Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope? Though God be our true glass, through which we fee All, fince the being of all things is he, Who would imagine it poffible that in a very few lines fo many remote ideas could be brought together: Since 'tis my doom, Love's underfhrieve, Why doth my She Advowson fly Incumbency? To fell thyfelf doft thou intend By candle's end, And hold the contraft thus in doubt, Think but how foon the market fails, The fober Julian were th' account of man, CLEIVELAND. OF F enormous and difgufting hyberboles, OF thefe may be examples: By every wind, that comes this way, Such and fo many I'll repay As fhall themselves make winds to get to you. In tears I'll wafte thefe eyes, By Love fo vainly fed; COWLEY. So luft of old the Deluge punished. COWLEY. All arm'd in brass, the richest drefs of war, COWLEY. An univerfal confternation : His bloody eyes he hurls round, his fharp paws Beafts creep into their dens, and tremble there; fear; Silence and horrour fill the place around: Echo itself dares fcarce repeat the found. COWLEY. THEIR fictions were often violent and unnatural. Of his Mistress bathing: The fish around her crouded, as they do For ne'er did light fo clear Though every night the fun himfelf fet there. COWLEY. The poetical effect of a Lover's name upon glafs : My name engrav'd herein Doth contribute my firmness to this glass; DONNE. THEIR conceits were sometimes slight and trifling. On an inconftant woman: He enjoys thy calmy funfhine now, In the clear heaven of thy brow, No smallest cloud appears. He fees thee gentle, fair and gay, And trufts the faithlefs April' of thy May. COWLET. Upon a paper written with the juice of lemon, and read by the fire: Nothing yet in thee is feen, But when a genial heat warms thee within, Here sprouts a V, and there a T, COWLEY. AS they fought only for novelty, they did not much enquire whether their allufions were to things high or low, elegant or grofs; whether they compared the little to the great, or the great to the little. Phyfick and Chirurgery for a Lover. Gently, ah gently, madam, touch The wound, which you yourself have made; That pain muft needs be very much, Which makes me of your hand afraid. Cordials of pity give me now, For I too weak for purgings grow. COWLEY. The The World and a Clock. Mahol, th' inferior world's fantastic face, COWLEY. A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but that it may not want its due honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the Sun : i The moderate value of our guiltless ore Had he our pits, the Perfian would admire Or both? 'tis here: and what can funs give Nay, what's the fun but, in a different name, |