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Make all that married be
Good-night, while yet we may
To-morrow rise the same
That what you are
And all may see.
To-night is Venus' vigil kept;
And if the fair bride do,
Wake then, and let your lights
You perfect are.
Do pray should be.
That, ere the rosy-fingered morn
A babe, t' uphold the fame
Of Radeliffe's blood and Ramsey's name,
That may in his great seed
Most perfect are.
Wish you should see.
ODE TO HIMSELF.
Come, leave the loathed stage
And the more loathsome age;
Usurp the chair of wit.
Something they call a play.
Commission of the brain
Say that thou pour'st them wheat,
And they will acorns eat; 'Twere simple fury still thyself to waste
On such as have no taste!
51 This ode was printed at the close of The Nero Inn, and bears this explanatory votice: “The just indignation the author took at the vulgar censure of his play, by some malicious spectators, begat this following ode to himself." It called out several retorts and compliments in verse.
To offer them a surfeit of
bread Whose appetites are dead! No, give them grains their fill,
Husks, draff to drink and swill: If they love lees, and leave the lusty wine, Envy them not, their palate's with the swine.
No doubt some mouldy tale
Like Pericles, and stale
Scraps out of every dish
May keep up the Play-club:
As the best-order'd meal;
And much good do’t you
then: Brave plush and velvet men Can feed on orts; and safe in your stage clothes
Dare quit upon your oathis
Of larding your large ears
Wrought upon twenty blocks;
enough, The gamesters share your gilt, and you their Leave things so prostitute
And take the Alcaic lute,
Warm thee by Pindar's fire,
cold Ere years
have made thee old, Strike that disdainful heat
Throughout, to their defeat, As curious fools, and envious of thy strain, May, blushing, swear no palsy's in thy brain.
But when they hear thee sing
The glories of thy king,
They may, blood-shaken then,
ours, In sound of peace or wars,
No harp e'er hit the stars, In tuning forth the acts of his sweet reign, And raising Charles his chariot 'bove his brain.”
CHARLES CAVENDISH TO HIS POSTERITY.5 Sons, seek not me among these polished stones, These only hide part of my flesh and bones, Which, did they e'er so neat and proudly dwell,
52 Sir Charles Cavendish was the third son of Sir William Cavendish, the faithful and confidential servant of Cardinal Wolsey.
Will all turn dust, and may not make me swell.
EPITAPH ON LADY KATHERINE OGLE.53
She was the light (without reflex
All that was solid in the name
Her soul possessed her flesh's state
53 The second wife of Sir Charles Cavendish, and mother of the Duke of Newcastle.