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That art which knew to join all parts in one, He th’ immortality of souls proclaim'd,
(Whom th' oracle of men the wisest nam'd.) Yet though our ligaments betimes grow weak, Why should we doubt of that, whereof our sense We must not force them till themselves they break. Finds demonstration from experience ? Pythagoras bids us in our station stand,
Our minds are here, and there, below, above; Till God, our general, shall us disband.
Nothing that's mortal can so swiftly move. Wise Solon dying, wish'd his friends might grieve, Our thoughts to future things their flight direct, That in their memories he still might live. And in an instant all that's past collect. Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all
Reason, remetnbrance, wit, inventive arty His friends, not to bewail his funeral;
No nature, but immortal, can impart. Your tears for such a death in vain you spend, Man's soul in a perpetual motion flows, Which straight in immortality shall end. And to no outward cause that motion owes; In death if there be any sense of pain,
And therefore that no end can overtake, But a short space to age it will remain;
Because our minds cannot themselves forsake, On which, without my fears, my wishes wait, And since the matter of our soul is pure But timorous youth on this should meditate: And simple, which no mixture ean endure Who for light pleasure this advice rejects, Of parts, which not among themselves agree; Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects. Therefore it never can divided be. Our death (though not its certain date) we know; And Nature shows (without philosophy) Nor whether it may be this night or no: What cannot be divided, cannot die. How then can they contented live, who fear We ev'n in early infancy discern, A danger certain and none knows how near. Knowledge is born with babes before they leam; They err, who for the fear of death dispute, Ere they can speak, they find so many ways Our gallant actions this mistake confute. To serve their turn, and see more arts than Thee Brutus, Rome's first martyr I must name,
days: The Curtii bravely div'd the gulph of flame; Before their thoughts they plainly can express, Attilius sacrific'd himself, to save
The words and things they know are numberless, That faith, which to his barbarous foes he gave; Which Nature only, and no art could find, With the two Scipio's did thy uncle fall, But what she taught before, she calld to mind. Rather than fly from conquering Hannibal
These to his sons (as Xenophon records) The great Marcellus (who restored Rome) Of the great Cyrus were the dying words; Jlis greatest foes with honour did intomb. “ Pear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn) Their lives how many of our legions threw I shall be no where, or to nothing turn: Into the breach? whence no return they knew : That soul, which gave me life, was seen by none, Must then the wise, the old, the learned, fear Yet by the actions it design'd, was known; What not the rude, the young, th' unlearn'd for- And though its flight no mortal eye shall see, bear?
Yet know, for ever it the same shall be. Satiety from 'all things else doth come,
That soul, which can immortal glory give, Then life must to itself grow wearisome.
To her own virtues must for ever live. Those trifles wherein children take delight Can you believe, that man's all-knowing mind Grow nauseous to the young man's appetite; Can to a mortal body be confin'd? And from those gaieties our youth requires Though a foul foolish prison her immure To exercise their minds, our age retires. On Earth, she (when escap'd) is wise and pure. And when the last delights of age shall die, Man's body, when dissolv'd, is but the same Life in itself will find satiety.
[hear, With beasts, and must return from whence it Now you, my friends, my sense of death shall
came; Which I can well describe, for he stands near. But whence into our bodies reason flows, Your father, Lælius, and your's, Scipio,
None sees it, when it comes, or where it goes. My friends, and men of honour, I did know; Nothing resembles death so much as sleep, As certainly as we must die, they live
Yet then our minds themselves from slumbers keep That life which justly may that name receive: When from their fleshly bondage they are free, Till from these prisons of our flesh releas'd, Then what divine and future things they see! Our souls with heavy burthens lie oppress'd; Which makes it most apparent whence they are, Which part of man from Heaven falling down, And what they shall bereafter be, declare." Earth, in her low abyss, doth hide and drown, This noble speech the dying Cyrus made. A place so dark to the cælestial light,
Me, Scipio, shall no argament persuade, And pure eternal fire 's quite opposite.
Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom Fame The gids tbrough human bodies did disperse Gave, from two conquer'd parts o'th' world, their An beavenly sl, to guide this universe,
name, That man, when he of heavenly bodies saw Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul, The order, might from thence a pattern draw; Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal; Nor this to me did my own dictates show, Nur I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd But to the old philosophers I owe.
To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd I heard Pythagoras, and those who came In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought, With him, and from our country took their name; That only Fame our virtuous actions bought; Who never doubted but the beams divine, "Twere better in soft pleasure and repose Deriv'd from gods in murtal brezsis did shine. Ingloriousły our peaceful eyes to close: Nor froin my knowledge did the ancients hide Some high assurance hath possest niy mind, What Socrates declar'd the hour he dy'd; After my death an happier life to find.
Unless our souls from the immortals came, Not only those I nam'd I there shall greet,
Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief
And if I err, no power shall dispossess But such as before ours did end their days My thoughts of that expected happiness : Of whom we hear, and read, and write their | Though some minute philosophers pretend, praise.
That with our days our pains and pleasures end. This I believe: for were I on my way,
If it be so, I hold the safer side,
Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here.
And their whole life to pleasure sacrific'd, And since with life we are more griev'd than joy'd, Should feel their errour, they, when undeceiv'd, We should be either satisfy'd or cloy'd:
Too late will wish, that me they had believ'd. Yet will I not my length of days deplore,
If souls no immortality obtain,
The same uneasiness which every thing
That joy to you, which it gives me, 'twill give.