RICHARD LOVELACE. When I lie tangled in her hair, The birds, that wanton in the air, When flowing cups run swiftly round Our careless heads with roses crowned, When healths and draughts go free,- When, like confinèd linnets, I When I shall voice aloud how good Stone walls do not a prison make, That for an hermitage. If I have freedom in my love, HAIL, old patrician trees, so great and good! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And, for their quiet nests and plenteous food, Pay with their gentle voice. Hail, the poor Muses' richest manor-seat! Ye country-houses and retreat, Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above. Here Nature does a house for me erect, Nature! the fairest architect; Who those fond artists does despise, That can the fair and living trees neglect, Yet the dead timber prize. Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, Hear the soft winds above me flying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, And the more tuneful birds to both replying; ABRAHAM COWLEY. A silver stream shall roll his waters near, Ah! wretched, and too solitary! he He'll feel the weight of 't many a day, Oh, Solitude! first state of human kind! As soon as two, alas! together joined, The serpent made up three. Though God himself, through countless ages, thee His sole companion chose to be, Thee, sacred Solitude! alone, Before the branchy head of Number's tree Sprang from the trunk of one. Thou, though men think thine an unactive part, Dost break and tame th' unruly heart, Which else would know no settled pace, Making it move, well-managed by thy art, With swiftness and with grace. Thou the faint beams of Reason's scattered light Dost, like a burning-glass, unite; Dost multiply the feeble heat, And fortify the strength, till thou dost bright And noble fires beget. THE WISH. Whilst this hard truth I teach, methinks I see The monster, London, laugh at me; I should at thee, too, foolish city! If it were fit to laugh at misery; Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, And all the fools that crowd thee so, THIS only grant me, that my means may lie Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Some honour I would have, ABRAHAM COWLEY. Not from great deeds, but good alone; Rumour can ope the grave. Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends, Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Books should, not business, entertain the light, Than palace; and should fitting be My garden painted o'er With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field. Thus would I double my life's fading space ; These unbought sports, this happy state, But boldly say each night, To-morrow let my sun his beams display, |