imply something sudden and unexpected; that which elevates must
always surprise. What is perceived by slow degrees may gratify us
with the consciousness of improvement, but will never strike with
the sense of pleasure.

Of all this, Cowley appears to have been without knowledge, or
without care. He makes no selection of words, nor seeks any
neatness of phrase: he has no elegance either lucky or elaborate;
as his endeavours were rather to impress sentences upon the
understanding, than images on the fancy: he has few epithets, and
those scattered without peculiar propriety of nice adaptation.

It seems to follow from the necessity of the subject, rather than
the care of the writer, that the diction of his heroic poem is less
familiar than that of his slightest writings. He has given not the
same numbers, but the same diction, to the gentle Anacreon and the
tempestuous Pindar.

His versification seems to have had very little of his care; and if
what he thinks be true, that his numbers are unmusical only when
they are ill-read, the art of reading them is at present lost; for
they are commonly harsh to modern ears. He has indeed many noble
lines, such as the feeble care of Waller never could produce. The
bulk of his thoughts sometimes swelled his verse to unexpected and
inevitable grandeur; but his excellence of this kind is merely
fortuitous: he sinks willingly down to his general carelessness,
and avoids with very little care either meanness or asperity.

His contractions are often rugged and harsh: