Изображения страниц
PDF
EPUB

ON MY FIRST DAUGHTER.

HERE lies, to each her parents ruth,
MARY, the daughter of their youth;
Yet all heaven's gifts being heaven's due,
It makes the father less to rue.

At six months end she parted hence

With safety of her innocence;

Whose soul heaven's Queen, whose name she bears, In comfort of her mother's tears,

Hath placed amongst her virgin-train :
Where while that, severed, doth remain,
This grave partakes the fleshly birth;
Which cover lightly, gentle earth!

ON MY FIRST SON.

FAREWELL, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy:
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
O, could I lose all father, now! for why,
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's, and flesh's rage,
And, if no other misery, yet age!

Rest in soft peace, and ask'd, say here doth lie
BEN JONSON his best piece of poetry:

For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such,
As what he loves may never like too much.

AN ODE-TO HIMSELF.

WHERE dost Thou carless lie
Buried in ease and sloth ?
Knowledge, that sleeps, doth die ;
And this security,

It is the common moth,

That eats on wits and arts, and [so] destroys them both:

Are all the Aonian springs

Dried up ? lies Thespia waste? Doth Clarius' harp want strings, That not a nymph now sings; Or droop they as disgrac'd, To see their seats and bowers by chattering pies defac'd?

If hence thy silence be,

As 'tis too just a cause;
Let this thought quicken thee:
Minds that are great and free
Should not on fortune pause,

'Tis crown enough to virtue still, her own applause.

What though the greedy fry
Be taken with false baits

Of worded balladry
And think it poesy?

They die with their conceits, And only piteous scorn upon their folly waits.

Then take in hand thy lyre,
Strike in thy proper strain,
With Japhet's line, aspire
Sol's chariot for new fire,

To give the world again : Who aided him, will thee, the issue of Jove's brain.

And since our dainty age

Cannot endure reproof, Make not thyself a page, To that strumpet the stage, But sing high and aloof, Safe from the wolf's black jaw, and the dull ass's hoof,

THE JUST INDIGNATION THE AUTHOR TOOK AT THE

VULGAR CENSURE OF HIS PLAY, "THE NEW INN,"
BY SOME MALICIOUS SPECTATORS,

BEGAT

THIS

FOLLOWING

ODE

(TO HIMSELF).

COME leave the loathed stage,
And the more loathsome age;

Where pride and impudence, in faction knit,
Usurp the chair of wit!

Indicting and arraigning every day,

Something they call a play.

Let their fastidious, vain
Commission of the brain

Run on and rage, sweat, censure, and condemn ;
They were not made for thee, less thou for them.

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!
To offer them a surfeit of pure 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

As the shrieve's crusts, and nasty as his fish-
Scraps, out of every dish

Thrown forth, and raked into the common tub,
May keep up the Play-club;
There, sweepings do as well
As the best-order'd meal;

For who the relish of these guests will fit,
Needs set them but the alms-basket of wit.

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 oaths,

The stagers and the stage-wrights too, your peers,
Of larding your large ears
With their foul comic socks,
Wrought upon twenty blocks;

Which, if they are torn, and turn'd, and patch'd

en

gh,

The gamesters share your gilt, and you their stuff.—

Leave things so prostitute
And take the Alcaic lute;

Or thine own Horace, or Anacreon's lyre;
Warm thee by Pindar's fire:

And though thy nerves be shrunk, and blood be 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,

His zeal to God, and his just awe o'er men:
They may, blood-shaken then,

Feel such a flesh-quake to possess their powers
As they shall cry,
"Like 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 Wain.”

THE WALTER SCOTT PUBLISHING CO., LTD., NEWCASTLE-ON-TYNE

4-03

« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »