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 nameThat 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 theySpeak properly, and cry, "Behold a man-child born!" My eyes are open'd, and I seeThrough the transparent fallacy:Because we seem wisely to talkLike men of business; and for business walkFrom 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 soRich, valiant, wise, and virtuous, seem to grow:Because we draw a long nobilityFrom 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 dreamLead us to solid wrong;We pray God our friends' torments to prolong,And wish uncharitably for themTo 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 artThe cracks and breaches of th' extended shell,And in that narrow cellWould rudely force to dwellThe noble vigorous bird already wing'd to part.