37 Had you, some ages past, this race of glory
Run, with amazement we should read your story;
But living virtue, all achievements past,
Meets envy still, to grapple with at last.
38 This Cæsar found; and that ungrateful age,
With losing him went back to blood and rage;
Mistaken Brutus thought to break their yoke,
But cut the bond of union with that stroke.
39 That sun once set, a thousand meaner stars
Gave a dim light to violence and wars,
To such a tempest as now threatens all,
Did not your mighty arm prevent the fall.
40 If Rome's great senate could not wield that sword, Which of the conquer'd world had made them lord; What hope had ours, while yet their power was new, To rule victorious armies, but by you?
41 You! that had taught them to subdue their foes,
Could order teach, and their high sp'rits compose;
To every duty could their minds engage,
Provoke their courage, and command their rage.
42 So when a lion shakes his dreadful mane,
And angry grows, if he that first took pain
To tame his youth approach the haughty beast,
He bends to him, but frights away the rest.
43 As the vex'd world, to find repose, at last
Itself into Augustus' arms did cast;
So England now does, with like toil oppress'd,
Her weary head upon your bosom rest.
44 Then let the Muses, with such notes as these,
Instruct us what belongs unto our peace;
Your battles they hereafter shall indite,
And draw the image of our Mars in fight;
45 Tell of towns storm'd, of armies overrun,
And mighty kingdoms by your conduct won;
How, while you thunder'd, clouds of dust did choke
Contending troops, and seas lay hid in smoke.
46 Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,
And every conqueror creates a Muse.
Here, in low strains, your milder deeds we sing;
But there, my lord! we 'll bays and olive bring,
47 To crown your head; while you in triumph ride
O'er vanquish'd nations, and the sea beside;
While all your neighbour princes unto you,
Like Joseph's sheaves,1 pay reverence, and bow.
So we some antique hero's strength
Learn by his lance's weight and length,
As these vast beams express the beast
Whose shady brows alive they dress'd.
Such game, while yet the world was new,
The mighty Nimrod did pursue.
What huntsman of our feeble race,
Or dogs, dare such a monster chase,
'Joseph's sheaves': Gen. xxxvii.
Resembling, with each blow he strikes,
The charge of a whole troop of pikes?
O fertile head! which every year
Could such a crop of wonder bear!
The teeming earth did never bring
So soon, so hard, so huge a thing;
Which might it never have been cast
(Each year's growth added to the last),
These lofty branches had supplied
The earth's bold sons' prodigious pride;
Heaven with these engines had been scaled,
When mountains heap'd on mountains fail'd.
BALLS of this metal slack'd Atlanta's pace,
And on the am'rous youth1 bestow'd the race;
Venus (the nymph's mind measuring by her own),
Whom the rich spoils of cities overthrown
Had prostrated to Mars, could well advise
Th' advent'rous lover how to gain the prize.
Nor less may Jupiter to gold ascribe;
For, when he turn'd himself into a bribe,
Who can blame Danáè, or the brazen tower,
That they withstood not that almighty shower?
Never till then did love make Jove put on
A form more bright, and nobler than his own;
Nor were it just, would he resume that shape,
That slack devotion should his thunder 'scape.
16 Am'rous youth': Hippomenes.
'Twas not revenge for griev'd Apollo's wrong,
Those ass's ears on Midas' temples hung,
But fond repentance of his happy wish,
Because his meat grew metal like his dish.
Would Bacchus bless me so, I'd constant hold
Unto my wish, and die creating gold.
HYLAS, O Hylas! why sit we mute,
Now that each bird saluteth the spring?
Wind up the slacken'd strings of thy lute,
Never canst thou want matter to sing;
For love thy breast does fill with such a fire,
That whatsoe'er is fair moves thy desire.
Sweetest! you know, the sweetest of things
Of various flowers the bees do compose;
Yet no particular taste it brings
Of violet, woodbine, pink, or rose;
So love the result is of all the graces
Which flow from a thousand sev'ral faces.
Hylas! the birds which chant in this grove,
Could we but know the language they use,
They would instruct us better in love,
And reprehend thy inconstant Muse;
For love their breasts does fill with such a fire,
That what they once do choose, bounds their desire.
Chloris! this change the birds do approve,
Which the warm season hither does bring;
Time from yourself does further remove
You, than the winter from the gay spring;
She that like lightning shined while her face lasted,
The oak now resembles which lightning hath blasted.
IN ANSWER OF SIR JOHN SUCKLING'S VERSES.
STAY here, fond youth! and ask no more; be wise;
Knowing too much long since lost Paradise.
And, by your knowledge, we should be bereft
Of all that Paradise which yet is left.
The virtuous joys thou hast, thou wouldst should still
Last in their pride; and wouldst not take it ill
If rudely from sweet dreams, and for a toy,
Thou waked; he wakes himself that does enjoy.
How can the joy, or hope, which you allow
Be styled virtuous, and the end not so?
Talk in your sleep, and shadows still admire!
'Tis true, he wakes that feels this real fire;
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