But, by the sacred genius of this place, 25 By every Muse, by each domestic grace, And, where you judge, presumes not to excel. As nations sued to be made free of Rome: 30 Not in the suffragating tribes to stand, 35 Thebes did his green unknowing youth engage; John Dryden. XCI DISTICHES. River is time in water; as it came, I wake, and so new live; a night's protection The sun's up; yet myself and God most bright Let devout prayér cast me to the ground, Clay, sand, and rock seem of a different birth; 5 So men; some stiff, some loose, some firm; all earth! 10 By red, green, blue, which sometimes paint the air, The world's a prison; no man can get out; Let the atheist storm then; Heaven is round about. The rose is but the flower of a briar; The dying mole, some say, opens his eyes; 15 20 25 30 The moon is the world's glass; in which 'twere strange If we saw her's and saw not our own change. Herodotus is history's fresh youth; In sadness, Machiavel, thou didst not well, 35 The Italian's the world's gentleman, the Court Bogs, purgatory, wolves, and ease, by fame Are counted Ireland's earth, mistake, curse, shame. 40 Down, pickaxe; to the depths for gold let's go; Who gripes too much casts all upon the ground; All things are wonder since the world began ; Barten Holyday. 45 XCII FAME UNMERITED. There's none should places have in Fame's high court But those that first do win Invention's fort; Not messengers, that only make report. To messengers rewards of thanks are due For their great pains, telling their message true, 5 Many there are that suits will make to wear And the poor vulgar, who but little know, Then do they call their friends and all their kin; Duchess of Newcastle. XCIII ON THE DEATH OF PRINCE HENRY, SON OF JAMES THE FIRST. Methought his royal person did foretell ΙΟ 15 And yet though he were every good man's joy, His very name with terror did annoy His foreign foes so far as he was known. Hell drooped for fear; the Turkey moon looked pale; Was swoln with rage, for fear he'd stop the tide XCIV George Wither. ON HIS MISTRESS, THE QUEEN OF BOHEMIA. You meaner beauties of the night, Which poorly satisfy our eyes, More by your number than your light,— What are you, when the Moon shall rise? By your pure purple mantles known, 5 ΙΟ 5 As if the spring were all your own,— IO You curious chanters of the wood, That warble forth dame Nature's lays, Thinking your passions understood By your weak accents,—what's your praise, 15 So when my Mistress shall be seen Sir Henry Wotton. 20 XCV LORD STRAFFORD'S MEDITATIONS IN THE TOWER. Go, empty joys, With all your noise, And leave me here alone, In sweet sad silence to bemoan The fickle worldly height, Whose danger none can see aright, Whilst your false splendours dim his sight. Go, and ensnare With your trim ware Some other easy wight, And cheat him with your flattering light ; Of honours, favour, wealth, and power; Let him not fear all-curbing laws, 15 Nor king, nor people's frown; But dream of something like a crown, Then, climbing towards it, tumble down. Let him appear In his bright sphere Like Cynthia in her pride, 20 With starlike troops on every side; 25 For number and clear light Such as may soon o'erwhelm him quite, And blend them both in one dead night. Welcome, sad night, Grief's sole delight, 30 |