« ПредишнаНапред »
ODE ON SOLITUDE.
Written when the Author was about Twelve Years old.
Happy the man whose wish and care,
In his own ground.
In winter, fire.
Quiet by day,
Tell where I lie.
THE DYING CHRISTIAN TO HIS SOUL.
VITAL spark of heav'nly flame !
Quit, oh quit this mortal frame : :
Oh the pain, the bliss of dying!
Steals my senses, shuts my sight, .
. III. . . The world recedes; it disappears ! Heav'n opens on my eyes ! my ears
With sounds seraphic ring: .
O Death! where is thy sting?
Quid vetat et nosmet Lucili scripta legentes
· SATIRE II.
Yes; thank my stars ! as early as I knew -
I grant that poetry's a crying sin;
SATIRE II. Sir; though (I thank God for it) I do hate Perfectly all this Town: yet there's one state In all ill things, so excellently best, That hate towards them, breeds pity towards the rest. Though poetry, indeed, be such a sin, As I think, that brings dcarth and Spaniards in :
Catch'd, like the plague, or love, the Lord knows
bow, But that the cure is starving, all allow. Yet like the Papist's is the poet's state, Poor and disarm'd, and hardly worth your hate !
Here a lean bard, whose wit could never give Himself a dinner, makes an actor live : The thief condemn'd, in law already dead, So prompts, and saves, a rogue who cannot read. Thus as the pipes of some carv'd organ move, The gilded puppets dance, and mount above, Heav'd by the breath th' inspiring bellows blow; Th' inspiring bellows lic and pant below.
One sings the fair : but songs no longer move ; No rat is rhym'd to death, nor maid to love :
Though, like the pestilence, and old-fashion'd love,
charms Bring not now their old fears, nor their old harms.
In love's, in Nature's, spite the siege they hold, And scorn the flesh, the devil, and all but gold.
These write to lords, some mean reward to get, As needy beggars sing at doors for meat : Those/ write, because all write, and so have still Excuse for writing, and for writing ill.
Wretched, indeed! but far more wretched yet Is he who makes his meal on other's wit: 'Tis chang'd, no doubt, from what it was before; His rank digestion inakes it wit no more : Sense pass’d through him no longer is the same ; For food digested takes another name.
I pass o'er all those confessors and martyrs Who live like
S n , or who die like Chartres, Out cant old Esdras, or out-drink his heir, Qut-usure Jews, or Irishmen out-swear ;
Rams and slings now are silly battery ;