Abraham Cowley

1618-1667 / English
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The EpicureUnderneath this myrtle shade, / On flowerly beds supinely laid, / With odorous oils my head o’erflowing,
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Ode Of WitTell 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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The Given HeartI wonder what those lovers mean, who say / They have giv’n their hearts away. / Some good kind lover tell me how;
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Cheer Up, My Mates(Sitting and drinking in the chair made out of the relics / of Sir Francis Drake’s ship.) / Cheer up, my mates, the wind does fairly blow;
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Hymn To LightFirst born of Chaos, who so fair didst come / From the old Negro’s darksome womb! / Which when it saw the lovely Child,
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The WishWell then; I now do plainly see / This busy world and I shall ne’er agree. / The very honey of all earthly joy
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DrinkingThe thirsty earth soaks up the rain, / And drinks and gapes for drink again; / The plants **** in the earth, and are
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On The Death Of Mr. CrashawPoet and saint! to thee alone are given / The two most sacred names of earth and heaven; / The hard and rarest union which can be,
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Against HopeHope, whose weak Being ruin’d is, / Alike if it succeed, and if it miss; / Whom Good or Ill does equally confound,
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The ChangeLove in her Sunny Eyes does basking play; / Love walks the pleasant Mazes of her Hair; / Love does on both her Lips for ever stray;
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