Lives of the English Poets : Waller, Milton, Cowley Part 16

They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance of dress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are often gained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn their thoughts.

That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality is by Cowley thus expressed:

Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand Than woman can be placed by Nature's hand; And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be, To change thee as thou'rt there, for very thee.

That prayer and labour should co-operate are thus taught by Donne:

In none but us are such mix'd engines found, As hands of double office; for the ground We till with them; and them to heaven we raise Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays, Doth but one half, that's none.

By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, is thus ill.u.s.trated:

That which I should have begun In my youth's morning, now late must be done; And I, as giddy travellers must do, Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost Light and strength, dark and tired, must then ride post.

All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines:

Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie After enabled but to suck and cry.

Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn, A province pack'd up in two yards of skin, And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage Of sicknesses or their true mother, age.

But think that death hath now enfranchised thee; Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty; Think, that a rusty piece discharged is flown In pieces, and the bullet is his own, And freely flies: this to thy soul allow, Think thy sh.e.l.l broke, think thy soul hatch'd but now.

They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophises beauty:

Thou tyrant which leav'st no man free!

Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!

Thou murtherer, which has kill'd, and devil, which would'st d.a.m.n me!

Thus he addresses his mistress:

Thou who, in many a propriety, So truly art the sun to me, Add one more likeness, which I'm sure you can, And let me and my sun beget a man.

Thus he represents the meditations of a lover:

Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have been So much as of original sin, Such charms thy beauty wears, as might Desires in dying confest saints excite.

Thou with strange adultery Dost in each breast a brothel keep; Awake all men do l.u.s.t for thee, And some enjoy thee when they sleep.

The true taste of tears:

Hither with crystal vials, lovers, come, And take my tears, which are love's wine, And try your mistress' tears at home; For all are false, that taste not just like mine.--DONNE.

This is yet more indelicate:

As the sweet sweat of roses in a still, As that which from chas'd musk-cat's pores doth trill, As th' almighty balm of th' early east; Such are the sweet drops of my mistress' breast.

And on her neck her skin such l.u.s.tre sets, They seem no sweat drops, but pearl coronets: Rank, sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles.--DONNE.

Their expressions sometimes raise horror, when they intend perhaps to be pathetic:

As men in h.e.l.l are from diseases free, So from all other ills am I, Free from their known formality: But all pains eminently lie in thee.--COWLEY.

They were not always strictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their ill.u.s.trations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that some falsehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allusions.

It gave a piteous groan, and so it broke: In vain it something would have spoke; The love within too strong for't was, Like poison put into a Venice-gla.s.s.--COWLEY.

In forming descriptions, they looked out not for images, but for conceits. Night has been a common subject, which poets have contended to adorn. Dryden's Night is well known; Donne's is as follows:

Thou seest me here at midnight, now all rest: Time's dead low-water; when all minds divest To-morrow's business; when the labourers have Such rest in bed, that their last church-yard grave, Subject to change, will scarce be a type of this; Now when the client, whose last hearing is To-morrow, sleeps; when the condemned man, Who, when he opes his eyes, must shut them the Again by death, although sad watch he keep; Doth practise dying by a little sleep: Thou at this midnight seest me.

It must be, however, confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common subjects often unnecessarily and unpoetically subtle; yet, where scholastic speculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope shows an unequalled fertility of invention:

Hops, whose weak being mind is, Alike if it succeed and if it miss; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of fate's dilemma wound; Vain shadow! which dust vanish quite, Both at full noon and perfect night!

The stars have not a possibility Of blessing thee; If things then from their end we happy call 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope, thou bold tester of delight, Who, whilst thou shouldst but taste, devour'st it quite!

Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poor By clogging it with legacies before!

The joys, which we entire should wed, Come deflowr'd virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty custom's paid to thee: For joy, like wine kept close, does better taste If it take air before its spirits waste.

To the following comparison of a man that travels, and his wife that stays at home, with a pair of compa.s.ses, it may be doubted whether absurdity or ingenuity has the better claim:

Our two souls, therefore, which are one, Though I must go, endure not yet A breach, but an expansion, Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so As stiff twin compa.s.ses are two; Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show To move, but doth if th' other do.

And, though it in the centre sit, Yet, when the other far doth roam, It leans and hearkens after it, And grows erect as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to me, who must Like th' other foot obliquely run.

Thy firmness makes my circle just, And makes me end where I begun.--DONNE.