THEY

HEY were not always ftrictly curious, whether the opinions from which they drew their illuftrations were true; it was enough that they were popular. Bacon remarks, that fome falfehoods are continued by tradition, because they supply commodious allufions.

It gave a piteous groan, and fo it broke;
In vain it fomething would have spoke :
The love within too ftrong for 't was,
Like poifon put into a Venice-glass.

COWLEY.

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

Thou feeft me here at midnight, now all rest:
Time's dead low-water; when all minds divest
To morrow's bufinefs, when the labourers have
Such reft in bed, that their last church-yard
grave,

Subject to change, will fcarce be a type of this,
Now when the client, whofe last hearing is
To-morrow, fleeps; when the condemned man,
Who when he opes his eyes, muft fhut them then

5

Again

Again by death, although sad watch he keep,
Doth practife dying by a little fleep,
Thou at this midnight feeft me.

Τ

IT must be however confessed of these writers, that if they are upon common fubjects often unneceffarily and unpoetically subtle; yet where fcholaftick fpeculation can be properly admitted, their copiousness and acuteness may justly be admired. What Cowley has written upon Hope, fhews an unequalled fertility of invention :

Hope, whofe weak being ruin'd is, Alike if it fucceed, and if it mifs; Whom good or ill does equally confound, And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound. Vain fhadow, which doft vanish quite, Both at full noon and perfect night! The stars have not a poffibility Of bleffing thee;

If things then from their end we happy call, 'Tis Hope is the most hopeless thing of all.

Hope, thou bold tafter of delight,

Who, whilft thou should'ft but tafte, devour'st
it quite!

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

The joys which we entire fhould wed, Come deflower'd virgins to our bed; Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty cuftom's paid to thee : For joy, like wine, kept clofe does better tafte; If it take air before, its spirits wafte.

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

Our two fouls therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet

A breach, but an expanfion,

Like gold to airy thinness beat.

If they be two, they are two so
As ftiff twin-compaffes are two,
Thy, foul the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre fit,

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

Thy firmness makes my circle juft,
And makes me end where I begun.

DONNE.

In all these examples it is apparent, that whatever is improper or vicious, is produced by a voluntary deviation from nature in purfuit of something new and strange; and that the writers fail to give delight, by their defire of exciting admiration.

HAVING thus endeavoured to exhibit a

general representation of the style and fentiments of the metaphyfical poets, it is now proper to examine particularly the works of Cowley, who was almoft the laft of that race, and undoubtedly the best.

His Mifcellanies contain a collection of fhort compofitions, written fome as they were dictated by a mind at leifure, and fome as they were called forth by different occafions; with great variety of ftyle and fentiment, from burlesque levity to awful grandeur. Such an affemblage of diverfified excellence no other poet has hitherto afforded. To choose the þest, among many good, is one of the most

hazardous attempts of criticism. I know not whether Scaliger himself has perfuaded many readers to join with him in his preference of the two favourite odes, which he estimates in his raptures at the value of a kingdom. I will however venture to recommend Cowley's, first piece, which ought to be inscribed To my muse, for want of which the fecond couplet is without reference. When the title is added, there will still remain a defect; for every piece ought to contain in itself whatever is neceffary to make it intelligible. Pope has fome epitaphs without names; which are therefore epitaphs to be let, occupied indeed for the prefent, but hardly appropriated.

The ode on Wit is almoft without a rival. It was about the time of Cowley that Wit, which had been till then ufed for Intellection, in contradiftinction to Will, took the meaning, whatever it be, which it now bears.

Of all the paffages in which poets have exemplified their own precepts, none will eafily be found of greater excellence than that in which Cowley condemns exuberance of Wit:

Yet