Forthwith his bow he bent, And wedded string and arrow, And struck me, that it went Quite through my heart and marrow Then laughing loud, he flew Away, and thus said flying, Adieu, mine host, adieu, I'll leave thy heart a-dying.
*45*
UPON CUPID
Love, like a gipsy, lately came, And did me much importune To see my hand, that by the same He might foretell my fortune.
He saw my palm; and then, said he, I tell thee, by this score here, That thou, within few months, shalt be The youthful Prince D'Amour here.
I smiled, and bade him once more prove, And by some cross-line show it, That I could ne'er be Prince of Love, Though here the Princely Poet.
*46*
TO BE MERRY
Let's now take our time, While we're in our prime, And old, old age is afar off;
For the evil, evil days Will come on apace, Before we can be aware of.
*47*
UPON HIS GRAY HAIRS
Fly me not, though I be gray, Lady, this I know you'll say;
Better look the roses red, When with white commingled.
Black your hairs are; mine are white;
This begets the more delight, When things meet most opposite;
As in pictures we descry Venus standing Vulcan by.
*48*
AN HYMN TO THE MUSES
Honour to you who sit Near to the well of wit, And drink your fill of it!
Glory and worship be To you, sweet Maids, thrice three, Who still inspire me;
And teach me how to sing Unto the lyric string, My measures ravishing!
Then, while I sing your praise, My priest-hood crown with bays Green to the end of days!
*49*
THE COMING OF GOOD LUCK
So Good-Luck came, and on my roof did light, Like noiseless snow, or as the dew of night;
Not all at once, but gently,--as the trees Are by the sun-beams, tickled by degrees.
*50*
HIS CONTENT IN THE COUNTRY
HERE, Here I live with what my board Can with the smallest cost afford;
Though ne'er so mean the viands be, They well content my Prue and me:
Or pea or bean, or wort or beet, Whatever comes, Content makes sweet.
Here we rejoice, because no rent We pay for our poor tenement;
Wherein we rest, and never fear The landlord or the usurer.
The quarter-day does ne'er affright Our peaceful slumbers in the night:
We eat our own, and batten more, Because we feed on no man's score;
But pity those whose flanks grow great, Swell'd with the lard of other's meat.
We bless our fortunes, when we see Our own beloved privacy;
And like our living, where we're known To very few, or else to none.
*51*
HIS RETURN TO LONDON
From the dull confines of the drooping west, To see the day spring from the pregnant east, Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly To thee, blest place of my nativity!
Thus, thus with hallow'd foot I touch the ground, With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd.
O fruitful Genius! that bestowest here An everlasting plenty year by year;
O place! O people! manners! framed to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages!
I am a free-born Roman; suffer then That I amongst you live a citizen.
London my home is; though by hard fate sent Into a long and irksome banishment;
Yet since call'd back, henceforward let me be, O native country, repossess'd by thee!
For, rather than I'll to the west return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn.
Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall;
Give thou my sacred reliques burial.
*52*
HIS DESIRE
Give me a man that is not dull, When all the world with rifts is full;
But unamazed dares clearly sing, Whenas the roof's a-tottering;
And though it falls, continues still Tickling the Cittern with his quill.
*53*
AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON
Ah Ben!
Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun;
Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad?
And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben!
Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus;
But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend;
And having once brought to an end That precious stock,--the store Of such a wit the world should have no more.
*54*
TO LIVE MERRILY, AND TO TRUST TO GOOD VERSES
Now is the time for mirth;
Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with [the] flowery earth The golden pomp is come.
The golden pomp is come;
For now each tree does wear, Made of her pap and gum, Rich beads of amber here.
Now reigns the Rose, and now Th' Arabian dew besmears My uncontrolled brow, And my retorted hairs.
Homer, this health to thee!
In sack of such a kind, That it would make thee see, Though thou wert ne'er so blind Next, Virgil I'll call forth, To pledge this second health In wine, whose each cup's worth An Indian commonwealth.
A goblet next I'll drink To Ovid; and suppose Made he the pledge, he'd think The world had all one nose.
Then this immensive cup Of aromatic wine, Catullus! I quaff up To that terse muse of thine.
Wild I am now with heat:
O Bacchus! cool thy rays;
Or frantic I shall eat Thy Thyrse, and bite the Bays!
Round, round, the roof does run;
And being ravish'd thus, Come, I will drink a tun To my Propertius.
Now, to Tibullus next, This flood I drink to thee;
--But stay, I see a text, That this presents to me.
Behold! Tibullus lies Here burnt, whose small return Of ashes scarce suffice To fill a little urn.
Trust to good verses then;
They only will aspire, When pyramids, as men, Are lost i' th' funeral fire.
And when all bodies meet In Lethe to be drown'd;
Then only numbers sweet With endless life are crown'd.
*55*
THE APPARITION OF HIS, MISTRESS, CALLING HIM TO E***IUM
DESUNT NONNULLA--
Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings, Let our souls fly to th' shades, wherever springs Sit smiling in the meads; where balm and oil, Roses and cassia, crown the untill'd soil;
Where no disease reigns, or infection comes To blast the air, but amber-gris and gums.
This, that, and ev'ry thicket doth transpire More sweet than storax from the hallow'd fire;
Where ev'ry tree a wealthy issue bears Of fragrant apples, blushing plums, or pears;
And all the shrubs, with sparkling spangles, shew Like morning sun-shine, tinselling the dew.
