IV.

L

O D E

ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF FORTUNE.

A TRANSLATION.

EAVE off unfit complaints, and clear

From fighs your breaft, and from black clouds
your brow,

When the fun shines not with his wonted cheer,
And fortune throws an adverfe caft for you!

The

That fea which vext with Notus is, merry Eaft-winds will to-morrow kiss.

The fun to-day rides drowfily,

To-morrow 'twill put on a look more fair:
Laughter and groaning do alternately
Return, and tears' sports nearest neighbours are.
"Tis by the gods appointed fo,

That good fare fhould with mingled dangers flow.
Who drave his oxen yesterday,

Doth now over the noblest Romans reign,
And on the Gabii and the Cures lay

The yoke which from his oxen he had ta'en:
Whom Hefperus faw poor and low,
The morning's eye beholds him greatest now.

If Fortune knit amongst her play

But seriousness, he shall again go home
To his old country-farm of yesterday,
To fcoffing people no mean jeft become;

And

And with the crowned axe, which he

Had rul'd the world, go back and prune some tree; Nay, if he want the fuel cold requires,

With his own fafces he fhall make him fires.

IN COMMENDATION OF THE TIME WE LIVE UNDER, THE REIGN OF OUR GRACIOUS KING CHARLES.

CURS

URST be that wretch (death's factor fure) who
brought

Dire fwords into the peaceful world, and taught
Smiths (who before could only make

The spade, the plow-fhare, and the rake)
Arts, in moft cruel wife

Man's life t' epitomize!

Then men (fond men, alas!) ride post to th' grave, And cut those threads which yet the Fates would fave Then Charon fweated at his trade,

And had a larger ferry made;

Then, then the filver 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,
Befides the fea, no bound.

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

With blood's lofs paler grew.

Such griefs, nay worse than these, we now fhould feel,
Did not just Charles filence the rage of steel;

He to our land bleft Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.
Happy who did remain

Unborn till Charles's reign!

Where, dreaming chemicks! is your pain and cost?
How is your oil, how is your labour loft!

Our Charles, bleft alchemift! (though ftrange,
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.

M

ARK that fwift arrow! how it cuts the air,
How it out-runs thy following eye!
Use all perfuafions now, and try

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

Fool!

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.

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

Our life is carried with too ftrong a tide;
A doubtful cloud our fubftance 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 duft.

But his past life who without grief can see;
Who never thinks his end too near,
But fays to fame, Thou art mine heir;

That man extends life's natural brevity-
This is, this is the only way
To out-live Neftor in a day.

AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO CAMBRIDGE.

YICHOLS, my better felf! forbear;

N

For, if thou tell'ft what Cambridge pleasures are,
The school-boys' fin will light on me,

I fhall, in mind at least, a truant be.

Tell me not how you feed your mind
With dainties of philosophy;

In Ovid's nut 1 fhall not find
The taste once pleased me.

O tell me not of logick's diverse cheer!
I fhall begin to loathe our crambo here.

Tell me not how the waves appear
Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned shire;

I fhall contemn the troubled Thames
On her chief holiday; ev'n 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 th' city fhines with flags and pageants there,
And fatin doublets, feen not twice a year.

Why do I ftay then? I would meet

'Tis

Thee thère, but plummets hang upon my feet;
my chief wish to live with thee,
But not till I deferve thy company:

Till then, we 'll fcorn 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 eafily fee each other; Love hath wings,

MISCEL