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Noisy nothing! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made :
Empty cause of solid harms!
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! The weight of that mounts this so high.
Unlike to every other sprite, These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright; Thou attempt'st not men to fright,
Brought forth with their own fire and light: Nor appear'st but in the light.
Out of myselt it must be strook.
Too low for envy, for contempt too high. l'npast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all,
Some honor 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!
Rumor can ope the grave. Hence, the desire of honors or estate,
Acquaintance I would have, but when't depends 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 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 outdo;
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 Sabine 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. Who best can praise thee, next must be.
And in this true delight,
These unbought sports, this happy state,
But boldly say each night,
To be like one of you ?
On the calm flourishing head of it,
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,
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 Thu 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 !)
LIBERAL Nature did dispense
And all the little lime-twigs laid,
By Machiavel the waiting-maid ;
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'erflowing, 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.
Oft am I by the women told,
A MIGHTY pain to love it is,
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. The country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripen'd year! Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire , Phæbus is hiinself 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 seast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
VIII. THE EPICURE.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine!
XI. THE SWALLOW. Foolish Prater, what dost thou So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade?
ELEGY UPON ANACREON; WHO WAS CHOKED BY A GRAPE STONE.
SPOKEN BY THE GOD OF LOVE
How shall I lament thine end, My best servant and my friend? Nay, and, if from a deity So much deified as I, It sound not too profane and odd, Oh, my master and my god! For 'tis true, most mighty poet! (Though I like not men should know it) I am in naked Nature less, Less by much, than in tày dross. All thy verse is softer far Than the downy feathers are Of my wings, or of my arrows, Of my mother's doves or sparrows, Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses, Or their riper following blisses; Graceful, cleanly, smooth and round, All with Venus' girdle bound; And thy life was all the while Kind and gentle as thy style, The smooth-pacid hours of every day Glided numerously away. Like thy verse each hour did pass; Sweet and short, like that, it was.
Some do but their youth allow me, Just what they by Nature owe me, The time that's mine, and not their own, The certain tribute of my crown: When they grow old, they grow to be Too busy, or too wise, for me. , Thou wert wiser, and didst know None too wise for love can grow; Love was with thy life entwin'd, Close as heat with fire is join'd; A powerful brand prescrib'd the date Of thine, like Meleager's fate. Th' antiperistasis of age More inflam'd thy amorous rage; Thy silver hairs yielded me more Than even golden curls before.
Had I the power of creation, As I have of generation, Where I the matter must obey, And cannot work plate out of clay, My creatures should be all like thee, "Tis thou should'st their idea be: They, like thee, should thoroughly hate Business, honor, title, state ; Other wealth they shouid not know, But what my living mines bestow; The pomp of kings, they should confess, At their crownings, to be less Than a lover's humblest guise, When at his mistress' feet he lies. Rumor they no more should mind Than men safe landed do the wind ; Wisdom itself they should not hear, When it presumes to be severe; Beauty alone they should admire, Nor look at Fortune's vain attire. Nor ask what parents it can show; With dead or old 't has nought to do. They should not love yet all, or any, But very much and very many : 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: They should always laugh, and sing, And dance, and strike th' harmonious string, Verse should from their tongues so flow, As if it in the mouth did grow, As swiftly answering their command, As tunes obey the artful hand, And whilst I do thus discover Th' ingredients of a happy lover, "Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake I of the grape no mention make.
Till my Anacreon by thee fell, Cursed Plant! I lov’d thee well ; . And 'twas oft my wanton use To dip my arrows in thy juice. Cursed Plant! 'tis true, I see, The old report that goes of thee That with giants' blood the Earth Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth ; And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite On men in whom the gods delight. Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder, Was brought forth in flames and thunder, In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, Worse than his tigers, he delights; In all our Ileaven I think there be No such ill-natur'd god as he. Thou pretendest, traitorous Wine! To be the Muses' friend and mine: With love and wit thou dost begin, False fires, alas! to draw us in; Which, if our course we by them keep, Misguide to madness or to sleep: Sleep were well, thou'st learn't a way To death itself now to betray.
grieves me when I see what fate Does on the best of mankind wait. Poets or lovers let them be, 'Tis neither love nor poesy Can arm, against Death's smallest dart, 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 Once alive, and love not thee With a passion far above All that e'er was called love ; In a Libyan desert may I become some lion's prey; Let him, Acme, let him tear My breast, when Acme is not there." The god of love, who stood 10 hear him, (The god of love was always near him,) Pleasʼd and tickled with the sound, Sneez'd aloud ; and all around The little Loves, that waited by, Bow'd, and blest the augury. Acme, inflam'd with what he said, Rear'd her gently-bending head ; And, her purple mouth with joy Stretching to the delicious boy, Twice (and twice could scarce suffice) She kise'd his drunken rolling eyes.
In a deep vision's intellectual scene,
Th' uncomfortable shade
Of the black yew's unlucky green
The melancholy Cowley lay .
In which all colors and all figures were,
That art can never imitate;
In such a dress, in such a well-cloth'd dream,
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?
And did as lear'd a portion assign,
Had to their dearest children done, When I resolv'd t'exalt thy anointed name, Among the spiritual lords of peaceful fame; Thou, changeling! thou, bewitch'd with noise and
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 wouldst, forsooth, be something in a state. And business thou would'st find, and would'st
Business! the frivolous pretence of human luste, to shake off innocence ;
Business!"the grave impertinence; Business! the thing which I of all things hato ; Business! the contradiction of thy fate.
“My little life, my all!" (said she)
“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'si, if once the public storm were
If the gods would please to be But advis'd for once by me,