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II. DRINKING. The thirsty earth soaks up the rain, And drinks, and gapes for drink again, The plants suck-in the earth, and are With constant drinking fresh and fair ; The sea itself (which one would think Should have but little need of drink) Drinks twice ten thousand rivers up, So fill'd that they o'erflow the cnp. The busy Sun (and one would guess By 's drunken fiery face no less) Drinks up the sea, and, when he 'as done, The Moon and stars drink up the Sun: They drink and dance by their own light; They drink and revel all the night. Nothing in nature 's sober found, But an eternal health goas round. Fill up the bowl then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there ; for why Should every creature drink but I ; Why, man of morals, tell me why?

| The living and the killing arrow

Ran through the skin, the flesh, the blood,
And broke the bones, and scorch'd the marrow,
No trench of work or life withstood.
In vain I now the walls maintain ;
I set out guards and scouts in vain ; .
Since thenemy does within remain.
In vain a breast-plate now I wear,
Since in my breast the foe I bear;
In vain my feet their swiftness try ;
For from the body can they ily?

V. AGE. Oft am I by the women told, Poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old: Look how thy hairs are falling all ; Poor Anacreon, how they fall! Whether I grow old or no, By th' effects I do not know ; This, I know, without being told, 'Tis time to live, if I grow old; "Tis time short pleasures now to take, Of little life the best to make, And manage wisely the last stake.


Liberal Nature did dispense
To all things arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs or forked claws,
And some with horns or tusked jaws :
And some with scales, and some with wings,
And some with teeth, and some with stings.
Wisdom to man she did afford,
Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,
What arms, what armour, has sh'assign'd?
Beauty is both; for with the fair
What arms, what armour, can compare ?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassible is found ?
And yet what flame, what lightning, e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like porcupines from every part.
Who can, alas ! their strength express,

Arm’d, when they themselves undress, . Cap-a-pie with nakedness ?

VI. THE ACCOUNT, When all the stars are by thee told (The endless sums of heavenly gold); Or when the hairs are reckon'd all, From sickly Autumn's head that fall; Or when the drops that make the sea, Whilst all her sands thy counters be ; Thou then, and thou alone, mays't prove . Th'arithmetician of my love. An hundred loves at Athens score, At Corinth write an hundred more: . Fair Corinth does such beauties bear, So few is an escaping there. Write then at Chios seventy-three ; Write then at Lesbos (let me see) Write me at Lesbos ninety down, Full ninety loves, and half a one. And, next to these, let me present The fair Ionian regiment ; And next the Carian company; Five hundred both effectively. Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ; Three hundred 'tis, I'm sure, complete; For arms at Crete each face does bear, And every eye's an archer there. Go on: this stop why dost thou make? Thou think'st, perhaps that I mistake. Seems this to thee too great a sum? Why many thousands are to come ;. The mighty Xerxes could not boast Such different nations in his host. On; for my love, if thou be'st weary, Must find some better secretary. I have not yet my Persian told, Nor yet my Syrian loves enrolld, Nor Indian, nor Arabian; Nor Cyprian loves, nor African ; Nor Scythian nor Italian flames; There's a whole map behind of names Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone, And cold ones in the frigid one, Cold frozen loves, with which I pine, And parched loves beneath the line,


Yes, I will love then, I will love ;
I will not now Love's rebel prove,
'Though I was once his enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the combat him defy.
An helmet, spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax, I did wield.
Love in one hand his bow did take,
In th' other hand a dart did shake;
But yet in vain the dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the bow;
So well my arınour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist:
But when I thought all danger past,
His quiver empty'd quite at last,
Instead of arrow or of dart
He shot himself into my heart.

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X. THE GRASSHOPPER. A MIGHTY pain to love it is,

Happy Insect! what can be And 'tis a pain that pain to miss ;

In happiness compar'd to thee? But, of all pains, the greatest pain

Fed with nourishment divine, It is to love, but love in vain.

The dewy Morning's gentle wine ! Virtue now, nor noble blood,

Nature waits upon thee still, Nor wit by love is understood;

And thy verdant cup does fill; Gold alone does passion move,

'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Gold monopolizes love ;

Nature's self's thy Ganymede. A curse on her, and on the man

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing; Who this traffic first began !

