TRANSLATED PARAPHRASTICALLY

I'LL fing of heroes and of kings,

In mighty numbers, mighty things. Begin, my Mufe! but lo! the strings To my great fong rebellious prove; The ftrings will found of nought but love. I broke them all, and put on new; 'Tis this or nothing fure will do. Thefe fure (faid 1) will me obey; Thefe, fure, heroic notes will play. Strait I began with thundering Jove, And all th' immortal powers; but Love, Love fmil'd, and from my' enfeebled lyre Came gentle airs, fuch as infpire Melting love and soft defire. Farewell then, heroes! farewell, kings! And mighty numbers, mighty things! Love tuncs my heart juft to my ftrings.

T

II.

DRINKING.

HE thirsty earth foaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again. The plants fuck-in the earth, and are With conftant drinking fresh and fair; The fea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The bufy fun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no lefs) Drinks up the fea, and, when he 'as done, ⚫ The moon and stars drink up the fun : They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature's fober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glaffes there; for why

Wisdom for fhield, and wit for fword.
What to beauteous womankind,
What arms, what armour, has fhe' affign'd?
Beality is both; for with the fair

What arms, what armour, can compare?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,

More impaffible is found?

And yet what flame, what lightning, c'er

So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like porcupines from every part.

Who can, alas! their ftrength express,
Arm'd, when they themselves undrefs,
Cap-a-pie with nakedness?

Y will not now Love's rebel prove, Though I was once his enemy; Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I, Did to the combat him defy. An helmet, fpear, and mighty fhield, Like fome new Ajax, I did wield. Love in one hand his bow did take, In th' other hand a dart did shake; But yet in vain the dart did throw, In vain he often drew the bow; So well my armour did refift, So oft by flight the blow I mift: But, when I thought all danger past, His quiver empty'd quite at last, Inftead of arrow or of dart He fhot himself into my heart.

TES, I will love then, I will love;

The living and the killing arrow

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Ran through the fkin, the flesh, the blood, And broke the bones, and fcorch'd the marrow,

No trench or work of life withstood,

In vain I now the walls maintain;

I fet out guards and scouts in vain;
Since th' enemy does within remain.
In vain a breast-plate now I wear,
Since in my breaft the foe I bear;
In vain my feet their fwiftnefs try;
For from the body can they fly?

WHE

HEN all the ftars are by thec told,
(The endless fums of heavenly gold);
Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From fickly autumn's head that fall;
Or when the drops that make the fea,
Whilft all her fands thy counters be;
Thou then, and thou alone, may'st prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens fcore,
At Corinth write an hundred more:
Fair Corinth does fuch beauties bear,
So few, is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios feventy-three;
Write then at Lefbos (let me fee)
Write me at Lefbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one.
And, next to thefe, let me prefent
The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company;
Five hundred both effectively.

Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis, I'm fure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And every eye 's an archer there.
Go on this ftop why doft thou make?
Thou think'ft, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a fum?
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different nations in his hoft.
On; for my love, if thou be'ft weary,
Muft find fome better fecretary.
I have not yet my Perfian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian loves, nor African:
Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names
Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone,
And cold ones in the frigid one,
Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the Line.

VII. GOLD.

A MIGHTY pain to love it is,

And 'tis a pain that pain to miss;
But, of all pains, the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit, by Love is understood;
Gold alone does paflion move,
Gold monopolizes love;

A curfe on her, and on the man
Who this traffic firft began!

A curfe on him who found the ore!
A curfe on him who digg'd the store!
A curfe on him who did refine it!
A curfe on him who first did coin it!
A curfe, all curfes elfe above,
On him who us'd it firft in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;
Gold does friendships feparate;
Gold does civil wars create.
Thefe the fmalleft harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.

UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds fupinely laid,

With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it rofes growing.
What fhould I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
I. this more than kingly state
Love himself fhall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay, fill it up;
And mingled caft into the cup
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay defires.
The wheel of life no lefs will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:

Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower?
Nobler wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but duft can fhow,
Or bones that haften to be fo.
Crown me with rofes whilst I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.

X.

THE GRASSHOPPER.

HAPPY infect! what can be

In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's felf's thy Ganymede.

Thou doft drink, and dance, and fing;
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou doft fee,
All the plants, belong to thee:
All that fummer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does fow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou doft innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The thepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does infpire;
Phoebus is himself thy fire.

To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy infect, happy thou!

Doft neither age nor winter know;

But, when thou 'ft drunk, and danc'd, and fung Thy fill, the flowery leaves among (Voluptuous, and wife withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy fummer feaft, Thou retir'ft to endlefs reft.

