Give me now my lyre!

I feel the stirrings of a gift divine;
Within my bosom glows unearthly fire,
Lit by no skill of mine.

RICHARD CRASHAW.
Born, 1615; Died, 1652.

TEMPERANCE; OR, THE CHEAP
PHYSICIAN.

Go now, and with some daring drug
Bait thy disease; and whilst they tug,
Thou, to maintain their precious strife,
Spend the dear treasures of thy life.
Go, take physic, dote upon
Some big-named composition,
The' oraculous doctor's mystic bills-
Certain hard words made into pills :
And what at last shalt gain by these?
Only a costlier disease.

That which makes us have no need
Of physic, that's physic indeed.

Hark hither, reader! wilt thou see
Nature her own physician be?
Wilt see a man all his own wealth,
His own music, his own health;
A man whose sober soul can tell
How to wear her garments well;
Her garments that upon her sit,
As garments should do, close and fit;
A well-clothed soul that's not oppress'd

Nor choked with what she should be dress'd;

A soul sheathed in a crystal shrine,

Through which all her bright features shine : As when a piece of wanton lawn,

A thin aerial veil, is drawn

O'er beauty's face, seeming to hide,

More sweetly shows the blushing bride ;—

A soul, whose intellectual beams

No mists do mask, no lazy steams;

A happy soul, that all the way

To heaven hath a summer's day?

Wouldst see a man whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood?

A man whose tunéd humours be

A seat of rarest harmony ?

Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile

Age? Wouldst see December smile?

Wouldst see nests of new roses grow

In a bed of reverend snow?

Warm thoughts, free spirits flattering
Winter's self into a spring?

In him, wouldst see a man that can
Live to be old, and still a man?
Whose latest and most leaden hours

Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers,
And when life's sweet fable ends,
Soul and body part like friends;
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay ;
A kiss, a sigh, and so away;—
This rare one, reader, wouldst thou see?
Hark hither! and thyself be he.

POETS

OF THE RESTORATION.

&c.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

Born, 1618; Died, 1667.

TO THE GRASSHOPPER.
HAPPY insect! What can be
In happiness compared to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup doth fill.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee doth sow and plough;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!

Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripen'd year!

To thee, of all things upon earth,

Life's no longer than thy mirth.

Happy insect! happy thou

Dost neither age nor winter know.

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,

Sated with thy summer feast,

Thou retir'st to endless rest.