But we, when once our race is done, (Though rich like one, like t'other good) To duft and shades, without a fun, Defcend, and fink in deep oblivion's flood. Who knows, if the kind gods will give 25 The joys thou losest by thy idle fears? 30 The pleasant hours thou spend'st in health, The use thou mak'ft of youth and wealth, Of time and death, where good and evil ends. 35 For when that comes, nor birth, nor fame, Can e'er restore thee. Thefeus bold, Nor chafte Hippolitus could tame Devouring Fate, that fpares nor young nor old. FIB, SONG, BY CHARLES COTTON, ESQ.* I. IE, pretty Doris! weep no more, Defpight of wind and wave; You once thought fit to fave. II. Dry (fweet) at laft, thofe twins of light, And all of us are blind : 5 Fie, pretty Doris !. figh no more, From rocks and quickfands free; Your wishes will fecure his way, And doubtless he, for whom you pray, May laugh at destiny. * Born 1630; dyed 1688. 15 IV. Still then those tempefts of your breast, The man will foon return: Nor off'rings when they burn. On him V. you lavish grief in vain, Can't be lamented, nor complain, Whilft you continue true : That man' difafter is above, And needs no pity, that does love And is belov'd by you. THE MORNING QUATRAINS. BY THE SAME. I. THE cock has crow'd an hour ago, V, 29. man's, 20 25 30 II. We have out-done the work of night, III. None but the flothfull, or unfound, Are by the fun in feathers found, 10 Can the world's bus'nefs e'er be done, IV. Hark! hark! the watchfull chanticleer V. The morning curtains now are drawn, 15 To ftrew the way Sol's fteeds must tread. 20 VI. Xanthus and Ethon harness'd are, And, fnorting flame, impatient bear VII. The fable cheeks of fullen Night 25 Are streak'd with rofie ftreams of light, Whilft the retires away in fear, To shade the other hemisphere. VIII. The merry lark now takes her wings, As if she meant to meet the light, IX. Now doors and windows are unbar'd, X. The chimnies now to smoke begin, Whilft Kate, taking her pail, does trip 35 Mulls fwoln and ftradl'ing paps to ftrip. 40 XI. Vulcan now makes his anvil ring, Dick whistles loud, and Maud doth fing, And Silvio with his bugle horn. Winds an imprime unto the morn. |