Page images
PDF
EPUB

That I in him, which he in age, condemn'd,
That is it renders odious and contemn'd.
He knew not virtue, if he thought this truth;
For youth delights in age, and age in youth.
What to the old can greater pleasure be,
Than hopeful and ingenuous youth to see;
When they with reverence follow where we lead,
And in straight paths by our directions tread!
And ev'n my conversation here I see,
As well receiv'd by you, as yours by me.
'Tis disingenuous to accuse our age
Of idleness, who all our powers engage

In the same studies, the same course to hold;
Nor think our reason for new arts too old.
Solon the sage his progress never ceas'd,
But still his learning with his days increas'd;
And I with the same greediness did seek,
As water when I thirst, to swallow Greek;
Which I did only learn, that I might know
Those great examples which I follow now:
And I have heard that Socrates the wise,
Learn'd on the lute for his last exercise.
Though many of the ancients did the same,
To improve knowledge was my only aim.

[blocks in formation]

warm,

Old Milo wept to see his naked arm;

And cry'd, 'twas dead: Trifler, thine heart, and
head,

And all that's in them (not thy arm) are dead;
This folly every looker-on derides,
To glory only in thy arms and sides.
Our gallant ancestors let fall no tears,
Their strength decreasing by increasing years;
But they advanc'd in wisdom every hour,
And made the commonwealth advance in power.
But orators may grieve, for in their sides,
Rather than heads, their faculty abides ;.
Yet I have heard old voices loud and clear,
And still my own sometimes the senate hear.
When th' old with smooth and gentle voices plead,
They by the ear their well-pleas'd audience lead:
Which, if I had not strength enough to do,
I could (my Lælius, and my Scipio)
What's to be done, or not be done, instruct,
And to the maxims of good life conduct.
Cneius and Publius Scipio, and (that man
Of men) your grandsire, the great African,
Were joyful, when the flower of noble blood
Crowded their dwellings, and attending stood,
Like oracles their counsels to receive,
How in their progress they should act, and live.
And they whose high examples youth obeys,
Are not despised, though their strength decays,
And those decays (to speak the naked truth,
Though the defects of age) were crimes of youth.
Intemperate youth (by sad experience found)
Ends in an age imperfect and unsound.

Cyrus, though ag'd, (if Xenophon say true)
Lucius Metellus (whom when young I knew)
Who held (after his second consulate)
Twenty-two years the high pontificate;
Neither of these, in body or in mind,
Before their death the least decay did find.
I speak not of myself, though none deny
To age, to praise their youth, the liberty:
Such an unwasted strength I cannot boast,
Yet now my years arc eighty-four almost :
And though from what it was my strength is far,
Both in the first and second Punic war,
Nor at Thermopylæ, under Glabrio,
Nor when I consul into Spain did go;
But yet I feel no weakness, nor hath length
Of winters quite enervated my strength;
And I my guest, my client, or my friend,
Still in the courts of justice can defend :
Neither must I that proverb's truth allow,
"Who would be ancient, must be early so."
I would be youthful still, and find no need
To appear old, till I was so indeed.
And yet you see my hours not idle are,
Though with your strength I cannot mine com
pare ;

Yet this centurion's doth your's surmount,
Not therefore him the better man I count.
Milo, when entering the Olympic game,
With a huge ox upon his shoulder came.
Would you the force of Milo's body find,
Rather than of Pythagoras's mind?
The force which Nature gives with care retaiti,
But, when decay'd, 'tis folly to complain;
In age to wish for youth is full as vain,
As for a youth to turn a child again.
Simple and certain Nature's ways appear,
And she sets forth the seasons of the year.
So in all parts of life we find her truth,
Weakness to childhood, rashness to our youth
To elder years to be discreet and grave,
Then to old age maturity she gave.
(Scipio) you know, how Massinissa bears
His kingly port at more than ninety years!
When marching with his foot, he walks till night;
When with his horse, he never will alight;
Though cold or wet, his head is always bare;
So hot, so dry, his aged members are.
You see how exercise and temperance
Ev'n to old years a youthful strength advance.
Our law (because from age our strength retires)
No duty which belongs to strength requires,
But age doth many men so feeble make,
That they no great design can undertake;
Yet, that to age not singly is apply'd,
But to all man's infirmities beside.
That Scipio, who adopted you, did fall
Into such pains, he had no health at all:
Who else had equall'd Africanus' parts,
Exceeding him in all the liberal arts.
Why should those errours then imputed be
To age alone, from which our youth's not free?
Every disease of age we may prevent,
Like those of youth, by being diligent.
When sick, such moderate exercise we use,
And diet, as our vital heat renews;
And if our body thence refreshment finds,
Then must we also exercise our minds,
If with continual oil we not supply
Our lamp, the light for want of it will die :

