Peace, the lovers are asleep! In the last knot that Love could tie. Love made the bed; they'll take no harm; Till this stormy night be gone, And the eternal morrow dawn; Then the curtains will be drawn And they wake into a light, Whose Day shall never sleep in Night. :0: Death's Lecture and the Funeral of a young DEAR relics of a dislodged soul, whose lack And wind thyself up close in thy cold bed. Stay but a little while, until I call A summons worthy of thy funeral. Come then, Youth, Beauty, and Blood, all ye soft powers, Whose silken flatteries swell a few fond hours Into a false eternity. Come man ; Hyperbolisèd nothing! know thy span ! Take thine own measure here, down, down, and bow Before thyself in thine idea; thou Huge emptiness! contract thy bulk; and shrink Lower and lower yet; till thy small size, Call Heaven to look on thee with narrow eyes. To show a face, fit to confess thy kin, Proud looks, and lofty eyelids, here put on Here, gallant ladies! this unpartial glass (Through all your painting) shows you your true face. Temperance. OF THE CHEAP PHYSICIAN, UPON THE TRANSLATION OF LESSIUS. Go now, with some daring drug, Bait thy disease, and while they tug, Go poor man, think what shall be Remedy 'gainst thy remedy. That which makes us have no need Of physic, that's physic indeed. Hark hither, Reader: wouldst thou see Nature her own physician be? Wouldst see a man all his own wealth, A man, whose sober soul can tell Her garments that upon her sit, A well-clothed soul, that's not oppress'd Nor choked with what she should be dress'd? Whose soul's sheath'd in a crystal shrine, Through which all her bright features shine? As when a piece of wanton lawn, A thin aerial veil is drawn, O'er Beauty's face; seeming to hide, More sweetly shews the blushing bride : A soul, whose intellectual beams No mists do mask, no lazy steams? A happy soul, that all the way To Heaven, hath a Summer's day? Wouldst see a man whose well-warm'd blood Bathes him in a genuine flood ? A man, whose tunèd humours be A set of rarest harmony? Wouldst see blithe looks, fresh cheeks, beguile Age? Wouldst see December smile? Wouldst see a nest of roses grow In a bed of rev'rend snow? Warm thoughts, free spirits, flattering In sum, wouldst see a man that can Whose latest, and most leaden hours Fall with soft wings, stuck with soft flowers; And when Life's sweet fable ends, His soul and body part like friends: No quarrels, murmurs, no delay : A kiss, a sigh, and so away? This rare one, Reader, wouldst thou see, Hark hither and thyself be he! hope. Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is Alike, if it succeed, or if it miss! Whom ill and good doth equally confound, And both the horns of Fate's dilemma wound. Both at full noon, and perfect night! If things then from their end we happy call, Hope, thou bold taster of delight! Who instead of doing so, devour'st it quite. The joys which we entire should wed, Come deflowr'd virgins to our bed. Good fortunes without gain imported be, Such mighty custom's paid to thee; For joy, like wine kept close, doth better taste; Hope, Fortune's cheating lottery, Where, for one prize, an hundred blanks there be. -Fond archer, Hope! who tak'st thine aim so far, That still, or short, or wide, thine arrows are; Thin empty cloud which th' eye deceives |