A Lover neither Dead nor Alive, Then down I laid my head Down on cold earth; and for a while was dead, When back to its cage again I saw it fly; And row her galley here again! Fool, to that body to return Where it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn! Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, me? A Lover's Heart, a Hand Grenado. Woe to her stubborn heart, if once mine come "Twill tear and blow up all within, Like a grenado shot into a magazin. Then shall love keep the ashes, and torn parts, Shall out of both one new one make: From her's th' allay, from mine the metal take. COWLEY. The Poetical Propagation of Light. The prince's favour is diffus'd o'er all, From which all fortunes, names, and natures fall: Then from those wombs of stars, the bride's bright eyes At every glance a constellation flies, And sows the court with stars, and doth prevent, In light and power, the all-eyed firmament: First her eye kindles other ladies' eyes, Then from their beams their jewels' lustres rise: And from their jewels torches do take fire, And all is warmth, and light, and good desire. DONNE. 1 They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts. That a Mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality, is by Cowley thus expressed: Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand, To change thee as thou'rt there, for very thee. That prayer and labour should co-operate, are thus taught by Donne: In none but us are such mix'd engines found, By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, is thus illustrated: That which I should have begun In my youth's morning, now late must be done; And I, as giddy travellers must do, Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost Light and strength, dark and tir'd, must then ride post. All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines: Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie; Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn, A province pack'd up in two yards of skin, Of sicknesses, or their true mother, age. Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but now. They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophises beauty: Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free! Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! Thou murtherer, which hast kill'd; and devil, which would'st damn me! Thus he addresses his Mistress: Thou who, in many a propriety, Add one more likeness, which I'm sure you can, Thus he represents the meditations of a Lover: Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have been So much as of original sin, Such charms thy beauty wears, as might Thou with strange adultery Dost in each breast a brothel keep; Awake all men do lust for thee, And some enjoy thee when they sleep. The true Taste of Tears. Hither with crystal vials, lovers, come, For all are false, that taste not just like mine. DONNE. This is yet more indelicate: As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, As that which from chaf'd musk-cats pores doth trill, As the almighty balm of the early East; Such are the sweet drops of my mistress' breast. DONNE. Their expressions sometimes raise horror, when they intend perhaps to be pathetic: As men in hell are from diseases free, Free from their known formality: COWLEY. They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illustrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allusions. It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke; COWLEY. In forming descriptions, they looked out, not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common subject, 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 divest To-morrow's business; when the labourers have Such rest in bed, that their last church-yard grave, Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this; It must be however confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common subjects often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtle; yet, where scholastic speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope shews an unequalled fertility of invention: Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is, Alike if it succeed and if it miss; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of Fate's 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 should'st but taste, devour'st Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor, The joys which we entire should wed, For joy, like wine kept close, does better taste, If it take air before its spirits waste. |