Happier than the bappiest king! A curse on him who found the ore !

All the fields which thou dost see, A curse on him who digg'd the store !

All the plants, belong to thee; A curse on him who did refine it !

All that summer-hours produce, A curse on him who first did coin it!

Fertile made with early juice. A curse, all curses else above,

Man for thee does sow and plow; On him who us'd it first in love!

Farmer he, and landlord thou! Gold begets in brethren hate;

Thou dust innocently joy; Gold in fainilies debate;

Nor does thy luxury destroy ; Gold does friendships seperate;

The shepherd gladly heareth thee, Gold does civil wars create.

More harinonious than he. These the smallest harms of it!

Thee country binds with gladness hear,
Gold, alas ! does love beget.

Prophet of the ripen'd ycar!
Thee Phæbus lures, and does inspire;

Phæbus is himself thy sire,

To thee, of all things upon Earth.

Life is no longer than thy mirth, Fill the bowl with rosy wine!

Happy insect, happy thou! Around our temples roses twine!

Dost neither age nor winter know; And let us cheerfully awhile,

But, when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung Like the wine and roses, smile.

Thy fill, the flowery leaves ąinong Crown'd with roses, we contemn

(Voluptuous, and wise withal, Gyges' wealthy diadem.

Epicurean animal!) To day is ours, what do we fear?

Sated with thy summer feast,
To day is ours; we have it here :

Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.

Let's banish business, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to morrow,

Foolish Prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,

With thy tuneless serenade?

Well 't had been had Tereus maile

Thee as dumb as Philomel; UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,

There his knife had done but well. On flowery beds supinely laid,

In thy undiscovered nest With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,

Thou dost all the winter rest, And around it roses growing,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys, What should I do but drink away

Free from the stormy seasons' noise : The heat and troubles of the day

Free from th’ill thou'st done to me; In this more than kingly state

Who disturbs or seeks-out thee? Love himself shall on me wait.

Hadst thou all the charming notes. Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;

Of the wood's poetic throats, And mingled cast into the cup

All thy art could never pay Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,

What thou hast ta'en from me away. Vigorous health and gay desires.

Cruel bird ! thou'st ta'en away The wheel of life no less will stay

A dream out of my arms to-day ; In a smooth than rugged way:

A dream, that ne'er must equall'd be Since it equally doth flee,

By all that waking eyes may see. Let the motion pleasant be.

Thou, this damage to repair, Why do we precious ointments sbow'r ?

Nothing half so sweet or fair, Nobler wines why do we pour?


Nothing half so good, canst bring, Beauteous flowers why do we spread,

Though men say thou bring'st the Spring Upon the monuments of the dead? Nothing they but dust can show, Or bones that hasten to be so.

ELEGY UPON ANACREON. Crown me with roses whilst I live,

WHO WAS CHOAKED BY A GRAPE-STONE, Now your wines and ointments give;

After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have,.

How shall I lament thine end,
All are Stoics in the grave,

My best servant and my friend?

Nay, and, if from a deity
So much deified as I,
It sound not too profane and odd,
Oh, my master and my god !
For 'tis true, most mighty poet!
(Though I like not men should know it)
I am in naked Nature less,
Less by much, than in thy dress.
All thy verse is softer far
Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or sparrows,
Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Or their riper following blisses,
Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound;
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy style,
The smooth-pac'd hours of every day
Glided numerously away.
Like thy verse each hour did pass;
Sweet and short, like that, it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Just what they by Nature owe me,
The time that's mine, and not their own,
The certain tribute of my crown:
When they grow old, they grow to be
Too busy, or too wise, for me.
Thou wert wiser, and didst know
None too wise for love can grow;
Love was with thy life entwind,
Close as heat with fire is join'd;
A powerful brand prescrib'd the date
Ofthine, like Meleager's, fate.
Th' antiperistasis of age
More enfam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation, As I have of generation, Where I the matter must obey, And cannot work plate out of clay, My creatures should be all like thee, 'Tis thou shouldst their idea be: They, like thee, should thoroughly hate Business, honour, title, state; Other wealth they should not know, But what my liying mines bestow; The pomp of kings, they should confess, At their crownings, to be less Than a lover's humblest guise, When at his mistress' feet he lies. Rumour they no more should mind Than men safe landed do the wind; Wisdom itself they should not hear, When it presumes to be seyere; Beauty alone they should admire, Nor look at Fortune's vain attire,

