Nor is he happier than these,
Who in a moderate estate,

Where he might safely live at ease,
Has lusts that are immoderate.

For he, by those desires misled,
Quits his own vine's securing shade,
To' expose his naked, empty head

To all the storms man's peace invade.

Nor is he happy who is trim,

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Tricked up in favours of the fair,

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Mirrors, with every breath made dim,
Birds, caught in every wanton snare.

Woman, man's greatest woe or bliss,
Does ofter far, than serve, enslave,
And with the magic of a kiss

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We call that sickness, which is health;
That persecution, which is grace;
That poverty, which is true wealth;
And that dishonour, which is praise.

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Alas! our time is here so short,
That in what state soe'er 'tis spent,
Of joy or woe, does not import,
Provided it be innocent.

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Untrodden paths are then the best,
Where the frequented are unsure;
And he comes soonest to his rest,
Whose journey has been most secure.
It is content alone that makes
Our pilgrimage a pleasure here;

And who buys sorrow cheapest, takes
An ill commodity too dear.

Charles Cotton.

LXXXVIII

IN PRAISE OF HOPE.

Hope, of all ills that men endure

The only cheap and universal cure!

Thou captive's freedom, and thou sick man's health!

Thou loser's victory, and thou beggar's wealth!

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Thou manna, which from heaven we eat,

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To every taste a several meat!

Thou strong retreat, thou sure entailed estate,

Which nought has power to alienate!

Thou pleasant, honest flatterer, for none
Flatter unhappy men, but thou alone!

ΙΟ

Hope, thou first-fruits of happiness!

Thou gentle dawning of a bright success!

Thou good preparative, without which our joy

Does work too strong, and whilst it cures, destroy;

Who out of fortune's reach dost stand,

And art a blessing still in hand!
Whilst thee, her earnest-money, we retain,
We certain are to gain,

Whether she her bargain break, or else fulfil;
Thou only good, not worse for ending ill!

Brother of Faith, 'twixt whom and thee

The joys of Heaven and earth divided be!

Though Faith be heir, and have the fixed estate,
Thy portion yet in moveables is great.
Happiness itself's all one

In thee, or in possession!

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Only the future's thine, the present his!

Thine's the more hard and noble bliss ;

Best apprehender of our joys, which hast

So long a reach, and yet canst hold so fast!

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Hope, thou sad lover's only friend!

Thou way, that may'st dispute it with the end!
For love, I fear, 's a fruit that does delight
The taste itself less than the smell and sight.
Fruition more deceitful is

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Than thou canst be, when thou dost miss;
Men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee
Some other way again to thee:

And that's a pleasant country, without doubt,
To which all soon return that travel out.

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Abraham Cowley.

LXXXIX

PROLOGUE.

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

SPOKEN BY MR. HART, AT THE ACTING OF · THE SILENT WOMAN.'

What Greece, when learning flourished, only knew,

Athenian judges, you this day renew.

Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,

And here poetic prizes lost or won.

A day of doom is this of your decree,

Methinks I see you, crowned with olives, sit,
And strike a sacred horror from the pit.

Where even the best are but by mercy free:

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A day, which none but Jonson durst have wished to see, Here they, who long have known the useful stage,

IO

Come to be taught themselves to teach the age.

As your commissioners our poets go,
To cultivate the virtue which you sow;
In your Lycæum first themselves refined,
And delegated thence to human-kind.

But as ambassadors, when long from home,
For new instructions to their princes come,
So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your manners they correct their own.
The illiterate writer, empiric-like, applies

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To minds diseased, unsafe, chance remedies:

The learned in schools, where knowledge first began,
Studies with care the anatomy of man;

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Sees virtue, vice, and passions, in their cause,

And fame from science, not from fortune, draws.

So poetry, which is in Oxford made

An art, in London only is a trade.

There haughty dunces, whose unlearnèd pen

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Could ne'er spell grammar, would be reading men.

Such build their poems the Lucretian way;

So many huddled atoms make a play;

And if they hit in order by some chance,

They call that nature which is ignorance.
To such a fame let mere town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.
He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands,
But knows that right is in the senate's hands,

H

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Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses' feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, resigns his bays.
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.

John Dryden.

XC

PROLOGUE.

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD.

Though actors cannot much of learning beast,
Of all who want it, we admire it most:
We love the praises of a learnèd pit,

As we remotely are allied to wit.

We speak our poet's wit; and trade in ore,
Like those who touch upon the golden shore;
Betwixt our judges can distinction make,
Discern how much, and why, our poems take:
Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice;
Whether the applause be only sound or voice.
When our fop-gallants, or our city-fɔlly,

Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:

We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,
And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.

Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,

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10

15

Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grossly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;

The ready finger lays on every blot;

Knows what should justly please, and what should not. 20
Nature herself lies open to your view;

You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines false, and colours seem too faint,

Where bunglers daub, and where true poets paint.