239. TO CHLORIS FAREWELL, my sweet, until I come, To loyalty my love must bow, Must keen and sturdy iron wield. 240. FROM THE RETIREMENT' GOOD God, how sweet are all things here, How cleanly do we feed and lie, What peace, what unanimity! How innocent from the lewd fashion To read, and meditate, and write; By none offended, and offending none. C. COTTON. To walk, ride, sit, or sleep, at one's own ease, And, pleasing a man's self, none other to displease! 241. CONTENTATION WHO from the busy world retires, To be more useful to it still, And to no greater good aspires Who with his angle and his books, Can think the longest day well spent, To crooked and forbidden ways. C. COTTON. C. COTTON. 242. A PARADISE BELOW DEAR Chloe, while the busy crowd, In folly's maze advance; Nor join the giddy dance. Though fools spurn Hymen's We, who improve his golden hours, A paradise below! N. COTTON (The Fireside). 243. CHEER UP, MY MATES CHEER up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow; Farewell, all lands, for now we are In the wide sea of drink, and merrily we go. And we shall cut the burning Line: Hey, boys! she scuds away, and by my head I know What dull men are those who tarry at home, And gain such experience, and spy, too, But pr'ythee, good pilot, take heed what you do, With gold there the vessel we'll store, And never, and never be poor, No, never be poor any more. A. COWLEY (Sitting and drinking in the chair made out of the relics of Sir Francis Drake's ship). 244. FILL THE BOWL WITH ROSY WINE FILL the bowl with rosy wine, To-day is ours; what do we fear? A. COWLEY. 245. THE SWALLOW FOOLISH prater, what dost thou Cruel bird, thou'st ta'en away By all that waking eyes may see. 246. LARGE WAS HIS SOUL High as the place 'twas shortly in Heaven to have, So high that all the virtues there did come, As to their chiefest seat So low, that for me too it made a room. Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ, About his eloquent tongue; Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit. His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit, As if wise Nature had made that her book. A. COWLEY (On the death of Mr. William Harvey). 247. LIFE LIFE's a name That nothing here can truly claim; This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait, And mighty voyages we take, And mighty journeys seem to make, O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space. Some captives call, and say, 'The rest are slain; Because we heap up yellow earth, and so Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous seem to grow; Because we draw a long nobility We grow at last by custom to believe, Whilst all these shadows, that for things we take, Are but the empty dreams which in Death's sleep we make. A. COWLEY. 248. WITHOUT AND WITHIN LOVE in her sunny eyes doth basking play; 249. THE CHRONICLE MARGARITA first possessed, If I remember well, my breast; Margarita, first of all! But when a while the wanton maid Martha soon did it resign To the beauteous Catharine. A. COWLEY. (Though loath and angry she to part And still new favourites she chose, And cast away her yoke. Mary then and gentle Anne Both to reign at once began. Alternately they swayed; And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear; And sometimes both I obeyed. Another Mary then arose And did rigorous laws impose; A mighty tyrant she! Long, alas, should I have been Had not Rebecca set me free. When fair Rebecca set me free, One month, three days, and half an hour, Wondrous beautiful her face; But so weak and small her wit But when Isabella came, Whilst she proudly marched about But I will briefer with them be, Whom God grant long to reign! 250. POET AND SAINT POET and Saint! to thee alone are given A. COWLEY. The two most sacred names of earth and heaven, Next that of Godhead with humanity. Long did the Muses banished slaves abide, And built vain pyramids to mortal pride: Like Moses, thou (though spells and charms withstand) Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land. Ah, wretched we, poets of earth! but thou Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now. Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new songs, but say the old. A. COWLEY (On the death of Mr. Crashaw). |