Poems on Several Occasions :: :: University of Virginia Library

Happy's that Man that is from City-Care
Sequestred, as the Ancients were;
That with his own Oxe, ploughs his Father's Lands,
Untainted with usurious Bands:
That from Alarms of War in quiet sleeps;
Nor's frighted with the raging Deeps:
That shuns litigious Law, and the proud State
Of his more potent Neighbour's Gate.
Therefore, he either is imploy'd to joyn
The Poplar to the sprouting Vine,

537

Pruning luxurious Branches, grafting some
More hopeful Offspring in their room:
Or else, his sight in humble Valleys feasts,
With scatter'd troops of lowing Beasts:
Or refin'd Hony in fine Vessels keeps;
Or shears his snowy, tender Sheep:
Or, when Autumnus shews his fruitful head
I'th' mellow Fields with Apples covered,
How he delights to pluck the grafted Pear,
And Grapes, whose Cheeks do Purple wear!
Of which to thee, Priapus, Tythes abound,
And Silvan Patron of his Ground.
Now, where the aged Oak his green Arms spreads,
He lies; now in the flowry Meads:
Whilst through their deep-worn Banks the murmuring Flouds
Do glide, and Birds chant in the Woods:
And bubling Fountains slowing Streams do weep,
A gentle Summons unto Sleep.
But when cold Winter does the Storms prepare,
And Snow of thundering Jupiter:

538

Then with his Dogs the furious Boar he foils,
Compell'd into objected Toils:
Or, on the Forks extends his mashy Net,
For greedy Thrushes a deceit.
The fearful Hare too, and the Stranger Crane
With gins he takes, a pleasant gain.
Who but with such Diversions would remove
All the malignant Cares of Love?
But, if to these he have a modest Spouse,
To nurse his Children, keep his House,
Such, as the Sabin Women, or the tan'd
Wife o'th' painful Apulian,
To make a good Fire of dry Wood, when come
From his hard Labour weary home.
The wanton Cattle in their Booths to tye,
Stripping their stradling Udders dry,
Drawing the Must from forth the cleanly Fats,
To wash down their unpurchas'd Cates;
Mullet, or Thorn-back cannot please me more,
Nor Oysters from the Lucrine shore,
When by an Eastern Tempest they are tost,
Into the Sea, that sweeps this Coast.

539

The Turky fair of Africk shall not come,
Within the confines of my Womb:
As Olives from the fruitfull'st Branches got,
Ionian Snites so sweet are not.
Or Sorrel growing in the Meadow Ground,
Or Mallows for the Body sound.
The Lamb kill'd for the Terminalia;
Or Kid redeem'd from the Wolf's Prey.
Whilst thus we feed, what Joy 'tis to behold
The pastur'd Sheep haste to their Fold!
And th' wearied Ox with drooping Neck to come
Haling th' inverted Culter home;
And swarms of Servants from their Labour quit
About the shining Fire sit:
Thus when the Usurer Alphius had said,
Now purposing this Life to lead,
I'th' Ides call'd in his Mony; but for gain
I'th' Kalends put it forth again.

540

Horat. Ode IX. Lib. III.

Ad Lydiam.

Hor.
Whilst I was acceptable unto thee,
And that no other youthful Arm might cling
About thy snowy Neck, than mine more free,
More blest I flourisht than the Persian King.

Lyd.
And, for no other Womans Beauty, when
Thou sigh'dst; and when thy Chloe did not come
Before thy Lydia, thy Lydia then
Flourisht more fam'd than Ilia of Rome.

Hor.
Now Thracian Chloe is my only Dear,
Skill'd on the Harp, and skilful in an Air!
For whom to die I not at all should fear,
If gentle Fate my Soul in her would spare.

541

Lyd.
The Son of Ornithus the Thurine, me
With equal violence of heat doth move:
For whom, with all my Heart, I twice would die,
So Fate would spare the gentle Boy, my Love.

Hor.
What if our Friendship should renew,
And link our Loves in a more lasting Chain?
Yellow-hair'd Chloe, should I slight for you,
Should my access to thee be free again?

Lyd.
Though than a glorious Star He is more bright,
And thou than is the Adriatick Sea
More raging, and than spungy Cork more light,
Yet should I love to live and die with thee.

542

Martial, Epig. Lib. I. Ep. XX.

As I remember, Ælia cought full sore;
She cought out twice two Teeth, she had but four.
Now she may safely cough for ever: Why?
Her Mouth's not charg'd to let such Bullets fly.

Stances de Monsieur Theophile.

I

When thy nak'd Arm thou see'st me kiss
Upon the snowy Sheet display'd,
Which whiter than the Linnen is;
And, when my glowing Hand's betray'd,
Wandring about thy Paps: Thy Sense may prove,
Chloris, that with a burning heat I love.

543

II

As Zealots Eyes to Heaven tend,
So mine Eyes unto thine are turn'd,
When to thy Couch my Knees I bend,
With thousands of warm Passions burn'd,
My Lips from whispering Murmurs then are free,
And suffer my Delights to sleep with thee.

III

Morpheus glad of the surprise,
In his black Empire thee detains;
And hides from seeing me thine Eyes
VVith so dull, so heavy Chains,
That thy soft slumber'd-charmed, Spirits lye
Dumb, without murmur at his Tyranny.

544

IV

In breathing her perfume the Rose,
In shooting forth his heat the Day,
The Chariot, where Diana goes,
And Naiad's, when in Flouds they play,
The silent Graces in a Picture to
Make more of noise, than thy soft Breathings do.

V

Then by thee did I breathe a Sigh,
And when thy rest I had descryed;
The sweet Repose, that seal'd thine Eye:
With Passion then; Oh Heaven! I cryed;
How canst thou from such excellent Limbs, as these,
Extract so great an ill, as my Disease.

545

Her Heart and Mine.

Out of Astrea.

MADRIGALL.

I

Well may I say that our two Hearts
Composed are of flinty Rock;
Mine as resisting rigorous Darts;
Yours as it can indure the shock
Of Love, and of my Tears, and Smart.

II

But when I weigh the griefs, whereby
My Suff'rings I perpetuate,
I say, in this extremity,

546

In Constancy, that I am that
Rock, which you are in Cruelty.

To Charinus, an ugly Womans Husband.

Epig. out of Johannes Secundus.

Charinus , 'twas my hap of late
To have a sight of thy dear Mate,
So white, so flourishing, so fair,
So trim, so modest, debonair;
That if good Jove would grant to me
A leash of Beauties, such as she:
I'de give the Devil at one Word
Two that he'd take away the third.

547

An Ode of Johannes Secundus Translated.

To my dear Tutor Mr. Ralph Rawson.

The World shall want Phœbean light,
And th' Icy Moon obscured lye,
And sparkling Stars their Rooms shall quit
I'th' gloomy Sky:

The Crab shall shorter cut the Day,
The Capricorn prolong its Hours,
And t'abridge Nights unpleasant stay,
Command the Powers:

548

Earth shall be plow'd by crooked Ships,
And Carrs shall rowl upon the Seas,
Fishes in Woods, Bores in the Deep
Shall live and Graze:

Before I'le lay aside that care
Of thee, that's in my Bosom bred,
Whether i'th' Centre, or i'th' Air,
Alive, or dead.

EPIG. Translated out of Hieron; Amaltheus.

Acon his right, Leonilla her left Eye
Doth want; yet each in Form the Gods outvie.
Sweet Boy, with thine thy Sisters light improve;
So shall she Venus be, and thou blind Love.

549

Love's World.

Translated out of Astrea.

I

That Artist Love another World has made,
To which in'ts Centre fixt my Faith's the Earth:
And as on Earth the Worlds Foundation's laid,
My Faith the ground-sell is to this fair Birth.

II

If any jealous Fears are there disclos'd,
This constant Faith within my Breast to shake,
'Tis like those Winds within the Earth inclos'd,
Which with their riots make her Entrails quake.

550

III

My Tears the Ocean are: to dry those tears
A task no less, than to exhaust the Main:
'Cause of my Sighs, that I'me not lov'd the fear:
Those sighs the Storm, that stirs the Watry Plain.

