112
COWLEY'S POEMS.
Thus Harvey sought for Truth in Truth's own book,
The creatures—which by God himself was writ;
And wisely thought 't was fit,
Not to read comments only upon it,
But on th' original itself to look.
Methinks in Art's great circle others stand
Lock'd-up together, hand in hand;
Every one leads as he is led;
The same bare path they tread,
And dance, like fairies, a fantastick round,
But neither change their motion nor their ground:
Had Harvey to this road confin'd his wit,
His noble circle of the blood had been untrodden yet.
Great Doctor! th'art of curing's cur'd by thee;
We now thy patient, Physick, see
From all inveterate diseases free,
Purg'd of old errors by thy care,
New dieted, put forth to clearer air;
It now will strong and healthful prove;
Itself before lethargick lay, and could not move!
The creatures—which by God himself was writ;
And wisely thought 't was fit,
Not to read comments only upon it,
But on th' original itself to look.
Methinks in Art's great circle others stand
Lock'd-up together, hand in hand;
Every one leads as he is led;
The same bare path they tread,
And dance, like fairies, a fantastick round,
But neither change their motion nor their ground:
Had Harvey to this road confin'd his wit,
His noble circle of the blood had been untrodden yet.
Great Doctor! th'art of curing's cur'd by thee;
We now thy patient, Physick, see
From all inveterate diseases free,
Purg'd of old errors by thy care,
New dieted, put forth to clearer air;
It now will strong and healthful prove;
Itself before lethargick lay, and could not move!
These useful secrets to his pen we owe!
And thousands more 't was ready to bestow;
Of which a barbarous war's unlearned rage
Has robb'd the ruin'd age:
O cruel loss! as if the golden fleece,
With so much cost and labour bought,
And from afar by a great hero brought,
Had sunk ev'n in the ports of Greece.
O cursed war! who can forgive thee this?
And thousands more 't was ready to bestow;
Of which a barbarous war's unlearned rage
Has robb'd the ruin'd age:
O cruel loss! as if the golden fleece,
With so much cost and labour bought,
And from afar by a great hero brought,
Had sunk ev'n in the ports of Greece.
O cursed war! who can forgive thee this?
