The Epicure.

Fill the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses smile;
Crown'd with roses we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.

To-day is ours; what do we fear?
To-day is ours, we have it here;
Let us treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay:
Let us banish bus'ness, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.
Another.

Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flow'ry beds supinely laid,

With od'rous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay fill it up,
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.

Why do we precious ointments show'r,
Nobler wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flow'rs why do we spread,
Upon the mon'ments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can shew,
Or bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with roses whilst I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive your pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.

The Grasshopper.

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know:

But when thou 'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung
Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.

The Swallow.

Foolish prater! what dost thou
So early at my window do
With thy tuneless serenade ?

Well it had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'd nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys
Free from the stormy season's noise;
Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the woods' poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou 'st ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou 'st ta'en away

A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see:
Thou this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good can'st bring,

Though men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Elegy upon Anacreon, who was choaked by a Grapestone. 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 deify'd 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 num'rously away;

L

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 pow'rful brand prescrib'd the date
Of thine, like Meleager's fate.
Th' antiperistasis of age
More inflam'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 shouldst their idea be.

They, like thee, should thoroughly hate
Bus'ness, 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 not 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 it 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 flow'ry 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;
As swiftly answ'ring their command
As tunes obey the artful hand:
And whilst I do thus discover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
"Tis, 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 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed Plant! 'tis true I see
Th' old report that goes of thee,
That with giants' blood th' earth
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth.
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the Gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis 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 heav'n, 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 hast learn'd 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,
"Tis neither love nor poesy

Can arm against Death's smallest dart
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life in its decline
Touches th' inevitable line,

All the world's mortal to 'em then,

And wine is aconite to men :

Nay, in Death's hand the Grape-stone proves As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

BERMUDAS.

WHERE the remote Bermudas ride,
In the ocean's bosom unespied;
From a small boat, that row'd along,
The list'ning winds receiv'd this song.
What should we do but sing his praise,
That led us through the wat'ry maze,
Unto an isle so long unknown,
And yet far kinder than our own?
Where he the huge sea-monsters wracks,
That lift the deep upon their backs.
He lands us on a grassy stage,
Safe from the storms, and prelate's rage.
He gave us this eternal spring,
Which here enamels every thing;
And sends the fowls to us in care,
On daily visits through the air.
He hangs in shades the orange bright,
Like golden lamps in a green night;
And does in the pomegranates close
Jewels more rich than Ormus shows.
He makes the figs our mouths to meet;
And throws the melons at our feet.
But apples plants of such a price,
No tree could ever bear them twice.
With cedars, chosen by his hand,
From Lebanon, he stores the land;
And makes the hollow seas, that roar,
Proclaim the ambergrease on shore.
He cast (of which we rather boast)
The gospel's pearl upon our coast;
And in these rocks for us did frame
A temple, where to sound his name.
Oh! let our voice his praise exalt,
Till it arrive at Heaven's vault:
Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may,
Echo beyond the Mexique Bay.

Thus sung they, in the English boat,
An holy and a cheerful note;
And all the way, to guide their chime,
With falling oars they kept the time.

TO HIS COY MISTRESS.

HAD we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Should'st rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.

An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast;
But thirty thousand to the rest.
An age at least to every part,

And the last age should shew your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state;
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near:
And yonder all before us lye
Desarts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;
Nor in thy marble vault shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity:
And your quaint honour turn to dust;
And into ashes all my lust.

The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now, therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At
every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chap'd pow'r.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife,
Thorough the iron gates of life.

Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

THE NYMPH COMPLAINING FOR THE DEATH OF HER FAWN.

THE wanton troopers riding by,
Have shot my fawn, and it will die.
Ungentle men! they cannot thrive

Who kill'd thee. Thou ne'er didst alive
Them any harm: alas! nor cou'd
Thy death yet do them any good.
I'm sure I never wish'd them ill;
Nor do I for all this; nor will:
But, if my simple pray'rs may yet
Prevail with Heaven to forget
Thy murder, I will join my tears,
Rather than fail. But, O my fears!
It cannot die so. Heaven's King
Keeps register of every thing:
And nothing may we use in vain,
Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain;
Else men are made their deodands.

Though they should wash their guilty hands

In this warm life-blood, which doth part
From thine, and wound me to the heart,
Yet could they not be clean: their stain
Is dy'd in such a purple grain.
There is not such another in
The world to offer for their sin.
Inconstant Sylvio, when yet
I had not found him counterfeit,
One morning (I remember well)
Ty'd in this silver chain and bell,
Gave it to me: nay, and I know
What he said then I'm sure I do.
Said he, "Look how your huntsman here
Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Dear."
But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd:
This waxed tame, while he grew wild,
And quite regardless of my smart,
Left me his Fawn, but took his Heart.
Thenceforth I set myself to play
My solitary time away,
With this: and, very well content,
Could so mine idle life have spent.
For it was full of sport, and light
Of foot and heart, and did invite
Me to its game: it seem'd to bless
Itself in me.
How could I less

Than love it? OI cannot be
Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

Had it liv'd long, I do not know
Whether it too might have done so
As Sylvio did: his gifts might be
Perhaps as false, or more, than he.
For I am sure, for aught that I
Could in so short a time espy,
Thy love was far more better than
The love of false and cruel man.

