Page:The Works of Abraham Cowley - volume 1 (ed. Aikin) (1806).djvu/215

A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,
Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou industriously hast sow'd and till'd
The fair and fruitful field;
And 't is a strange increase that it does yield.
As, when the happy Gods above
Meet altogether at a feast,
A secret joy unspeakable does move
In their great mother Cybele's contented breast:
With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see
This thy no less immortal progeny;
And in their birth thou no one touch dost find
Of th' ancient curse to woman-kind:
Thou bring'st not forth with pain;
It neither travail is nor labour of the brain:
So easily they from thee come,
And there is so much room
In th' unexhausted and unfathom'd womb,
That, like the Holland Countess, thou may'st bear
A child for every day of all the fertile year.

Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise,
If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise:
Where'er I see an excellence,
I must admire to see thy well-knit sense,
Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high;
Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as thine eye.
'T is solid, and 't is manly all,
Or rather 't is angelical;