Hope! thou sad lover's only friend!

thou way, that may'st dispute it with the end! for love, I fear, 's a fruit that does delight the taste itself less than the smell and sight. Fruition more deceitful is

than thou canst be when thou dost miss ; men leave thee by obtaining, and straight flee some other way again to thee:

and that's a pleasant country, without doubt, to which all soon return that travel out.

AGE.

Oft am I by the women told,
poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old:
look! how thy hairs are falling all;
poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
by th' effects I do not know;
this I know, without being told,
't is time to live, if I grow old;
't is time short pleasures now to take,
of little life the best to make,
and manage wisely the last stake.

ELEGY UPON ANACREON,

WHO WAS CHOAKED BY A GRAPE-STONE:

Spoken by the God of Love.

How shall I lament thine end,
my best servant, and my friend?
nay, and, if from a deity

so much deified as I,

it sound not too profane and odd,
oh! my master, and my god!

for 'tis true, most mighty poet! (though I like not, men should know it) I am in naked nature less,

less by much, than in thy dress.
All thy verse is softer far

than the downy feathers are
of my wings, or of my arrows,
of my mother's doves, or sparrows.
Sweet, as lovers freshest kisses;
or, their riper following blisses;
graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
all with Venus' girdle bound;
and thy life was all the while
kind and gentle, as thy style.
The smooth-pac'd hours of ev'ry day
glided numerously away;

like thy verse, each hour did pass;
sweet and short, like that it was.

Some do but their youth allow me, just what they, by nature owe me; the time, that's mine, and not their own, the certain tribute of my crown ;' when they grow old, they grow to be too busy, or too wise for me. Thou wert wiser, and didst know, none too wise for love can grow; love was with thy life entwin'd close as heat with fire is join'd, a powerful brand prescrib'd the date of thine, like Meleager's fate. Th' antiperistasis of age

more enflam'd thy amorous rage; thy silver hairs yielded me more, than even golden curls, before.

Had I the power of creation, as I have of generation,

where I the matter must obey,

and cannot work plate out of clay : my creatures should be all like thee, 'tis thou should their idea be.

They, like thee, should thoroughly hate
business, honour, title, state.

Other wealth they should not know,
but what my living mines bestow;
the pomp of kings they should confess
at their crownings to be less
than a lover's humblest guise,
when at his mistress' feet he lies.
Rumour they no more should mind
than men safe-landed do, the wind;
wisdom itself they should nor hear,
when it presumes to be severe.
Beauty alone they should admire;
nor look at fortune's vain attire,
nor ask what parents it can shew;
with dead, or old, 't has nought to do.
They should not love yet all, or any,
but very much, and very many.
All their life should gilded be
with mirth, and wit, and gaiety,
well rememb'ring, and applying

the necessity of dying.

Their cheerful heads should always wear all that crowns the flowery year.

They should always laugh, and sing,

and dance, and strike th' harmonious string. Verse should from their tongue so flow, as if it in the mouth did grow,

M

as swiftly answering their command,
as tunes obey the artful hand :
and whilst I do thus discover
th' ingredients of a happy lover,
't is, my Anacreon, for thy sake,
I of the grape no mention make.
Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
cursed plant, I lov'd thee well!
and 't was oft my wanton use,
to dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed plant! 'tis true, I see,
the old report that goes of thee,
that with giants' blood the earth
stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth,
and now thou wreak'st thy ancient spight
on men, in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, 't is no wonder,
was brought forth in flames and thunder;
in rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
worse than his tigers, he delights;
in all our heaven I think there be
no such ill-natur'd god as he.
Thou pretendest, trait'rous wine!
to be the Muses friend and mine:
with love and wit thou dost begin,
false fires, alas! to draw us in;

which, if our course we by them keep,
misguide to madness, or to sleep.
Sleep were well; thou'st learnt a way
to death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I see what fate
does on the best of mankind wait.
Poets, or lovers, let them be,

't is neither love nor poesy

can arm against death's smallest dart
the poet's head, or lover's heart.
But, when their life, in it's decline,
touches th' inevitable line,

all the world's mortal to 'em then,
as wine is aconite to men.

Nay, in death's hand, the grape-stone proves as strong as thunder is in Jove's.

MARTIAL, LIB. V. EP. XXI.

Si tecum mihi chare Martialis, &c.

If, dearest friend! it my good fate might be
t' enjoy at once a quiet life and thee;
if we for happiness could leisure find,
and wand'ring Time into a method bind,
we should not, sure, the great men's favour need,
nor on long hopes, the court's thin diet, feed;
we should not patience find daily to hear
the calumnies and flatt'ries spoken there;
we should not the lords' tables humbly use
or talk in ladies' chambers love and news;
but books and wise discourse, gardens and fields,
and all the joys that unmix'd Nature yields,
thick summer-shades, where winter still does lie,
bright winter-fires, that summer's part supply,
sleep not control'd by cares, confin'd to night,
or bound in any rule but appetite;
free, but not savage or ungracious mirth,
rich wines to give it quick and easy birth;
a few companions, which ourselves should choose,
a gentle mistress, and a gentler muse;

such, dearest Friend! such without doubt, should be
our place, our business, and our company:
now to himself, alas! does neither live,