The mistresse, or, Several copies of love-verses written by Mr. A. Cowley, in his youth, and now since his death thought fit to be published.

TO THE READER.

IN stead of the Authors Picture in the begin∣ning, I thought sit to fix here this following Copy of Verses, being his owne illustration of his Motto, and (as I conceive) the more lively re∣presentation of him.

Tentanda vita est qua me quoque possim Tollere humo victor{que} virûm volitare per ora.

WHat shall I do to be for ever knowne, And make the Age to come my owne? I shall like Beasts or Common people dy, Unlesse you write mine Elegy; While others great by being borne are growne; Their Mothers Labour not their owne. In this Scale Gold, in th' other Fame does ly; The weight of that mounts this so high. These men are fortunes Jewells, moulded bright; Brought forth with their owne fire and light. If I, her vulgar stone, for either looke; Out of my selfe it must be strooke. Yet I must on; what sound ist' strikes mine eare? Sure I Fames Trumpet heare.

It sounds like the last Trumpet; for it can Raise up the buried Man. Unpast Alps stop mee, but I'le cut through all; And march, the Muses Hanniball. Hence all ye flattering Vanities that lay Nets of Roses in the way. Hence the desire of Honours or Estates; And all, that is not above Fate. Hence Love himselfe, that Tyrant of my dayes, Which intercepts my coming Praise. Come my best Friends, my Bookes, and lead me on; 'Tis time that I were gone. Welcome great Stagirite, and teach me now All I was borne to know. Thy Schollers Vict'ories thou doest farre out-doe; He conquered th'Earrh, the whole World you. Welcome learn'd Cicero, whose blest Tongue and Wit Preserves Romes Greatnesse yet. Thou art the first of Or'atours, onely hee Who best can prayse thee, next must bee. Welcome the Mantuan Swan, Virgil the wise; Whose Verse walkes highest, but not flies, Who brought green Po'esie to her perfect age; And mad'st that Art, which was a Rage. Tell mee, yee mighty Three, what shall I doe To be like one of you? But you have climb'd the Mountain's top, there sit On the calme flourishing head of it, And whilst with wearied steps we upward goe, See us, and Clouds below.

FINIS.