XI.

Nor Fire, nor Foe, nor Fate, nor Night,
The Trojan Hero did affright,

Who bravely twice renew'd the Fight.

XII.

Though ftill his Foes in number grew,
Thicker their Darts and Arrows flew,
Yet left alone, no Fear he knew.

XIII.

But Death in all her Forms appears,
From ev'ry thing he fees and hears,

For whom he leads, and whom he bears.
XIV.

Love making all things elfe his Foes,
Like a fierce Torrent overflows

Whatever doth his Course oppofe.

XV.

This was the Cause the Poets fung,
Thy Mother from the Sea was sprung;
But they were mad to make thee young.

XVI.

Her Father, not her Son, art thou:

From our Defires our Actions grow;
And from the Cause th'Effect muft flow.

XVII.

Love is as old as Place or Time;

'Twas he the fatal Tree did climb,

Grandfire of Father Adam's Crime.

His Father and Son。

XVIII.

Well may'ft thou keep this World in awe; Religion, Wisdom, Honour, Law,

The Tyrant in his Triumph draw.

XIX.

'Tis he commands the Pow'rs above; Phabus refigns his Darts, and Jove His Thunder, to the God of Love.

XX..

To him doth his feign'd Mother yield ;
Nor Mars (her Champion) 's flaming Shield
Guards him, when Cupid takes the Field.

XXI.

He clips Hope's Wings, whofe airy Blifs
Much higher than Fruition is;

But less than nothing, if it mifs.

XXII.

When Matches Love alone projects,
The Cause transcending the Effects,

That Wild-fire's quencht in cold Neglects.

XXIII.

Whilft thofe Conjunctions prove the best,
Where Love's of Blindness dispoffeft,
By Perspectives of Interest.

XXIV.

Though Solomon with a thousand Wives,

To get a wife Succeffor ftrives,

But one (and he a Fool) survives.

XXV.

Old Rome of Children took no care,
They with their Friends their Beds did share,
Secure t'adopt a hopeful Heir.

XXVI.

Love, drowsy Days and ftormy Nights
Makes; and breaks Friendship, whose Delights
Feed, but not glut our Appetites.

XXVII.

Well chofen Friendship, the most noble
Of Virtues, all our Joys makes double,
And into halves divides our Trouble.
XXVIII.

But when th' unlucky Knot we tye,
Care, Av'rice, Fear, and Jealoufie
Make Friendship languish till it dye.
XXIX.

The Wolf, the Lion, and the Bear,
When they their Prey in pieces tear,
To quarrel with themfelves forbear.

XXX.

Yet timorous Deer, and harmless Sheep,
When Love into their Veins doth creep,
That Law of Nature cease to keep.

XXXI.

Who then can blame the Am❜rous Boy,
Who the fair Helen to enjoy,

To quench his own, fet Fire on Troy?

XXXII.

Such is the World's prepofterous Fate,
Amongst all Creatures, mortal Hate
Love (though Immortal) doth create.
XXXIII.

But Love may Beafts excufe, for they
Their Actions not by Reafon fway,
But their Brute Appetites obey.

XXXIV.

But Man's that Savage Beaft, whofe Mind
From Reafon to Self-Love declin'd,

Delights to prey upon his Kind.

ON

cow

Mr. ABRAHAM COWLEY

His Death and Burial amongst the
Ancient Poets.

Ο

LD Chaucer, like the Morning Star,

To us difcovers Day from far;

His Light thofe Mifts and Clouds diffolv'd,
Which our dark Nation long involv'd
But he defcending to the Shades,
Darkness again the Age invades.
Next (like Aurora) Spencer rose,
Whofe Purple Blush the Day foreshews;
The other three, with his own Fires,
Phabus, the Poets God, inspires;

By Shakespear's, Johnson's, Fletcher's Lines,
Our Stage's Luftre Rome's out-fhines: =
Thefe Poets near our Princes fleep,
And in one Grave their Manfion keep.
They liv'd to fee so many Days,

Till Time had blafted all their Bays:-
But curfed be the fatal Hour

That pluckt the faireft, fweetest Flow'r
That in the Mufes Garden grew,
And amongst wither'd Laurels threw.
Time, which made them their Fame out-live,

To Cowley fcarce did Ripeness give.

Old Mother Wit, and Nature, gave
Shakespear and Fletcher all they have;
In Spencer, and in Johnson, Art
Of flower Nature got the ftart;

But both in him fò equal are,

None knows which bears the happy'st Share;
To him no Author was unknown,
Yet what he wrote was all his own;
He melted not the ancient Gold,
Nor, with Ben Johnson, did make bold
To plunder all the Roman Stores
Of Poets, and of Orators:
Horace his Wit, and Virgil's State,

He did not fteal, but Emulate;

And when he would like them appear,

Their Garb, but not their Cloaths, did wear:

He not from Rome alone, but Greece,

Like Jafon, brought the Golden Fleece;