Abraham Cowley Poems

INDEED I must confess,
When souls mix 't is an happiness;
But not complete till bodies too do combine,
And closely as our minds together join:
...

Thou robb'st my days of business and delights,
Of sleep thou robb'st my nights ;
Ah, lovely thief, what wilt thou do?
...

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-glass.
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'T IS very true, I thought you once as fair
As women in th' idea are;*
Whatever here seems beauteous, seem'd to be
But a faint metaphor of thee:
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I'LL on; for what should hinder me
From loving and enjoying thee?
Thou canst not those exceptions make,
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Tentanda via est, etc.
What shall I do to be forever known,
And make the age to come my own?
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TELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who Master art of it.
For the First matter loves Variety less ;
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Against the Dogmatists.
THE sacred tree 'midst the fair orchard grew;
The Phoenix truth did on it rest,
And built his perfum'd nest;
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UPON HIS TWO FIRST BOOKS OF GONDIBERT
FINISHED BEFORE HIS VOYAGE TO AMERICA.
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FIVE years ago (says Story) I lov'd you,
For which you call me most inconstant now;
Pardon me, Madam! you mistake the man,
...