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Had gather'd from the reaper's luxury.
Freely (said he) fall on, and never spare,
The bounteous Gods will for to-morrow care.
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,
And to their genius sacrific'd the day:
Yet the nice guest's Epicurean mind
(Though breeding made him civil seem and kind)
Despis'd this country feast, and still his thought
Upon the cakes and pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (said he)

Which I'm surpris'd in these rude parts to see,
Shews that the Gods have given you a mind
Too noble for the fate which here you find.
Why should a soul so virtuous and so great
Lose itself thus in an obscure retreat?
Let savage beasts lodge in a country den,
You should see towns, and manners know, and men ;
And taste the gen'rous lux'ry of the court,
Where all the mice of quality resort;

Where thousand beauteous shes about you move,
And by high fare are pliant made to love.
We all ere long must render up our breath,
No cave or hole can shelter us from death.
Since life is so uncertain and so short,
Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport.
Come, worthy sir! come with me, and partake
All the great things that mortals happy make.

Alas! what virtue hath sufficient arms
T'oppose bright honour and soft pleasure's charms?
What wisdom can their magic force repel?
It draws this rev'rend hermit from his cell.
It was the time, when witty poets tell,
"That Phoebus into Thetis' bosom fell:
"She blush'd at first, and then put out the light,
"And drew the modest curtains of the night."
Plainly, the truth to tell, the sun was set,
When to the town our weary'd trav❜llers get.
To a lord's house, as lordly as can be,
Made for the use of pride and luxury,
They come; the gentle courtier at the door
Stops, and will hardly enter in before;
But 'tis, sir, your command, and being so,
I'm sworn t' obedience; and so in they go.
Behind a hanging in a spacious room,
(The richest work of Mortlake's noble loom)
They wait awhile, their weary'd limbs to rest
Till silence should invite them to their feast,
"About the hour that Cynthia's silver light
"Had touch'd the pale meridies of the night."
At last the various supper being done,
It happen'd that the company was gone
Into a room remote, servants and all,
To please their noble fancies with a ball.
Our host leads forth his stranger, and does find
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.
Still on the table half-fill'd dishes stood,
And with delicious bits the floor was strew'd.
The courteous mouse presents him with the best,
And both with fat varieties are bless'd:
Th' industrious peasant ev'ry where does range,
And thanks the Gods for his life's happy change.
Lo! in the midst of a well-freighted pie

They both at last, glutted and wanton lie:
When, see the sad reverse of prosp❜rous fate,
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait:
With hideous noise down the rude servants come,
Six dogs before run barking into the room;
The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright,
And hate the fullness which retards their flight.
Our trembling peasant wishes now, in vain,
That rocks and mountains cover'd him again.
Oh how the change of his poor life he curs'd!
This of all lives, said he, is sure the worst.
Give me again, ye Gods! my cave and wood;
With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.

TO THE ROYAL SOCIETY.
Philosophy! the great and only heir
Of all that human knowledge which has been
Unforfeited by man's rebellious sin,
Though full of years he doth appear,
(Philosophy! I say, and call it he,
For whatsoe'er the painter's fancy be,
It a male virtue seems to me)

Has still been kept in nonage till of late,

Nor manag'd or enjoy'd his vast estate. [thought,
Three or four thousand years, one would have
To ripeness and perfection might have brought
A science so well bred and nurs'd,

And of such hopeful parts, too, at the first;
But, oh! the guardians and the tutors then,
(Some negligent, and some ambitious men)
Would ne'er consent to set him free,

Or his own nat'ral pow'rs to let him see,
Lest that should put an end to their authority.

That his own bus'ness he might quite forget,
They amus'd him with the sports of wanton wit;
With the deserts of poetry they fed him,
Instead of solid meats t' increase his force;
Instead of vig'rous exercise they led him
Into the pleasant labyrinths of ever-fresh discourse:
Instead of carrying him to see

The riches which do hoarded for him lie
In Nature's endless treasury,

They chose his eye to entertain

(His curious, but not cov'tous eye)

With painted scenes and pageants of the brain.
Some few exalted sp'rits this latter age has shewn,
That labour'd to assert the liberty

(From guardians who were now usurpers grown)
Of this old minor, still captiv'd Philosophy;
But 'twas rebellion call'd, to fight
For such a long-oppressed right.
Bacon, at last, a mighty man! arose,
Whom a wise king and nature chose
Lord Chancellor of both their laws,
And boldly undertook the injur'd pupil's cause.