Though bodies may be tir'd with exercise,
No weariness the mind could e'er surprise.
Cæcilius the comedian, when of age
He represents the follies on the stage;
They're credulous, forgetful, dissolute,
Neither those crimes to age he doth impute,
But to old men to whom those crimes belong.
Lust, petulance, rashness, are in youth more
strong

Than age, and yet young men those vices hate,
Who virtuous are, discreet and temperate :
And so what we call dotage, seldom breeds
In bodies, but where Nature sows the seeds.
There are five daughters, and four gallant sons,
In whom the blood of noble Appius runs,
With a most numerous family beside,
Whom he alone, though old and blind,did guide,
Yet his clear-sighted mind was still intent,
And to his business like a bow stood bent:
By children, servants, neighbours, so esteem'd,
He not a master, but a monarch seem'd.
All his relations his admirers were,

His sons paid reverence, and his servants fear:
The order and the ancient discipline
Of Romans did in all his actions shine.
Authority kept up old age secures,
Whose dignity as long as life endures.
Something of youth I in old age approve,
But more the marks of age in youth I love.
Who this observes, may in his body find
Decrepit age, but never in his mind.
The seven volumes of my own Reports,
Wherein are all the pleadings of our courts;
All noble monuments of Greece are come
Unto my hands, with those of ancient Rome.
The pontificial, and the civil law,
1 study still, and thence orations draw.
And to confirm my memory, at night,
What I hear, see, or do, by day I still recite.
These exercises for my thoughts I find,
These labours are the chariots of my mind.
To serve my friends, the senate I frequent,
And there, what I before digested, vent.
Which only from my strength of mind proceeds,
Nor any outward force of body needs:
Which, if I could not do, I should delight
On what I would to ruminate at night.
Who in such practices their minds engage,
Nor fear nor think of their approaching age;
Which by degrees invisibly doth creep:
Nor do we seem to die, but fall asleep,

THE THIRD PART.

Now must I draw my forces 'gainst that host
Of pleasures, which i' th' sea of age are lost,
O thou most high transcendent gift of age!
Youth from its folly thus to disengage.
And now receive from me that most divine
Oration of that noble Tarentine,

Which at Tarentum I long since did hear,
When I attended the great Fabius there.
Ye gods! was it man's nature, or his fate,
Betray'd him with sweet pleasure's poison'd
bait?

Which he with all designs of art or power,
Doth with unbridled appetite devour:
And as all poisons seck the noblest part,
Pleasure possesses first the head and heart;

Intoxicating both, by them, she finds,

And burns the sacred temples of our minds.
Furies, which, reason's divine chains had bound,
(That being broken) all the world confound.
Lust, Murder, Treason, Avarice, and Hell
Itself broke loose, in Reason's palace dwell:
Truth, Honour, Justice, Temperance, are fled,
All her attendants into darkness led.
But why all this discourse? when pleasure's rage
Hath conquer'd reason we must treat with age.
Age undermines, and will in time surprise
Her strongest forts: and cut off all supplies;
And join'd in league with strong necessity,
Pleasure must fly, or else by famine die.
Flaminius, whom a consulship had grac❜d,
(Then censor) from the senate I displac'd;
When he in Gaul, a consul, made a feast,
A beauteous courtezan did him request
To see the cutting off a prisoner's head;
This crime I could not leave unpunished,
Since by a private villainy he stain'd
That public honour, which at Rome he gain'd.
Then to our age (when not to pleasures bent)
This seems an honour, not disparagement.
We, not all pleasures, like the Stoics, hate;
But love and seek, those which are moderate.
(Though divine Plato thus of pleasures thought,
They us, with hooks and baits, like fishes caught)
When quæstor, to the gods, in public calls