IV

Bitter's this Sea; although its liquid course
Is but of Rivers sweet a concourse great;
More bitter are my Tears, pleasant their sourse
As sprung from you unto my Heart more sweet.

V

My Will's the Air, which in her power free
About my Faith in constant motion roves
The Winds Desires hot from their infancy,
By which, as Air by Winds, my will still moves.

551

VI

And as th' unruly Winds diversly stray
Though lock'd in Mountains, whence they dare not part:
So my Desires unto Respect obey,
And dare not break that Prison of my heart.

VII

The hidden Fire, which compasseth the Air,
Is th' undiscover'd Flame, wherewith I burn;
And, as that great Fire does to none appear,
So to Mens Eyes a borrow'd Face I turn.

VIII

My Hope's the waxing and the waining Moon,
Borrowing from you alone her glorious hue:
But when it darkly in the Clouds doth run,
'Tis doubtfull thought, that vainly follows you.

552

IX

Your Eye's the Sun incomparably bright,
Fair Eye Love's Sun, which to us all Light gives:
If th' other Sun gives the World living Light,
What Lover can deny by you he lives?

X

Why with such beauty has Love furnish'd you,
As that your sight's his Day, your absence Night,
If not t'injoy that blessing of your view?
Then let us rather live, than perish by't.

XI

The Summer's my hot Blouds redundancy;
And frozen Fear my cold, chill Winter brings,
But what of this, if still my Autumn be
As void of Fruit, as void of Flowers my Spring?

553

Martial, Ep. 84. Lib. 10.

Do'st muse to sleep, why Afer does not go?
Pre'thee, Cæcilian, look at's Bedfellow.

Id. Ep. 93. Lib. 11.

Who says, thou'rt Vitious, Zoilus, lies;
Thou art not Vitious, but a Vice.

Id. Ep. 58. Lib. 1.

Ad Flaccum.

Flaccus , thou ask'st, what kind of Girl I prize?
I like not one too Easy, nor too Nice.
I best with one betwixt these could dispense,
Not to afflict me, nor to glut my Sense.

554

Id. Ep. 48. Lib. 1.

De Diaulo Medico Paraph.

Diaulus Sextan from Physitian is
Of late become, and 'tis not much amiss:
For now, t'interr, his care he may apply
In this, those kill'd in that capacity.

Id. Lib. Ep. 65.

Ad Fabullam ambitiosam.

Thou'rt fair, we know't, a Maid, 'tis true,
And rich, why, we will grant that too.
But whilst too oft by thee 'tis said,
Thou'rt neither fair, nor rich, nor Maid.

555

Id. Lib. 1. Ep. 3.

Ad Velocem.

My Epigrams are long thou dost report,
For thy part, thou writ'st none: Thine are more short.

Id. Lib. 2. Ep. 88.

In Mamercum.

Thou nought repeat'st, yet Poet wouldst be thought;
Be what thou wilt, so thou repeatest nought.

556

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 9.

In Cinnam.

Cinna writes Verses against me, 'tis said,
He does not write whose Verse by none is read.

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 28.

In Nestorem.

Thou wondrest, Marius has a stinking Ear:
Nestor, 'tis long of thee, thou whisper'st there.

557

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 26.

In Candidum.

Thou, Candidus, alone enjoy'st th' estate;
Alone thy Money, Myrrhe, and Golden plate,
Massican, Cecuban Wine alone thou tast'st
Alone thou Wit, and Understanding hast.
Alone thou'st all things: I deny this one,
Thou hast a Wife too, but not thine alone.

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 32.

In Matriniam.

Thou say'st, I cannot fit an old Wife's Bed,
I can, Matrinia, thou'rt not old, but dead.
T'Hecube, or Niobe I could be prone,
But when she was no Bitch, and she no Stone.

558

Id. Lib. 3. Ep. 52.

Ad Chloen.

Chloe , thy Face I do not prize,
Neither thy Neck, thy Hands, nor Thighs,
Nor Breasts, Hips, Hanches, Legs, nor Feet,
Nor what thou think'st more tempting yet;
And not t'insist on every part,
I could want all, with all my heart.

Id. Lib. 4. Ep. 78.

In Varum.

Varus of late to Supper did me call
His Plate was sumptuous his Victuals small:
With Gold, not Victuals, was his Table spread.
Our Eyes his Servants, not our Palats fed.

559

For Meat, not Sights, I came, then did I say,
Or bring us Meat, or take thy Plate away.

Id. Lib. 4. Ep. 86.

In Ponticum.

We drink in Glass, thou Myrrh, Ponticus; why?
Lest Glass of two Wines make discovery.

Id. Lib. 5. Ep. 46.

In Bassam.

Bassa , thou say'st, thou'rt fair, and a Maid too;
Bassa, thou often say'st what is not so.

560

Id. Lib. 5. Ep. 44.

De Thaide, & Lecania.

Thais her Teeth are black, as jet, or Crow:
Lecania's Teeth are white, as driven snow.
The reason of it easily is known,
Lecania bought Teeth wears, Thais her own.

Id. Lib. 17. Ep. 32.

In Cinnam.

Since thy dagg'd Gown's so dirty, when thy Shoe,
Cinna, is whiter than the Virgin-snow:
Why with thy Garment do'st t'thy Feet abuse?
Cinna, tuck up thy Gown, thou spoil'st thy Shoes.

561

Id. Lib. 10. Ep. 47.

Ad Seipsum.

These, pleasant Martial, are the things
That to Man's life contentment brings;
Wealth by succession got, not toil,
A glowing Hearth; a fruitfull Soil;
No Strife; few Suits; a Mind not drown'd
In cares; clean Strength; a Body sound;
Prudent Simplicity; equal Friends;
No Diet, that to lavish tends:
A Night not steept in Drink, yet freed
From Care; a chast, and peacefull Bed;
Untroubled Sleeps, that render Night
Shorter, and sweeter till the light;
To be best pleas'd with thine own state,
Neither to wish, nor fear thy Fate.

562

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 3.

Ad Musam.

It was enough five, six, seven Books to fill,
Yea and too much; why, Muse, dost scrible still?
Cease, and be modest. Fame no farther grace
Can add; My Book's worn out in every place.
When raz'd Messala's Monumentals must
Lye with Licinus's lofty Tomb in dust
I shall be read, and Travellors that come
Transport my Verses to their Father's home.
Thus I had once resolv'd (Her Clothes, and Head
Besmear'd with Ointment) when Thalia said,
Canst thou, Ungratefull, thus renounce thy Rhime?
Tell me; how would'st thou spend thy Vacant time?
To Tragick buskins would'st thy Sock transfer,
And in Heroick Verse sing bloudy War?
That tyrannous Pedants with awfull Voice
May terrify Old Men, Virgins, and Boys:

563

Let rigid Antiquaries such things write,
Who by a blinking Lamp consume the Night,
With Roman air touch up thy Poems Dress,
That th' Age may read its manners, and confess:
Thou'lt find thou may'st with trifling Subjects play,
Until their Trumpets to thy Reed give way.

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 19.

De Cinna.

Cinna would fain be thought to need,
And so he does, he's poor indeed.

564

Id. Lib. 8. Ep 23.

Ad Rusticum.

To thee I gluttonous and cruel seem
About my Cook, because I basted him
For supper; Rusticus, the cause was great:
What should a Cook be beaten for, but's meat?

Id. Lib. Ep. 47.

In variè se tondentem.

Part of thy Beard is clipt, part shav'd, another place
Is pull'd: who'd think this could be all one Face?

565

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 21.

Ad Luciferum.

Phospher , appear; why dost our joys delay
When Cæsar's coming only waits for Day?
Rome begs thy haste; on slow Boots's Carr
Do'st thou not ride, thou mov'st so slowly, Star?
Swift-footed Cyllarus, thou might'st have took,
Castor his saddle now would have forsook.
Why do'st thou longer stop the longing Sun?
Xanthus, and Ethon beat, and snort to run:
And Memnon's Mother watches till you come.
Nor will the Stars give place to greater Light,
But stay with th' Moon expecting Cæsars sight.
Now, Cæsar, come by Night, we shall have Ray:
The People cannot, where thou art, want Day.

