Images de page

A Lover's Liberty.

Away with those self-loving lads,
Whom Cupid's arrow never glads!
Away poor souls that sigh and weep
In love of those that lie asleep!

For Cupid is a merry god,

And forceth none to kiss the rod.

My songs they be of Cynthia's praise,
I wear her rings on holidays,

every tree I write her name,
And every day I read the same.
Where Honour Cupid's rival is,
There miracles are seen of his.

If Cynthia crave her ring of me,
I blot her name out of the tree;
If doubt do darken things held dear,
Then well-fare nothing once a year.

For many run, but one must win:
Fools only hedge the cuckoo in.


Barney Bodkin.

Barney Bodkin broke his nose.

Want of victuals makes us sad.
Without feet we can't have toes.

Crazy folks are always mad.

Libertas in Amore.

Ista Cupidineis nunqvam exhilarata sagittis
Facessat hinc procul sibi turba placens iuvenum.
Sintqve procul qvi flent et qvi suspiria ducunt,
Formaeqve securae nimis qvos miser angit amor.
Laetus amat risus hilares ludosqve Cupido,

Nec cogit invitos suis subdere terga flagris.
Me vatem vocat Ella suum; mea carmina poscit:
Et feriatus annulis illius ornor amans.
Illius inscribo nulla non arbore nomen,
Nulloqve non idem die rite mihi legitur.
Qva sibi rivalem credit certare Pudorem,
Vinci Cupido nescius prodigiosa facit.
Sin ut reddatur suus annulus imperet Ella,
Iam nomen Ellae deleam cortice ab iliceo.
Si qvondam cari fiducia fallat amoris,

Anno salutandum semel praestet habere Nihil.
Curritur a multis: unus fert praemia victor;

Ineptus est qvisqvis vagum claudere vult cuculum.


Ex Incerti Βαρνάβᾳ τῷ Βελονεῖ.

Τῆς ῥινὸς ὁ Βελονεὺς κατέαγε Βαρνάβας
χἡ μὲν σπάνις τῶν σιτίων λύπην ἔχει·
ἄνευ ποδῶν δὲ πῶς ἂν ἔχοι τις δακτύλους;
μελαγχολικά του σώματ ̓ ἀεὶ μαίνεται.

R. S.


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 Vanity of Life.

When I consider life, 'tis all a cheat;

Yet, fool'd with hope, men favour the deceit,
Trust on, and think to-morrow will repay:
To-morrow's falser than the former day,

Lies worse; and while it says, we shall be bless'd
With some new joys, cuts off what we possessed.
Strange coz'nage! none would live past years again,
Yet all hope pleasure in what yet remain,
And from the dregs of life think to receive
What the first sprightly running could not give.
I'm tired with waiting for this chymic gold,
Which fools us young, and beggars us when old.



Hoc sub tegmine myrteo

Stratus purpurea sic temere in rosa,
Unguento madidus comam et

Vivis implicitus tempora floribus,

Sicca qvid potius die

Qvam fallam liqvido tristitiam mero?
Hic dum rege beatius

Bacchor, dius Amor vina dabit mihi:

Plenos da cyathos, Amor,

Miscentorque simul Laetitia et Lepos
Festivaeqve Lubidines

Clarorumqve Salus fons sacer ignium.

R. B.

Vita fallax.

Esse qvid hoc dicam? Fraus est mera vita; sed ipse
Lusus homo ludi gaudet amatqve dolum.
Credimus, et, Cras, cras solvetur, dicimus: atqvi
Falsior hesterna crastina luce dies

Mentitur peius: spondet nova gaudia semper,

Et, nova dum spondet gaudia, prima rapit.
Qvemqve voluptatis fallit spes mira futurae :
Lapsa sibi reddi tempora nemo rogat.
Sic igitur faecem vitae dare posse putamus

Gaudia, qvae nullis amphora promta dedit?
Exspectasse diu magicum me poenitet aurum,
Qvod iuvenes ludit despoliatqve senes.



Thy Days are done.

Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country's strains record
The triumphs of her chosen son,

The slaughters of his sword;
The deeds he did, the fields he won,

The freedom he restored.

Though thou art fallen, while we are free,
Thou shalt not taste of death;

The generous blood that flow'd from thee
Disdained to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath.

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word;

Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices poured.

To weep would do thy glory wrong;
Thou shalt not be deplored.

Sigh no more, Ladies.

Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more:
Men were deceivers ever.

One foot on sea, one foot on shore;

To one thing constant never.



« PrécédentContinuer »