XI.

THE SWALLOW.

FOOLISH prater, what doft thou
So early at my window do,

With thy tunclefs ferenade?
Well 't had been had Tereus made
Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.

In thy undifcover'd neft
Thou doft all the winter reft,

And dreameft o'er thy fummer joys,
Free from the ftormy feafons' noife:
Free from th' ill thou 'ft done to me;
Who difturbs or feeks-out thee?
Hadit thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou 'ft ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou 'ft ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream, that ne'er muft equal'd be
By all that waking eyes may fee.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half fo fweet or fair,
Nothing half fo good, canft bring,
Though men say thou bring'ft the spring.

How

My best servant, and my friend?

Nay, and, if from a Deity

So much deified as I,

It found not too profane and odd,

Oh, my mafter and my god!

For 'tis true, moft mighty poet!

(Though I like not men fhould know it)

I am in naked nature lefs,

Lefs by much, than in thy drefs.

All thy verfe is fofter far
Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or fparrows.
Sweet as lovers' freshest kiffes,
Or their riper following bliffes,
Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound;
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy ftyle.
The fmooth-pac'd hours of every day
Glided numerously away.

Like thy verse each hour did pafs;
Sweet and fhort, like that, it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Juft what they by nature owe me,

The time that 's mine, and not their own,

The certain tribute of my crown:
When they grow old, they grow to be

Too bufy, or too wife, for me.

Thou wert wifer, and didit know
None too wife for Love can grow;
Love was with thy life entwin'd,
Clofe as heat with fire is join'd;
A powerful brand prefcrib'd the date
Of tline, like Meleager's fate.
Th' antiperiftafis of age
More enfiam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy filver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation,
As I have of generation,
Where I the matter must obey,
And cannot work plate out of clay,
My creatures fhould be all like thee,
"Tis thou fhouldЛt their idea be:
They, like thee, fhould throughly hate
Bufinefs, honour, title, state;

Other wealth they should not know,
But what my living mines beftow;
The pomp of Kings, they fhould confefs,
At their crownings, to be lefs
Than a lover's humbleft guife,
When at his miftrefs' feet he lies.
Rumour they no more fhould mind
Than men fafe-landed do the wind;
Wisdom itself they should not hear,
When it prefumes to be fevere:
Beauty alone they fhould admire,
Nor look at Fortune's vain attire,
Nor ask what parents it can fhew;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
They fhould not love yet all or any,
But very much and very many :
All their life fhould gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety;
Well remembering and applying
The neceffity of dying.

Their cheerful heads fhould always wear
All that crowns the flowery year :
They fhould always laugh, and fing,

And dance, and strike th' harmonious string;
Verfe fhould from their tongue fo flow,
As if it in the mouth did grow,

As fwiftly anfwering their command-
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilft I do thus difcover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
"Tis, my Anacreon! for thy fake
I of the grape no mention make.

Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Curfed plant! I lov'd thee well;
And 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Curfed plant! 'tis true, I fee,
Th' old report that goes of thee--
That, with giants' blood the earth
Stain'd and poifon'd, gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'ft thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thunder;
In rage, in quarrels and in fights,
Worfe than his tigers, he delights;
In all our heaven I think there be
No fuch ili-natur'd God as he.
Thou pretendeft, traiterous Wine!
To be the Mufes' friend and mine:
With love and wit thou doft begin,
Falfe fires, alas! to draw us in;
Which, if our courfe we by them keep,
Mifguide to madness or to fleep:
Sleep were well; thou 'aft learnt a way
To death itfelf now to betray.

It grieves me when I fee what fate
Does on the best of mankind wait.

CHRIST'S PASSION,

TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR. MASTERS, OF NEW-COLLEGE IN OXFORD.

'NOUGH, my Mufe! of earthly things,

EN

And inspirations but of wind;

Take up thy lute, and to it bind

Loud and everlasting strings;

And on them play, and to them fing,
The happy mournful stories,

The lamentable glories,

Of the great crucified King.

Mountainous heap of wonders! which doft rife
Till earth thou joineft with the skies!
Too large at bottom, and at top too high,
To be half feen by mortal eye!

How fhall I grafp this boundlefs thing?
What fhall I play? what fhall I fing?
I'll fing the mighty riddle, of mysterious love,
Which neither wretched men below, nor bleffed
fpirits above,

With all their comments can explain; How all the whole world's life to die did not difdain!

