44
COWLEY'S POEMS.
44
By every wind that comes this way,
Send me, at least, a sigh or two;
Such and so many I'll repay,
As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
Send me, at least, a sigh or two;
Such and so many I'll repay,
As shall themselves make winds to get to you.
A thousand pretty ways we'll think upon,
To mock our separation.
Alas! ten thousand will not do:
My heart will thus no longer stay;
No longer 't will be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And, when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease;
Just as a bird, that flies about
And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no passage out,
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.
To mock our separation.
Alas! ten thousand will not do:
My heart will thus no longer stay;
No longer 't will be kept from you,
But knocks against the breast to get away.
And, when no art affords me help or ease,
I seek with verse my griefs t' appease;
Just as a bird, that flies about
And beats itself against the cage,
Finding at last no passage out,
It sits and sings, and so o'ercomes its rage.
TO
THE BISHOP OF LINCOLN,
UPON HIS ENLARGEMENT OUT OF THE TOWER.
Pardon, my lord, that I am come so late
T' express my joy for your return of fate!
So, when injurious Chance did you deprive
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;
T' express my joy for your return of fate!
So, when injurious Chance did you deprive
Of liberty, at first I could not grieve;
