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Noisy nothing ! stalking shade !
By what witchcraft wert thou made ?
Empty cause of solid harms ! What shall I do to be for ever known,
But I shall find out counter-charms And make the age to come my own ?
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity, In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
And obscurer secrecy!
Unlike to every other sprite,
Brought forth with their own fire and light : Nor appear'st but in the light.
Out of myself it must be strook.
This only grant me, that my means may lie Raise up the buried man.
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
Some honour I would have, And march, the Muses' Hannibal.
Not from great deeds, but good alone; Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay
Th' unknown are better than ill known : Nets of roses in the way!
Rumour can ope the grave. Hence, the desire of honours or estate,
Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends And all that is not above Fate ! Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days !
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Which intercepts my coming praise.
Books should, not business, entertain the light, Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on; And sleep, as undisturb'd as death, the night. "Tis time that I were gone.
My house a cottage more Welcome, great Stagyrite ! and teach me now
Than palace; and should fitting be All I was born to know :
For all my use, no luxury: Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;
My garden painted o'er He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. With Nature's hand, not Art's; and pleasures yield, Welcome, learn'd Cicero ! whose blest tongue and Horace might envy in his Sabin field.
wit Preserves Rome's greatness yet :
Thus would I double my life's fading space; Thou art the first of orators; only he
For he, that runs it well, twice runs his race.
And in this true delight,
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; I would not fear, nor wish, my fate;
But boldly say each night, And made that art which was a rage.
To-morrow let my sun his beams display,
To be like one of you?
On the calm flourishing head of it,
MARGARITA first possest,
If I remember well, my breast,
Margarita first of all ;
But when awhile the wanton maid She loves, and she confesses too;
With my restless heart had play'd,
Martha took the flying ball.
Martha soon did it resign
To the beauteous Catharine. Tö, triumphe ! enter in.
Beauteous Catharine gave place
(Though loth and angry she to part What's this, ye gods! what can it be?
With the possession of my heart)
To Eliza's conquering face.
Eliza till this hour might reign,
Had she not evil counsels ta'en. d shall this phantom me oppose ?
Fundamental laws she broke,
And still new favourites she chose,
(Chiefly if I like them should tell Till up in arms my passions rose,
All change of weathers that befell.) And cast away her yoke.
Than Holinshed or Stow.
Mary, then, and gentle Anne,
Both to reign at once began;
Alternately they sway'd, And sometimes Mary was the fair, And sometimes Anne the crown did wear,
And sometimes both I obey'd.
But I will briefer with them be,
Since few of them were long with me.
An higher and a nobler strain My present emperess does claim, Heleonora, first o' th' name;
Whom God grant long to reign !
Another Mary then arose,
And did rigorous laws impose ;
A mighty tyrant she ! Long, alas ! should I have been Under that iron-scepter'd queen,
Had not Rebecca set me free.
OR, SOME COPIES OF VERSES,
TRANSLATED PARAPHRASTICALLY OUT OF ANACREON.
When fair Rebecca set me free,
'Twas then a golden time with me:
But soon those pleasures fled;
And Judith reigned in her stead.
One month, three days, and half an hour,
Judith held the sovereign power :
Wondrous beautiful her face !
And so Susanna took her place.
I'll sing of heroes and of kings,
Muse! but lo! the strings
But when Isabella came,
Arm'd with a resistless flame,
And th' artillery of her eye; Whilst she proudly march'd about, Greater conquests to find out,
She beat out Susan by the by. But in her place I then obey'd
Black-ey'd Bess, her viceroy-maid;
To whom ensued a vacancy : Thousand worse passions then possest The interregnum of my breast ;
Bless me from such an anarchy!
Gentle Henrietta then,
And a third Mary, next began ;
Then Joan, and Jane, and Audria; And then a pretty Thomasine, And then another Catharine,
And then a long et cætera.
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
But should I now to you relate
The strength and riches of their state;
The powder, patches, and the pins,
That make up all their magazines ;
If I should tell the politic arts
To take and keep men's hearts;
The letters, embassies, and spies, The frowns, and smiles, and flatteries The quarrels, tears, and perjuries,
(Numberless, nameless, mysteries !)
And all the little lime-twigs laid,
By Machiavel the waiting maid ;
LIBERAL Nature did dispense
And some with scales, and some with wings,
IX. ANOTHER. UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, On flowery beds supinely laid, With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing, 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 flowers why do we spread, Upon the monuments of the dead ? Nothing they but dust can show, 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 my pleasures have, All are Stoics in the grave.
V. 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, '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.
VII. GOLD. A MIGHTY pain to love it is, And 'tis a pain that pain to miss ; But, of all pains, the greatest pain It is to love, but love in vain. Virtue now, nor noble blood, Nor wit by love is understood; Gold alone does passion move, Gold monopolizes love. A curse on her, and on the man Who this traffic first began ! A curse on him who found the ore ! A curse on him who digg'd the store ! A curse on him who did refine it! A curse on him who first did coin it! A curse, all curses else above, On him who us'd it first in love! Gold begets in brethren hate ; Gold in families debate; Gold does friendships separate; Gold does civil wars create. These the smallest harms of it! Gold, alas ! does love beget.
X. 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's 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 Phæbus loves, and does inspire ; Phæbus 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.
