If Fortune knit amongst her play Had ruled the world, go back and prune some tree; ODE V. IN COMMENDATION OF THE TIME WE LIVE UNDER, THE REIGN OF OUR GRACIOUS KING CHARLES. CURST be that wretch (Death's factor sure) who brought Dire swords into the peaceful world, and taught The spade, the plough-share, and the rake) Then men (fond men, alas!) ride post to the' grave, Then Revenge, married to Ambition, To men before was found, In what plain, or what river, hath not been With blood's loss paler grew. Such griefs, nay worse than these, we now should feel, Did not just Charles silence the rage of steel; Happy who did remain Unborn till Charles' reign! Where, dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost? The iron-age of old ODE VI. UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE. MARK that swift arrow! how it cuts the air, If thou canst call it back, or stay it there. Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou. I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday, Besides repentance, what canst find Our life is carried with too strong a tide; Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride. But his past life who without grief can see; But says AN ANSWER ΤΟ ΑΝ INVITATION TO CAMBRIDGE. NICHOLS, my better self! forbear; For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures are, The schoolboy's sin will light on me, mind I shall, in mind at least, a truant be. O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer! Are with rich folly gilded; when And graces with fresh paint that day; When the city shines with flags and pageants there, And satin doublets, seen not twice a year. Why do I stay then? I would meet Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet; "Tis my chief wish to live with thee, But not till I deserve thy company: Till then, we'll scorn to let that toy, Some forty miles, divide our hearts: Write to me, and I shall enjoy Friendship and wit, thy better parts. Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings, We'll easily see each other; Love hath wings. VOL. I. Miscellanies. THE MOTTO. "Tentanda via est, &c." WHAT shall I do to be for ever known, Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ; In this scale gold, in the' other fame does lie, Out of myself it must be strook. Yet I must on; What sound is't strikes mine ear? It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut them all, And march, the Muses' Hannibal. Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay Nets of roses in the way! Hence, the desire of honours or estate, And all that is not above Fate! |