The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 1/Ode on Orinda's Poems
ODE
ON ORINDA'S POEMS.
We allow'd you beauty, and we did submit
To all the tyrannies of it;
Ah! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?
Orinda[1] does in that too reign;
Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,
And cancel great Apollo's Salique law.
We our old title plead in vain,
Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verse was love's fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauty's camp it was not known;
Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:
'T was the great cannon we brought down
T' assault a stubborn town;
Orinda first did a bold sally make,
Our strongest quarter take,
And so successful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.
To all the tyrannies of it;
Ah! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?
Orinda[1] does in that too reign;
Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,
And cancel great Apollo's Salique law.
We our old title plead in vain,
Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verse was love's fire-arms heretofore,
In Beauty's camp it was not known;
Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:
'T was the great cannon we brought down
T' assault a stubborn town;
Orinda first did a bold sally make,
Our strongest quarter take,
And so successful prov'd, that she
Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.
Woman, as if the body were their whole,
Did that, and not the soul,
Transmit to their posterity;
If in it sometime they conceiv'd,
Th' abortive issue never liv'd.
'T were shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
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.
Did that, and not the soul,
Transmit to their posterity;
If in it sometime they conceiv'd,
Th' abortive issue never liv'd.
'T were shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
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;
For, as in angels, we
Do in thy verses see
Both improv'd sexes eminently meet;
They are than man more strong, and more than woman sweet.
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;
For, as in angels, we
Do in thy verses see
Both improv'd sexes eminently meet;
They are than man more strong, and more than woman sweet.
They talk of Nine, I know not who,
Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;
I ne'er could find that fancy true,
But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:
They talk of Sappho; but, alas! the shame!
Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,
That, like a lantern's fair inclosed light,
It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn
Of things for which we were not born
(Things that can only by a fond disease,
Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please)
Are the instructive subjects of her pen:
And, as the Roman victory
Taught our rude land arts and civility,
At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.
Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;
I ne'er could find that fancy true,
But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:
They talk of Sappho; but, alas! the shame!
Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,
That, like a lantern's fair inclosed light,
It through the paper shines where she does write.
Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn
Of things for which we were not born
(Things that can only by a fond disease,
Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please)
Are the instructive subjects of her pen:
And, as the Roman victory
Taught our rude land arts and civility,
At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.
But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire
A female breast with such a fire:
The warlike Amazonian train,
Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild empire before arms prefer,
Hope 't will be settled in their sex by her.
Merlin the seer (and sure he would not lye
In such a sacred company)
Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;
Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost
Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,
And to her injur'd daughters now does boast,
That Rome's o'ercome at last by a woman of her race.
A female breast with such a fire:
The warlike Amazonian train,
Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign,
And Wit's mild empire before arms prefer,
Hope 't will be settled in their sex by her.
Merlin the seer (and sure he would not lye
In such a sacred company)
Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,
Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;
Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost
Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,
And to her injur'd daughters now does boast,
That Rome's o'ercome at last by a woman of her race.
- ↑ Mrs. Catharine Philips.