D

RETIREMENT.

O not their prófane orgies hear, Who but to wealth no altars rear; The soul's oft poison'd through the ear:

Castara! rather seek to dwell

In the' silence of a private cell:
Rich Discontent's a glorious hell!
Yet, Hindlip doth not want extent
Of room, though not magnificent,
To give free welcome to content.
There, shalt thou see the early Spring
That wealthy stock of nature bring,
Of which the Sybil's books did sing:
From fruitless palms shall honey flow;
And barren Winter harvest show,
While lilies in his bosom grow:

No north-wind shall the corn infest,
But the soft spirit of the East
Our scent with perfum'd banquets feast:

A Satyr, here and there, shall trip
In hope to purchase leave to sip
Sweet nectar from a Fairy's lip:

The Nymphs, with quivers shall adorn
Their active sides; and rouse the morn
With the shrill music of the horn:

Waken'd with which, and viewing thee,
Fair Daphné her fair self shall free
From the chaste prison of a tree;
And with Narcissus, (to thy face
Who humbly will ascribe all grace)
Shall once again pursue the chase.
So they whose wisdom did discuss
Of these as fictious, shall in us
Find they were more than fabulous!

RANDOLPH.

FAIR Lady, when you see the grace

Of beauty in your looking-glass-
A stately forehead, smooth and high,
And full of princely majesty;
A sparkling eye, no gem so fair,
Whose lustre dims the cyprian star;
A glorious cheek, divinely sweet,
Wherein both roses kindly meet;
A cherry lip that would entice
Even gods to kiss, at any price;
You think no beauty is so rare,
That with your shadow might compare,
That your reflection is alone

The thing that men most doat upon.
Madam, alas! your glass doth lie;
And you are much deceiv'd, for I
A beauty know of richer grace.
Sweet! be not angry-'tis your face.
Hence then, O learn more mild to be,
And leave to lay your blame on me!
If me your real substance move,
When you so much your shadow love.
Wise nature would not let your eye
Look on her own bright majesty,

Which had you once but gaz'd upon,
You could except yourself love none:
What then you cannot love, let me-
That face I can, you cannot see!

Now, you have what you love (you'll say), What then is left for me, I pray?"

My face, sweet Heart! if it please thee;
That which you can, I cannot see.

So either love shall gain his due,
Your's, Sweet! in me, and mine in you!

ODE.

COME, spur away,

I have no patience for a longer stay,
But must go down

And leave the chargeable noise of this great

V town:

I will the country see
Where old simplicity

Tho' hid in grey,

Doth look more gay

Than foppery in plush and scarlet clad.

Farewel you city wits, that are

Almost at civil war ;

"Tis time that I grow wise when all the world grows mad.

More of my days

I will not spend to gain an idiot's praise:

Or to make sport

For some slight puny of the inns of court.

Then, worthy Stafford, say,

How shall we spend the day?

With what delights

Shorten the nights

When from this tumult we are got secure ;
Where mirth with all her freedom goes,

Yet shall no finger lose

Where every word is thought, and every thought

is pure.

There, from the tree

We'll cherries pluck, and pick the strawberry;
And every day

Go see the wholesome girls make hay,

Whose brown hath lovelier grace

Than any painted face

That I do know

Hyde Park can shew;

Where I had rather gain a kiss, than meet (Though some of them, in greater state, Might court my love with plate)

The beauties of the Cheape, and wives of Lombard street.

But think upon

Some other pleasures, these to me are none.
Why do I prate

Of women, that are things against my fate? I never mean to wed

That torture to my bed.

My muse is she

My love shall be:

Let clowns get wealth and heirs !-when I am gone, And the great bugbear, grisly death,

Shall take this idle breath,

If I a poem leave, that poem is my son.

Of this no more

We'll rather taste the bright Pomona's store;
No fruit shall 'scape

Our palates, from the damson to the grape.

Then full, we'll seek a shade,

And hear what music's made;

How Philomel

Her tale doth tell,

And how the other birds do fill the quire,

The thrush and blackbird lend their throats,
Warbling melodious notes,

We will all sports enjoy, which others but desire.
Ours is the sky

Where,at what fowl we please,our hawks shall fly.
Nor will we spare

To hunt the crafty fox, or tim'rous hare;

But let our hounds run loose

In any ground they choose:

The buck shall fall,

The stag and all.

Our pleasures mast from their own warrants be, For to my muse, if not to me,

I am sure all game is free;

Heav'n, earth, are all but parts of her great royalty. And when we mean

To taste of Bacchus' blessings now and then,

And drink by stealth

A cup or two to noble Barkley's health,
I'll take my pipe and try
The Phrygian melody,
Which he that hears

Lets through his ears

A madness to distemper all the brain.
Then I another pipe will take,

And Doric music make,

To civilize with graver notes our wits again.