With sweetest milk, and sugar, first
I it at mine own fingers nursed;
And as it grew, so every day

It wax'd more white and sweet than they.
It had so sweet a breath!

And oft

I blush'd to see its foot more soft,
And white, shall I say than my hand?
Nay, any lady's of the land.

It is a wondrous thing how fleet
'Twas on those little silver feet.
With what a pretty skipping grace
It oft would challenge me the race;
And when 't had left me far away,
"Twould stay, and run again, and stay.
For it was nimbler much than hinds;
And trod, as if on the four winds.

I have a garden of my own,
But so with roses overgrown,
And lilies, that you would it guess
To be a little wilderness,

And all the spring-time of the year
It only loved to be there.
Among the beds of lilies I

Have sought it oft, where it should lye;
Yet could not, till itself would rise,
Find it, although before mine eyes;
For, in the flaxen lilies' shade,
It like a bank of lilies laid.
Upon the roses it would feed,
Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed;

And then to me 'twould boldly trip,
And print those roses on my lip.
But all its chief delight was still
On roses thus itself to fill;
And its pure virgin limbs to fold
In whitest sheets of lilies cold.
Had it lived long, it would have been
Lilies without, roses within.

O help! O help! I see it faint,
And dye as calmly as a saint.
See how it weeps! the tears do come,
Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum.
So weeps the wounded balsam; so
The holy frankincense doth flow.
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in such amber tears as these.

I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal tears; and fill
It, till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's shrine.

Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the swans and turtles go;
In fair Elizium to endure,

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure.
O do not run too fast: for I
Will but bespeak thy grave, and dye.

First my unhappy statue shall
Be cut in marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too; but there
Th' engraver sure his art may spare,
For I so truly thee bemoan,

That I shall weep though I be stone;
Until my tears, still drooping, wear
My breast, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet shalt thou be laid,
Of purest alabaster made;

For I would have thine image be
White as I can, though not as thee.

THE DROP OF DEW.

SEE how the orient dew
Shed from the bosom of the morn,
Into the blowing roses,

Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where 'twas born,
Round in itself incloses:
And in its little globe's extent,
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flow'r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lys;
But gazing back upon the skys,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,

Because so long divided from the sphere,
Restless it rolls, and unsecure,
Trembling, lest it grows impure;
Till the warm sun pitys its pain,
And to the skys exhales it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
Could it within the human flow'r be seen,
Rememb'ring still its former height,
Shuns the sweet leaves, and blossoms green ¿

And, recollecting its own light,
Does, in its pure and circling thoughts, express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.

In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away:
So the world excluding round,
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above;
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easy hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend:
Moving, but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna's sacred dew distil,

White and entire, although congeal'd and chill;
Congeal'd on earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glorys of th' almighty sun.

THE GARDEN.

How vainly men themselves amazę,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays;
And their incessant labours see
Crown'd from some single herb, or tree,
Whose short and narrow verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid;
While all the flow'rs, and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of Repose.

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
And Innocence, thy sister dear!
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companys of men.
Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow.
Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white, nor red was ever seen
So am'rous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
Cut in these trees their mistress' name.
Little, alas, they know or heed,
How far these beautys her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

When we have run our passion's heat,
Love hither makes his best retreat.
The Gods, who mortal beauty chase,
Still in a tree did end their race.
Apollo hunted Daphne so,
Only that she might laurel grow:
And Pan did after Syrinx speed,
Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life in this I lead !
Ripe apples drop about my head.
The luscious clusters of the vine
Upon my mouth do crush their wine.
The nectarine, the curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach.
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,
Insnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass.

Mean while the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happyness;
The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;

Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas;
Annihilating all that's made

To a green thought in a green shade.
Here at the fountain's sliding foot,
Or at some fruit tree's mossy root,
Casting the body's vest aside,
My soul into the boughs does glide:
There, like a bird, it sits and sings,
Then whets, and claps its silver wings;
And, till prepar'd for longer flight,
Waves in its plumes the various light.

Such was that happy garden-state,
While man there walk'd without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,
What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two Paradises are in one,
To live in Paradise alone.

How well the skilful gard'ner drew
Of flow'rs, and herbs, this dial new :
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run:
And, as it works, th' industrious bee
Computes his time as well as we.

How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs?

THE GALLERY.

CLORA, come view my soul, and tell
Whether I have contriv'd it well.
How all its several lodgings lye,
Composed into one gallery;
And the great arras-hangings, made
Of various faces, by are laid;
That, for all furniture, you'll find
Only your picture in my mind.
Here thou art painted in the dress
Of an inhumane murtheress;
Examining upon our hearts,
Thy fertile shop of cruel arts:
Engines more keen than ever yet
Adorn'd a tyrant's cabinet;

Of which the most tormenting are
Black eyes, red lips, and curled hair.
But, on the other side, th' art drawn,
Like to Aurora in the dawn;
When in the east she slumb'ring lyes,
And stretches out her milky thighs;
While all the morning quire does sing,
And manna falls, and roses spring;
And, at thy feet, the wooing doves
Sit perfecting their harmless loves."
Like an enchantress here thou show'st,
Vexing thy restless lover's ghost;
And, by a light obscure, dost rave
Over his entrails, in the cave;
Divining thence, with horrid care;
How long thou shalt continue fair;
And (when inform'd) them throw'st away,
To be the greedy vulture's prey.