VÕII. 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's treat it kindly, that it may Wish at least, with us to stay. Let's banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belongs to-morrow.
XI. THE SWALLOW. Foolish Prater, what dost thou So carly at my window do,
WHO WAS CHOAKED BY A GRAPE-STONE.
With thy tuneless serenade ?
Had I the power of creation, Well 't had been had Tereus made
As I have of generation, Thee as dumb as Philomel ;
Where I the matter must obey, There his knife had done but well.
And cannot work plate out of clay, In thy undiscovered nest
My creatures should be all like thee, Thou dost all the winter rest,
'Tis thou should'st their idea be: And dreamest o'er thy summer joys,
They, like thee, should thoroughly hate Free from the stormy seasons' noise,
Business, honour, title, state ; Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;
Other wealth they should not know, Who disturbs or seeks-out thee?
But what my living mines bestow; Hadst thou all the charming notes
The pomp of kings, they should confess, Of the wood's poetic throats,
At their crownings, to be less All thy art could never pay
Than a lover's humblest guise, What thou hast ta'en from me away.
When at his mistress' feet he lies. Cruel bird ! thou'st ta'en away
Rumour they no more should mind A dream out of my arms to-day;
Than men safe landed do the wind; A dream, that ne'er must equall'd be
Wisdom itself they should not hear, By all that waking eyes may see.
When it presumes to be severe ; Thou, this damage to repair,
Beauty alone they should admire, Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nor look at Fortune's vain attire. Nothing half so good, canst bring,
Nor ask what parents it can shew;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety;
Well remembering and applying
Their cheerful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flowery year : How shall I lament thine end,
They should always laugh, and sing, My best servant and my friend ?
And dance, and strike th' harmonious string; Nay, and, if from a deity
Verse should from their tongue so flow, So much deified as I,
As if it in the mouth did grow, It sound not too profane and odd,
As swiftly answering their command, Oh, my master and my god !
As tunes obey the artful hand. For 'tis true, most mighty poet !
And whilst I do thus discover (Though I like not men should know it)
Th' ingredients of a happy lover, I am in naked Nature less,
'Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake Less by much, than in thy dress,
I of the Grape no mention make. All thy verse is softer far
Till my Anacreon by thee fell, Than the downy feathers are
Cursed Plant ! I lov'd thee well; Of my wings, or of my arrows,
And 'twas oft my wanton use Of my mother's doves or sparrows,
To dip my arrows in thy juice. Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Cursed Plant ! 'tis true, I see, Or their riper following blisses,
The old report that goes of thee Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
That with giants' blood the Earth All with Venus' girdle bound;
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth; And thy life was all the while
And now thou wreak’st thy ancient spite Kind and gentle as thy style,
On men in whom the gods delight. The smooth-pac'd hours of every day
Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder, Glided numerously away.
Was brought forth in flames and thunder ; Like thy verse each hour did pass;
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, Sweet and short, like that, it was.
Worse than his tigers, he delights ; Some do but their youth allow me,
In all our Heaven I think there be Just what they by Nature owe me,
No such ill-natur'd god as he. The time that's mine, and not their own,
Thou pretendest, traitorous Wine ! The certain tribute of my crown:
To be the Muses' friend and mine : When they grow old, they grow to be
With love and wit thou dost begin, Too busy, or too wise, for me.
False fires, alas! to draw us in; Thou wert wiser, and didst know
Which, if our course we by them keep, None too wise for love can grow ;
Misguide to madness or to sleep : Love was with thy life entwin'd,
Sleep were well, thou'st learnt a way Close as heat with fire is join'd;
To death itself now to betray. A powerful brand prescrib'd the date
It grieves me when I see what fate Of thine, like Meleager's, fate.
Does on the best of mankind wait. Th' antiperistasis of age
Poets or lovers let them be, More enflam'd thy amorous rage ;
'Tis neither love nor poesy Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Can arm, against Death's smallest dart, Than even golden curls before.
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life, in its decline,
I'd advise them, when they spy Touches th' inevitable line,
Any illustrious piety, All the world's mortal to them then,
To reward her, if it be she And wine is aconite to men;
To reward him, if it be he. Nay, in Death's hand, the grape-stone proves
With such a husband, such a wife; As strong as thunder is in Jove's.
With Acme's and Septimius' life.
ODE, FROM CATULLUS.
ACME AND SEPTIMIUS.
Whilst on Septimius' panting breast
“ My dearest Acme, if I be
The god of love, who stood to hear him
THE COMPLAINT. In a deep vision's intellectual, scene, Beneath a bower for sorrow made,
Th' uncomfortable shade
Of the black yew's unlucky green,
The melancholy Cowley lay:
That Art can never imitate;
feet. She touch'd him with her harp, and rais'd him from
the ground; The shaken strings melodiously resound.
“ Art thou return'd at last,” said she,
“ To this forsaken place and me?
And Winter marches on so fast?
Had to their dearest children done;
show, Would'st into courts and cities from me go; Would'st see the world abroad, and have a share In all the follies and the tumults there: Thou would'st, forsooth, be something in a state, And business thou would'st find, and would'st
Business! the frivolous pretence
Business! the grave impertinence ;
And see to what amount
Thy foolish gains by quitting me : The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, The fruits of thy unlearn'd apostacy. Thou thought'st, if once the public storm were
This good omen thus from Heaven