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Then that which living gave you room
Your glorious sepulchre shall be:

There wants no marble for a tomb,
Whose breast has marble been to me.

SIR WILLIAM DAVENANT [1606-1668]

SONG

THE lark now leaves his wat'ry nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings,
He takes this window for the east,

And to implore your light, he sings.
Awake! Awake! the morn will never rise,
Till she can dress her beauty at your eyes.

The merchant bows unto the seaman's star,
The ploughman from the sun his season takes;
But still the lover wonders what they are

Who look for day before his mistress wakes.
Awake! Awake! break through your veils of lawn!
Then draw your curtains and begin the dawn!

ABRAHAM COWLEY [1618-1667]

DRINKING

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:
The sea 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 busy sun (and one would guess
By 's drunken fiery face no less)

Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun:
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night:
Nothing in Nature 's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round.
-Fill up the bowl then! fill it high!
Fill all the glasses there! for why
Should every creature drink but I?
Why, man of morals, tell me why?

[From ANACREONTIQUES.]

THE WISH

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,
The crowd and buzz and murmurings,
Of this great hive, the city.

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 me flee,

A Mistress moderately fair,

And good as guardian-angels are,

Only beloved and loving me.

O founts! O when in you shall I

Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, espy?
O fields! O woods! when, when shall I be made
The happy tenant of your shade?

Here's the spring-head of pleasure's flood:

[Here's wealthy Nature's treasury,]
Where all the riches lie that she

Has coin'd and stamp'd for good.

Pride and ambition here

Only in far-fetch'd metaphors appear;

Here nought but winds can hurtful murmurs scatter,
And nought but echo flatter.

The Gods, when they descend, hither

From heaven did always choose their way:
And therefore we may boldly say

That 'tis the way too thither.

How happy here should I

And one dear She live, and embracing die!
She who is all the world, and can exclude,
In deserts, solitude.

I should have then this only fear:
Lest men, when they my pleasures see,
Should hither throng to live like me,
And so make a city here.

ON THE DEATH OF MR. WILLIAM HERVEY

Ir was a dismal and a fearful night,

Scarce could the morn drive on th' unwilling light,
When sleep, death's image, left my troubled breast,
By something liker death possest.

My eyes with tears did uncommanded flow,

And on my soul hung the dull weight

Of some intolerable fate.

What bell was that? Ah me! Too much I know!

My sweet companion, and my gentle peer,

Why hast thou left me thus unkindly here,

*This line, which modern editors print, does not appear in any of the earlier editions of Cowley.

Thy end for ever, and my life, to moan?
O thou hast left me all alone!
Thy soul and body, when death's agony
Besieged around thy noble heart,

Did not with more reluctance part

Than I, my dearest friend, do part from thee.

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?

Henceforth, ye gentle trees, for ever fade,
Or your sad branches thicker join,

And into darksome shades combine,
Dark as the grave wherein my friend is laid.

Large was his soul; as large a soul as e'er
Submitted to inform a body here;

High as the place 'twas shortly in heaven to have,
But low and humble as his grave;

So high that all the virtues there did come
As to their chiefest seat

Conspicuous, and great;

So low that for me too it made a room.

Knowledge he only sought, and so soon caught,
As if for him knowledge had rather sought;
Nor did more learning ever crowded lie
In such a short mortality.

Whene'er the skilful youth discoursed or writ,
Still did the notions throng

About his eloquent tongue;

Nor could his ink flow faster than his wit.

His mirth was the pure spirits of various wit,
Yet never did his God or friends forget.
And when deep talk and wisdom came in view,
Retired, and gave to them their due.

For the rich help of books he always took,
Though his own searching mind before
Was so with notions written o'er,

As if wise Nature had made that her book.

With as much zeal, devotion, piety,
He always lived, as other saints do die.
Still with his soul severe account he kept,
Weeping all debts out ere he slept.
Then down in peace and innocence he lay,
Like the sun's labourious light,
Which still in water sets at night.

Unsullied with his journey of the day.

[From the poem of the same title.]

SIR JOHN DENHAM [1615-1669]

THE RIVER THAMES

My eye, descending from the hill, surveys
Where Thames amongst the wanton valleys strays;
Thames, the most loved of all the Ocean's sons,
By his old sire, to his embraces runs,

Hasting to pay his tribute to the sea,

Like mortal life to meet Eternity;

Though with those streams he no resemblance hold,
Whose foam is amber, and their gravel gold,
His genuine and less guilty wealth t' explore,
Search not his bottom, but survey his shore,
O'er which he kindly spreads his spacious wing,
And hatches plenty for th' ensuing spring;
Nor then destroys it with too fond a stay,
Like mothers which their infants overlay,

Nor, with a sudden and impetuous wave,
Like profuse kings, resumes the wealth he gave;
No unexpected inundations spoil

The mower's hopes, nor mock the ploughman's toil,
But godlike his unwearied bounty flows,

First loves to do, then loves the good he does;

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