Thou wilt not long difpute it, thou wilt die;
And having little now, have then no Sense.

Yet when her warm Redeeming Hand, which is
A Miracle; and made fuch to work more,
Doth touch thee (fapless Leaf) thou grow'ft by this
Her Creature; Glorify'd more than before.

Then as a Mother which Delights to hear
Her early Child mif-speak half uttered Words,
Or, because Majefty doth never fear

Ill or bold Speech, the Audience affords.

And then, cold Speechlefs Wretch thou dieft again,
And wifely; what Discourse is left for thee?
From Speech of Ill, and her thou must abftain,
And is there any good which is not she?

Yet maift thou Praife her Servants, though not her,
And Wit, and Vertue, and Honour her attend,
And fince they are but her Cloaths, thou shalt not err,
If thou her Shape and Beauty, and Grace commend,

Who knows thy Destiny? when thou hast done,
Perchance her Cabinet may harbour thee,
Whither all Noble ambitious Wits do run,
A Neft almoft as full of Good as fhe.

When thou art there, if any, whom we know

Were fav'd before, and did that Heav'n partake, When the refolves his Papers, mark what show Of Favour, fhe alone, to them doth make.

Mark, if to get them, the o'er-skip the reft,
Mark if the read them twice, or kifs the Name;
Mark if fhe do the fame that they proteft;

Mark if the mark whither her Woman came.

Mark

Mark if flight things be' objected, and o'erblown, Mark if her Oaths against him be not still Referv'd, and that the grieve fhe's not her own, And chides the Doctrine that denies Free-will.

I bid thee not do this to be my Spy,
Nor to make my felf her familiar;
But fo much I do love her Choice, that I
Would fain love him that shall be lov'd of her.

ASON G.

By T. CAREW, Efq;

SK me no more where Jove bestows,

For in your Beauty's Orient deep,
Thefe Flow'rs as in their Caufes fleep.

Ask me no more whither do ftray
The Golden Atomes of the Day:
For in pure Love, Heaven did prepare
Those Powders to enrich your Hair.

Ask me no more whither doth hafte
The Nightingale, when May is past:
For in your fweet dividing Throat
She winters, and keeps warm her Note.

Ask me no more where thofe Stars light
That downwards fall in dead of Night:
For in your Eyes they fit, and there
Fixed become as in their Sphere.

Ask me no more if Eaft or West,
The Phoenix builds her Spicy Neft:
For unto you at last she flies,
And in your fragrant Bosome dies.
VOL. V.

E

COOPER'S HILL, a POEM. AS it was Printed in the Year 1650.

Written by JOHN DENHAM, Efq,

URE we have Poets, that did never dream

SURE

Upon Parnaffus, nor did tafte the Stream

Of Helicon, and therefore I fuppofe,

Those made. not Poets, but the Poets thofe;

And as Courts make not Kings, but Kings the Court, So where the Muses and their Troops resort, Parnaffus ftands; if I can be to thee

A Poet, thou Parnassus art to me.

Nor wonder, if (advantag’d in my flight,
By taking Wing from thy aufpicious height)
Through untrac'd Ways and Airy Paths I fly,
More boundless in my Fancy than my Eye.
Exalted to this height, I first look down

On Pauls, as Men from thence upon the Town.
Pauls the late Theme of such a* Muse, whose flight
Hath bravely reach'd and foar'd above thy height:
Now fhalt thou ftand, though Time, or Sword, or Fire,
Or Zeal (more fierce than they) thy fall conspire,
Secure, while thee the best of Poets fings,
Preferv'd from Ruin by the best of Kings.
As those who rais'd in Body, or in Thought
Above the Earth, or the Air's middle Vault,
Behold how Winds and Storms and Meteors grow,
How Clouds condense to Rain, congeal to Snow,
And fee the Thunder form'd, before it tear
The Air, fecure from danger and from fear,
So rais'd above the Tumult and the Crowd,
I fee the City in a thicker Cloud

Of Business, than of Smoak, where Men like Ants Toyl to prevent imaginary Wants;

Yet all in vain, increasing with their Store,

Their vaft Defires, but make their Wants the more.
As Food to unfound Bodies, though it please
The Appetite, feeds only the Difeaf.

Where with like hafte, though feveral ways they run,
Some to undo, and fome to be undone:
While Luxury and Wealth, like War and Peace,
Are cach the others Ruin, and Increase.
As Rivers loft in Seas fome fecret Vein
Thence re-conveighs, there to be lost again.
Some study Plots, and fome thofe Plots t'undo,
Others to make 'em, and undo 'em too:
Falfe to their Hopes, afraid to be fecure,
Those Mischiefs only which they make, endure:
Blinded with Light, and fick of being well,
In Tumults feek their Peace, their Heav'n in Hell.
Oh Happiness of fweet retir'd Content,
To be at once fecure and Innocent.

Windfor the next (where Mars with Venus dwells,
Beauty with Strength) above the Valley fwells
Into my Eye, as the late married Dame,
(Who proud, yet feems to make that Pride her Shame)
When Nature quickens in her pregnant Womb,
Her Wishes paft, and now her Hopes to come:
With fuch an eafie, and unforc'd Afcent,
Windfor her gentle Bofome doth prefent;
Where no ftupendous Cliff, no threatning heights
Access deny, no horrid Steep affrights,
But fuch a Rife, as doth at once invite
A Pleasure, and a Reverence from the fight.
Thy Mafter's Emblem, in whofe Face I faw
A Friend-like Sweetness, and a King-like Awe,
Where Majefty and Love fo mixt appear,
Both gently kind, both Royally fevere.
So Windfor, humble in itfelt, feems proud
To be the Bale of that Majestick Load,

Than which no Hill a nobler Burthen bears,
But Atlas only, that fupports the Spheres.
Nature this Mount fo fitly did advance,
We might conclude, that nothing is by Chance;
So plac'd, as if the did on purpose raise
The Hill, to rob the Builder of his Praife.

For none commends his Judgment, that doth chufe
That which a blind Man only could refuse;
Such are the Towers which th' hoary Temples grace
Of* Cybele, when all her Heavenly Race
Do Homage to her; yet he cannot boast,
Amongst that numerous and Celestial Hoft,
More Heroes than can Windfor, nor doth Fame's
Immortal Book record more Noble Names.
Not to look back fo far, to whom this Ifle
Muft owe the Glory of fo brave a Pile,
Whether to Cafar, Albanact, or Brute,
The British Arthur, or the Danish Knute,
(Though this of old no lefs Contest did move,
Than when for Homer's Birth seven Cities ftrove)
(Like him in Birth, thou should't be like in Fame,
As thine his Fate, if mine had been his Flame)
But whofoe'er it was, Nature design'd

First a brave Place, and then as brave a Mind.
Not to recount those several Kings, to whom
It gave a Cradle, or to whom a Tomb,

But thee (Great † Edward) and thy Greater Son,
He that the Lillies wore, and he that won;
And thy Bellona, who deserves her share
In all thy Glories; of that || Royal Pair
Which waited on thy Triumph, the brought one,
Thy Son the other brought, and the that Son.
Nor of less Hopes could her great Offspring prove,
A Royal Eagle cannot breed a Dove.

*The Mother of the Gods. ↑ Edward the Third, and the Black Prince. ‡ Queen Philippa. || The Kings of France and Scotland.