could have written them.

The "Davideis" now remains to be considered; a poem which the author
designed to have extended to twelve books, merely, as he makes no
scruple of declaring, because the "AEneid" had that number; but he
had leisure or perseverance only to write the third part. Epic
poems have been left unfinished by Virgil, Statius, Spenser, and
Cowley. That we have not the whole "Davideis" is, however, not much
to be regretted; for in this undertaking Cowley is, tacitly at
least, confessed to have miscarried. There are not many examples of
so great a work produced by an author generally read, and generally
praised, that has crept through a century with so little regard.
Whatever is said of Cowley, is meant of his other works. Of the
"Davideis" no mention is made; it never appears in books, nor
emerges in conversation. By the "Spectator" it has been once
quoted; by Rymer it has once been praised; and by Dryden, in "Mac
Flecknoe," it has once been imitated; nor do I recollect much other
notice from its publication till now in the whole succession of
English literature.

Of this silence and neglect, if the reason be inquired, it will be
found partly in the choice of the subject, and partly in the
performance of the work.

Sacred history has been always read with submissive reverence, and
an imagination overawed and controlled. We have been accustomed to
acquiesce in the nakedness and simplicity of the authentic
narrative, and to repose on its veracity with such humble confidence
as suppresses curiosity. We go with the historian as he goes, and
stop with him when he stops. All amplification is frivolous and