I was the first who set up festivals.
Not with high tastes our appetites did force,
But fill'd with conversation and discourse;
Which feasts convivial meetings we did name:
Not like the ancient Greeks, who, to their shame,
Call'd it a compotation, not a feast;
Declaring the worst part of it the best.
Those entertainments I did then frequent
Sometimes with youthful heat and merriment:
But now I thank my age, which gives me ease
From those excesses; yet myself I please
With cheerful talk to entertain my guests,
(Discourses are to age continual feasts)
The love of meat and wine they recompense,
And cheer the mind, as much as those the sense.
I'm not more pleas'd with gravity among
The ag'd, than to be youthful with the young;
Nor 'gainst all pleasures proclaim open war,
To which, in age, some natural motions are.
And still at my Sabinum I, delight
To treat my neighbours till the depth of night.
But we the sense of gust and pleasure want
Which youth at full possesses, this I grant;
But age seeks not the things which youth re-
quires,

And no man needs that which he not desires.
When Sophocles was ask'd, if he deny'd
Himself the use of pleasures, he reply'd
"I humbly thank th' immortal gods, who me
From that fierce tyrant's insolence set free."
But they, whom pressing appetites constrain,
Grieve when they cannot their desires obtain.
Young men the use of pleasure understand,
As of an object new, and near at hand :
Though this stands more remote from age's sight,
Yet they behold it not without delight:
As ancient soldiers, from their duties eas'd,
With sense of honour and rewards are pleas'd;
So from ambitious hopes and lusts releast,
Delighted with itself, our age doth rest.

No part of life's more happy, when with bread
Of ancient knowledge, and new learning fed.
All youthful pleasures by degrees must cease,
But those of age ev'n with our years increase.
We love not loaded boards, and goblets crown'd,
But free from surfeits our repose is sound.
When old Fabricius to the Samnites went,
Ambassador, from Rome to Pyrrhus sent,
He heard a grave philosopher maintain,
That all the actions of our life were vain,
Which with our sense of pleasure not conspir'd;
Fabricius the philosopher desir'd,

That he to Pyrrhus would that maxim teach,
And to the Samnites the same doctrine preach;
Then of their conquest he should doubt no more,
Whom their own pleasures overcame before.
Now into rustic matters I must fall.
Which pleasure seems to me the chief of all.
Age no impediment to those can give,
Who wisely by the rules of Nature live.
Earth (though our mother) cheerfully obeys
All the commands her race upon her lays;
For whatsoever from our hand she takes.
Greater or less, a vast return she makes,
Nor am I only pleas'd with that resource.
But with her ways, her method, and her force.
The seed her bosom (by the plough made fit)
Receives, where kindly she embraces it,
Which, with her genuine warmth diffus'd and
spread,

Sends forth betimes a green and tender head,
Then gives it motion, life, and nourishment,
Which from the root through nerves and veins

are sent,

Straight in a hollow sheath upright it grows,
And, form receiving doth itself disclose :
Drawn up in ranks and files, the bearded spikes
Guard it from birds, as with a stand of pikes.
When of the vine I speak, I seem inspir'd,
And with delight, as with her juice, am fir'd;
At Nature's god-like power I stand amaz'd,
Which such vast bodies hath from atoms rais'd.
The kernel of a grape, the fig's small grain,
Can clothe a mountain, and o'er shade a plain :
But thou, dear vine, forbid'st me to be long,
Although thy trunk be neither large nor strong.
Nor can thy head (not helpt) itself sublime,
Yet, like a serpent, a tall tree can elimb;
Whate'er thy many fingers can entwine,
Proves thy support, and all its strength is thine.
Though Nature gave not legs, it gave thee hands,
By which thy prop the proudest cedar stands ;
As thou hast hands, so hath thy off-pring wings,
And to the highest part of mortals springs.
But lest thou should'st consume thy wealth in
vain

And starve thyself to feed a numerous train,
Or like the bee (sweet as thy blood) design'd
To be destroy'd to propagate his kind,
Lest thy redundant and superfluous juice
Should fading leaves instead of fruits produce,
The pruner's hand, with letting blood, must
quench

