So easily they from thee come,

And there is so much room

In the' unexhausted and unfathom'd womb, That, like the Holland Countess, thou mayst bear A child for every day of all the fertile year.

Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, If to be praised I loved more than to praise : Where'er I see an excellence,

I must admire to see thy well-knit sense,
Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high;
Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as
thine eye.

'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,

Or rather 'tis angelical;

For, as in angels we

Do in thy verses see

Both improved sexes eminently meet; They are than man more strong, and more than woman sweet.

They talk of Nine, I know not who,
Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;
I ne'er could find that fancy true,
But have invoked them oft, I'm sure, in vain :
They talk of Sappho; but, alas! the shame!
Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,

That, like a lantern's fair inclosed light,
It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn
Of things for which we were not born

(Things that can only by a fond disease,
Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please)

Are the instructive subjects of her pen
And, as the Roman victory

Taught our rude land arts and civility,

At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.

But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire
A female breast with such a fire:

The warlike Amazonian train,
Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild empire before arms prefer,
Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her.
Merlin the seer (and sure he would not lie
In such a sacred company)

Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;
Even Boadicia's angry ghost

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,
And to her injured daughters now does boast,
That Rome's o'ercome at last by a woman of her

race.

ODE

UPON OCCASION OF A COPY OF VERSES OF MY
LORD BROGHILL'S.

BE gone (said I), ingrateful Muse! and see
What others thou canst fool, as well as me.
Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be,
My business and my hopes I left for thee:
For thee (which was more hardly given away)
I left, even when a boy, my play.
But say, ingrateful mistress! say,

What for all this, what didst thou ever pay?

Thou❜lt say, perhaps, that riches are

Not of the growth of lands where thou dost trade, And I as well my country might upbraid

Because I have no vineyard there.

Well: but in love thou dost pretend to reign;
There thine the power and lordship is;
Thou bad'st me write, and write, and write again;
'Twas such a way as could not miss.

I, like a fool, did thee obey:

I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in vain ;
For, after all my' expense of wit and pain,
A rich, unwriting hand carried the prize away.

Thus I complain'd, and straight the Muse reply'd,
That she had given me fame.

Bounty immense! and that too must be try'd
When I myself am nothing but a name.

Who now, what reader does not strive
To' invalidate the gift whilst we're alive?
For, when a poet now himself doth show,
As if he were a common foe,

All draw upon him, all around,

And every part of him they wound, Happy the man that gives the deepest blow: And this is all, kind Muse! to thee we owe. Then in rage I took,

And out at window threw,

Ovid and Horace, all the chiming crew;
Homer himself went with them too;
Hardly escaped the sacred Mantuan book:
I my own offspring, like Agavé, tore,
And I resolved, nay, and I think I swore,
That I no more the ground would till and sow,
Where only flowery weeds instead of corn did grow.

When (see the subtle ways which Fate does find

Rebellious man to bind

Just to the work for which he is assign'd!)
The Muse came in more cheerful than before,
And bade me quarrel with her now no more:
"Lo! thy reward! look here, and see
What I have made" (said she),

My lover and beloved, my Broghill, do for thee! Though thy own verse no lasting fame can give, Thou shalt at least in his for ever live.

What critics, the great Hectors now in wit, Who rant and challenge all men that have writ, Will dare to' oppose thee, when

Broghill in thy defence has drawn his conquering
I rose, and bow'd my head,

And pardon ask'd for all that I had said:
Well satisfy'd and proud,

[pen?"

I straight resolved, and solemnly I vow'd,
That from her service now I ne'er would part;
So strongly large rewards work on a grateful heart!

Nothing so soon the drooping spirits can raise
As praises from the men whom all men praise:
"Tis the best cordial, and which only those
Who have at home the' ingredients can compose
A cordial that restores our fainting breath,
And keeps up life e'en after death!

The only danger is, lest it should be
Too strong a remedy;

Lest, in removing cold, it should beget
Too violent a heat;

And into madness turn the lethargy.

Ah! gracious God! that I might see A time when it were dangerous for me

To be o'er-heat with praise!

But I within me bear, alas! too great allays.

'Tis said, Apelles, when he Venus drew,
Did naked women for his pattern view,
And with his powerful fancy did refine
Their human shapes into a form divine;
None who had sat could her own picture see,
Or say, one part was drawn for me:

So, though this nobler painter, when he writ,
Was pleased to think it fit

That my book should before him sit,
Not as a cause, but an occasion, to his wit;
Yet what have I to boast, or to apply
To my advantage out of it; since I,
Instead of my own likeness, only find

The bright idea there of the great writer's mind?

ODE.

MR. COWLEY'S BOOK PRESENTING ITSELF TO THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF OXFORD.

HAIL, Learning's Pantheon! Hail, the sacred ark Where all the world of science does embark! Which ever shall withstand, and hast so long with

Insatiate Time's devouring flood. [stood, Hail, tree of knowledge! thy leaves fruit! which Dost in the midst of paradise arise, [well

Oxford! the Muses' paradise,

From which may never sword the bless'd expel!
Hail, bank of all past ages! where they lie
To' enrich with interest posterity!

Hail, Wit's illustrious Galaxy!