Merlin the seer (and sure he would not lye Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show, Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace, And to her injur'd daughters now does boast, That Rome's o'ercome at last by a woman of her race. ODE UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY LORD BROGHILL'S. BE gone (said I), ingrateful Muse! and see Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be, What for all this, what didst thou ever pay? Not of the growth of lands where thou dost trade, Because I have no vineyard there. Well: but in love thou dost pretend to reign; There thine the power and lordship is; Thou bad'st me write, and write, and write again; 'T was such a way as could not miss. I, like a fool, did thee obey: I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain; Thus I complain'd, and straight the Muse reply'd, Bounty immense! and that too must be try'd Who now, what reader does not strive T' invalidate the gift whilst we're alive? All draw upon him, all around, And every part of him they wound, Happy the man that gives the deepest blow; And this is all, kind Muse! to thee we owe. Then in rage I took, And out at window threw, Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew; That I no more the ground would till and sow, When (see the subtle ways which Fate does find Rebellious man to bind : Just to the work for which he is assign'd!) The Muse came in more cheerful than before, 66 My lover and belov'd, my Broghill, do for thee! "Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give, "Thou shalt at least in his for ever live. "What criticks, the great Hectors now in wit, 66 Broghill in thy de fence has drawn his conquering 66 pen?" And pardon ask'd for all that I had said: Well satisfy'd and proud, I straight resolv'd, and solemnly I vow'd, So strongly large rewards work on a grateful heart! Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise The only danger is, lest it should be Lest, in removing cold, it should beget And into madness turn the lethargy. Ah! gracious God! that I might see But I within me bear, alas! too great allays, 'T is said, Apelles, when he Venus drew, So, though this nobler painter, when he writ, That my book should before him sit, Not as a cause, but an occasion, to his wit; The bright idea there of the great writer's mind? ODE. MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TÔ THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD. HAIL, Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the sacred ark Where all the world of science does embark! [stood, Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long withInsatiate Time's devouring flood. Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which well Dost in the midst of paradise arise, Oxford! the Muses' paradise, From which may never sword the bless'd expel! Hail, Wit's illustrious Galaxy! Where thousand lights into one brightness spread; Hail, living University of the dead! Unconfus'd Babel of all tongues! which e'er Where still the shades of parted souls abide The beatifick Bodley of the Deity!.... |