If Nature gave me power to write in verse, That no man's Muse for public vent is free, BATHING IN THE RIVER. HE fish around her crowded, as they do THE To the falfe light that treacherous fishers fhew, And all with as much ease might taken be, As fhe at firft took me ; For ne'er did light fo clear Among the waves appear, Though every night the fun himself set there. Why to mute fish should'st thou thyself discover,, Maids bury; and, for aught we know, (Poor ignorants!) they 're mermaids all below. The amorous waves would fain about her stay, I laugh'd the wanton play to view ; And still old lovers yield the place to new. Kifs her, and as you part, you amorous waves Then tell her what your pride doth coft, And how your ufe and beauty 's loft, When rigorous winter binds you up with froft. As in the ocean thou No privilege doft know Above th' impureft ftreams that thither flow. Tell her, kind flood! when this has made her fad, Marriage (fay to her) will bring But she, fond maid, fhuts and seals-up the spring、. LOVE GIVEN OVER.. Tis enough; enough of time and pain. IT Haft thou confum'd in vain; Leave, wretched Cowley! leave Thyfelf with fhadows to deceive; Think that already lost which thou must never gain. VOL. I. Y Three Three of thy luftiest and thy freshest years (Tofs'd in ftorms of hopes and fears) Like helpless ships that be Set on fire i' th' midft o' the fea, Have all been burnt in love, and all been drown'd in tears. Refolve then on it, and by force or art Free thy unlucky heart; Since Fate does disapprove Th' ambition of thy love, And not one star in heaven offers to take thy part. If e'er I clear my heart from this defire, If e'er it home to its breaft retire, It ne'er fhall wander more about, Though thousand beauties call it out : A lover burnt like me for ever dreads the fire. The pox, the plague, and every small disease, But death and love are never found To give a fecond wound, We're by those ferpents bit, but we 're devour'd by thefe. Alas! what comfort is 't that I am grown Secure of being again o'erthrown? Who has not only fack'd, but quite burnt down, the town. Α ΡΟΕΜ A POE ON THE CIVIL M LATE WAR*. THE PUBLISHER TO THE READER. 1679. Meeting accidentally with this poem in manu fcript, and being informed that it was a pieceof the incomparable Mr. A. C's, I thought it unjust to hide fuch a treafure from the world. I remembered that our author, in his preface to his works †, makes mention of fome poems written by him on the late civil war, of which the following copy is queftionably a part. In his most imperfect and unfinished pieces, you will discover the hand of fo great a master. And (whatever his own modefty might have advised to the contrary) there is not one care lefs ftroke of his but what should be kept facred to pofterity. He could write nothing that was not worth the preserving, being habitually a poet, and always infpired. In this piece the judicious reader will find the turn of the verfe to be his; the fame copious and lively imagery of fancy, the same warmth of paffion and delicacy of wit, that sparkles in all his writings. And certainly This and the two following Poems are not given with certainty as Cowley's. They have been afcribed to him; are poffibly genuine; and therefore are preferved in this collection. N. See p. 16 of this Volume. no labours of a genius fo rich in itself, and fo cultivated with learning and manners, can prove an unwelcome prefent to the world. HAT rage does England from itself divide, WHA More than the feas from all the world befide? From every part the roaring cannons play, To labour more to lofe than he to win. It was not fo when in the happy East, 'Gainft the proud Moon he th' English cross display'd, That |