The world and a clock:
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ahol th' inferior world's fantastic faceThro' all the turns of matter's maze did trace;Great nature's well-set clock in pieces took;On all the springs and smallest wheels did lookOf life and motion, and with equal artMade up the whole again of every part. COWLEY. A coal-pit has not often found its poet; but, that it may not want itsdue honour, Cleiveland has paralleled it with the sun: The moderate value of our guiltless oreMakes no man atheist, and no woman whore;Yet why should hallow'd vestal's sacred shrineDeserve more honour than a flaming mine?These pregnant wombs of heat would fitter be,Than a few embers, for a deity.Had he our pits, the Persian would admireNo sun, but warm 's devotion at our fire:He'd leave the trotting whipster, and preferOur profound Vulcan 'bove that wagoner.For wants he heat, or light? or would have storeOf both? 'tis here: and what can suns give more?Nay, what's the sun, but in a different name,A coal-pit rampant, or a mine on flame!Then let this truth reciprocally run,The sun's heaven's coalery, and coals our sun. Death, a voyage: No familyE'er rigg'd a soul for heaven's discovery,With whom more venturers might boldly dareVenture their stakes, with him in joy to share. DONNE. Their thoughts and expressions were sometimes grossly absurd, and suchas no figures or license can reconcile to the understanding. A lover neither dead nor alive: Then down I laid my head,Down on cold earth; and for awhile was dead,And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled;Ah, sottish soul, said I,When back to its cage again I saw it fly;Fool to resume her broken chain,And row her galley here again!Fool, to that body to returnWhere it condemn'd and destin'd is to burn!Once dead, how can it be,Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee,That thou should'st come to live it o'er again in me? COWLEY. A lover's heart, a hand grenado: Wo to her stubborn heart, if once mine comeInto the self-same room;'Twill tear and blow up all within,Like a grenado shot into a magazin.Then shall love keep the ashes and torn parts,Of both our broken hearts;Shall out of both one new one make;From hers th' allay, from mine the metal take. COWLEY. To poetical propagation of light; The prince's favour is diffus'd 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 sowes the court with stars, and doth prevent,In 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, byCowley, thus expressed: Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand,Than woman can be plac'd 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 cooperate, 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 raise:Who prayerless labours, or, without this, prays,Doth but one half, that's none. By the same author, a common topick, 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 tir'd 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 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 rageOf sicknesses, or their true mother, age.But think that death hath now enfranchis'd thee;Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty;Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd 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: Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free!Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!Thou murderer, which hast kill'd; and devil, which would'st damn me!
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