I'll fing the fearchlefs depths of the compaffion Divine,

The depths unfathom'd yet

By reafon's plummet and the line of wit;
Too light the plummet, and too short the line!
How the eternal Father did beftow

His own eternal Son as ranfom for his foe,

I'll fing aloud, that all the world may hear The triumph of the buried Conqueror. How hell was by its prifoner captive led, And the great flayer, Death, flain by the dead. Methinks I hear of murdered men the voice, Mixt with the murderers' confufed noife,

These verfes were not included among thofe which Mr. Cowley himfelf ftyled " Mifcellanies;" but were claffed by Bishop Sprat under the title by which they are here diftinguished. N.

Sound from the top of Calvary; My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and fee Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three; Oh, how unlike the others he!

Look, how he bends his gentle head with bleffings from the tree!

His gracious hands, ne'er ftretch'd but to do good, Are nail'd to the infamous wood!

And finful man does fondly bind

The arms which he extends t' embrace all humankind.

Unhappy man! canft thou stand by and fee

All this as patient as he?

Since he thy fins does bear,

Make thou his fufferings thine own

And weep, and figh, and groan,
And beat thy breast, and tear
Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love,
Through all thy bleeding bowels move.

Doft thou not fee thy prince in purple clad all o'er,
Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,
But made at home with richer gore?
Deft thou not fee the rofes which adorn
The thorny garland by him worn?
Doft thou not fee the livid traces
Of the sharp fccurges' rude embraces?
If yet thou fecleft not the finart

Of thorns and fcourges in thy heart;
If that be yet not crucify'd;

Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his fide!

Open, oh! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,

And let them call

Their ftock of moisture forth where'er it lies!
For this will afk it all.

'Twould all, alas! too little be,
Though thy falt tears come from a fea.
Canft thon deny him this, when he
Has open'd all his vital fprings for thee?
Take heed; for by his fide's myfterious flood
May well be understood,

That he will still require fome watersto his blood.

O DE

ON ORINDA's гOEMS.

WE allow'd you beauty, and we did submit

To all the tyrannies of it; Ah! cruel fex, will you depofe us too in wit? Orinda does in that too reign; Does man behind her in proud triumph draw, And cancel great Apollo's Salique law.

We our old title plead in vain,

Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verfe was Lov's fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauty's camp it was not known;
Too many arms befides that conqueror bore:
'Twas the great cannon we brought down
T'affault a ftubborn town:

Vol. II.

Mrs. Catharine Philips.

Orinda first did a bold fally make,

Our strongest quarter take,
And fo fuccefsful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himfelf his own artillery.

Women, as if the body were their whole,
Did that, and not the foul,
Tranfmit to their pofterity;
If in it fometime they conceiv'd,
Th' abortive iffue never liv'd.
"Twere fhame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
A fpitit fo rich, fo noble, and so high,
Should unnianur'd or barren lie.
But thou induftriously haft fow'd and fill'd
The fair and fruitful field;

And 'tis a ftrange increafe that it does yield,
As, when the happy Gods above

Meet all together at a feast,

A fecret joy unspeakable does move

In their great mother Cybele's contented breaft:
With no lefs pleasure thou, methinks, should see,
This, thy no lefs immortal progeny;

And in their birth thou no one touch doft find,
Of th' ancient curfe to woman-kind :
Thou bring'ft not forth with pain;

It neither travail is nor labour of the brain :
So easily they from thee come,

And there is so much room

In th' unexhausted and unfathom'd womb, That, like the Holland Countess, thou may'st bear

A child for every day of all the fertile year.

Thou doft my wonder, wouldft my envy, raise If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praife: Where'er I fee an excellence,

I must admire to fee thy well-knit fenfe,
Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high;
Thofe as thy forehead fmooth, these sparkling as
thine eye.

'Tis folid, and 'tis manly all,
Or rather 'tis angelical;
For, as in angels, we

Do in thy verses fee

Both improv'd fexes eminently meet;

They are than man more ftrong, and more than woman [weet.

They talk of Nine, I know not who, Female chimeras that o'er poets reign;

I ne'er could find that fancy true, But have invok'd them oft, I'm fure, in vain : They talk of Sappho; but, alas! the fhame! Ill-manners foil the luftre of her fame; Orinda's inward virtue is fo bright, That, like a lantern's fair inclofed light, It through the paper fhines where the does write. Honour and friendship, and the generous fcorn Of things for which we were not born (Things that can only by a fond difcafe, Like that of girls, our vicious ftomachs please) Are the inftructive fubjects of her pen; And, as the Roman victory

Taught our rude land arts and civility,

1

At once the overcomes, enflaves, and betters, men

G