The fruitful seed of Heaven did brooding lie, And nothing but the Muse's fleece was dry.

It did all other threats surpass,

When God to his own people said,

"When my new mind had no infusion known, Thou gav'st so deep a tincture of thine own, That ever since I vainly try

To wash away the inherent dye:

led)

That he would give them even a heaven of

brass;

They look'd up to that heaven in vain,

restrain

Upon the most unjust to shine and rain.

"The Rachel, for which twice seven years and

more

Thou didst with faith and labour serve,
And didst (if faith and labour can) deserve,
Though she contracted was to thee,
Given to another thou didst see,
Given to another, who had store
Of fairer and of richer wives before,
And not a Leah left thy recompense to be!
Go on; twice seven years more thy fortune try;
Twice seven years more God in his bounty may
Give thee, to fling away

Into the Court's deceitful lottery;

But think how likely 'tis that thou
With the dull work of thy unwieldy plough,
Should'st in a hard and barren season thrive,
Should'st even able be to live;

Thou to whose share so little bread did fall,
In that miraculous year, when manna rain'd on
all."

Thus spake the Muse, and spake it with a smile,
That seem'd at once to pity and revile.
And to her thus, raising his thoughtful head,
The melancholy Cowley said:

"Ah, wanton foe! dost thou upbraid

The ills which thou thyself hast made?

When in the cradle innocent I lay,
Thou, wicked spirit! stolest me away,
And my abused soul didst bear

Into thy new-found worlds, I know not where
Thy golden Indies in the air;

And ever since I strive in vain

My ravish'd freedom to regain;

Still I rebel, still thou dost reign;

Lo! still in verse against thee I complain.

There is a sort of stubborn weeds,

Which, if the earth but once, it ever, breeds;

No wholesome herb can near it thrive,
No useful plant can keep alive:

The foolish sports I did on thee bestow,
Make all my art and labour fruitless now;

By making them so oft to be

The tinkling strings of thy loose minstrelsy.
Whoever this world's happiness would see,
Must as entirely cast off thee,
As they who only heaven desire
Do from the world retire.

This was my error, this my gross mistake,
Myself a demi-votary to make.

Thus, with Saphira and her husband's fate,
(A fault which I, like them, am taught too late,)
For all that I gave up I nothing gain,
And perish for the part which I retain.

"Teach me not then, O thou fallacious Muse!

The Court, and better king, t' accuse:
The heaven under which I live is fair,
The fertile soil will a full harvest bear:
Thine, thine is all the barrenness; if thou
Mak'st me sit still and sing, when I should plough.
Our patient sovereign did attend
His long misfortune's fatal end;
How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear,
On the Great Sovereign's will he did depend;
To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse!
I ought to be accurs'd, if I refuse
Kings have long hands, they say; and though
I be

So distant, they may reach at length to me.
However, of all princes, thou
Should'st not reproach rewards for being small
or slow;

Thou who rewardest but with popular breath,
And that too after death!"

Resolved to love.

I wonder what the grave and wise

Think of all us that love;
Whether our pretty fooleries
Their mirth or anger move;

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, men of morals, tell me why.

2.

The Grasshopper.

Happy insect! 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 selfe's thy Ganymede.
Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee country hindes with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;

Phoebus is himself thy sire.

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

Dost neither age nor winter know:
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withall,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.

Gather the flowers, but spare the buds;
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime
To kill her infants in their prime,
Should quickly make the example yours;
And ere we see,

Nip, in the blossom, all our hopes in thee.

Bermudas.

Where the remote Bermudas ride,
In the ocean's bosom unespied;
From a small boat, that row'd along,
The list'ning winds receiv'd this song.

What should we do but sing his praise,
That led us through the wat'ry maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs,
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits thro' the air.

He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night;
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows,
He makes the figs our mouths to meet;
And throws the melons at our feet.
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault:
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may,
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.
Thus sung they in the English boat,
An holy and a chearful note;

And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

The Nymph complaining for the Death of her Fawn.

The wanton troopers riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will dye.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive
Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill;
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple pray'rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot dye so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing:
And nothing may we use in vain,
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain;
Else men are made their deodands.
Though they should wash their guilty hands
In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean: their stain
Is dy'd in such a purple grain,
There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.

Inconstant Sylvio, when yet

I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well)
Ty'd in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me: nay, and I know
What he said then: I'm sure I do.
Said he, "Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Deer."
But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd:
This waxed tame, while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his fawn, but took his Heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away,

With this: and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game: it seem'd to bless
Itself in me. How could I less
Than love it? O I cannot be
Unkind t' a beast that loveth me.

Had it liv'd long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As Sylvio did: his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar first,