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DEATH's FINAL CONQUEST. THE glories of our birth and state
Are shadows, not substantial things; There is no armour against fate; Death lays his icy hands on kings.
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill ; But their strong nerves at last must yield; They tame but one another still.
Early or late,
They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds
; Upon death's purple altar now, See where the victor victim bleeds.
All heads must come
TO THE SUN. THOU art return?d, great Light, to that blest hour
In which I first, by marriage' sacred power, Join'd with Castara hearts; and as the same Thy lustre is as then, so is our flame: Which had increas'd, but that by love's decree Twas such at first-it ne'er could greater be ! But tell me, glorious Lamp! in thy survey Of things below thee, what did not decay By age to weakness? I, since that, have seen The Rose bud forth and sade; the Tree grow green, And wither; and the beauty of the field With Winter wrinkled : even thyself dost yield Something to Time, and to the grave fall nigher: But Virtuous Love is one sweet, endless fire!
THE DESCRIPTION OF CASTARA.
Prospers in some happy shade,
To no looser eye betray'd ; For she's to herself untrue, Who delights i'th' public view. Such is her beauty, as no arts
Have enrich'd with borrow'd grace ;
For she blushes in her place;
Whilst wild passions captive lie;
Her pure thoughts to heaven fly.
TO CASTARA. GIVE me a heart, where no impure
Disorder'd passions rage;
Nor vanity t expence engage:
Which not the softness of the age
Provokes new appetite;
Or wanton stratagem of wit ;
Aiming each beauteous mark to hit;
That fair beauty I did swear,
You're not worth the serious part.
Hoiding parley with your eye :
All is but a handsome lie,
Straight some murder doth commit;
When I talk to shew my wit.
For in sooth, I much do doubt
And your cloaths that set you out.
When I next begin to court, And protest an amorous flame, You will swear I in earnest am,
Bedlam ! this is pretty sport.
TO ROSES, IN THE BOSOM OF CASTARA. YE, blushing Virgins! happy are
In the chaste nunnery of her breasts; For he'd profane so chaste a fair,
Who e'er should call them Cupid's nests! Transplanted thus, how bright ye grow!
How rich a perfume do ye yield! In some close garden, cowslips so
Are sweeter than in the open field. In those white cloysters live secure
From the rude blasts of wanton breath,
Till you shall wither into death.
Your glorious sepulchre shall be;"
Whose breast hath marble been to me!
RETIREMENT. Do not their prófane orgies hear,
Who but to wealth no altars rear; The soul's oft poison'd through the ear: Castara! rather seek to dwell In the silence of a private cell: Rich Discontent's a glorious hell! Yet, Hindlip doth not want extent Of room, though not magnificent, To give free welcome to content. There, shalt thou see the early Spring That wealthy stock of nature bring, Of which the Sybil's books did sing: From fruitless palms shall honey flow; And barren Winter harvest show, While lilies in his bosom grow : No north-wind shall the corn infest, But the soft spirit of the East Our scent with perfum'd banquets feast : A Satyr, here and there, shall trip In hope to purchase leave to sip Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip: The Nymphs, with quivers shall adorn Their active sides; and rouse the morn With the shrill music of the horn : Waken'd with which, and viewing thee, Fair Daphné her fair self shall free From the chaste prison of a tree; And with Narcissus, (to thy face Who humbly will ascribe all grace) Shall once again pursue the chase. So they whose wisdom did discuss Of these as fictious, shall in us Find they were more than fabulous !