M COWLEY.

_Born 1618. Died 1667._

_Of My self._

It is a hard and nice Subject for a man to write of himself, it grates
his own heart to say any thing of disparagement, and the Readers Eares
to hear any thing of praise from him. There is no danger from me
of offending him in this kind; neither my Mind, nor my Body, nor my
Fortune, allow me any materials for that Vanity. It is sufficient, for
my own contentment, that they have preserved me from being scandalous,
or remarkable on the defective side. But besides that, I shall here
speak of myself, only in relation to the subject of these precedent
discourses, and shall be likelier thereby to fall into the contempt,
then rise up to the estimation of most people. As far as my Memory
can return back into my past Life, before I knew, or was capable
of guessing what the world, or glories, or business of it were, the
natural affections of my soul gave me a secret bent of aversion
from them, as some Plants are said to turn away from others, by
an Antipathy imperceptible to themselves, and inscrutable to mans
understanding. Even when I was a very young Boy at School, instead of
running about on Holy-daies and playing with my fellows, I was wont to
steal from them, and walk into the fields, either alone with a Book,
or with some one Companion, if I could find any of the same temper.
I was then too, so much an Enemy to all constraint, that my Masters
could never prevail on me, by any perswasions or encouragements,
to learn without Book the common rules of Grammar, in which they
dispensed with me alone, because they found I made a shift to do the
usual exercise out of my own reading and observation. That I was then
of the same mind as I am now (which I confess, I wonder at my self)
may appear by the latter end of an Ode, which I made when I was but
thirteen years old, and which was then printed with many other Verses.
The Beginning of it is Boyish, but of this part which I here set down
(if a very little were corrected) I should hardly now be much ashamed.

9.

This only grant me, that my means may lye
Too low for Envy, for Contempt too high.
Some Honor I would have
Not from great deeds, but good alone.
The unknown are better than ill known.
Rumour can ope' the Grave,
Acquaintance I would have, but when 't depends
Not on the number, but the choice of Friends.

10.

Books should, not business, entertain the Light,
And sleep, as undisturb'd as D