Think in how poor a prison thou didst lie
After enabled but to suck and cry.
Think, when 'twas grown to most, 'twas a poor inn,
A province pack'd up in two yards of skin,
And that usurp'd, or threaten'd with a rage
Of sicknesses or their true mother, age.
But think that death hath now enfranchised thee;
Thou hast thy expansion now, and liberty;
Think, that a rusty piece discharged is flown
In pieces, and the bullet is his own,
And freely flies: this to thy soul allow,
Think thy shell broke, think thy soul hatch'd but now.


They were sometimes indelicate and disgusting. Cowley thus
apostrophises beauty:


Thou tyrant which leav'st no man free!
Thou subtle thief, from whom nought safe can be!
Thou murtherer, which has kill'd, and devil, which would'st damn me!


Thus he addresses his mistress:


Thou who, in many a propriety,
So truly art the sun to me,
Add one more likeness, which I'm sure you can,