566

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 35.

In pessimos Conjuges.

Since y'are a-like in Manners, and in Life,
A wicked Husband, and a wicked Wife,
I wonder much you are so full of strife!

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 53.

In Catullam.

The Fair'st of Women, that have been, or are
Thou art, yet Cheaper than them all by far;
To me Catulla, what a triumph 't were
That thou wer't, or more Honest, or less Fair.

567

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 59.

In Vacerram.

But Antick Poets thou admirest none,
And only prayest them are dead, and gone.
I beg your pardon, good Vacerra, I
Can't on such terms find in my Heart to die.

Id. Lib. 7. Ep. 100.

De Vetula.

Thou'rt soft to touch; charming to hear; unseen
Thou'rt both: but neither, take away the Screen.

568

Id. Lib. 8. Ep. 41.

Ad Faustinum.

Sad Athenagoras nought presents me now,
As in December he was wont to do.
If Athenagoras be sad, or no,
I'll see: I'me sure, that he has made me so.

Id. Lib. II. Ep. 103.

In Lydiam.

He did not lye, that said, thy Skin was fair,
But not thy Face; so one, and th' other are.
Thy Face, if thou sit'st mute, and hold'st thy peace
Even as in one Embost, or Painted is.

569

But, as thou talk'st, thou loosest off thy Skin
And no ones Tongue more hurts themselves than thine:
Take heed the Ædile thee, nor hear, nor see,
As oft as Statues speak 'tis a Prodigie.

Id. Lib. 12. Ep. 7.

De Ligia.

If by her Hairs Ligia's Age be told,
'Tis soon cast up, than she is three years old.

Id. Lib. 12. Ep. 20.

Ad Fabullam.

That Themison has no Wife, how't comes to pass,
Thou ask'st: why Themison, a Sister has.

570

Horat. Lib 1. Carmin. Ode 8.

Ad Lydia.

Tell me, for God's sake, Lydia, why
Thy Sabaris thou do'st with love destroy.
The Glorious Field why should he shun,
Grown now impatient of the Dust, and Sun?
Why not in War-like bravery ride,
Curbing with bits the Gallick Horses pride?
Why fears he Tybers yellow Floud,
And flies the Olive more than Vipers Bloud?
Why not still crusht with Arms, whose art
Was fam'd for clean delivery of his Dart?
Why does he, Lydia, now lye hid,
As once, they say, the Son of Thetis did
Before Troy's wept for Funerall,
Lest in his own Apparel he might fall
Subject to Slaughter, and the Harms
Of bloudy Lycians unrelenting Arms?

571

De Fortuna: an sit cæca.

Epig. ex Johann. Secundo.

Why do they speak the Goddess Fortune blind?
Because She's only to th' unjust inclin'd;
This Reason nought Her blindness does declare,
They only Fortune need who Wicked are.

Tria Mala ex eodem.

The three great Evils of Mans life,
Are Fire, Water, and a Wife.

572

Id. Lib. Ep. 15.

In Neæram.

'Twas Night, and Phæbe in a Heaven bright
Shone 'mongst the lesser sparks of Light,
When, thou (to wound the Gods) vowd'st to fulfill
The strictest tenures of my will,
With straighter Arms, than ever th' Ivy tall
Embrac'd the aged Oak withall;
Whilst Wolves devour, and whilst Orion stirs
The Winter Main to Mariners;
And that this Love should mutual last, whilst air
Wanton'd with Phæbus's uncut Hair.
Neæra false on my good Nature wan
Too much; were Flaccus ought of Man,
He'd not t'another yield thee Night by Night;
But seek another Love in spight:
Nor would his Anger so provok'd give place,
To th' Charms of thy offensive Face.

573

But, Thou, who ere more happy, and now grown
Proud usher'st my Affliction,
Thou mayst be rich in Cattle, and in Land,
Pactolus may flow to thy Hand;
Thou mayst be too a Pythagorean
O'recome with Beauty Nerean.
Yet thou, alas! wilt mourn her change to see,
When I by turn shall laugh at thee.

ODE De Theophile.

Par.

I

Thy Beauties, Dearest Isis, have
Disturbed Nature at their sight,
Thine Eyes to Love his blindness gave,
Such is the vigour of their light:

574

The Gods too only minding thee,
Let the World err at liberty.

II

And having in the Suns bright Eye
Thy glances counterfeited seen,
Even their Hearts, my Sweet, thereby
So sensibly have wounded been:
That, but they're fixt, they'd come to see,
And gaze upon their Creature thee.

III

Beleive me, in this humor They
Of things below have little Care,
Of good, or ill, we do; or say,
Then since, Heaven lets thee love me, Dear,
Without revenging on thine Eye,
Or striking me in Jealousy.

575

IV

Thou mayst securely in mine Arms
And warm Womb of my wanton bed,
Teach me t'unravel all thy Charms;
Thou nothing, Isis, needest dread:
Since Gods themselves had happy been,
Could all their power have made thee Sin.

Elegy de Theophile.

Since that sad Day, a sadder Farewell did
My Eyes the object of my flame forbid,
My Soul, and Sense so disunited are,
That being thus deprived of thee, My Fair,
I find me so distractedly alone,
That from my self, methinks my self am gone.
To me invisible's the Sun's fair Light,
Nor do I feel the soft repose of Night:

576

I Poyson tast in my repast most sweet;
And sink where-ever I dispose my feet;
My Life all company, but Death, has lost,
Chloris, so dear the love I bear thee cost.

Oh Gods! who all the joys we have bestow,
Do you with them always give torments too?
Can that, we call Good Fortune never hit
Humane designs, but ill must follow it?
If equally you interweave the Fate
With good, and ill of those you love, and hate.
In vain I sue to her, I so adore,
In vain her help that has no Power implore.
For, as black Night pursues the glorious Sun,
The greatest Good does but some Ill fore-run.
When handsome Paris liv'd with Helen fair,
He saw his Fortune rais'd above his Care;
But Fate severely did revenge that bliss,
For (as with time his Fortune changed is.)
From his Delights sprang a debate, that Fire
Brought to old Troy, and massacred his Sire.
And though in that subversion there appears
Such sad mishaps of Bloud, of Fire, and Tears;

577

Yet by that Heavenly Face I so adore,
I swear, for love of thee, I suffer more.
For so long absent from thy gracious Eyes,
Methinks I banisht am the Deities.
And that from Heaven with Thunder wrapt in Flame,
To th' Centre I precipitated am.
Since I left thee, my Pleasures in their Tomb
Lye dead, and I their Mourner am become.
With all Delights my Thoughts distasted are,
And only to dislike the World take care;
Which as complying with my peevish Will,
Does nothing, I protest, but vex me still.
In Paris, like an Hermit, I retire,
And in one Object limit my Desire.
Where e're my Eyes seek to divert my Mind,
I bear the Prison, where I am confin'd.
My Blood is fir'd, and my Soul wounded lies,
By th' golden Shaft shot from thy killing Eyes
All the Temptations, that I daily see,
Serve only to confirm my Faith to thee.
The usual helps, that humane Reason bless,
To render a Man's Passion something less,

578

Stir mine up more to suffer chearfully
Th' obliging Torments, that do make me dye.
My Prudence, by my Courage, is withstood,
As by a rock the fury of the Floud.
I love my Frenzy, and I could not love
Him of my Friends, that should it disapprove;
Nor do I think, my reasonable part
Will e're approach me, whilst thou absent art.
I find my Thoughts uncessantly approve
The torturing effects of faithful Love.
I find, that Day it self shares in my pain;
The Air's o'respread with Clouds, the Earth with Rain;
That horrid Visions in my starting Sleep,
My Soul in their illusions tangled keep:
That all the apprehensions in my Head
Are Madness, by my feverish Passion bred,
That at husht midnight I imagine Storms,
And see a Ship-wrack, in its dreadfull'st Forms,
Fall from the top of an high precipice
Into the Jaws of an obscure Abyss:

579

And there a thousand ugly Serpents see,
Hissing t'advance their scaly Crests at me.
I cannot once dream of a false Delight,
But cruel Death straight seizes me in spite.
But when Heaven (weary to have gone thus far)
Gives, that I live under a better Star;
And when th' unconstant Stars, by their chang'd power,
Present me for my Pains one happy hour;
My Soul will find it self chang'd at thy sight,
And of all past mishaps revenged quite.
Though in Nights Sleep my Spirits buried lay,
Thy sight, my Dear, would lend them beams of Day.
Thy Voice has over me the self same power,
With Zephyr's Breath over th' Earth's wither'd Flower:
The vigorous Spring makes all things fresh and new;
The blowing Rose puts on her blushing hue;
The Heavens more gay, the Days more fair appear,
Aurora dressing to the Birds gives ear,
The wild Beasts of the Forrest free from Care,
Do feel their Bloud, and Youth renewed are,

580

And naturally obedient to their Sense,
Without remorse, their Pleasures recommence.

