« VorigeDoorgaan »
Noisy nothing! stalking shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of solid harms !
But I shall find out counter-charms
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity,
And obscurer secrecy!
Unlike to every other sprite,
Brought forth with their own fire and light: Nor appear'st but in the light.
Out of myselí it must be strook.
Too low for envy, for contempt too high.
Some honor I would have,
Not from great deeds, but good alone;
Rumor can ope
the Hence, the desire of honors or estate,
Acquaintance I would have, but when't depen
Not on the number, but the choice, of friends.
Books should, not business, entertain the light,
. "Tis time that I were gone.
My house a cottage more
Than palace; and should fitting be
For all my use, no luxury.
My garden painted o'er
For he, that runs it well, twice runs his
Whose verse walks highest, but not flies;
And made that art which was a rage.
To be like one of you ?
On the calm flourishing head of it,
See us, and clouds, below
Thus would I double my life's fading spa
And in ihis true delight,
But boldly say each night,
And some with scales, and some with wings,
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.
Ort am I by the women told,
A MIGĦTY 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 Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among (Voluptuous, and wise withal, Epicurean animal!) Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Sweet and short, like that, it was.
Some do but their youth allow me,
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
The god of love, who stood to hear him,
In a deep vision's intellectual scene,
Th' uncomfortable shade
of the black yew's unlucky green Mixt with the mourning willow's careful grey Where reverend Cham cuts out his famous way,
The melancholy Cowley lay.
That art can never imitate;
feet. She touch'd him with her harp, and rais'd him fron.
the ground; The shaken strings melodiously resound.
“ Art thou return'd at last," said she,
“To this forsaken place and me? Thou prodigal! who didst so loosely waste Of all thy youthful years the good estate ;
Art thou return'd here, to repent too late,
And Winter marches on so fast?
Had to their dearest children done;
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
Business! the grave impertinence;
“My little life, my all!" (said she)
This good omen thus from Heaven
“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'st, if once the public storm were
If the gods would please to be But advis'd for once by me,