| Nor ask what parents it can shew ;
With dead or old 't has nought to do.
They should not love yet all, or any,
But very much and very many:
All their life should gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety;
Well remembering and applying
The necessity of dying.
Their chearful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flowery year :
They should always laugh, and sing,
And dance, and strike th' harmonious string;
Verse should from their tongue so flow,
As if it in the mouth did grow,
As swiftly answering their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand.
And whilst I do tbus discover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
'Tis, my Anacreon ! for thy sake
I of the Grape no mention make.

Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well;
And 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed Plant ! 'tis true, I see,
Th’old report that goes of the
That with giants' blood the Earth
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth;
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the gods delight.
Thy patron, Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thunder i
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worse than his tigers, he delights ;
In all our Heaven I think there be
No such ill-natur'd god as he.
Thou pretendest, traiterous Wine!
To be the Muses friend and mine :
With love and wit thou dost begin,
False fires, alas ! to draw us in;
Which, if our course we by them keep,
Misguide to madness or to sleep :
Sleep were well ; thou 'ast learnt a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I see what fate
Does on the best of mankind wait.
Poets or lovers let them be,
'Tis neither love nor poesy
Can arm, against Death's smallest dart,
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life, in its decline,
Touches th' inevitable line,
All the world's mortal to them then,
And wine is aconite to men;
Nay, in Death's hand, the grape-stone proves
As strong as thunder is in Jove's.





How the eternal Father did bestow

His own eternal Son as ransom for his foe. TAKEN OUT OF A GREEK ODE, WRITTEN BY MR. I'll sing aloud, that all the world may hear

The triumph of the buried Conqueror.

How Hell was by its prisoner captive led, Eyooch, my Muse! of earthly things,

And the great slayer, Death, slain by the dead. And inspirations but of wind;

Methinks, I hear of murdered men the voice, Take up thy lute, and to it bind

Mixt with the murderers' confused noise, Loud and everlasting strings;

Sound from the top of Calvary ; And on themn play, and to them sing,

My greedy eyes fly up the hill, and see The happy mournful stories,

Who 'tis hangs there the midmost of the three ; The lamentable glories,

Oh, how unlike the others he! Of the great crucified King.

Look, how he bends his gentle head with blessings Mountainous heap of wonders! which dost rise

from the tree! Till Earth thou joinest with the skies!

His gracious hands, ne'er stretch'd but to do good, Too large at bottom, and at top too high,

Are nail'd to the infamous wood ! To be half seen by mortal eye!

And sinful man does fondly bind How shall I grasp this boundless thing? | The arms, which he extends t'embrace all humanWhat shall I play; what shall I sing?'"

kind, I'll sing the mighty riddle of mysterious love, | Unhappy man! canst thou stand by and see Which neither wretched men below, nor blessed

All this as patient as he? spirits above,

Since he thy sins does bear, With all their comments can explain;

Make thou his sufferings thine own, How all the whole world's life to die did not dis

And weep, and sigh, and groan, dain!

And beat thy breast, and tear
I'll sing the searchless depths of the compassion

Thy garments and thy hair,

And let thy grief, and let thy love, The depths unfathom'd yet

Through all thy bleeding bowels move. By reason's plummet and the line of wit; Dost thou not see thy prince in purple clad all o'er, Too light the plummet, and too short the line! Not purple brought from the Sidonian shore,

But made at home with richer gore? 'These verses were not included among those Dost thou not see the roses which adorn which Mr. Cowley himself styled Miscellanies; ! The thomy garland by him worn ? but were classed by Bishop Sprat under the title Dost thou not see the livid traces by which they are here distinguished. N.

Of the sharp scourges' rude embraces ?

If yet thou feelest not the smart

Where'er I see an excellence,
Of thorns and scourges in thy heart;

I must admire to see thy well knit sense, • If that be yet not crucified;

Thy numbers gentle, and thy fancies high; Look on his hands, look on his feet, look on his side! Those as thy forehead smooth, these sparkling as Open, oh ! open wide the fountains of thine eyes,

thine eye.

