Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull, Strong without rage, without o'erflowing full. ON MR. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S DEATH AND BURIAL AMONGST THE ANCIENT POETS Old Chaucer, like the morning star, To us discovers day from far. His light those mists and clouds dissolved, RICHARD LOVELACE (1618-1658) Which our dark nation long involved; But he descending to the shades, Darkness again the age invades. Next, like Aurora, Spenser rose, Whose purple blush the day foreshows; The other three, with his own fires Phoebus, the poets' god inspires; ΤΟ By Shakspere's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines, Our stage's luster Rome's outshines: These poets near our princes sleep, And with a stronger faith embrace A sword, a horse, a shield. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, 10 35 Of poets, and of orators: 40 ABRAHAM COWLEY (1618-1667) THE SWALLOW Foolish Prater, what do'st thou With thy tuneless serenade? Well 't had been had Tereus made Thee as dumb as Philomel: There his knife had done but well. Thou dost all the winter rest, And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, Free from the stormy season's noise: 10 Who disturbs, or seeks out thee? A dream out of my arms to-day, Nothing half so sweet or fair, Nothing half so good can'st bring, 15 20 Though men say, 'Thou bring'st the spring?' |