Thy heat and thy exuberant parts retrench:
Then from the joints of thy prolific stem
A swelling knot is raised (call'd a gem),
Whence in short space, itself the cluster shows,
And from earth's moisture mixt with sun-beams
grows.

l' th' spring, like youth, it yields an acid taste, But summer doth, like age, the sourness waste; Then cloth'd with leaves, from heat and cold secure,

| Like virgins, sweet, and beauteous, when mature. On fruits, flowers, herbs, and plants, I long could dwell,

At once to please my eye, my taste, my smell;
My walks of trees, all planted by my hand,
Like children of my own begetting stand.
To tell the several natures of each earth,
What fruits from each most properly take birth:
And with what arts to enrich every mould,
The dry to moisten, and to warm the cold.
But when we graft, or buds inoculate,
Nature by art we nobly meliorate;

As Orpheus' music wildest beasts did tame,
From the sour crab the sweetest apple came:
The mother to the daughter goes to school,
The species changed doth her laws o'er rule;
Nature herself doth from herself depart,
(Strange transmigration!) by the power of

art.

How little things give law to great! we see
The small bud captivates the greatest tree.
Here even the power divine we imitate,
And seem not to beget but to create.
Much was I pleas'd with fowls and beasts, the

tame

For food and profit, and the wild for game.
Excuse me when this pleasant string I touch,
(For age of what delights it, speaks too much.)
Who twice victorious Pyrrhus conquered,
The Sabines and the Samnites captive led,
Great Curias, his remaining days did spend,
And in this happy life his triumphs end.
My farm stands near, and when I there retire,
His and that age's temper I admire :
The Samnite chiefs, as by his fire he sate,
With a vast sum of gold on him did wait;
"Return," said he, "your gold I nothing weigh,
When those, who can command it, me obey :"
This my assertion proves, he may be old,
And yet not sordid, who refuses gold.
In summer to sit still, or walk, I love,
Near a cool fountain, or a shady grove.
What can in winter render more delight,
Than the high Sun at noon, and fire at night?
While our old friends and neighbours feast and
play,

And with their harmless mirth turn night to day,
Unpurchas'd plenty our full tables loads,
And part of what they lent, return t' our gods.
That honour and authority which dwells
With age, all pleasures of our youth excels.
Observe, that I that age have only prais'd
Whose pillars were on youth's foundations rais'd,
And that (for which I great applause receiv'd)
As a true maxim hath been since believ'd.
That most unhappy age great pity needs,
Which to defend itself new matter pleads;
Not from grey hairs authority doth flow,
Nor from bald heads, nor from a wrinkled brow,
But our past life, when virtuously spent,
Must to our age those happy fruits present.
Those things to age most honourable are,
Which easy, common, and but light appear,
Salutes, consulting, compliment, resort,
Crowding attendance to, and from the count:

And not on Rome alone this honour waits,
But on all civil and well-govern'd states.
Lysander pleading in his city's praise,
From thence his strongest argument did raise,
That Sparta did with honour age support,
Paying them just respect at stage, and court.
But at proud Athens youth did age out-face,
Nor at the plays would rise, or give them place.
When an Athenian stranger of great age
Arriv'd at Sparta, climbing up the stage,
To him the whole assembly rose, and ran
To place and ease this old and reverend man,
Who thus his thanks returns, "Th' Athenians

[blocks in formation]

With age's lasting honours to compare ?

The youngest in the morning are not sure,
That till the night their life they can secure,
Their age stands more expos'd to accidents
Than ours, nor common care their fate prevents :
Death's force(with terrour)against Nature strives,
Nor one of many to ripe age arrives.
From this ill fate the world's disorders rise,
For if all men were old they would be wise;
Years and experience our forefathers taught,
Them under laws, and into cities brought;
Why only should the fear of death belong
To age, which is as common to the young?
Your hopeful brothers, and my son, to you
(Scipio) and me, this maxim makes too true:
But vigorous youth may his gay thoughts erect
To many years, which age must not expect;
But when he sees his airy hopes deceiv'd;
With grief he says,

liev'd?"

"Who this would have be

We happier are than they, who but desir'd
To posses that, which we long since acquir'd.
What if our age to Nestor's could extend?

