Love, making all things elfe his foes, This was the cause the poets fùng, Her father, not her fon, art thou : And from the caufe th' effect muft flow. Love is as old as place or time; Grandfire of father Adam's crime. Well may'ft thou keep this world in awe; The tyrant in his triumph draw. 'Tis he commands the powers above; To him doth his feign'd mother yield; He clips Hope's wings, whofe airy blifs 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, But one (and he a fool) furvives. Old Rome of children took no care, They with their friends their beds did share, Love, drowsy days and ftormy nights 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 excuse, for they But their brute appetites obey. But man's that favage beaft, whose mind Delights to prey upon his kind. On Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY'S Death, and Burial amongst the ancient Poets. LD Chaucer, like the morning ftar, OLD To us difcovers day from far; His light thofe mifts and clouds diffolv'd, The 1 The other three, with his own fires, By Shakespeare's, Jonfon's, Fletcher's lines, That pluck'd the fairest, 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 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 To plunder all the Roman ftores Of poets, and of orators : Horace's wit, and Virgil's ftate, He did not freal, but emulate! And when he would like them appear, Their garb, but not their cloaths, did wear : Nor did he like the omen, For fear it might be his doom. With gullet in ftring, ---A hymn of Robert Wisdom. But what was all this business? When affairs are not great, The neighbours make but a sport on't. To a goodly fat sow's baby, That day fure was thine, NATURA NATURATA. WHAT gives us that fantastic fit, That all our judgment and our wit To vulgar custom we submit? Treafon, theft, murder, and all the reft Of that foul legion we fo detest, Are in their proper names exprest. Why is it then thought fin or fhame, From whence we went, and whence we came ? Nature, |