The poetical propagation of light:
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he prince’s favour is diffused o’er all,From which all fortunes names, and natures fall:Then from those wombs of stars, the Bride’s bright eyes,At every glance a constellation flies,And sows the court with stars, and doth preventIn light and power, the all-ey’d firmament:First her eye kindles other ladies’ eyes,Then from their beams their jewels’ lustres rise;And from their jewels torches do take fire,And all is warmth, and light, and good desire.—DONNE. They were in very little care to clothe their notions with elegance ofdress, and therefore miss the notice and the praise which are oftengained by those who think less, but are more diligent to adorn theirthoughts. That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality is by Cowleythus expressed: Thou in my fancy dost much higher standThan 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 groundWe till with them; and them to heaven we raiseWho prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,Doth but one half, that’s none. By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, isthus illustrated: That which I should have begunIn my youth’s morning, now late must be done;And I, as giddy travellers must do,Which stray or sleep all day, and having lostLight and strength, dark and tired, must then ride post. All that man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity iscomprehended by Donne in the following lines: Think in how poor a prison thou didst lieAfter 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 rageOf 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 flownIn pieces, and the bullet is his own,And freely flies: this to thy soul allow,Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch’d but now. They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophisesbeauty:
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