And next to these let me prefent
The fair Ionian regiment.
And next the Carian company,
Five hundred both effectively [p].
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ;
Three hundred 'tis, I'm fure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And every eye's an archer there.
Go on; this ftop why doft thou make?
Thou think'ft, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a sum ?
Why, many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different nations in his hoft.
On; for my love, if thou be'ft weary,
Muft find fome better fecretary.
I have not yet my Perfian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian loves, nor African;
Nor Scythian, nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names:
Of gentle loves i'th' temperate zone,
And cold ones in the frigid zone;
[p]-effectively.] The term in ufe with military men (and therefore humourously affected here) for completely.
Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,
And parched loves, beneath the line:
A MIGHTY pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to mifs.
But of all pains the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit by love is understood,
Gold alone does paffion move,
Gold monopolizes love!
A curfe on her, and on the man
Who this traffic firft began!
A curfe on him who found the ore!
A curfe on him who digg'd the ftore!
A curfe on him who did refine it!
A curfe on him who firft did coin it!
A curfe, all curfes else above,
On him, who us'd it firft in love;
Gold begets in brethren hate,
Gold, in families debate;
Gold, does friendships feparate,
Gold, does civil wars create,
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas, does love beget.
FILL the bowl with rofy wine,
Around our temples rofes twine;
And let us chearfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crown'd with rofes, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is our's; what do we fear?
To-day is our's; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wifh, at leaft, with us to ftay.
Let's banish bufinefs, banish forrow
To the gods, belongs to-morrow.
UNDERNEATH this myrtle fhade,
On flowery beds fupinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it roses growing,
What fhould I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself fhall on me wait.
Fill to me, love, nay, fill it up;
And mingled caft into the cup,
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay defires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth, than rugged way.
Since it equally does flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower,
Nobler wines why do we pour,
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can show,
Or bones, that haften to be fo.
Crown me with rofes whilft I live,
Now your wines and ointments give
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have;
All are Stoics in the grave.
HAPPY infect, what can be,
In happiness, compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee ftill,
And thy verdant cup does fill,
'Tis fill'd, wherever thou doft tread,
Nature's felf's thy Ganymed.
Thou doft drink, and dance, and fing;
Happier, than the happiest king!
All the fields, which thou doft fee,
All the plants, belong to thee,
All that fummer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does fow and plow:
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou doft innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury destroy;
The fhepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee, country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
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