The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/Life
For works with similar titles, see Life.
LIFE.
"Nascentes morimur."Manil.
We're ill by these grammarians us'd;
We are abus'd by words, grossly abus'd:
From the maternal tomb,
To the grave's fruitful womb,
We call here Life; but Life's a name
That nothing here can truly claim:
This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait,
We call our dwelling-place;
We call one step a race:
But angels, in their full enlighten'd state,
Angels, who Live, and know what ’tis to Be;
Who all the nonsense of our language see;
Who speak Things, and our words, their ill-drawn pictures' scorn;
When we, by' a foolish figure, say,
"Behold an old man dead!" then they
Speak properly, and cry, "Behold a man-child born!"
My eyes are open'd, and I see
Through the transparent fallacy:
Because we seem wisely to talk
Like men of business; and for business walk
From place to place,
And mighty voyages we take,
And mighty journeys seem to make,
O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space:
Because we fight, and battles gain;
Some captives call, and say, "the rest are slain:"
Because we heap up yellow earth, and so
Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous, seem to grow:
Because we draw a long nobility
From hieroglyphick proofs of heraldry,
And impudently talk of a posterity,
And, like Egyptian chroniclers,
Who write of twenty thousand years,
With maravedies make th' account,
That single time might to a sum amount:
We grow at last by custom to believe,
That really we Live:
Whilst all these Shadows, that for Things we take,
Are but the empty dreams which in Death's sleep we make.
We are abus'd by words, grossly abus'd:
From the maternal tomb,
To the grave's fruitful womb,
We call here Life; but Life's a name
That nothing here can truly claim:
This wretched inn, where we scarce stay to bait,
We call our dwelling-place;
We call one step a race:
But angels, in their full enlighten'd state,
Angels, who Live, and know what ’tis to Be;
Who all the nonsense of our language see;
Who speak Things, and our words, their ill-drawn pictures' scorn;
When we, by' a foolish figure, say,
"Behold an old man dead!" then they
Speak properly, and cry, "Behold a man-child born!"
My eyes are open'd, and I see
Through the transparent fallacy:
Because we seem wisely to talk
Like men of business; and for business walk
From place to place,
And mighty voyages we take,
And mighty journeys seem to make,
O'er sea and land, the little point that has no space:
Because we fight, and battles gain;
Some captives call, and say, "the rest are slain:"
Because we heap up yellow earth, and so
Rich, valiant, wise, and virtuous, seem to grow:
Because we draw a long nobility
From hieroglyphick proofs of heraldry,
And impudently talk of a posterity,
And, like Egyptian chroniclers,
Who write of twenty thousand years,
With maravedies make th' account,
That single time might to a sum amount:
We grow at last by custom to believe,
That really we Live:
Whilst all these Shadows, that for Things we take,
Are but the empty dreams which in Death's sleep we make.
But these fantastick errors of our dream
Lead us to solid wrong;
We pray God our friends' torments to prolong,
And wish uncharitably for them
To be as long a-dying as Methusalem.
The ripen'd soul longs from his prison to come;
But we would seal, and sow up, if we could, the womb:
We seek to close and plaister up by art
The cracks and breaches of th' extended shell,
And in that narrow cell
Would rudely force to dwell
The noble vigorous bird already wing'd to part.
Lead us to solid wrong;
We pray God our friends' torments to prolong,
And wish uncharitably for them
To be as long a-dying as Methusalem.
The ripen'd soul longs from his prison to come;
But we would seal, and sow up, if we could, the womb:
We seek to close and plaister up by art
The cracks and breaches of th' extended shell,
And in that narrow cell
Would rudely force to dwell
The noble vigorous bird already wing'd to part.