That a mistress beloved is fairer in idea than in reality is by Cowley thus expressed: Thou in my fancy dost much higher stand, Than woman can be plac'd by Nature's hand; And I must needs, I'm sure, a loser be, To change thee, as thou 'rt there, for very thee. That prayer and labour should co-operate are thus taught by Donne: In none but us, are such mixt engines found, As hands of double office: for the ground We till with them; and them to heaven we raise; Who prayerless labours, or without this, prays, Doth but one half, that's none. By the same author, a common topic, the danger of procrastination, is thus illustrated: --That which I should have begun In my youth's morning, now late must be done; And I, as giddy travellers must do, Which stray or sleep all day, and having lost Light and strength, dark and tir'd must then ride post. All that Man has to do is to live and die; the sum of humanity is comprehended by Donne in the following lines: Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie; After, enabled but to suck and cry. Think, when't was grown to most, 't was a poor inn, A province pack'd up in two yards of skin, And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage Of sicknesses, or their true mother, age. But think that death hath now enfranchis'd thee; Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty; Think, that a rusty piece discharg'd is flown In pieces, and the bullet is his own, And freely flies; this to thy soul allow, Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatched but now. They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus apostrophizes beauty: --Thou tyrant, which leav'st no man free! Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be! Thou murderer, which hast kill'd, and devil, which would'st damn me. Thus he addresses his mistress: Thou who, in many a propriety, So truly art the sun to me. Add one more likeness, which I'm sure you can, And let me and my sun beget a man. Thus he represents the meditations of a lover: Though in thy thoughts scarce any tracts have been So much as of original sin, Such charms thy beauty wears as might Desires in dying confest saints excite. Thou with strange adultery Dost in each breast a brothel keep; Awake, all men do lust for thee, And some enjoy thee when they sleep. The true taste of tears: Hither with crystal vials, lovers, come, And take my tears, which are Love's wine, And try your mistress' tears at home; For all are false, that taste not just like mine. --_Donne_. This is yet more indelicate: As the sweet sweat of roses in a still As that which from chaf'd musk-cat's pores doth trill, As th' almighty balm of th' early East, Such are the sweet drops of my mistress' breast. And on her neck her skin such lustre sets, They seem no sweat-drops, but pearl coronets: Rank sweaty froth thy mistress' brow defiles. --_Donne_.