Who but Donne would have thought that a good man is a telescope? Though God be our true glass, through which we fee All, fince the being of all things is he, Who would imagine it poffible that in a very few lines fo many remote ideas could be brought together? Since 'tis my doom, Love's undershrieve, Why doth my She Advowson fly To fell thyfelf doft thou intend And hold the contraft thus in doubt, Think but how foon the market fails, As if to measure age's fpan, The fober Julian were th' acount of man, Whilft you live by the fleet Gregorian. CLEIVELAND. OF enormous and disgusting hyberbales, these may be examples; By every wind, that comes this way, Such and fo many I'll repay As fhall themselves make winds to get to you, In tears I'll wafte these eyes, By Love fo vainly fed ; COWLEY. So luft of old the Deluge punished. COWLEY, All arm'd in brafs the richeft dress of war, (A difmal glorious fight) he fhone afar, The fun himself started with fudden fright, To fee his beams return fo difmal bright. An univerfal çonfternation: COWLEY. His bloody eyes he hurls round, his fharp paws Tear up the ground; then runs he wild about, Lafhing his angry tail and roaring out. Beafts creep into their dens, and tremble there Trees, though no wind is stirring, shake with fear; Silence and horror fill the place around: Echo itfelf dares fcarce repeat the found. COWLEY. THEIR fictions were often violent and unnatural, Of his Mistress bathing The fish around her crouded, as they do For ne'er did light fo clear Though every night the fun himself set there. COWLEY. The poetical effect of a Lover's name upon glafs: My name engrav'd herein Doth contribute my firmnefs to this glass; Donne. THEIR conceits were sometimes flight and trifling. On an inconftant woman: He enjoys thy calmy funfhine now, No fmalleft cloud appears. He fees thee gentle, fair and gay, And trufts the faithlefs April of thy May. COWLEY, Upon a paper written with the juice of Jemon, and read by the fire; Nothing yet in thee is feen; But when a genial heat warms thee within, A new-born wood of various lines there grows Here buds an L, and there a B, Here sprouts a V, and there a T, COWLEY S they fought only for novelty, they did not much enquire whether their allųfions were to things high or low, elegant or grofs; whether they compared the little to the great, or the great to the little, Phyfick and Chirurgery for a Lover. Gently, ah gently, madam, touch The wound, which you yourself have made; That pain must needs be very much, Which makes me of your hand afraid. Cordials of pity give me now, For I too weak for purgings grow, COWLEY, The The World and a Clock. Mahol, th' inferior world's fantastic face, A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but, that it may not want its due honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the Sun ; The moderate value of our guiltless ore Makes no man atheift, and no woman whore; Yet why should hallow'd vestal's facred fhrine Deserve more honour than a flaming mine? These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be Than a few embers, for a deity. Had he our pits, the Perfian would admire No fun, but warm's devotion at our fire: He'd leave the trotting whipfter, and prefer Our profound Vulcan 'bove that waggoner. For wants he heat, or light? or would have ftore Of both? 'tis here: and what can funs give Nay, what's the fun but, in a different name, 7 Then |