem is of me, or I of this,
Who, meteor-like, of stuff and form perplext,
Whose what and where in difputation is,
If I fhould call me any thing, fhould mifs.
I fum the years and me, and find me not

Debtor to th' old, nor creditor to th' new, That cannot fay, my thanks I have forgot, Nor truft I this with hopes; and yet scarce

true

This bravery is, fince thefe times fhew'd me

you.

DONNE.

Yet

Yet more abftrufe and profound is Donne's reflection upon Man as a Microcofm:

If men be worlds, there is in every one
Something to answer in fome proportion
All the world's riches: and in good men, this
Virtue, our form's form, and our foul's foul is.

OF thoughts fo far fetched, as to be not only unexpected, but unnatural, all their books are full.

To a Lady, who wrote poefies for rings.

They, who above do various circles find,
Say, like a ring th' æquator heaven does bind.
When heaven fhall be adorn'd by thee,
(Which then more heaven than 'tis, will be)
'Tis thou must write the poefy there,
For it wanteth one as yet,

Then the fun pafs through't twice a year,
The fun, which is esteem'd the god of wit.
COWLEY.

The difficulties which have been raised about identity in philosophy, are by Cowley with ftill more perplexity applied to Love:

Five years ago (fays ftory) I lov'd you,
For which you call me moft inconftant now;
Pardon me, madam, you mistake the man;
For I am not the fame that I was then ;
No flesh is now the fame 'twas then in me,
And that my mind is chang'd yourself may fee
The fame thoughts to retain ftill, and intents,
Were more inconftant far: for accidents
Muft of all things moft ftrangely inconftant prove,
If from one fubject they t' another move :
My members then, the father members were
From whence these take their birth, which now
are here.

If then this body love what th' other did,
'Twere inceft, which by nature is forbid.

The love of different women is, in

geographical poetry, compared to travels through different countries:

Haft thou not found each woman's breaft

(The land where thou haft travelled)

Either by favages poffeft,

Or wild, and uninhabited?

What joy could'ft take, or what repose, In countries fo uncivilis'd as those ?

Luft,

Luft, the fcorching dog-flar, here
Rages with immoderate heat;

Whilst Pride, the rugged Northern Bear,
In others makes the cold too great.
And where these are temperate known,
The foil's all barren fand, or rocky stone.

COWLEY

A Lover, burnt up by his affection, is compared to Egypt:

The fate of Egypt I fuftain,

And never feel the dew of rain

From clouds which in the head appear;
But all my too much moisture owe
To overflowings of the heart below

COWLEY.

The lover supposes his lady acquainted with the ancient laws of augury and rites of sacrifice:

And yet this death of mine, I fear,
Will ominous to her appear:

When found in every other part,
Her facrifice is found without an heart.
For the laft tempeft of my death
Shall figh out that too, with my breath.

That the chaos was harmonifed, has been recited of old; but whence the different founds arofe remained for a modern to difco

ver:

Th' ungovern'd parts no correfpondence knew;
An artless war from thwarting motions grew;
Till they to number and fixt rules were brought.
Water and air he for the Tenor chofe,
Earth made the Bafe; the Treble, flame arose.
COWLEY.

The tears of lovers are always of great poetical account; but Donne has extended them into worlds. If the lines are not eafily understood, they may be read again:

On a round ball

A workman, that hath copies by, can lay
An Europe, Afric, and an Afia,

And quickly make that, which was nothing, all.
So doth each tear,

Which thee doth wear,

A globe, yea world, by that impreffion grow,
Till thy tears mixt with mine do overflow
This world, by waters fent from thee my heaven
diffolved fo.