Early or late

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives, creep to death.
The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your heads must come

To the cold tomb;

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

J. Shirley.

CLXIII.

ODE TO MASTER ANTHONY
STAFFORD.

COME, spur away,

I have no patience for a longer stay,
But must go down,

And leave the chargeable noise of this great town;

I will the country see,
Where old simplicity,

Though hid in grey,

Doth look more gay

Than floppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewell, you city wits, that are

Almost at civil war ;

'Tis time that I grow wise, when all the world

grows mad.

More of my days

I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise;
Or to make sport

For some slight puisne of the Inns-of-Court.

With nature's hand, not art's; and pleasures yield, Horace might envy in his Sabine field.

!us would ! double my life's fading space, No te la was at well, twice runs his race. La dis true delight,

"Ne salivigdi pons, this happy state, Ind vs cater wish my fate,

day sit his beams display,
a vremii fúe dem; I have liv'd to-day.

Abraham Cowley.

CLXVIII.

TO LUCASTA.

GOING BEYOND

THE SEAS.

IF to be absent were to be

Away from thee;

Or that when I am gone,

You or I were alone;

Then, my Lucasta, might I crave

Pity from blustering wind, or swallowing wave.

Though seas and land betwixt us both,

Our faith and troth,

Like separated souls,

All time and space controls:

Above the highest sphere we meet
Unseen, unknown, and greet as angels greet.

So then we do anticipate
Our after-fate,

And are alive i' th' skies,
If thus our lips and eyes
Can speak like spirits unconfin'd

In heav'n, their earthly bodies left behind.

Colonel Lovelace.

CLXIX.

LYCORIS, FAIR AND FALSE.

LATELY, by clear Thames his side,

Fair Lycoris I espied,

With the pen of her white hand

These words printing on the sand:

None Lycoris doth approve

But Mirtillo for her love.

Ah, false Nymph! those words were fit
In sand only to be writ:

Then, worthy Stafford, say,
How shall we spend the day?
With what delights

Shorten the nights?

When from this tumult we are got secure,
Where mirth with all her freedom goes,

Yet shall no finger lose;

Where every word is thought, and every thought is pure.

There from the tree

We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;
And every day

Go see the wholesome country girls make hay,
Whose brown hath lovelier grace
Than any painted face,

That I do know

Hyde Park can show.

Where I had rather gain a kiss than meet
(Though some of them in greater state

Might court my love with plate)

The beauties of the Cheap, and wives of Lombard Street.

But think upon

Some other pleasures: these to me are none.
Why did I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate?
I never mean to wed

That torture to my bed.

My muse is she

My love shall be.

Let clowns get wealth and heirs; when I am

gone,

And the great bugbear, grisly death,

Shall take this idle breath,

If I a poem leave, that

poem is my son.

Of this no more;

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store.
No fruit shall 'scape

Our palates, from the damson to the grape.
Then (full) we'll seek a shade,

And hear what music's made;
How Philomel

Her tale doth tell,

And how the other birds do fill the quire :
The thrush and blackbird lend their throats
Warbling melodious notes ;

We will all sports enjoy which others but desire.

Ours is the sky,

Whereat what fowl we please our hawk shall fly :
Nor will we spare

To hunt the crafty fox or timorous hare ;
But let our hounds run loose

In any ground they'll choose,
The buck shall fall,

The stag, and all:

Our pleasures must from their own warrants be,

For to my muse, if not to me,

I'm sure all game is free :

Heaven, earth, all are but parts of her great royalty.

And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,
And drink by stealth

A cup or two to noble Berkley's health,

I'll take my pipe and try

The Phrygian melody;
Which he that hears,

Lets through his ears