'Tis solid, and 'tis manly all,
And let them call
Their stock of moisture forth where'er it lies!

Or rather 'tis angelical;
For this will ask it all.

For, as in angels, we 'Twould all, alas ! too little be,

Do in thy verses see Though thy salt tears come from a sea.

Both improv'd sexes eminently meet; Canst thou deny him this, when he

They are than man more strong, and more than woHas open'd all his vital springs for thee ?

man sweet. Take heed; for by his side's mysterious food

They talk of Nine, I know not who,
May well be understood,

Female chimeras, that o'er poets reign;
That he will still require some waters to bis blood. I ne'er could find that fancy true,

But have invok'd them oft, I'm sure, in vain:

They talk of Sapphd; but, alas ! the shame!

Ill-manners soil the lustre of her fame;
Orinda's inward virtue is so bright,

That, like a lantern's fair enclosed light,

It through the paper shines where she does write.

Honour and friendship, and the generous scorn We allow'd you beauty, and we did submit

Of things for which we were not born
To all the tyrannies of it;

(Things that can only by a fond disease, Ah ! cruel sex, will you depose us too in wit?

Like that of girls, our vicious stomachs please) . Orinda does in that too reign;

Are the instructive subjects of her pen; Does man behind her in proud triumph draw,

And, as the Roman victory
And cancel great Appollo's Salique law.

Taught our rude land arts and civility,
We our old title plead in vain,

At once she overcomes, enslaves, and betters, men.
Man may be head, but woman's now the brain.
Verse was Love's fire-arms heretofore,

But Rome with all her arts could ne'er inspire In Beauty's campit was not known ;

A female breast with such a fire : Too many arms besides that conqueror bore:

The warlike Amazonian train, 'Twas the great cannon we brought down

Who in Elysium now do peaceful reign, T assault a stubborn town;

And Wit's mild enipire before arms prefer, Orinda first did a bold sally make,

Hope 'twill be settled in their sex by her. Our strongest quarter take,

Merlin, the seer, (and sure he would not lye, And so successful prov'd, that she

In such a sacred company) Turn'd upon Love himself his own artillery.

Does prophecies of learn'd Orinda show,

Which he had darkly spoke so long ago;
Women, as if the body were their whole,

Ev'n Boadicia's angry ghost
Did that, and not the soul,

Forgets her own misfortune and disgrace,
Transmit to their posterity;

And to her injur'd daughters now does boast, If in it sometime they conceiv'd,

That Rome's o'ercome at last, by a woman of her Th’abortive issue never liv'd.

"Twere shame and pity', Orinda, if in thee
A spirit so rich, so noble, and so high,

Should unmanur'd or barren lie.
But thou industriously hast sow'd and till'd

The fair and fruitful field;

BROGHILL'S. And 'tis a strange increase that it does yield.

Be gone (said I) ingrateful Muse! and see As, when the happy gods above

What others thou canst food, as well as me. Meet altogether at a feast,

Since I grew man, and wiser ought to be, A secret joy unspeakable does move

My business and my hopes I left for thee: In their great mother Cybele's contented breast : With no less pleasure thou, methinks, should see,

For thee (which was more hardly given away) This, thy no less immortal progeny ;

I left, even when a boy, my play.

But say, ingrateful mistress! say, And in their birth thou no one touch dost find,

What for all this, what didst thou ever pay? Of th' ancient curse to woman-kind :

Thou 'lt say, perhaps, that riches are
Though bring'st not forth with pain ;

Not of the growth of lands where thou do st trade,
It neither travail is nor labour of the brain :
So easily they from thee come,

And I as well my country might upbraid

Because I have no vineyard there.
And there is so much room

Well : but in love thou dost pretend to reign; In the unexhausted and unfathom'd womb,

There thine the power and lordship is; (That, like the Holland countess, thou may'st bear

| Thou bad’st me write, and write, and write againg A child for every day of all the fertile year.

'Twas such a way as could not miss. Thou dost my wonder, wouldst my envy, raise, 1, like a fool, did thee obey: If to be prais'd I lov'd more than to praise : I wrote, and wrote, but still I wrote in rain; '

For, after all my expense of wit and pain, * Mrs. Catharine Phillips,

A rich, unwriting hand, carried the prize away.

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