2.

The Sunne to day rides drousily,

To morrow 'twill put on a looke more faire,
Laughter and groaning doe alternately

Returne, and teares sports neerest neighbours are.
'Tis by the Gods appointed so

That good fate should with mingled dangers flow.

3.

Who drave his Oxen yesterday,

Doth now over the Noblest Romanes reigne.
And on the Gabii, and the Cures lay
The yoake which from his Oxen he had tane.
Whom Hesperus saw poore and low,
The mornings eye beholds him greatest now.

4.

If Fortune knit amongst her play

But seriousnesse; he shall againe goe home
To his old Country Farme of yesterday,
To scoffing people no meane jest become.

And with the crowned Axe, which he
Had rul'd the World, goe backe and prune some Tree.
Nay if he want the fuell cold requires,
With his owne Fasces he shall make him fires.

ODE V.

In commendation of the time we live under the Reign of our gracious K. Charles.

C

[1.]

Urst be that wretch (Deaths Factor sure) who brought
Dire Swords into the peacefull world, and taught

Smiths, who before could onely make

The Spade, the Plowshare, and the Rake;

Arts, in most cruell wise

Mans life t'epitomize.

2.

Then men (fond men alas) rid post to th'grave,
And cut those threads, which yet the Fates would save.
Then Charon sweated at his trade,

And had a bigger Ferry made,
Then, then the silver hayre,

Frequent before, grew rare.

3.

Then Revenge married to Ambition,

Begat blacke Warre, then Avarice crept on.
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a Godhead gain'd.

To men before was found,
Besides the Sea, no bound.

4.

In what Playne or what River hath not beene
Warres story, writ in blood (sad story) seene?
This truth too well our England knowes,
'Twas civill slaughter dy'd her Rose:
Nay then her Lillie too,

With bloods losse paler grew.

5.

Such griefes, nay worse than these, we now should feele, Did not just Charles silence the rage of steele;

He to our Land blest peace doth bring,

All Neighbour Countries envying.

Happy who did remaine

Unborne till Charles his reigne!

6.

Where dreaming Chimicks is you[r] paine and cost?
How is your oyle, how is your labour lost?

Our Charles, blest Alchymist (though strange,
Beleeve it future times) did change

The Iron age of old,
Into an age of Gold.

ODE

M

ODE VI.

Upon the shortnesse of Mans life.

Arke that swift Arrow how it cuts the ayre,
How it out-runnes thy hunting eye,

Use all perswasions now, and try

If thou canst call it backe, or stay it there.
That way it went, but thou shalt find
No tract of 't left behind.

Foole 'tis thy life, and the fond Archer, thou,
Of all the time thou'st shot away
Ile bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a taske to doe.
Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?

Our life is carried with too strong a tyde,
A doubtfull Cloud our substance beares,
And is the Horse of all our yeares.
Each day doth on a winged whirle-wind ride.
Wee and our Glasse run out, and must
Both render up our dust.

But his past life who without griefe can see,
Who never thinkes his end too neere,
But sayes to Fame, thou art mine Heire.
That man extends lifes naturall brevity,
This is, this is the onely way
T'out-live Nestor in a day.

An Answer to an Invitation to

Cambridge.

I.

Ichols, my better selfe, forbeare,

For if thou telst what Cambridge pleasures are,
The Schoole-boyes sinne will light on me,

I shall in mind at least a Truant be.

Tell me not how you feed your
With dainties of Philosophy,
In Ovids Nut I shall not finde,
The taste once pleased me.

minde

O tell me not of Logicks diverse cheare,
I shall begin to loath our Crambe here.

2.

Tell me not how the waves appeare
Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shiere,
I shall contemne the troubled Thames,
On her chiefe Holiday, even when her streames,
Are with rich folly guilded, when
The quondam Dungboat is made gay,
Just like the bravery of the men,

And graces with fresh paint that day:

When th' Citie shines with Flagges and Pageants there, And Sattin Doublets, seen not twice a yeere.

3.

Why doe I stay then? I would meet Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet: 'Tis my chiefe wish to live with thee,

But not till I deserve thy company:

Till then wee'l scorne to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts:
Write to me, and I shall enjoy,
Friendship, and wit, thy better parts.

Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings,
Wee'l easely see each other, Love hath wings.

FINIS.

RIDDLE.

A PASTORALL

COMEDIE;

Written,

At the time of his being

Kings Scholler in West-
minster Schoole,

by A. Cowley.

LONDON,

Printed by John Dawson, for Henry Seile, and are to be sold at the Tygres head in Fleet-street over against

St. Dunstans-Church. 1638.