THE MOTTO. Noisy nothing! stalking shade! By what witchcraft wert thou made ? Empty cause of solid harms ! But I shall find out counter-charms Thy airy devilship to remove From this circle here of love. Sure I shall rid myself of thee By the night's obscurity, 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 myselí it must be strook. OF MYSELF. Too low for envy, for contempt too high. Some honor I would have, Not from great deeds, but good alone ; Th' unknown are better than ill known: Rumor can ope the grave. Acquaintance I would have, but when't depe And all that is not above Fate! Not on the number, but the choice, of friends. Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days! 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 Than palace; and should fitting be For all my use, no luxury. My garden painted o'er wit Thus would I double my life's fading Thou art the first of orators; only he For he, that runs it well, twice runs his Who best can praise thee, next must be. Welcome the Mantuan swan, Virgil the wise ! These unbought sports, this happy stat Whose verse walks highest, but not flies; Who brought green Poesy to her perfect age, And made that art which was a rage. To be like one of you ? On the calm flourishing head of it, See us, and clouds, below And in this true delight, I would not fear, nor wish, my fate; But boldly say each night, THE CHRONICL When fair Rebecca set me free, "T'was 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, 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. II. DRINKING. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again, The plants suck-in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup. The busy Sun (and one would guess By's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light, They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature's sober found, But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there; for why Should every creature drink but I? Why, man of morals, tell me why? 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; III. BEAUTY. 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 !) LIBERAL Nature did dispense And all the little lime-twigs laid, By Machiavel the waiting-maid ; IX. ANOTHER. And some with scales, and some with wings, fill it upi UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade, V. AGE. Oft am I by the women told, X. THE GRASSHOPPER. VII. GOLD. A MIGHTY pain to love it is, Happy Insect! what can be XI. THE SW Let's banish business, banish sorrow; To the gods belongs to-me-row. 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 undiscover'd 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, honor, 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 Rumor 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 show; They should not love yet all, or any, All their life should gilded be With mirth, and wit, and gaiety; Well remembering and applying The necessity of dying. 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 tongues 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 theeGraceful, 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 learn't 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 inflam'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 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 fron. the ground; The shaken strings melodiously resound. “Art thou return'd at last," said she, “To this forsaken place and me? Art thou return'd here, to repent too late, And Winter marches on so fast? Had to their dearest children done; Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame ; show, create; Business! the frivolous pretence of human lusts, to shake off innocence ; Business! the grave impertinence; Business! the thing which I of all things hate; Business! the contradiction of thy fate. “My little life, my all!" (said she) This good omen thus from Heaven “Go, renegado! cast up thy account, And see to what amount Thy foolish gains by quitting me: The sale of knowledge, fame, and liberty, The fruits of thy unlearn'd apostasy. Thou thought'st, if once the public storm were past, If the gods would please to be But advis'd for once by me, |
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