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Peace, the lovers are asleep!
They, sweet turtles, folded lie
In the last knot that Love could tie.
Till this stormy night be gone,
Whose Day shall never sleep in Night.
Death's Lecture and the Funeral of a Young
DEAR relics of a dislodged soul, whose lack
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 ;
Hyperbolised 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,
To show a face, fit to confess thy kin,
Here, gallant ladies! this unpartial glass
These curtain'd windows, this retired eye
OF THE CHEAP PHYSICIAN, UPON THE TRANSLATION
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
A well-clothed soul, that's not oppress'd
Nor choked with what she should be dress'd?
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 tuned 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
And when Life's sweet fable ends,
His soul and body part like friends:
No quarrels, murmurs, no delay :
This rare one, Reader, wouldst thou see,
Hope, whose weak being ruin'd is
If things then from their end we happy call,
Hope, thou bold taster of delight!
The joys which we entire should wed,
Good fortunes without gain imported be,
For joy, like wine kept close, doth better taste;
Hope, Fortune's cheating lottery,
Where, for one prize, an hundred blanks there be.