Which stray or fleep all day, and having loft Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then ride poft.

All that Man has to do is to live and die; the fum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines:

Think in how poor a prifon thou didst lie;
After, enabled but to fuck and cry.

Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn,

A province pack'd up in two yards of skin,
And that ufurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage
Of fickneffes, or their true mother, age.
But think that death hath now enfranchis'd thee;
Thou haft thy expanfion now, and liberty;
Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd is flown
In pieces, and the bullet is his own,
And freely flies: this to thy foul allow,
Think thy fhell broke, think thy foul hatch'd
but now.

VOL. I.

E

THEY

THE

HEY were fometimes indelicate and difgufting. Cowley thus apoftrophifes

beauty:

-Thou tyrant, which leav'ft no man free! Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!

Thou murtherer, which haft kill'd, and devil, which would'st damn me.

Thus he addreffes his Mistress:

Thou who, in many a propriety,

So truly art the fun to me,

Add one more likeness, which I'm fure you can, And let me and my fun beget a man.

Thus he represents the meditations of a Lover:

Though in thy thoughts searce 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

The true taste of Tears:

Hither with cryftal vials, lovers, come,
And take my tears, which are Love's wine,
And try your mistress' tears at home;

For all are false, that taste not just like mine.

This is yet more indelicate:

As the sweet sweat of roses in a ftill,

DONNE.

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

As the almighty balm of th' early East,

Such are the sweet drops of my miftrefs' breast. And on her neck her fkin fuch luftre fets, They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets: Rank fweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles. DONNE.

THEIR expreffions fometimes raise horror, when they intend perhaps to be

pathetic :

As men in hell are from diseases free,

So from all other ills am I,

Free from their known formality:

But all pains eminently lie in thee.

THEY

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

It gave a piteous groan, and fo it broke;
In vain it fomething would have spoke :
The love within too strong for't was,
Like poifon put into a Venice-glafs,

IN

COWLEY.

N forming defcriptions, 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 seeft me here at midnight, now all reft:
Time's dead low-water; when all minds diveft
To-morrow's bufinefs, when the labourers have
Such reft in bed, that their laft church-yard
grave,

Subject to change, will fcarce be a type of this,
Now when the client, whofe last hearing is
To-morrow, fleeps; when the condemned man,
Who when he opes
his eyes, muft fhut them then
Again

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Again by death, although fad watch he keep,
Doth practise dying by a little sleep,

Thou at this midnight feeft me.

IT must be however confessed of these wri

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

Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is, Alike if it fucceed, and if it miss; Whom good or ill does equally confound,

And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound.

Vain shadow, 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 should't but tafte, devour'ft
it quite !

Thou bring'ft us an eftate, yet leav'ft us poor,
By clogging it with legacies before!

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