Medulla Poetarum Romanorum Or, the Most Beautiful and Instructive Passages of the Roman Poets. Being a Collection, (Disposed under proper Heads,) Of such Descriptions, Allusions, Comparisons, Characters, and Sentiments, as may best serve to shew the Religion, Learning, Politicks, Arts, Customs, Opinions, Manners, and Circumstances of the Antients. With Translations of the same in English Verse. By Mr. Henry Baker |
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Life.
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 | Medulla Poetarum Romanorum |  |
Life.
The best of Life, which wretched Mortals share,
Flies first away: Diseases, sick old Age,
And Pain, and Death's Inclemency, succeed.—
Flies first away: Diseases, sick old Age,
And Pain, and Death's Inclemency, succeed.—
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Fix'd stands the Date of mortal Lives: the Space
Is short, and irretrievable to all:
But by their Actions to extend their Fame,
Is Virtue's Task.—
Is short, and irretrievable to all:
But by their Actions to extend their Fame,
Is Virtue's Task.—
Why are we then so fond of mortal Life,
Beset with Dangers, and maintain'd with Strife?
A Life, which all our Care can never save;
One Fate attends Us, and one common Grave.
Besides, we tread but a perpetual Round;
We ne'er strike out, but beat the former Ground:
And the same maukish Joys in the same Track are found.
For still we think an absent Blessing best;
Which cloys, and is no Blessing when possess'd:
A new arising Wish expels it from the Breast.
The feverish Thirst of Life increases still:
We call for more and more, and never have our fill:
Yet know not what to Morrow we shall try:
What Dregs of Life in the last Draught may lie.—
Beset with Dangers, and maintain'd with Strife?
A Life, which all our Care can never save;
One Fate attends Us, and one common Grave.
Besides, we tread but a perpetual Round;
We ne'er strike out, but beat the former Ground:
And the same maukish Joys in the same Track are found.
For still we think an absent Blessing best;
Which cloys, and is no Blessing when possess'd:
A new arising Wish expels it from the Breast.
The feverish Thirst of Life increases still:
We call for more and more, and never have our fill:
Yet know not what to Morrow we shall try:
What Dregs of Life in the last Draught may lie.—
Now let's suppose great Nature's Voice should call
To Thee, or me, or any of Us all;
What dost Thou mean, ungrateful Wretch! Thou vain,
Thou mortal Thing! thus idly to complain:
And sigh and sob, that Thou shalt be no more?—
For, if thy Life were pleasant heretofore,
If all the bounteous Blessings I could give
Thou hast enjoy'd, if Thou hast known to live,
And Pleasure not leak'd thro' Thee like a Sieve:
Why dost Thou not give Thanks as at a plenteous Feast,
Cram'd to the Throat with Life, and rise and take thy Rest?
But if my Blessings Thou hast thrown away,
If indigested Joys pass'd thro' and would not stay:
Why dost Thou wish for more to squander still?
If Life be grown a Load, a real Ill,
And I would all thy Cares and Labours end,
Lay down thy Burden, Fool! and know thy Friend.
To please Thee I have empty'd all my Store:
I can invent, and can supply no more,
But run the Round again, the Round I ran before.
Suppose Thou art not broken yet with Years,
Yet still the self-same Scene of Things appears,
And would be ever, couldst Thou ever live;
For Life is still but Life, there's Nothing new to give.—
To Thee, or me, or any of Us all;
What dost Thou mean, ungrateful Wretch! Thou vain,
Thou mortal Thing! thus idly to complain:
And sigh and sob, that Thou shalt be no more?—
For, if thy Life were pleasant heretofore,
If all the bounteous Blessings I could give
Thou hast enjoy'd, if Thou hast known to live,
And Pleasure not leak'd thro' Thee like a Sieve:
Why dost Thou not give Thanks as at a plenteous Feast,
Cram'd to the Throat with Life, and rise and take thy Rest?
But if my Blessings Thou hast thrown away,
If indigested Joys pass'd thro' and would not stay:
Why dost Thou wish for more to squander still?
If Life be grown a Load, a real Ill,
And I would all thy Cares and Labours end,
Lay down thy Burden, Fool! and know thy Friend.
To please Thee I have empty'd all my Store:
I can invent, and can supply no more,
But run the Round again, the Round I ran before.
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Yet still the self-same Scene of Things appears,
And would be ever, couldst Thou ever live;
For Life is still but Life, there's Nothing new to give.—
Now leave those Joys, unsuiting to thy Age,
To a fresh Comer, and resign the Stage.
All Things, like Thee, have Times to rise and rot,
And from each Others Ruin are begot:
For Life is not confin'd to him or Thee;
'Tis giv'n to all for Use, to none for Property.—
To a fresh Comer, and resign the Stage.
All Things, like Thee, have Times to rise and rot,
And from each Others Ruin are begot:
For Life is not confin'd to him or Thee;
'Tis giv'n to all for Use, to none for Property.—
—Life posts away,
And Day from Day drives on with swift Career,
The Wheel that hurries on the headlong Year.—
And Day from Day drives on with swift Career,
The Wheel that hurries on the headlong Year.—
| Medulla Poetarum Romanorum | |