Abraham Cowley

Here Lucifer the mighty Captive reigns; Proud, 'midst his Woes, and Tyrant in his Chains.

Lo, this great work, a Temple to thy praise, On polisht Pillars of strong Verse I raise! A Temple, where if Thou vouchsafe to dwell, It Solomons, and Herods shall excel. Too long the Muses-Land have Heathen bin; Their Gods too long were …

Ev'en Thou my breast with such blest rage inspire, As mov'd the tuneful strings of Davids Lyre

I sing the Man who Judahs Scepter bore In that right hand which held the Crook before; Who from best Poet, best of Kings did grow; The two chief gifts Heav'n could on Man bestow.

A mighty pain to love it is, And 't is a pain that pain to miss; But of all pains, the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain.

Fill all the glasses there, for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why?

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again; The plants suck in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair.

Words that weep and tears that speak.

His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.

Hail, Bard triumphant! and some care bestow On us, the Poets Militant below!

Thou Wert living the same poet which thou'rt now, Whilst Angels sing to thee their airs divine, And joy in an applause so great as thine. Equal society with them to hold, Thou need'st not make new aongs, but say the old.

Poet and Saint! to thee alone are given The two most sacred names of Earth and Heaven.

Ye fields of Cambridge, our dear Cambridge, say, Have ye not seen us walking every day? Was there a tree about which did not know The love betwixt us two?

We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine, But search of deep philosophy, Wit, eloquence, and poetry; Arts which I lov'd, for they, my friend, were thine.

Life is an incurable disease.

Beauty, thou wild fantastic ape Who dost in every country change thy shape!

Hope, of all ills that men endure, The only cheap and universal cure.

Th' adorning thee with so much art Is but a barb'rous skill; 'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart, Too apt before to kill.

Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discover And not to me, thy no less silent lover?

Fond archer, Hope! who tak'st thy aim so far, That still or short, or wide thine arrows are!

What shall I do to be forever known, And make the age to come my own?

Ah, yet, ere I descend to th' grave May I a small house, and large garden have! And a few friends, and many books, both true, Both wise, and both delightful too! And since Love ne'er will from mee flee, A mistress moderately fair,

Well then; I now do plainly see This busy world and I shall ne'er agree; The very honey of all earthly joy Does of all meats the soonest cloy, And they (methinks) deserve my pity, Who for it can endure the stings,

Lukewarmness I account a sin As great in love as in religion.