I only in the season all are blest,
With cruel, and continual Griefs opprest,
Alone in Winter, sad, and comfortless,
See not the glorious Spring, that we should bless.
I only see the Forrest fair forsook,
'Th' Earths surface Desart, and the frozen Brook,
And, as if charm'd, cannot once tast the Fruit,
That in this season to all Palats suit.

But when those Suns my adoration claim,
Shall with their Rays once reinforce my Flame,
My Spring will then return more sweet, and fair
By thousand times than those, Heavens Lamp gives, are,
If ever Fate allow mine Eyes that grace,
My Joys will transcend those of humane Race,
Nothing, but that, Oh Gods! nothing but that
Do I desire to baffle Death, and Fate.

581

Out of Astrea.

MADRIGALL.

I think I could my Passions sway,
Though great, as Beauties power can move
To such obedience, as to say,
I cannot; or I do not love.
But to pretend another Flame,
Since I adore thy conqu'ring Eye,
To thee, and Truth, were such a shame,
I cannot do it, though I dye.

If I must one, or th' other do,
Then let me die, I beg of you.

582

Stanzes upon the Death of Cleon.

Out of Astrea.

I

The Beauty which so soon to Cinders turn'd,
By Death of her Humanity depriv'd,
Like Light'ning vanisht, like the Bolt it burn'd:
So great this Beauty was, and so short liv'd.

II

Those Eyes so practis'd once in all the Arts,
That loyal Love attempted; or e're knew:
Those fair Eyes now are shut, that once the hearts
Of all that saw their lustre, did subdue.

583

III

If this be true, Beauty is ravisht hence,
Love vanquisht droops, that ever conquered,
And she who gave Life by her influence,
Is, if she live not in my Bosom, dead.

IV

Henceforth what happiness can Fortune send,
Since Death, this abstract of all Joy has won;
Since Shadows do the Substance still attend,
And that our good does but our ill fore-run?

V

It seems (my Cleon) in thy rising morn,
That Destiny thy whole Days course had bound,
And that, thy Beauty, dead, as soon as born,
Its fatal Hearse, has in its Cradle found.

584

VI

No, no, thou shalt not die, I Death will prove,
Who Life by thy sweet Inspiration drew;
If Lovers live in that which doth them love,
Thou liv'st in me, who ever lov'd most true.

VII

If I do live, Love then will have it known,
That even Death it self he can controul,
Or, as a God, to have hïs Power shown,
Will that I live without or Heart, or Soul.

VIII

But, Cleon, if Heav'ns unresisted will
'Point thee, of Death th' inhumane Fate to try,
Love to that Fate equals my Fortune still,
Thou by my mourning, by thy Death I dye.

585

IX

Thus did I my immortal Sorrows Breath,
Mine Eyes to Fountains turn'd of springing Woe;
But could not stay the wounding Hand of Death,
Lament; but not lessen misfortune so.

X

When Love with me having bewail'd the loss
Of this sweet Beauty, thus much did express,
Cease, cease to weep, this mourning is too gross,
Our Tears are still than our misfortune less.

586

Song of the inconstant Hylas.

Out of Astrea.

I

If one disdain me, then I fly
Her Cruelty, and her Disdain;
And e're the Morning guild the Sky,
Another Mistriss do obtain.
They err who hope by force to move
A Womans Heart to like; or love.

587

II

It oft falls out that they, who in
Discretion seem us to despise,
Nourish a greater Fire within,
Although perhaps conceal'd it lies.
Which we, when once we quit our rooms,
Do kindle for the next that comes.

III

The faithful Fool that obstinate
Pursues a cruel Beauty's Love,
To him, and to his Truth ingrate
Idolater does he not prove?
That from his pow'rless, Idol, never
Receives a Med'cine for his Fever.

588

IV

They say the unweary'd Lovers pains
By instance meet with good success;
For he by force his end obtains:
'Tis an odd method of Address,
To what Design so e're't relate,
Still, still to be importunate.

V

Do but observe the hourly Fears
Of your pretended faithful Lover,
Nothing but Sorrow, Sighs, and Tears,
You in his chearfull'st Looks discover;
As though the Lovers Sophistry
Were nothing but to whine, and cry.

589

VI

Ought he by a Man's Name be styl'd,
That (losing th' Honor of a Man)
Whines for his Pepin, like a Child
Whipt and sent back to School again,
Or rather Fool that thinks amiss,
He loves, but knows not what Love is?

VII

For my part, I'll decline this Folly,
By others harms (thank Fate) grown wise,
Such Dotage begets Melancholly,
I must profess Loves Liberties;
And never angry am at all
At them who me inconstamt call.

590

SONNET.

Out of Astrea.

[Since I must now eradicate the Flame]

Since I must now eradicate the Flame,
Which, seeing you, Love in my Bosom plac't,
And the Desires which thus long could last,
Kindled so well, and nourisht in the same.

Since Time, that first saw their Original,
Must triumph in their end, and Victor be,
Let's have a brave Design, and to be free,
Cut off at once the Briar-rose, and all.

591

Let us put out the Fire Love has begot,
Break the tough Cord tied with so fast a knot,
And voluntary take a brave adieu.

So shall we nobly conquer Love and Fate,
And at the Liberty of choice do that,
Which time its self, at last, would make us do.

A PARAPHRASE.

The Beauty that must me delight,
Must have a Skin, and Teeth Snow white:
Black arched Brows, black sprightly Eyes,
And a black Beauty 'twixt her Th**ghs;
Soft blushing Cheeks, a Person tall,
Long Hair, long Hands, and Fingers small;
Short Teeth; and Feet that little are,
Dilated Brows, and Haunches fair:

592

Fine silken Hair, Lips full, and red,
Small Nose, with little Breast and Head:
All these in one, and that one kind,
Would make a Mistriss to my Mind.

An Essay upon Buchanan's First Book de Sphæra. Never perfected.

How various are the World's great parts I sing,
And by what League the jarring Seeds of things
Agree in one, the Causes Motion breed
Why Darkness Light, and Coldness Heat succeed,
And why the Suns, and the Moons horned Light
Suffer Eclipses of o're-shading Night.

Thou who the Temples, wall'd with sacred Light.
(Impenetrable to our weaker sight)
Inhabit'st, holy Father of the Skies,
Propitious be to this bold Enterprize,
Whilst to the World we do Thy Acts reveal,
And the immense Work of the Pole unseal;

593

That people ignorant of Truth, a Mind
(From Sloth, and long-liv'd Error so refin'd)
May lift to Heav'n, and whilst amaz'd, the Ball
They so embraced with a Flaming Wall,
And wheeling times return in certain course,
May own the Mover, and admire his Force,
That props so great a Pile, that with the bit
Of his Eternal Law doth govern it;
And in His secret Council has decreed
It fit for Man's innumerable Need.

And thou, young Mercury Tymolion,
Thy Father's, and thy Country's hopeful Son,
Go, my Companion, in thy tender Years,
Castalion Woods, and sacred Founts draw near,
Frequent that unknown Peace, and Nymphs soft Choires
Subject to loss; nor avaritious Fires.

