2 It is not thou, but we are blind, And our corporeal eyes (we find) Dazzle the optics of our mind.

3 Love to our citadel resorts; Through those deceitful sally-ports, Our sentinels betrays our forts.

4 What subtle witchcraft man constraius, To change his pleasure into pains, And all his freedom into chains?

5 May not a prison, or a grave, Like wedlock, honour's title have? That word makes freeborn man a slave.

6 How happy he that loves not, lives! Him neither hope nor fear deceives, To Fortune who no hostage gives.

7 How unconcern'd in things to come!
If here uneasy, finds at Rome,
At Paris, or Madrid, his home.

8 Secure from low and private ends, His life, his zeal, his wealth attends His prince, his country, and his friends.

9 Danger and honour are his joy; But a fond wife, or wanton boy, May all those gen'rous thoughts destroy.

10 Then he lays by the public care;

Thinks of providing for an heir;
Learns how to get, and how to spare.

11 Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night, The Trojan hero did affright,

Who bravely twice renew'd the fight.

12 Though still his foes in number grew, Thicker their darts and arrows flew, Yet, left alone, no fear he knew.

13 But Death in all her forms appears, From every thing he sees and hears, For whom he leads, and whom he bears.1

14 Love, making all things else his foes, Like a fierce torrent, overflows Whatever doth his course oppose.

15 This was the cause, the poets sung, Thy mother from the sea was sprung; But they were mad to make thee young.

16 Her father, not her son, art thou:

From our desires our actions grow;
And from the cause th' effect must flow.

17 Love is as old as place or time;

'Twas he the fatal tree did climb,
Grandsire of father Adam's crime.

18 Well may'st thou keep this world in awe; Religion, wisdom, honour, law,

The tyrant in his triumph draw.

19 'Tis he commands the powers above; Phoebus resigns his darts, and Jove His thunder to the god of Love.

Whom he bears; his father and son.

20 To him doth his feign'd mother yield; Nor Mars (her champion's) flaming shield Guards him, when Cupid takes the field.

21 He clips Hope's wings, whose airy bliss Much higher than fruition is,

But less than nothing if it miss.

22 When matches Love alone projects,
The cause transcending the effects,
That wild fire's quench'd in cold neglects;

23 Whilst those conjunctions prove the best, Where Love's of blindness dispossess'd By perspectives of interest.

24 Though Sol'mon with a thousand wives, To get a wise successor strives,

But one (and he a fool) survives.

25 Old Rome of children took no care;

They with their friends their beds did share,
Secure t'adopt a hopeful heir.

26 Love drowsy days and stormy nights

Makes; and breaks friendship, whose delights
Feed, but not glut our appetites.

27 Well-chosen friendship, the most noble Of virtues, all our joys makes double, And into halves divides our trouble.

28 But when th' unlucky knot we tie, Care, av'rice, fear, and jealousy Make friendship languish till it die.

29 The wolf, the lion, and the bear,

When they their prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themselves forbear;

30 Yet tim'rous deer, and harmless sheep, When love into their veins doth creep, That law of Nature cease to keep.

31 Who, then, can blame the am'rous boy, Who, the fair Helen to enjoy,

To quench his own, set fire on Troy?

32 Such is the world's prepost'rous fate, Amongst all creatures, mortal hate Love (though immortal) doth create.

33 But love may beasts excuse, for they Their actions not by reason sway, But their brute appetites obey.

34 But man's that savage beast, whose mind From reason to self-love declined,

Delights to prey upon his kind.

ON MR ABRAHAM COWLEY,

HIS 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,
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 poet's god, inspires;

By Shakespeare's, Jonson's, Fletcher's lines,
Our stage's lustre Rome's outshines:
These poets near our princes sleep,
And in one grave their mansion keep.
They lived to see so many days,
Till time had blasted all their bays:
But cursed be the fatal hour,

That pluck'd the fairest, sweetest flower
That in the Muses' garden grew,

And amongst wither'd laurels threw!
Time, which made them their fame outlive,
To Cowley scarce did ripeness give.
Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespeare and Fletcher all they have;
In Spenser, and in Jonson, Art
Of slower Nature got the start;

But both in him so equal are,

None knows which bears the happiest share;
To him no author was unknown,

Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient gold,

Nor, with Ben Jonson, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman stores

Of poets, and of orators:

Horace's wit, and Virgil's state,

He did not steal, but emulate!

And when he would like them appear,

Their garb, but not their clothes, did wear;
He not from Rome alone, but Greece,

Like Jason, brought the golden fleece;

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