On the world's stage, when our applause grows 'Tis vain to think that lasting, which must end;

high,

For acting here life's tragic-comedy,
The lookers-on will say we act not well,
Unless the last the former scenes excel:
But age is froward, uneasy, scrutinous,
Hard to be pleas'd, and parsimonious;
But all those errours from our manners rise,
Not from our years; yet some morosities
We must expect, since jealousy belongs
To age, of scorn, and tender sense of wrongs:
Yet those are mollify'd, or not discern'd,
Where civil arts and manners have been learn'd:
So the Twins' humours, in our Terence, are
Unlike, this harsh and rude, that smooth and fair.
Our nature here is not unlike our wine,
Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine;
So age's gravity may seem severe,
But nothing harsh or bitter ought t' appear.
Of age's avarice I cannot see

What colour, ground, or reason there should be:
Is it not folly, when the way we ride
Is short, for a long voyage to provide?
To avarice some title youth may own,

To reap in autumn what the spring had sown;
And with the providence of bees, or ants,
Prevent with summer's plenty, winter's wants.
But age scarce sows,till Death stands by to reap,
And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap;
Afraid to be so once, she's always poor,
And to avoid a mischief makes it sure.
Such madness, as for fear of death to die,
Is, to be poor for fear of poverty.

Now

THE FOURTH PART.

How against (that which terrifies our age) The last, and greatest grievance, we engage; To her, grim Death appears in all her shapes, The hungry grave for her due tribute gapes. Fond, foolish man! with fear of death surpris'd, Which either should be wish'd for, or despis'd; This, if our souls with bodies death destroy; That, if our souls a second life enjoy.

What else is to be fear'd, when we shall gain Eternal life, or have no sense of pain?

5

And when 'tis past, not any part remains
Thereof, but the reward which virtue gains.
Days, months, and years, like running waters

flow,

Nor what is past, nor what 's to come, we know:
Our date, how short soe'er, must us content.
When a good actor doth his part present,

In every act he our attention draws,
That at the last he may find just applause;
So (though but short) yet we must learn the art
Of virtue, on this stage to act our part;
True wisdom must our actions so direct,
Not only the last plaudit to expect: [last,
Yet grieve no more, though long that part should
Than husbandmen, because the spring is past.
The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth pro-
duce,

But autumn makes them ripe, and fit for use;
So age a mature mellowness doth set
On the green promises of youthful heat.
All things which Nature did ordain are good,
And so must be receiv'd and understood.
Age like ripe apples, on Earth's bosom drops,
While force our youth, like fruits untimely,

crops;

The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires,
As when huge streams are pour'd on raging fires;
But age unforc'd falls by her own consent,
As coals to ashes, when the spirit 's spent ;
Therefore to death I with such joy resort,
As seamen from a tempest to their port.
Yet to that port ourselves we must not force,
Before our pilot, Nature, steers our course.
Let us the causes of our fear condemn,
Then Death at his approach we shall contemn.
Though to our heat of youth our age seems cold,
Yet, when resolv'd, it is more brave and bold.
Thus Solon to Pisistratus reply'd,
Demanded, on what succour he rely'd,
When with so few he boldly did engage ;
He said, he took his courage from his age.
Then death seems welcome, and our nature kind,
When, leaving us a perfect sense and mind,
She (like a workman in his science skill'd)
Pulls down with ease, what her own hand did

build.

That art which knew to join all parts in one,
Makes the least violent separation.
Yet though our ligaments betimes grow weak,
We must not force them till themselves they break.
Pythagoras bids us in our station stand,
Till God, our general, shall us disband.
Wise Solon dying, wish'd his friends might grieve,
That in their memories he still might live.
Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all
His friends, not to bewail his funeral;
Your tears for such a death in vain you spend,
Which straight in immortality shall end.
In death if there be any sense of pain,
But a short space to age it will remain ;
On which, without my fears, my wishes wait,
But timorous youth on this should meditate:
Who for light pleasure this advice rejects,
Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects.
Our death (though not its certain date) we know;
Nor whether it may be this night or no:
How then can they contented live, who fear
A danger certain? and none knows how near.
They err, who for the fear of death dispute,
Our gallant actions this mistake confute.
Thee Brutus, Rome's first martyr I must name,
The Curtii bravely div'd the gulph of flame;
Attilius sacrific'd himself, to save

That faith, which to his barbarous foes he gave;
With the two Scipio's did thy uncle fall,
Rather than fly from conquering Hannibal;
The great Marcellus (who restored Rome)
His greatest foes with honour did intomb.
Their lives how many of our legions threw
Into the breach? whence no return they knew:
Must then the wise, the old, the learned, fear
What not the rude, the young, th' unlearn'd for-
bear?

