DEMOCRITUS AND HERACLITUS.
DEMOCRITUS, dear droll, revisit earth,
And with our follies glut thy heighten'd mirth:
Sad Heraclitus, serious wretch, return,
In louder grief our greater crimes to mourn.
Between you both, I unconcern'd stand by;
Hurt, can I laugh? and honest, need I cry?
MERRY ANDREW.
SLY Merry Andrew, the last Southwark fair;
(At Barthol'mew he did not much appear,
So peevish was the edict of the Mayor)
At Southwark, therefore, as his tricks he show'd,
To please our masters, and his friends the crowd,
A huge neat's tongue he in his right hand held,
His left was with a good black-pudding fill'd.
With a grave look, in this odd equipage,
The clownish mimic traverses the stage:
‹ Why, how now, Andrew! (cries his brother droll)
To-day's conceit, methinks, is something dull.
Come on, sir, to our worthy friends explain
What does your emblematic worship mean?
Quoth Andrew, Honest English let us speak;
Youremble-(what d'ye call 't?) is Heathen Greek.
To tongue or pudding thou hast no pretence;
Learning thy talent is, but minc is sense.
That busy fool I was which thou art now,
Desirous to correct, not knowing how ;
With very good design, but little wit,
Blaming or praising things, as I thought fit:
I for this conduct had what I deserved,
And, dealing honestly, was almost starved.
But thanks to my indulgent stars, I eat,
Since I have found the secret to be great.'
'O dearest Andrew, (says the humble droll)
Henceforth may I obey, and thou control;
Provided thou impart thy useful skill.'-
'Bow then (says Andrew) and, for once, I will.-
Be of your patron's mind, whate'er he says;
Sleep very much; think little, and talk less:
Mind neither good nor bad, nor right nor wrong,
But eat your pudding, slave; and hold your tongue.'
A reverend prelate stopp'd his coach-and-six,
To laugh a little at our Andrew's tricks;
But when he heard him give this golden rule,
'Drive on, (he cried) this fellow is no fool.'
DUM studeo fungi fallentis munere vitæ,
Adfectoque viam sedibus Elysiis,
Arctoa florens Sophiâ, Samiisque superbus
Discipulis, animas morte carere cano.
Has ego corporibus profugas ad sidera mitto;
Sideraque ingressis otia blanda dico;
1 Walter Daniston was a schoolmaster, and a Latin poet; but these verses were written by Dr. Archibald Pitcairne, a celebrated Scotish physician.
Qualia conveniunt divis, queis fata volebant
Vitäi faciles mollitèr ire vias:
Vinaque cœlicolis media inter gaudia libo;
Et me quid majus suspicor esse viro.
Sed fuerint nulli forsan, quos spondeo, cœli ;
Nullaque sint Ditis numina, nulla Jovis :
Fabula sit terris agitur quæ vita relictis ;
Quique superstes, homo; qui nihil, esto Deus.
Attamen esse hilares, et inanes mittere curas
Proderit, ac vitæ commoditate frui,
Et festos agitâsse dies, ævique fugacis
Tempora perpetuis detinuisse jocis
His me parentem præceptis occupet orcus,
Et mors; seu divum, seu nihil esse velit ;
Nam Sophia ars illa est, quæ fallere suaviter horas
Admonet, atque orci non timuisse minas.
STUDIOUS the busy moments to deceive,
That fleet between the cradle and the grave,
I credit what the Grecian dictates say,
And Samian sounds o'er Scotia's hills convey.
When mortal man resigns his transient breath,
The body only I give o'er to death;
The parts dissolved, and broken frame, I mourn:
What came from earth, I see to earth return.
The immaterial part, the' etherial soul,
Nor can change vanquish, nor can death control.
Glad I release it from its partner's cares,
And bid good angels waft it to the stars:
Then in the flowing bowl I drown those sighs
Which, spite of wisdom, from our weakness rise.
The draught to the dead's memory I commend,
And offer to thee now, immortal friend:
But if opposed to what my thoughts approve,
Nor Pluto's rage there be, nor power of Jove;
On its dark side if thou the prospect take,
Grant all forgot beyond black Lethe's lake;
In total death suppose the mortal lie,
No new hereafter, nor a future sky;
Yet bear thy lot content; yet cease to grieve;
Why ere death comes dost thou forbear to live?
The little time thou hast 'twixt instant now
And Fate's approach, is all the gods allow;
And of this little hast thou aught to spare
To sad reflection and corroding care?
The moments past, if thou art wise, retrieve
With pleasant memory of the bliss they gave.
The present hours in present mirth employ,
And bribe the future with the hopes of joy:
The future (few or more, howe'er they be)
Were destined erst, nor can by Fate's decree
Be now cut off betwixt the grave and thee.
WHY thus from the plain does my shepherdess rove, Forsaking her swain and neglecting his love? You have heard all my grief, you see how I die, Oh! give some relief to the swain whom you fly. How can you complain, or what am I to say, Since my dog lies unfed, and my sheep run astray? Need I tell what I mean that I languish alone! When I leave all the plain, you may guess 'tis for
LADY'S LOOKING-GLASS.
CELIA and I, the other day,
Walk'd o'er the sand-hills to the sea;
The setting sun adorn'd the coast,
His beams entire, his fierceness lost;
And, on the surface of the deep
The winds lay, only not asleep:
The nymph did, like the scene, appear
Serenely pleasant, calmly fair;
Soft fell her words, as flew the air.
With secret joy I heard her
That she would never miss one day
A walk so fine, a sight so gay.
But, oh the change! the winds grow high; Impending tempests charge the sky; The lightning flies, the thunder roars, And big waves lash the frighten'd shores: Struck with the horror of the sight, She turns her head, and wings her flight, And, trembling, vows she'll ne'er again Approach the shore, or view the main.
'Once more, at least, look back, (said I) Thyself in that large glass descry; When thou art in good humour dress'd, When gentle reason rules thy breast, The sun, upon the calmest sea, Appears not half so bright as thee: "Tis then that with delight I rove Upon the boundless depth of love;
|