On Hope, By way of Question and Answer, betweene A. Cowley, and R. Crashaw.

HOpe, whose weake being ruin'd is
Alike, If it succeed, and if it misse.
Whom Ill, and Good doth equally confound,
And both the hornes of Fates dilemma wound.
Vaine shadow! that doth vanish quite
Both at full noone, and perfect night.
The Fates have not a possibility
Of blessing thee.
If things then from their ends wee happy call,
'Tis hope is the most hopelesse thing of all.
Deare Hope! Earths dowry, and Heavens debt,
The entity of things that are not yet.
Subt'lest, but surest being! Thou by whom
Our Nothing hath a definition.
Faire cloud of fi…e, both shade, and light,
Our life in death, our day in night.
Fates cannot find out a capacity
Of hurting thee.
From thee their thinne dilemma with blunt horne
Shrinkes, like the sick Moone at the wholsome morne.
Hope, thou bold taster of delight,
Who, in stead of doing so, devour'st it quite.
Thou bring'st us an estate, yet leav'st us poore,
By clogging it with Legacies before.
The joyes, which wee intire should wed,
Come deflour'd virgins to our bed.
Good fortunes without gaine imported bee,
So mighty Custome's paid to thee.
For joy, like Wine kept close doth better taste:
If it take ayre before, its spirits waste.
Thou art Loves Legacie under lock
Of Faith: the steward of our growing stocke.
Our Crown-lands lye above, yet each meale brings
A seemly portion for the Sons of Kings.
Nor will the Virgin-joyes wee wed
Come lesse unbroken to our bed,
Because that from the bridall checke of Blisse,
Thou thus steal'st downe a distant kisse,
Hopes chaste kisse wrongs no more joyes maidenhead,
Then Spousall rites prejudge the marriage-bed.
Hope, Fortunes cheating Lotterie,
Where for one prize an hundred blankes there bee.
Fond Archer Hope, who tak'st thine ayme so farre,
That still, or short, or wide thine arrowes are.
Thine empty cloud the eye, it selfe deceives
With shapes that our owne fancie gives:
A cloud, which gilt, and painted now appeares,
But must drop presently in teares.
When thy false beames o're Reasons light prevaile,
By ignes fatus, not North starres we sayle.
Faire Hope! our earlier Heaven! by thee
Young Time is taster to Eternity.
The generous wine with age growes stong, not sower;
Nor need wee kill thy fruit to smell thy flower.
Thy golden head never hangs downe,
Till in the lap of Loves full noone
It falls, and dyes: oh no, it melts away
As doth the dawne into the day:
As lumpes of Sugar lose themselves, and twine
Their subtile essence with the soule of Wine.
Brother of Feare! more gaily clad
The merrier Foole o'th' two, yet quite as mad.
Sire of Repentance! shield of fond desire,
That blows the Chymicks, and the Lovers fire,
Still leading them insensibly on,
With the strange witchcraft of Anon.
By thee the one doth changing Nature through
Her endlesse Laborinths pursue,
And th'other chases woman, while she goes
More wayes, and turnes, then hunted Nature knowes.
Fortune alas above the worlds law warres:
Hope kicks the curl'd heads of conspiring starres.
Her keele cuts not the waves, where our winds sture,
And Fates whole Lottery is one blanke to her.
Her shafts, and shee fly farre above,
And forrage in the fields of light, and love.
Sweet Hope! kind cheat! faire fallacy! by thee
Wee are not where, or what wee bee,
But what, and where wee would bee: thus art thou
Our absent presence, and our future now.
Faith's Sister! Nurse of faire desire…
Feares Antidote! a wise, and well stay'd fire
Temper'd 'twixt cold despaire, and torrid joy:
Queen Regent in young Loves minoritie.
Though the vext Chymick vainly chases
His fugitive gold through all her faces,
And loves more fierce, more fruitlesse fires assay
One face more fugitive then all they,
True Hope's a glorious Huntresse, and her chase
The God of Nature in the field of Grace.