THE

AUTHOR'S PREFACE

TO HIS

JUVENILE

POEMS.

R

EADER (I know not yet whether gentle or no) fome, I know, have been angry (I dare not affume the honour of their envy) at my poetical boldness, and blamed in mine, what commends other fruits, earlincfs: others, who are either of a weak faith, or strong malice, have thought me like a pipe, which never founds but when it is blowed in, and read me, not as Abraham Cowley, but Authorem Anonymum. To the first I answer, that it is an envious froft which nips the bloffoms, because they appear quickly to the latter, that he is the worst homicide who ftrives to murder another's fame: to both, that it is a ridiculous folly to condemn or laugh at the stars, because the moon and fun fhine brighter. The fmall fire I have is rather blown than extinguished by this wind. For the itch of Poefy, by being angered, increaseth; by rubbing, fpreads farther; which appears in that I have ventured upon this Third Edition. What though it be neglected? It is not, I am fure, the first book which hath

lighted

lighted tobacco, or been employed by cooks and grocers. If in all men's judgments it fuffer fhipwreck, it shall fomething content me, that it hath pleased myself and the Bookfeller. In it you fhall find one argument (and I hope I shall need no more) to confute unbelievers : which is, that as mine age, and confequently experience (which is yet but little) hath increased, so they have not left my Poefy flagging behind them. I should not be angry to fee any one burn my Piramus and Thisbe, nay, I would do it myself, but that I hope a pardon may easily be gotten for the errors of ten years age. My Conftantius and Philetus confefleth me two years older when I writ it. The reft were made fince, upon feveral occafions, and perhaps do not belye the time of their birth. Such as they are, they were created by me: but their fate lies in your hands; it is only you can effect, that neither the Bookfeller repent himself of his charge in printing them, nor I of my labour in compofing them. Farewel.

A. COWLEY.

то

TO THE READER..

I call'd the buskin'd' mufe Melpomene,

And told her what fad story I would write : She wept at hearing fuch a tragedy,

Though wont in mournful ditties to delight.

If thou dislike these forrowful lines, then know My Mufe with tears, not with conceits, did flow.:

And as the my unabler quill did guide,
Her briny tears did on the paper fall;
If then unequal numbers be espied,
Oh, Reader! do not that my error call

But think her tears defac'd it, and blame then
My Mufes' grief, and not my miffing pen.

ABRAHAM COWLEY.

CON

CONSTANTIA AND PHILETUS..

I

SING two constant lovers' various fate,

The hopes and fears that equally attend Their loves; their rivals' envy, parents' hate: I fing their woeful life and tragic end.

Aid me, ye gods, this story to rehearse,

This mournful tale, and favour every verfe!
In Florence, for her stately buildings fam'd,
And lofty roofs that emulate the sky,
There dwelt a lovely maid, Conftantia nam'd,
Fam'd for the beauty of all Italy.

Her, lavish Nature did at first adorn,
With Pallas' foul in Cytherea's form:

And, framing her attractive eyes fo bright,
Spent all her wit in ftudy, that they might
Keep earth from chaos and eternal night;
But envious death destroy'd their glorious light.
Expect not beauty then, fince she did part;
For in her Nature wafted all her art.

Her hair was brighter than the beams which are
A crown to Phoebus; and her breath so sweet,
It did tranfcend Arabian odours far,

Or fmelling flowers, wherewith the spring doth greet.
Approaching fummer; teeth, like falling fnow
For white, were placed in a double row.

Her

Her wit, excelling praise, even all admire ;
Her speech was so attractive it might be
A cause to raise the mighty Pallas' ire,
And ftir up envy from that deity.
The maiden lilies at her fight

grew

Wax'd pale with envy, and from thence
She was in birth and parentage as high
As in her fortune great or beauty rare ;
And to her virtuous mind's nobility
The gifts of Fate and Nature doubled were ;
That in her spotlefs foul and lovely face
You might have seen each deity and

The fcornful boy Adonis, viewing her,
Would Venus ftill despise, yet her desire ;
Each who but faw, was a competitor

grace.

And rival, scorch'd alike with Cupid's fire.

white.

The glorious beams of her fair eyes did moves
And light beholders on their way to love.
Among her many fuitors, a young knight,
"Bove others wounded with the majesty
Of her fair presence, presseth most in fight;
Yet feldom his defire can fatisfy

With that bleft object, or her rareness see
For beauty's guard is watchful jealousy.

Oft times, that he might fee his dearest fair,
Upon his stately jennet he in th' way
Rides by her house; who neighs, as if he were
Proud to be view'd by bright Conftantia.

But his poor master, though to see her move
His joy, dares fhew no look betraying love,

Soon