MUTABILITY OF HUMAN GREATNESS. [From the Purple Island.] FOND man, that looks on earth for happiness, And here long seeks what here is never found! For all our good we hold from Heav'n by lease, With many forfeits and conditions bound; Nor can we pay the fine, and rentage due : Though now but writ, and seal'd, and giv'n anew, Yet daily we it break, then daily must renew. Why shouldst thou here look for perpetual good, And loving pelican in fancy breeds : There screeching satyrs fill the people's empty stedes. (a) Where is the Assyrian lion's golden hide, That all the east once grasp'd in lordly paw? Where that great Persian bear, whose swelling pride The lion's self tore out with rav'nous jaw? Or he which 'twixt a lion and a pard, Through all the world with nimble pinions far'd, And to his greedy whelps his conquer'd kingdoms shar'd. (a) Places. BEN JONSON. BORN ABOUT 1570-DIED 1637. TO CELIA. KISSE me, sweet: the wary lover Hundred, then unto the tother When youths ply their stoln delights. SONG TO CELIA. DRINK to me only with thine eyes, And I will pledge with mine; Or leave a kisse but in the cup, And I'll not looke for wine. The thirst, that from the soule doth rise, I sent thee, late, a rosie wreath, But thou thereon did'st only breathe, Since when, it growes, and smells, I sweare, THE SWEET NEGLECT. STILL to be neat, still to be drest Still to be powdered, still perfum'd: Though art's hid causes are not found, Than all th' adulteries of art; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart. TO THE WORLD. A FAREWELL FOR A GENTLEWOMAN, VIRTUOUS AND NOBLE. FALSE world, good night, since thou hast brought Upon thy throat, and live exempt From all the nets that thou canst spread. I know thy formes are studied arts, Thy subtill wayes, be narrow straits; And what thou call'st thy gifts are baits. Of toyes, and trifles, traps, and snares, Enamor'd of their golden gyves? Or having scap'd, shall I returne, And thrust my neck into the noose, From whence, so lately, I did burne, With all my powers, my selfe to loose? What bird, or beast, is knowne so dull, That fled his cage, or broke his chaine, And tasting aire, and freedome, will Render his head in there againe ? If these, who have but sense, can shun The engines that have them annoy'd ; Little, for me, had reason done, If I could not thy ginnes avoid. SONG OF NIGHT. IN THE MASQUE OF THE VISION OF DELIGHT. BREAK, Phant'sie, from thy cave of cloud, And spread thy purple wings; Now all thy figures are allow'd, And various shapes of things; Create of airy forms a stream, It must have blood, and nought of phlegm; And though it be a waking dream, Cho. Yet let it like an odour rise To all the senses here, And fall like sleep upon their eyes, |