Authority, which did a body boast,
Though 'twas but air condens'd, and stalk'd about
Like some old giant's more gigantic ghost,
To terrify the learned rout

With the plain magic of true reason's light,
He chas'd out of our sight,

Nor suffer'd living men to be misled
By the vain shadows of the dead:

[tom fled:

To graves, from whence it rose, the conquer'd phan-
He broke that monstrous God which stood,
In midst of th' orchard, and the whole did claim,
Which with a useless scythe of wood,
And something else not worth a name,
(Both vast for shew, yet neither fit
Or to defend or to beget,

Ridiculous and senseless terrors!) made
Children and superstitious men afraid.
The orchard's open now, and free;
Bacon has broke that scarecrow deity:
Come, enter all that will,

Behold the ripen'd fruit, come, gather now your fill!
Yet still, methinks, we fain would be
Catching at the forbidden tree;

We would be like the Deity;

When truth and falsehood, good and evil, we Without the senses' aid within ourselves would see; For 'tis God only who can find

All nature in his mind.

From words, which are but pictures of the thought, (Though we our thoughts from them perversely drew)

To things, the mind's right object, he it brought; Like foolish birds to painted grapes we flew. He sought and gather'd for our use the true; And when on heaps the chosen bunches lay, He press'd them wisely the mechanic way, Till all their juice did in one vessel join, Ferment into a nourishment divine, The thirsty soul's refreshing wine. Who to the life an exact piece would make, Must not from others' work a copy take; No, not from Rubens or Vandyck; Much less content himself to make it like Th' ideas and the images which lie In his own fancy or his memory: No, he before his sight must place The natural and living face; The real object must command

Each judgment of his eye and motion of his hand.

From these, and all long errors of the way,
In which our wand'ring predecessors went,
And, like th' old Hebrews, many years did stray
la deserts, but of small extent,

Bacon! like Moses, led us forth at last;
The barren wilderness he pass'd,

Did on the very border stand

Of the bless'd promis'd land,

And from the mountain's top of his exalted wit,
Saw it himself, and shew'd us it.
But life did never to one man allow
Time to discover worlds, and conquer too;
Nor can so short a line sufficient be

To fathom the vast deeps of Nature's sea:
The work he did we ought t' admire,

And were unjust if we should more require
From his few years, divided 'twixt th' excess
Of low affliction and high happiness:
For who on things remote can fix his sight,
That's always in a triumph or a fight!

From you, great champions! we expect to get
These spacious countries but discover'd yet;
Countries where yet, instead of Nature, we
Her image and her idols worship'd see:
These large and wealthy regions to subdue,
Tho' learning has whole armies at command,
Quarter'd about in every land,

A better troop she ne'er together drew.
Methinks, like Gideon's little band,
God with design has pick'd out you,
To do these noble wonders by a few.
When the whole host he saw, They are,

Too many to o'ercome for me:
And now he chooses out his men,
Much in the way that he did then:
Not those many, whom he found
Idly extended on the ground

To drink, with their dejected head,

said he,

The stream, just so as by their mouths it fled: No; but those few who took the waters up, And made of their laborious hands the cup.

Thus you prepar'd, and in the glorious fight
Their wondrous pattern, too, you take:
Their old and empty pitchers first they brake,
And with their hands then lifted up the light.
Iö! sound too the trumpets here!
Already your victorious lights appear;
New scenes of Heav'n already we espy,
And crowds of golden worlds on high.
Which from the spacious plains of earth and sea
Could never yet discover'd be

By sailor's or Chaldean's watchful eye.
Nature's great works no distance can obscure,
No smallness her near objects can secure:
Ye 'ave taught the curious sight to press
Into the privatest recess

Of her imperceptible littleness:

Ye 'ave learn'd to read her smallest hand,
And well begun her deepest sense to understand.

Mischief and true dishonour fall on those
Who would to laughter or to scorn expose
So virtuous and so noble a design,

So human for its use, for knowledge so divine.
The things which these proud men despise, and call
Impertinent, and vain, and small,

Those smallest things of nature let me know,
Rather than all their greatest actions do.
Whoever would deposed truth advance
Into the throne usurp'd from it,
Must feel at first the blows of ignorance,

And the sharp points of envious wit.

