ODE XLVIII.
[Soe am I slaved by Time]
1
Soe am I slaved by Time,
I modulate my Rhime,
To the soft Liricke; though I rather Chuse,
Had I the ancient Libertie, my Muse
Has seen and knowne;
To breath in bigger notes, and raise a Stile
To the Heroicke Number; but my Qvill
Is not my owne.
2
I once had to produce
A wittnes, that my Muse
Was noble in her Choice, and had a wing
Worthy the Subiect; but, alas! I bring
This to my Shame,
My Poems are noe more, noe more to boast;
For in the heape of Ruine they were lost,
Lost, to my name.
3
Let me confesse a Truth;
The honour of my Youth
Was in those leaves; and if I had a Pride,
It was in them, more then in All beside.
And I may Say
(Retaining modestie) they were not in
The Common Ranke; few of this Age have bin
Soe pure as they.
4
I would not be my owne
Herald; but this is knowne
To many of cleare Iudgment, who have bene
Passionate in the losse. Pardon the keene
And tender Zeale
Of an indulgent Father; if it rise
To Frensie, blame not water in my Eyes:
It suits me well.
5
Abortives doe not lacke
Their Tears; and dismall blacke
Attends the Funerall; and may not I,
Obliged, in a Paternall Pietie,
To my best Child,
Vtter a Truth vntax'd? Noe matter tho'
Ignorance blatter Follie, it shall goe
As it was Stiled.
6
Sleepe in thy Ashes; live,
Beyond all I could give;
Live in thy Fate, and everie Eye shall pay
Its Tribute to thy vrne, and sadlie Say,
Here is interr'd
A Father's Ioy; who cannot want a Teare
From anie Eye, who sees this Sepulchre
Which Ruin reared.
7
This Storie of thy Fate,
These Tears shall vindicate;
And yet I doubt not but againe to bring
Numbers of weight, and mightie Epicks Sing;
When Time shall raise
Industrious Qvills to meritt. I, till then,
Weare out my Time, with an vnsteddye Pen,
A thousand waies.
8
My better Hopes here fixe,
That I shall intermixe,
One Day, when Peace againe our Feilds shall tread,
Something of worth, for all the world to read.
How farre the reach
Of Poesie, enfranchised in her Ayme,
May (iustlie warranted by vertue) claime!
What high things teach!
9
Till when, my numméd Feet,
In ragged Sockes, forget
Those statelie measures; and contented, I
Draw Slender Odes, to the varietie,
Of Chance and Time.
With these I please my selfe, and sing away
My weight of Cares, to linger out the Day,
In Liricke Rhime.