The time will come (when time has giv'n thee Force)
That thou shalt bravely, with thy foaming Horse,
Rush into War, and gloriously advance
In dusty Fields thy Country's threatning Launce:

594

Till then, thy Syre, either shall Lombards deign
T'orecome, wild Germans, and the Warlike Spain
By Force; or Conduct: Or with Gallick spoil,
Dazling the Sun, deck Calidonia's Soyl.

Cætera desunt.

Cn. Cornelii Galli; vel potius Maximiani Elegia 1. Trans.

Why, envious Age, dost thou my End delay?
Why in this wearied Trunk delight to stay?
My captive Life from such a Prison free,
Death now is Rest, when Life is Misery.
I'm no more what I was, but sunk, and old,
And what remains is languishing and cold.
The day that young Men chears, offends mine Eye,
And (which is worse than Death) I wish to die.

I was my Youth, whilst Wit, and Beauty crown'd,
An Orator throughout the World renown'd.

595

The Poets charming lies full oft I feign'd,
And by fictitious Tales, true Titles gain'd.
In all Disputes of Wit the Wreath bore I;
And have my Eloquence reputed high,
High, and immortal. Oh! what then remains
Worthy an old Man's Living; or his Pains?
Nor less than these the Beauty of my Face,
Which (though the rest are wanting) wins much Grace.
Manhood to that, which richer far than Gold,
Makes Wit a greater price, and Lustre hold.
If I, with Dogs, the Thickets would surround,
The conquer'd Prey fell at my Launces Wound;
Or would I loose Shafts from the bending Yew,
With great applause untamed Beasts I slew;
Or with the sinewy Wrestlers if I try'd,
With my strong Nerves their oyly Limbs I ty'd:
Now at the Race I all that came out-run;
And now in Tragick Song the Buskin won.
This mixture of good things my worth increast,
Still various Works of Art advance us best:

596

For whatsoever things simply delight,
Joyn'd to another Grace, shine out more bright;
With such a Mine of Fortitude adorn'd,
All threatning Dangers I contemn'd, and scorn'd.
Bare-head I made the Winds and Storms retreat,
Feeling no Winters Cold; nor Summer's Heat;
I swam the yellow Tyber's gelid Stream,
And fearless would the doubtful Current stem.
With the least Sleep I could forsake my Bed,
And with the slend'rest fare be amply fed.
Or if a drunken Guest surpriz'd my Walls,
To waste the forlorn day in Bacchanals;
Lyæus self struck Sail, amaz'd, and dumb,
And he that always conquer'd, fell o'recome.
Nor is't an easy thing the Mind to bend
At once with two Opposers to contend.
And in this kind of strife they say of Yore,
Great Socrates the Victor's Trophy bore.
And thus they say the rigid Cato won;
Things are not ill themselves, unless ill done.
To all things dreadless I oppos'd my Face,
And to my constant Mind Mischance gave place.

597

With little pleas'd I still lov'd to be poor,
And being Lord of all, could wish no more.
Thou only, wretched Age, dost me subdue,
To whom who conquers all things else must bow.
'Tis into thee we fall, and what at last
Decays, and withers, thou alone dost wast.
Hetruria ravisht with these parts of mine,
Wish'd that I would with her fair Daughters twine:
But Liberty to me was far more sweet,
Than all the Pleasures of the Nuptial Sheet.
In my gay Youth I walk'd about proud Rome,
To view what Virgins there might overcome,
Which might be won; or which was fit to seek;
When at their sight, soft blushes stain'd my Cheek.
Now runs a smiling Girl her self to hide,
And yet not so, as not to be descry'd;
But by some single part to be reveal'd,
Gladder by much to be so ill conceal'd.
Thus did I fare, and acceptable pass
To all, and thus a lusty Suiter was,
And only so: For Nature my strong Brest,
In Modesty and Chastity had drest.

598

For whilst I strove the choicest Fair to wed,
I wore out Cold ev'n to a Widdow'd Bed.
They all to me ill bred, or ugly seem'd,
And I none worthy my Embraces deem'd.
I hated lean ones, fat were a Disease;
Neither the low; nor yet the tall would please.
With middle Forms I ever lov'd to play,
And in the midst most Graces ever lay.
Here of our softest parts lies all the bliss,
And in this part Loves Mother seated is.
A slender Lass not lean, I lov'd to chuse,
For Flesh is fittest for a fleshy use:
One whose most strait Embraces would delight,
Not one whose Bones should goar my Ribs in Fight.
I lov'd no Fair, unless her Cheeks were spread
With native Roses of the purest red.
This Tincture Venus owns above the rest,
And loves the Beauty in her Flower drest.
A long white Neck, and golden flowing Hair,
Have long been known to make a Woman fair.
But black Brows, and black Eyes catch my Desire,
And still, when seen, have set my Heart on fire.

599

I ever lov'd a red, and swelling Lip,
Where a full Bowl of Kisses I might sip,
A long round Neck than Gold appear'd more rare,
And the most wealthy Gem outshone by far.
Ill fits it Age, to speak his wanton prime,
And what was decent then, is now a Crime:
For various things do diff'rent Men delight,
Nor yet are all things for all Ages right;
Things apt for one Age, at the last may grow
Uncomely for the self-same Man to do.
The Child by play, th' old Man's by stead'ness seen,
But the young Man's Behaviour lies between.
This silent sadness best becomes, and that,
Is better lik'd of for his Mirth, and Chat:
For rolling times does all things turn, and sway,
And suffers none to run one certain way.

Now that a long unprofitable Age,
Lies heavy on me, I would quit the Stage.
Life's hard Condition gripes the Wretched still;
Nor is Death sway'd by any humane Will.

600

Tho Wretch wishes to die, but Death retires,
Yet when Men dread him, then the Slave aspires.
But I alass, that maugre all my Arts,
Have been so long dead in so many parts,
On Earth I think shall never end my Days,
But enter quick the dark Tartarean ways.
My Tast, and Hearing's ill, mine Eyes are such,
Nay I can scarce distinguish by my Touch:
No Smell is sweet; nor Pleasure; who'd believe
A Man could sensibly his Sense out-live?
Lethe's Oblivion does my Mind embrace,
And yet I can remember what I was.
The Limbs diseas'd, the Mind no Work contrives,
The thought of ills all other aim deprives.
I sing no Lyricks now, that dear Delight,
With all my Voices Grace, is perish'd quite;
Frequent no Exercise, no Odes rehearse,
And only with my Pains, and Griefs converse;
The Beauty of my Shape and Face are fled,
And my revolted Form 'fore-speaks me dead.
For fair, and shining Age has now put on
A bloodless, Funeral Complexion.

601

My Skin's dry'd up, my Nerves unpliant are,
And my poor Limbs my Nails plow up, and tear,
My chearful Eyes, now with a constant Spring,
Of Tears bewail their own sad Suffering;
And those soft Lids that once secur'd mine Eye,
Now rude, and bristled grown, does drooping lie,
Bolting mine Eyes, as in a gloomy Cave,
Which there on Furies, and grim Objects rave.
'Twould fright the full-blown Gallant to behold
The dying Object of a Man so old;
Nor can you think that once a Man he was,
Of humane reason, who no portion has.
The Letters split, when I consult my Book,
And ev'ry Leaf I turn'd does broader look.
In Darkness do I dream I see the Light,
When Light is Darkness to my perish'd Sight.
Without a Night t'oreshade him, the bright Day
Is from my Sense depriv'd, and snatch'd away.
Who can deny, that wrap'd in Nights Embrace,
I groping lie in the Tartarean place?
What mad Adviser would a Man perswade
By his own Wish to be more wretched made?

