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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; 'T is fill'd wherever thou dost tread, Nature's 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; Phoebus 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 flowery leaves among
(Voluptuous, and wise withal,
Sated with thy summer feast,
Thou retir'st to endless rest.
FOOLISH prater, what dost thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless serenade
Well’t 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 seasons' noise:
Free from th’ill thou'st done to me;
Who disturbs or seeks-out thee
Hadst thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's 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.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair,
Nothing half so good, camst bring,
Though men say thou bring'st the spring.
WHO WAS CHOA KED BY A GRAPE-STON E.
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 deified as I,
It sound not too profane and odd,
Oh, my master and my god |
For 'tis true, most mighty poet!
(Though 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 every day Glided numerously 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 powerful brand prescrib'd the date Of thine, like Meleager's, fate. Th'antiperistasis of age More enflam'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,
'T is thou shouldst their idea be:
They, like thee, should throughly hate
Business, 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 't 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 remembering and applying
The necessity of dying.
Their chearful heads should always wear
All that crowns the flowery 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,