Poetry is a purer draught of life.
Thursday.—I am pleased with the manner in which Quarles and his contemporaries speak of Nature. The utmost poetry of their expression is after all a sort of gallantry—of a knight to his lady. They do not speak as sincere lovers of Nature or as very conversant with her; but as possessing a thorough respect for her, and a good title to her acquaintance. They can speak of, and to her, well and manfully because their lips are not closed by affection. "The pale faced lady of the black-eyed light [sic]," says Quarles.
I do not think there was in that age an unusual devotion to Nature; but she certainly held her court then, and all authors were her gentlemen and esquires then, and had always ready an abundance of courtly expressions.
Quarles is always full-mouthed; he is not often weak or shallow, though he is coarse and untasteful. He writes lines which it employs the whole tongue to utter.
He runs in conceits, as well as Herbert. He uses many able-bodied and strong-back
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