602

Diseases now invade, and Dangers swarm,
Sweet Banquets now, and Entertainments harm
We're forc'd to wean our selves from grateful things
And though we live, avoid the sweets Life brings
And me, whom late, no accident could bend,
Now the meer Aliments of Life offend.
I would be full, am sick when I am so,
Should fast, but abstinence is hurtful too.
'Tis chang'd to surfeit now what once was Meat,
And that's now nauseous, which before was sweet
Venus, and Bacchus's Rites, now fruitless are,
That use to fill this Life's contingent Care.
Nature alone panting, and prostrate lies,
Caught in the ruin of her proper Vice.
Julip; nor Cordial now no Comfort give;
Nor ought that should a Patient sick relieve:
But with their Matter their Corruption have,
And only serve to importune my Grave.
When I attempt to prop my falling Frame,
The Letts oppos'd, make my Endeavours lame.
Until my Dissolutions tardy day
All helps of Arts do with the thing decay

603

And by th' appearance since th' afflicted Mind
Can no diversion, nor advantage find;
Is it not hard we may not from Mens Eyes
Cloak, and conceal Ages Indecencies.
Unseeming Spruceness th' old Man discommends;
And in old Men only to live offends.
With Mirth, Feasts, Songs, the old must not dispense,
O wretched they whose Joys are an offence!
What should I do with Wealth, whose use being ta'ne,
Although I swim in store, I poor remain:
Nay 'tis a Sin to what we have got to trust,
And what's our own to violate unjust.
So thirsty Tantalus the neighbour Stream,
And Fruit would tast, but is forbidden them.
I but the Treas'rer am of my own Pelf,
Keeping for others what's deny'd my self:
And like the Fell Hesperian Dragon grown,
Defend that golden Fruit's no more my own.
This above all is that augments my Woes,
And robs my troubl'd Mind of all Repose.
I strive to keep things I could never gain,
And ignorantly hold some things in vain.

604

Continu'd Fears do credulous age invade;
And th' old Man dreads the ills himself has made,
Applauds the past, condemns the present Years;
And only what he thinks Truth, Truth appears:
He only learned is, has all the skill,
And thinking himself wise, is wider still.
Who though with Trouble he much Talk affords,
Faulters, forgets, and dribbles out his Words;
The Hearer's tir'd, but he continues long;
O wretched Age, only in prating strong!
Idly he talks, and strains his feeble Voice,
Whilst those he pleas'd before, laugh at his noise.
Their Mirth exalts him, he still louder grows,
And dotingly his own Reproach allows:
These are Death's Firstlings, Age does this way flow,
And with slow pace creeps to the Shades below.
Whilst the same Colour Meen, nor pace appear
In the poor Traveller that lately vvere.
My Garment from my vvither'd Limbs hangs down,
And vvhat before too short, too long is grovvn.
We strangely are contracted, and decrease,
A Man vvould think our very Bones vvere less.

605

Our burthen'd Age cannot the Heav'ns behold,
But prone still looks upon the parent Mold.
On three Feet first vve halt, on four next fall,
And on the Earth like helpless Infants crawl.
To their first Birth and Mother all things tend,
And vvhat vvas nothing shall in nothing end.
Hence 'tis that learning Age the senseless Ground,
Does with his bending Crutch so often wound.
And with thick steps making a tardy way,
In a hoarse Voice may thus be thought to say;
Receive me, Mother, to remorse incline,
And in thy Lap cherish these Limbs of mine.
The Children vvhoot me vvheresoe're I go;
Why wilt thou let thy Birth so monstrous grovv?
I vvith the Gods have novv no more to do,
Each Office of my Life I have run through.
My vvasted Carcass then at last restore,
To the cold Clay from vvhence I came before.
To spin a miserable Life in smart,
Of a Maternal Care can be no part.
Then propping his vveak Joynts, he feebly cravvls,
And on his weary Bed neglected falls.
Lying like livid Corps of Life bereft,
Only the rafters of the Building left.

606

Should I still lie, and lying win more space,
Yet who would think me in a living place?
'Tis pain to live, with heat we burn, not warm,
The Clouds offend, the Air, and Coldness harm.
The Dew, and soft Showers that in April flow,
With Autumns jocund Days offensive grow.
Coughs, Flegm, and Leprosies afflict the old,
And ages minutes by his Groans are told.
How can I him a living Man believe,
Whom Light, and Air, by which he panteth, grieve
Those gentle Sleeps which other Mortals ease,
Scarce in a Winters Night mine Eye-lids seise;
Or if it come to shade my setting Beams,
Tis clad in all the shapes of frightful Dreams.
The softest Feather-beds seem hard as Stones,
And lightest Quilts oppress my naked Bones.
I quit my Bed at mid-night to the Floor,
And suffer much, I may not suffer more.
Our own Infirmities our selves invade,
And by the way we hate, we're Captives made.
Our Entrails suffer Dissolution,
By which the noble Structure is o'rethrown.
Unlookt for Age, o'reburthen'd with these things,
Has learnt to bow under the weight he brings.

607

Who therefore would desire in Griefs so four,
When the Minds vanisht, to prolong his hour?
Better die once, than dying live by far,
Making the Trunk the Senses Sepulchre;
But I repine not, my time wasted is,
And Nature's shame to open is amiss.
Sinewy Bulls in time invalid grow,
The Horse that once was fair's mishapen now.
Time tames the fury of the Lions wild,
And Age will make the Caspian Tygers mild.
Antiquity the Stones themselves will race,
And to old Time all Natures Works give place:
But I were best prevent mischance to come,
And by one blow anticipate my doom.
To haste a certain Ruin is less pain,
Than is the fear of Mischiefs that remain.
But in the other World what Torments are,
Suspends, and well becomes an old Man's Care.
Contempt, and Mischiefs ev'rywhere attend,
And in distress I find no helping Friend.
The Boys, and Girls deride me now forlorn,
And but to call me Sir, now think it scorn.
They jeer my Count'nance, and my feeble Pace,
And scoff that nodding Head that awful was:

608

And though I nothing see, I can perceive,
My Pains by this contempt redoubled grieve.
He's happy Merits a smooth Life to spend,
And shut his Days up with a constant end.
That's hard at last we Reputation call,
From which height tumbling, still augments the fall.

Ad Furium, Ep. 23.

Ex Catullo.

Though Furious Servant have, nor Chest,
Spider, nor Fire, nor creeping Beast,
He has a Syre, and a Stepdame yet,
Whose greedy Teeth a Flint would eat.
And doubtless leads a happy Life
With's Father, and his wooden Wife.
No Wonder; for their Healths are clear,
They eat together, nothing fear.
No Conflagrations, Ruins great,
No impious Facts, nor foul Deceit.

609

All accidental dangers scorn,
And having Bodies dry as horn;
Or what we still do dryer hold
The Sun, or hunger; or the cold,
Amongst the happy are enroll'd.
No sweat; nor salivation flows
From thee; no drop hangs at thy Nose;
And to this cleanness, cleaner far.
Thy A**se is than a Salt-Seller,
Nor Ten times in a Year does Sh**te,
And that parcht Pease; or Stones doth quite
In hardness pass, which if thou list
To rub, and crumble in thy Fist:
Thou may'st securely do it, and
Ne're stain the Whiteness of thy Hand.
These Benefits do not despise,
Nor rashly, Furius, lightly prize;
Let begging then for shame alone,
For thou art rich enough for one.

610

De Catella Publ. Mart. Ep. 110. Lib. 1.

PAR.

As Lesbias Sparrow, Tricksy wanton is,
And purer than the Turtle's Kiss;
Fairer than Maids, deckt in their Morning beams,
And of more price than Indian Gems.
Tricksy, that little Bitch, is my delight,
My Sport by Day, my Love by Night.
She apprehends her Master's joy, and woe,
And wanton's, or's dejected so.
And if in play, or love she quest, or whine,
Men think she speaks in Language fine.
She rouses with me at the dawning peep,
And by my side all Night doth sleep;
So calm, so still, no sigh does interpose
Betwixt me, and my sweet repose:
Or if an accident unlook'd for come,
To ease the gripings of her Womb,

611

She slips no drop of any kind to stain;
Or to ill sent the counterpain:
But nimbly rises up, and whining tells
What her necessity compells.
Such innate Chastity adorns the Beast
She knows not lust; nor have we guest,
Throughout mankind, one worthy to invade,
The treasures of so fair a Maid.
And lest the Fate of her extreamest Day
Should snatch her Memory away,
We wisely have in cunning colour set,
The Beauty of her counterfeit;
In which fair Tricksy you so like may see,
That She is not more like to She.
In fine expose her, and her Shade to view
You'll think both painted; or both true.