So when, by various turns of the celestial dance, In many thousand years

A star, so long unknown, appears,

Though Heav'n itself more beauteous by it grow, It troubles and alarms the world below,

Does to the wise a star, to fools a meteor, shew.

With courage and success you the bold work begin;
Your cradle has not idle been:

None e'er but Hercules and you could be
At five years' age worthy a history:
And ne'er did Fortune better yet

Th' historian to the story fit.
As you from all old errors free
And purge the body of Philosophy,
So from all modern follies he

Has vindicated eloquence and wit:

His candid style like a clean stream does slide,
And his bright fancy all the way
Does, like the sunshine, in it play;

It does like Thames, the best of rivers, glide,
Where the God does not rudely overturn,
But gently pour, the crystal urn,

[guide.
And with judicious hands does the whole current
It has all the beauties Nature can impart,
And all the comely dress, without the paint, of Art.

ANACREONTICS.

Love.

I'll sing of heroes, and of kings,
In mighty numbers, mighty things.
Begin, my Muse! but, lo! the strings
To my great song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but love,
I broke them all, and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing, sure, will do.
These, sure, said I, will me obey;
These, sure, heroic notes will play.
Straight I began with thund'ring Jove,
And all th' immortal powers but Love;
Love smil'd, and from my enfeebled lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love, and soft desire.
Farewell then heroes, farewell kings,
And mighty numbers, mighty things;
Love tunes my heart just to my strings.

Drinking.

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again.
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun, (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks
and when he'as done,
the sea,
up
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature's sober found,

But an eternal health goes round. Fill up the bowl, then, fill it high, Fill all the glasses there, for why Should ev'ry creature drink but I; Why, man of morals, tell me why? Beauty.

Liberal Nature did dispense

To all things arms for their defence;
And some she arms with sinewy force,
And some with swiftness in the course;
Some with hard hoofs, or forked claws,
And some with horns, or tusked jaws;
And some with scales, and some with wings,

And some with teeth, and some with stings:
Wisdom to man she did afford,

Wisdom for shield, and wit for sword.
What to beauteous womankind,

What arms, what armour, has she assign'd?
Beauty is both; for with the fair

What arms, what armour, can compare?
What steel, what gold, or diamond,
More impassable is found?

And yet what flame, what lightning e'er
So great an active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart,
Like porcupines, from ev'ry part.
Who can, alas! their strength express,
Arm'd, when they themselves undress,
Cap à pè with nakedness.

Age.

Oft' am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'st old,
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon! how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know;
This I know without being told,
"Tis time to live if I grow old;
"Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.

The Account.
When all the stars are by thee told,
(The endless sums of heav'nly gold)
Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From sickly Autumn's head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the sea,
Whilst all her sands thy counters be,
Thou then, and thou alone, must prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more ;
Fair Corinth does such beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy-three,
Write then at Lesbos (let me see);
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one;
And next to these let me present

The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company,
Five hundred both effectively;
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis, I am sure, complete;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And ev'ry eye's an archer there.
Go on, this stop why dost thou make?
Thou think'st, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a sum?
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such diff'rent nations in his host.
On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves inroll'd,
Nor Indian nor Arabian,
Nor Cyprian loves nor African,
Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names,
Of gentle loves i' th' Temp'rate Zone,
And cold ones in the Frigid one,
Cold frozen loves with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the Line.
The Epicure.

Fill the bowl with rosy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us cheerfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses smile;
Crown'd with roses we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.

To-day is ours; what do we fear?
To-day is ours, we have it here;
Let us treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay:

Let us banish bus'ness, banish sorrow;
To the gods belongs to-morrow.

Another.

Underneath this myrtle shade,
On flow'ry beds supinely laid,

With od'rous oils my head o'erflowing,
And around it roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love! nay fill it up,
And mingled cast into the cup
Wit and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay desires.
The wheel of life no less will stay
In a smooth than rugged way;
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments show'r,
Nobler wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flow'rs why do we spread,
Upon the mon'ments of the dead?
Nothing they but dust can shew,
Or bones that hasten to be so.

Crown me with roses whilst I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive your pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.

The Grasshopper.

Happy insect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
"Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants, belong to thee;
All that summer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.

Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!

Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phœbus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know:

But when thou 'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, (Voluptuous, and wise withal,

Epicurean animal!)

Sated with thy summer feast, Thou retir'st to endless rest.

The Swallow.

Foolish prater! what dost thou
So early at my window do

With thy tuneless serenade?

Well it had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his knife had done but well.

In thy undiscover'd nest
Thou dost all the winter rest,
And dreamest o'er thy summer joys
Free from the stormy season's noise;
Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks out thee?
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the woods' poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou 'st ta'en from me away.
Cruel bird! thou 'st ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day;
A dream that ne'er must equall'd be
By all that waking eyes may see:

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Nothing half so good can'st bring,

Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Elegy upon Anacreon who was choaked by a Grapestone. Spoken by the God of Love.

How shall I lament thine end,

My best servant and my friend?
Nay, and if from a deity
So much deify'd as I,

It sound not too profane and odd,
Oh! my Master, and my God!
For 'tis true, most mighty Poet!
(Tho' I like not men should know it)
I am in naked Nature less,

Less by much than in thy dress.
All thy verse is softer far
Than the downy feathers are
Of my wings, or of my arrows,
Of my mother's doves or sparrows.
Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,
Or their riper following blisses,
Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,
All with Venus' girdle bound,
And thy life was all the while
Kind and gentle as thy style:

The smooth pac'd hours of ev'ry day
Glided num'rously away;
Like thy verse each hour did pass,
Sweet and short, like that it was.

Some do but their youth allow me,
Just what they by Nature owe me,
The time that's mine, and not their own,
The certain tribute of my crown;
When they grow old, they grow to be
Too busy or too wise for me.
Thou wert wiser, and didst know
None too wise for love can grow.
Love was with thy life entwin'd,
Close as heat with fire is join'd;
A pow'rful brand prescrib'd the date
Of thine, like Meleager's fate.
Th' antiperistasis of age

More inflam'd thy amorous rage;
Thy silver hairs yielded me more
Than even golden curls before.

Had I the power of creation,

As I have of generation,
Where I the matter must obey,
And cannot work plate out of clay,
My creatures should be all like thee;
'Tis thou shouldst their idea be.
They, like thee, should thoroughly hate
Bus'ness, honour, title, state:
Other wealth they should not know
But what my living mines bestow:
The pomp of kings they should confess
At their crownings to be less
Than a lover's humblest guise,
When at his mistress' feet he lies.
Rumour they no more should mind

Than men safe-landed, do the wind.
Wisdom itself they should not hear
When it presumes to be severe.
Beauty alone they should admire,
Nor look at Fortune's vain attire,
Nor ask what parents it can shew;
With dead or old it has nought to do.
They should not love yet all, or any,
But very much, and very many.
All their life should gilded be
With mirth, and wit, and gaiety,

Well rememb'ring, and applying

The necessity of dying.

Their cheerful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flow'ry year.

They should always laugh and sing,

And dance, and strike th' harmonious string. Verse should from their tongue so flow,

As if it in the mouth did grow;

As swiftly answ'ring their command,
As tunes obey the artful hand:
And whilst I do thus discover
Th' ingredients of a happy lover,
'Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake
I of the Grape no mention make.
Till my Anacreon by thee fell,
Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well,
And 'twas oft my wanton use
To dip my arrows in thy juice.
Cursed Plant! 'tis true I see
Th' old report that goes of thee,
That with giants' blood th' earth
Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth.
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite
On men in whom the Gods delight.
Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder,
Was brought forth in flames and thunder;
In rage, in quarrels, and in fights,
Worse than his tigers he delights;
In all our heav'n, I think there be
No such ill-natur'd God as he.
Thou pretendest, trait'rous Wine!
To be the Muses' friend and mine:
With love and wit thou dost begin,
False fires, alas! to draw us in;
Which, if our course we by them keep,
Misguide to madness or to sleep:
Sleep were well: thou hast learn'd a way
To death itself now to betray.

It grieves me when I see what fate
Does on the best of mankind wait.
Poets or lovers let them be,
"Tis neither love nor poesy

Can arm against Death's smallest dart
The poet's head or lover's heart;
But when their life in its decline
Touches th' inevitable line,

All the world's mortal to 'em then,
And wine is aconite to men:

Nay, in Death's hand the Grape-stone proves
As strong as thunder is in Jove's.

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