How happy he that loves not, lives! How unconcern'd in things to come! Secure from low and private ends, Danger and honour are his joy; Then he lays-by the public care, Nor fire, nor foe, nor fate, nor night, Though ftill his foes in number grew, But death in all her forms appears, For whom he leads, and whom he bears. *His father and fon. Love, making all things elfe his foes, This was the caufe the poets fung, Her father, not her fon, art thou: And from the caufe th' effect muft flow. Love is as old as place or time; 'Twas he the fatal tree did climb, Grandfire of father Adam's crime. Well may'st thou keep this world in awe; The tyrant in his triumph draw. 'Tis he commands the powers above; Phoebus refigns his darts, and Jove His thunder, to the God of Love. To him doth his feign'd mother yield; He clips Hope's wings, whofe airy blifs But lefs than nothing, if it mifs. When When matches Love alone projects, The cause transcending the effects, That wild-fire 's quench'd in cold neglects.` Whilft those conjunctions prove the best, Though Solomon with a thousand wives, Old Rome of children took no care, They with their friends their beds did share, Love, drowsy days and stormy nights Feed, but not glut our appetites. Well-chofen friendship, the most noble But when th' unlucky knot we tie, The wolf, the lion, and the bear, Yet timorous deer, and harmless sheep, Who then can blame the amorous boy, Such is the world's prepofterous fate, But love may beasts excufe, for they But their brute appetites obey. But man's that favage beast, whofe mind Delights to prey upon his kind. On Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S Death, and Burial amongst the ancient Poets. LD Chaucer, like the morning star, Otp To us difcovers day from far; His light thofe mifts and clouds diffolv'd, Darkness again the age invades. The The other three, with his own fires, By Shakespeare's, Jonfon's, Fletcher's lines, That pluck'd the faireft, sweetest flower And amongst wither'd laurels threw. Time, which made them their fame out-live, To Cowley scarce did ripenefs give. Old mother Wit, and Nature, gave In Spenfer, and in Jonfon, Art But both in him fo 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 Jonfon, did make bold Of poets, and of orators : Horace's wit, and Virgil's ftate, He did not fteal, but emulate! And when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their cloaths, did wear: |