Eccho ad Pictorem Ausonii Epig.

T'express me in a Face! vain Painter why?
Or court an unknown Goddess with thine Eye?

612

From Hyre, and Tongue, I'me sprung mother of vain
Report, who Voice without a Mind retain.
Catching last Syllab'es from their dying tone,
And mocking others Language with my own.
Shrill Eccho only in the Ear is found;
But if thou'lt paint her like, go paint a Sound.

De Myrone & Laide Ausonii.

Epig.

Of Lais hoary Myron begg'd a Night,
But she repulst him with a slight.
He soon perceiv'd the cause, and his white Head
With shining black soon overspread.
Myron the same in Face, but not in Hue,
Returns his Love-suit to renue.
But Face and Hair compared by the Dame,
Thinking him like, but not the same.
Perhaps the same Top, yet dispos'd to play;
She to the subtle Youth could say;

613

Fondling, forbear to importune me so,
Thy Father I deny'd, but now.

De Vita beata.

[_]

Paraphras'd from the Latin.

Come y'are deceiv'd, and what you do
Esteem a happy Life's not so;
He is not happy that excels
I'th' Lapidary's Bagatells;
Nor he, that when he sleeps, doth lye
Under a stately Canopy;
Nor he, that still supinely hides,
In easie Down his lazy Sides;
Nor he, that Purple wears and sups
Luxurious Draughts in Golden Cups;
Nor he, that loads with Princely sare,
His bowing Tables whil'st they'll bear;

614

Nor he, that has each spacious Vault
With Deluges of Plenty fraught;
Cul'd from the fruitful Libyan Fields,
When Autumn his best Harvest yields:

But he whom no mischance affrights;
No Popular applause delights,
That can unmov'd, and undismay'd
Confront a Ruffins threatning Blade.
Who can do this; that Man alone
Has Power, Fortune to Disthrone.

Q. Cicero de Mulierum levitate.
[_]

Translat.

Commit a Ship unto the Wind;
But not thy Faith to Women kind;
For th' Oceans waving Billows are
Safer than Womans Faith by far.
No Woman's Good, and if there be,
Hereafter, such a Thing as she:

615

'Tis by I know not what of Fate,
That can from Bad, a Good Create.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Some Men of Sense, and who pretend to be
Ancient Well-willers to your Family,
Photis, give out, that Baud Men may thee call
And do thy modesty no wrong at all.
Thou swear'st they Infamously lye
And that no Word of Verity
They ever spake, then; or before:
And yet it cannot be deny'd
But by thy Cuckold Husbands side,
Thou every Night dost lay a Whore.

616

In Coccam.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Thy Cheeks having their Roses shed,
And thy whole frame through Age become
So loathsom for all use in Bed,
That 'tis much fitter for a Tomb:
Cocca thou shouldst not be so vain,
(Although thy Eloquence be great)
As to expect it should obtain,
That I should do the filthy Feat.
And that same Engine in your Hood
You Cherish, Court, and Flatter so,
Now you have made him barely stood;
Is not so charitable though,
As in his vigorous Youth to be
A Crutch to your Antiquity.

617

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Old Fop, why should you take such pains
To Paint, and Perriwig it so?
My nobler Love alas! disdains
To stoop so infamously low.
Time that does mow the fairest Flowers,
Has made so very bold with yours,
You should expect to be deny'd:
The Footmen can no more endure you,
And, if no sport in Hell, assure you
You'll never more be Occupy'd.

Epig. writ in Calistas Prayer Book. By Monsieur Malherbe.

Whilst you are Deaf to Love, you may,
Fairest Calista, Weep, and Pray,

618

And yet alas! no Mercy find:
Not but God's Merciful 'tis true:
But can you think he'll grant to you,
What you deny to all Mankind.

ODE Bacchique de Monsieur Racau.

I

Now that the Day's short, and forlorn
Of Melancholick Capricorn
To Chimny-corners Men translate:
Drown we our Sorrows in the Glass,
And let the thoughts of Warfare pass,
The Clergy and the Third Estate.

II

Maynard, I know what thou hast writ,
That sprightly issue of thy Wit,

619

Will live whilst there are Men to read:
But what if they recorded be
In Memories Temple, boots it thee,
When thou art gnawn by Worms, and dead?

III

Henceforth those fruitless Studies spare,
Let's rather Drink until we stare
Of this delicious Juice of ours:
Which does in excellence precede
The beverage which Ganimede
Into th' Immortals Geblet pours.

IV

The Juice that sparkles in this Glass,
Make tedious Years, like Days, to pass;
Yet makes us younger still become:
By this from lab'ring Thoughts are chas't,
The Sorrows of those ills are past,
And terrour of the ills to come.

620

V

Let us Drink brimmers then, Time's fleet,
And steals away with winged Feet
Halling us with him to our Urn:
In vain we sue to it to stay;
For Years like Rivers slide away,
And never, never do return.

VI

When the Spring comes attir'd in Green
Then Winter flies, and is not seen,
New Tides do still supply the Main:
But when our frolick Youth's once gone,
And Age has ta'ne Possession;
Time ne're restores us that again.

VII

Death's Laws are universal, and
In Princes Pallaces command,

621

As well as in the poorest Hut:
We're to the Parcæ subject all
The Threads of Clowns, and Monarchs shall
Be both by the same Cizors cut.

VIII

Their rigours, which all things deface,
Will ravish in a little space
Whatever we most lasting make;
And soon will lead us out to drink
Beyond the Pitchy Rivers brink
The Waters of oblivious Lake.

Lyrick.

Ex Cornelio Gallo.

Lydia , thou lovely Maid, whose White
The Milk, and Lilly does outvie,
The Pale and Blushing Roses light,
Or polisht Indian Ivory.

622

Dishevel, sweet, thy yellow Hair,
Whose ray doth burnisht Gold disprize,
Dissolve thy Neck so brightly fair,
That doth from Snowy Shoulders rise.

Virgin, unvail those starry Eyes,
Whose Sable Brows like Arches spread;
Unvail those Cheeks, where the Rose lies
Streak'd with the Tyrian Purples Red.

Lead me those Lips with Coral lin'd,
And kisses mild of Doves impart,
Thou ravishest away my Mind,
Those gentle kisses steal my Heart.

Why suck'st thou from my panting Breast
The Youthful vigour of my Blood?
Hide those Twine-Apples, ripe, if prest
To spring into a Milky-flood.

623

From thy expanded Bosom, breathe
Perfumes Arabia doth not know;
Thy every part doth Love bequeath,
From thee all excellencies flow.

Thy Bosoms killing White then shade,
Hide that temptation from mine Eye:
Thou seest I languish, cruel Maid;
Wilt thou then go, and let me dye?

De luxu, & libidine.

Epig. Tho. Mori.

Let who would die to end his Woes,
Both, Wench, and Tipple, and he goes.

624

Id. in Avarum.

EPIG.

With narrow Soul thou swim'st in glorious Wealth,
Rich to thy Heir: but wretched to thy self.

Id. in Digamos.

EPIG.

Who having one Wife buried, Marries then,
After one Shipwrack tempts the Sea agen.

625

Stances de Monsieur de Scudery.

I

Fair Nymph, by whose perfections mov'd,
My wounded Heart is turn'd to Flame;
By all admired, by all approv'd,
Indure at least to be belov'd,
Although you will not Love again.

II

Aminta as Unkind, as Fair
What is there that you ought to fear;
For cruel if I you declare,
And that indeed you cruel are,
Why the reproach may you not hear?

626

III

Even reproaches should delight,
If Friendship for me you have none;
And if no anger, I have yet,
Enough perhaps that may invite
Your hatred; or compassion.

