If Fortune knit amongst her play
But seriousness, he shall again go home
To his old country-farm of yesterday,
To scoffing people no mean jest become;
And with the crowned axe, which he

Had ruled the world, go back and prune some tree;
Nay, if he want the fuel cold requires,
With his own fasces he shall make him fires.

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
Smiths (who before could only make

The spade, the plough-share, and the rake)
Arts, in most cruel wise
Man's life to' epitomize!

Then men (fond men, alas!) ride post to the' grave,
And cut those threads which yet the Fates would
Then Charon sweated at his trade, [save;
And had a larger ferry made;
Then, then the silver hair,
Frequent before, grew rare.

Then Revenge, married to Ambition,
Begat black War; then Avarice crept on;
Then limits to each field were strain'd,
And Terminus a god-head gain'd,

To men before was found,
Besides the sea, no bound.

In what plain, or what river, hath not been
War's story writ in blood (sad story!) seen?
This truth too well our England knows :
"Twas civil slaughter dyed her rose;
Nay, then her lily too

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;
He to our land blest Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.

Happy who did remain

Unborn till Charles' reign!

Where, dreaming chymics! is your pain and cost?
How is your oil, how is your labour lost!
Our Charles, blest alchymist! (though strange,
Believe it, future times!) did change

The iron-age of old
Into an age of gold.

ODE VI.

UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE.

MARK that swift arrow! how it cuts the air,
How it out-runs thy following eye!
Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
That way it went; but thou shalt find
No tract is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou'st shot away,

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it shall be too hard a task to do.

Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?

Our life is carried with too strong a tide;
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.

Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.

But his past life who without grief can see;
Who never thinks his end too near,

But says
to Fame, "Thou art mine heir;"
That man extends life's natural brevity—
This is, this is the only way
To out-live Nestor in a day.

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.
Tell me not how you feed your
With dainties of philosophy;
In Ovid's nut I shall not find
The taste once pleased me.

O tell me not of logic's diverse cheer!
I shall begin to loathe our crambo here.
Tell me not how the waves appear
Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire;
I shall contemn the troubled Thames
On her chief holiday; even when her streams

Are with rich folly gilded; when
The quondam dung-boat is made gay,
Just like the bravery of the men,

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,
And make the age to come my own?
I shall, like beasts or common people, die,
Unless you write my elegy;

Whilst others great, by being born, are grown ;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.

In this scale gold, in the' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this so high.
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light:
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

Out of myself it must be strook.

Yet I must on; What sound is't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear:

It sounds like the last trumpet; for it can
Raise up the buried man.

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!