DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.50017#0051
INTRODUCTION xlv
will lead to a renewal of interest in Cowley’s Olym-
pique and Nemean Odes, and to a demand for the
new edition which the Cambridge University Press
has just issued. A worse thing might happen than
that, as a stimulus to our laureates of all degrees, a
prize should be decreed to the best Ode written “ in
imitation of the style and manner,” not of Pindar,
but of Cowley.
Satire was one of the few literary genres which
Cowley did not attempt, whereas Marvell’s irony
was of the savage school of Juvenal or Swift, rather
than of the more urbane Horace. The Latinity of
both was on a high level. Cowley’s verse was often,
highly charged with conceits, somewhat metaphysical,
and his eulogies and panegyrics carried flattery to its.
full flight on far-fetched and soaring metaphor—
although he could at times be natural, simple, and full
of feeling, as in his elegy on the death of his friend
William Harvey, which here and there strikes a tone
as deep and true as the Thyrsis of Matthew Arnold.
But of Hobbes he writes:—
I never yet the Living Soul could see
But in thy books and thee.
Falkland, of whom, as Bishop Sprat tells us, “he
had the entire friendship—an affection contracted by
will lead to a renewal of interest in Cowley’s Olym-
pique and Nemean Odes, and to a demand for the
new edition which the Cambridge University Press
has just issued. A worse thing might happen than
that, as a stimulus to our laureates of all degrees, a
prize should be decreed to the best Ode written “ in
imitation of the style and manner,” not of Pindar,
but of Cowley.
Satire was one of the few literary genres which
Cowley did not attempt, whereas Marvell’s irony
was of the savage school of Juvenal or Swift, rather
than of the more urbane Horace. The Latinity of
both was on a high level. Cowley’s verse was often,
highly charged with conceits, somewhat metaphysical,
and his eulogies and panegyrics carried flattery to its.
full flight on far-fetched and soaring metaphor—
although he could at times be natural, simple, and full
of feeling, as in his elegy on the death of his friend
William Harvey, which here and there strikes a tone
as deep and true as the Thyrsis of Matthew Arnold.
But of Hobbes he writes:—
I never yet the Living Soul could see
But in thy books and thee.
Falkland, of whom, as Bishop Sprat tells us, “he
had the entire friendship—an affection contracted by