IV

When your Disdain is most severe,
When you most rigorous do prove,
When frowns of anger most you wear;
You still more charming do appear,
And I am more, and more in Love.

V

Ah! let me, Sweet, your sight enjoy,
Though with the forfeit of my Life;
For fall what will, I'de rather dye,
Beholding you, of present Joy,
Than absent, of a lingring Grief.

627

VI

Let your Eyes lighten till expiring
In flame my Heart a Cinder lye;
Falling is nobler, than retiring,
And in the glory of Aspiring;
'Tis brave to tumble from the Sky.

VII

Yet I would any thing imbrace,
Might serve your anger to appease;
And, if I may obtain my Grace,
Your Steps shall leave no print; nor trace
I will not with Devotion kiss.

VIII

If (Cruel) you will have it so,
No word my passion shall betray;
My wounded Heart shall hide its Woe:
But if it Sigh, those Sighs will blow,
And tell you what my Tongue would say.

628

IX

Should yet your rigour higher rise,
Even those offending Sighs shall cease;
I will my Pain, and Grief disguise:
But (Sweet) if you consult mine Eyes,
Those Eyes will tell you my Distress.

X

If th' utmost my respect can do,
Still more your cruelty displease;
Consult your Face, and that will shew
What Love is to such Beauty due,
And to the state of my Disease.

Epitaph Monsieur Maynard.

John , who below here reposes at leisure,
By pilf'ring on all hands, did rake up a Treasure

629

Above what he e're could have hop'd for himself;
He was Master of much; but imparted to no Man,
So that had he not had a Wife, that was common
Ne're any Man living had shar'd of his Wealth.

On Cation a Dwarf.

Epig de Monsieur Maynard.

The extended wont of Nature,
As all Mens Judgments will allow,
Never piss'd so small a Creature;
Nor such a Mannikin as thou.
One might conceal thee well enough
In the least plet of thy small Ruff;
Alas! thou half a Man art scant:
Go, and shew thy Stature (Cation)
In the gross of some Batallion,
Most bravely mounted on an Ant.

630

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Anthony feigns him Sick of late,
Only to shew how he at home,
Lies in a Princely Bed of State,
And in a nobly furnish'd Room,
Adorn'd with Pictures of Vandike's,
A pair of Chrystal Candlesticks,
Rich Carpets, Quilts, the Devil, and all:
Then you his careful Friends, if ever,
You wish to cure him of his Fever,
Go lodge him in the Hospital.

In Coccam.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Cocca thou'dst still be lov'd; nor wilt abate
Our Primitive ardour, but with Discontent:

631

Altho' thou knowst thy Youth bears the same date
With that alas! of the Old Testament.
Thine Eyes no more are Homicides,
And thy warpt front its furrows hides
Under the Paint-house of a Hood.
Now ply thy Beads; thy Name's renouned,
Thou the first Baudy-house hast founded,
Has been erected since the Flood.

In Coccam.

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Lord! how wrinckled is thy Fore-head!
And how Gray thy Hair is grown!
Lord! how chink't thy Lips, and aride!
And thy whole Frame turn'd Skeleton!
Truly, Cocca, I regret thee,
Sure Old Age did undiscreetly,
To be with thy Face so bold:
Henceforth none will pleasure make thee;
But thou purchase of the Laquey,
What thou once the Master sold.

632

Epig. de Monsieur Maynard.

Come, let's Drink, and drown all Sorrow,
'Tis what the Time invites us to,
And who knows whether to morrow
Was ordained for us or no!
Death watches us, and when that Slave
Has once enclos'd us in the Grave,
And heaps of Mold upon us hurl'd;
Farewel good Victuals and good Wine;
I read in no Author of mine
Of Taverns in the other World.

To Agrippa.

The Sixth Ode of Horace. His First Book of Lyricks.

Varius , in living Annals may
To the admiring Universe
Voice out in high Mæonian Verse

633

Thy Courage, and thy Conquests won,
And what thy Troops by Land, and Sea
Have through thy noble conduct done.
Our Muse, Agrippa, that does fly
An humbler pitch, attempts not these,
T'express Pelides rage; nor sly
Ulysse's tedious Voyages:
Nor dips her Plume in those Red Tydes,
Flow from the Bloody Parricides
Of Pelop's cruel Family:
We nothing to such heights pretend
Since Modesty,
And our weak Muse, who does aspire
No further than the jolly Lyre,
Forbids that we
Should in our vain attempts offend,
And darken with our humble laies,
Thine and great Cæsar's Godlike Praise.
Who to his worth can Mars display,
When clad in Arms, whose dreadful Ray,
Puts out the Day?

634

Or brave Meriones set forth,
When soyl'd in Trojan Dust; or raise
Fit Trophies to Tydides worth,
Who to th' Immortal Gods was made
A Rival by Minerva's aid?
We Sing of Feasting, and Delights,
Stout Drinking, and the harmless Fights
Of hot young Men, and blushing Maids,
Who when the Foe invades,
Make a faint show,
To Guard what they're content shou'd go.
These are the Subjects of our Song,
In Nights, that else would seem too long,
Did we not wisely prove
The sweets of Jollity, and Love.

Epig. de Monsieur Corneille.

Martin , Pox on him, that impudent Devil,
That now only lives by his Shifts,
By borrowing of Dribblets, and Gifts,

635

For a forlorn Guinny I lent him last Day,
Which I was assured he never would pay;
On my own Paper would needs be so civil,
To give me a Note of his Hand,
But I did the Man so well understand,
I had no great mind to be doubly trapan'd,
And therefore told him 'twas needless to do't:
For said I, I shall not be hasty to Dun ye,
And 'tis enough surely to part with my Money,
Without losing my Paper to boot.

Epig. de Monsieur Cotin.

After so many Works of various kinds
Dawen with so great pains has writ,
And all the recompence the Poet finds,
Is but the poor contempt of Wit;
If Dawen now forbear to write on still,
'Tis that he weary is of doing ill.

636

Epig. de Mons. de Bensaurade.

Here lies a great load of extr'ordinary merit,
Who taught us to know ere he did hence depart,
That a Man may well live without any Heart,
And die (which is strange!) without rend'ring his Spirit.

Madrigal on Queen Dido.

Translated from Cavalier Guarini, and he from Ausonius.

O Fortunata Dido, &c.

How hapless, Dido, was thy Fate
In both conditions of Life,
To be alike Unfortunate,
Whether a Mistriss, or a Wife!

637

Both alike unhappy made thee,
Or thou thy self unhappy made;
But thy Lover false betray'd—thee,
And thy Husband was betray'd.
He one miserably dying,
Poor Queen thou wast enforc'd to sly;
And the other fasly slying,
Thou didst miserably dye.

Sede d' Amore.

Madrigal. From Cavalier Guarini.

Tell me Cupid, where's thy Nest,
In Clora's Eyes, or in my Breast?
When I do behold her Rays,
I conclude it in her Face:
But when I consider how
They both wound, and burn me too,
I conclude then by my smart,
Thou inhabits in my Heart.

638

Mighty Love, to shew thy Power,
Though it be but for an Hour,
Let me beg without Offence,
Thou wilt shift thy Residence,
And erect thy self a Nest,
In my Eyes, and in her Breast.

Foco di sdegno.

From Cavalier Guarini. Madrigal.

Fair, and False, I burn 'tis true,
But by Love am no ways moved;
Since your Falshood renders you
So unfit to be beloved.
Tigress then, that you no more,
May triumph it in my smart;
It is fit you know before,
That I now have cur'd my Heart.

639

Henceforth then if I do Mourn,
And that still I live in pain.
With another flame I burn;
Not with Love; but with Disdain.

Risposta. del Tasto.

Burn, or Freeze at thine own pleasure,
Thou art free to Love, or no;
'Tis as little loss, as treasure,
Whether thou be'st Friend, or Foe.
Lover False, and Unadvised,
Who to threaten art so vain,
Light thy Love I ever prized,
And less value thy Disdain.
If to Love 'twas ever bootless,
And neglected was thy smart:
The Disdains will be as Fruitless,
Of thy fickle, hollow Heart.