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Though Heav'n itself more beauteous by it grow,
It troubles and alarms the world below,
Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor, shew.
With courage and success you the bold work begin;
Your cradle has not idle been :
None e'er but Hercules and you could be
At five years' age worthy a history:
And ne'er did Fortune better yet
Th" historian to the story fit.
As you from all old errors free
And purge the body of Philosophy,
So from all modern follies he
Has vindicated eloquence and wit:
His candid style like a clean stream does slide,
And his bright fancy all the way
Does, like the sunshine, in it play;
It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide,
Where the God does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour, the crystal urn, [guide.
And with judicious hands does the whole current
It has all the beauties Nature can impart,
And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art.
I'll sing of heroes, and of kings,
In mighty numbers, mighty things.
Begin, my Muse! but, lo! the strings
To my great song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but love,
I broke them all, and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing, sure, will do.
These, sure, said I, will me obey;
These, sure, heroic notes will play.
Straight I began with thund'ring Jove,
And all th’ immortal powers but Love;
Love smil'd, and from my enfeebled lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love, and soft desire.
Farewell then heroes, farewell kings,
And mighty numbers, mighty things;
Love tunes my heart just to my strings.
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun, (and one would guess
By’s drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he'as done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel ali the night.
*othing in Nature's sober found,
But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should ev'ry creature drink but I; Why, man of morals, tell me why?
Liberal Nature did dispense
To all things arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws,
And some with horns, or tusked jaws;
And some with scales, and some with wings,
And some with teeth, and some with stings:
Wisdom to man she did afford,
Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,
What arms, what armour, has she assign'd?
Beauty is both ; for with the fair
What arms, what armour, can compare *
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassable is found?
And yet what flame, what lightning e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart,
Like porcupines, from ev’ry part.
Who can, alas! their strength express,
Arm'd, when they themselves undress,
Cap A pè with nakedness.
Oft' am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon thou grow'st old,
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreons how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th’ effects I do not know ;
This I know without being told,
"Tis time to live if I grow old;
"Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
When all the stars are by thee told,
(The endless sums of heav'nly gold)
Or when the hairs are reckon’d all,
From sickly Autumn's head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the sea,
Whilst all her sands thy counters be,
Thou then, and thou alone, must prove
Th’ arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more;
Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy-three,
Write then at Lesbos (let me see);
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one;
And next to these let me present
The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company,
Five hundred both effectively;
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis, I am sure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And ev'ry eye's an archer there.
Go on, this stop why dost thou make
Thou think'st, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a sum :
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such diff'rent nations in his host.
On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves inroll’d,
Nor Indian nor Arabian,
Nor Cyprian loves nor African,
Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names,
Of gentle loves i' th' Temp'rate Zone,
And cold ones in the Frigid one,
Cold frozen loves with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the Line.
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.
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.
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;
Phoebus 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,
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
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 I 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,
Tho' 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 Poets
(Tho' 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;
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.
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 thro' 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 thro' 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.
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 Waster 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 NP MPH 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 everything:
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 O I 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
1 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
1 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
lt 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.
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,