Satiety from all things else doth come,
Then life must to itself grow wearisome
Those trifles wherein children take delight
Grow nauseous to the young man's appetite;
And from those gaieties our youth requires
To exercise their minds, our age retires.
And when the last delights of age shall die,
Life in itself will find satiety.
[hear,
Now you, my friends, my sense of death shall
Which I can well describe, for he stands near.
Your father, Lælius, and your's, Scipio,
My friends, and men of honour, I did know;
As certainly as we must die, they live
That life which justly may that name receive:
Till from these prisons of our flesh releas'd,
Our souls with heavy burthens lie oppress'd;
Which part of man from Heaven falling down,
Earth, in her low abyss, doth hide and drown,
A place so dark to the cœlestial light,
And pure eternal fire 's quite opposite.
The gods through human bodies did disperse
An heavenly soul, to guide this universe,
That man, when he of heavenly bodies saw
The order, might from thence a pattern draw;
Nor this to me did my own dictates show,
But to the old philosophers I owe.

I heard Pythagoras, and those who came
With him, and from our country took their name;
Who never doubted but the beams divine,
Deriv'd from gods in mortal breasts did shine.
Nor from my knowledge did the ancients hide
What Socrates declar'd the hour he dy'd;

He th' immortality of souls proclaim'd,
(Whom th' oracle of men the wisest nam'd.)
Why should we doubt of that, whereof our sense
Finds demonstration from experience?
Our minds are here, and there, below, above;
Nothing that's mortal can so swiftly move.
Our thoughts to future things their flight direct,
And in an instant all that 's past collect.
Reason, remembrance, wit, inventive art,
No nature, but immortal, can impart.
Man's soul in a perpetual motion flows,
And to no outward cause that motion owes;
And therefore that no end can overtake,
Because our minds cannot themselves forsake.
And since the matter of our soul is pure
And simple, which no mixture can endure
Of parts, which not among themselves agree;
Therefore it never can divided be.
And Nature shows (without philosophy)
What cannot be divided, cannot die.
We ev'n in early infancy discern,

Knowledge is born with babes before they learn;
Ere they can speak, they find so many ways
To serve their turn, and see more arts than
days:

Before their thoughts they plainly can express,
The words and things they know are numberless,
Which Nature only, and no art could find,
But what she taught before, she call'd to mind.
These to his sons (as Xenophon records)
Of the great Cyrus were the dying words;
"Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn)
I shall be no where, or to nothing turn:
That soul, which gave me life, was seen by none,
Yet by the actions it design'd, was known;
And though its flight no mortal eye shall see,
Yet know, for ever it the same shall be.
That soul, which can immortal glory give,
To her own virtues must for ever live.
Can you believe, that man's all-knowing mind
Can to a mortal body be confin'd?

Though a foul foolish prison her immure

On Earth, she (when escap'd) is wise and pure. Man's body, when dissolv'd, is but the same With beasts, and must return from whence it

came;

But whence into our bodies reason flows,
None sees it, when it comes, or where it goes.
Nothing resembles death so much as sleep,
Yet then our minds themselves from slumbers keep,
When from their fleshly bondage they are free,
Then what divine and future things they see!
Which makes it most apparent whence they are,
And what they shall hereafter be, declare."
This noble speech the dying Cyrus made.
Me, Scipio, shall no argument persuade,
Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom Fame
Gave, from two conquer'd parts o' th' world, their

name,

Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul,
Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal;
Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd
To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd
In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought,
That only Fame our virtuous actions bought;
"Twere better in soft pleasure and repose
Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close:
Some high assurance hath possest my mind,
After my death an happier life to find.

« PreviousContinue »