Nor Scythian nor Italian flames ;
There's a whole map behind of names
Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone,
And cold ones in the frigid one,
Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,
And parched loves beneath the Line.
A Mighty pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to mifs
But, of all pains, the greateft pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit, by Love is understood;
Gold alone does paffion move,
Gold monopolizes love;
A curfe on her, and on the man
Who this traffick first began!
A curfe on him who found the ore!
A curfe on him who digg'd the store !
A curfe on him who did refine it!
A curfe on him who first did coin it!
A curfe, all curfes elfe above,
On him who us'd it firft in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;
Gold does friendships separate;
Gold does civil wars create.
Thefe the fmalleft harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.
ILL the bowl with rofy wine!
Around our temples roses twine!
And let us chearfully awhile,
Like the wine and roses, smile.
Crown'd with rofes, we contemn
'Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is ours; what do we fear?
To-day is ours; we have it here:
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay."
Let's banish bufinefs, banish forrow;
To the Gods belongs to-morrow.
A NO THE R.
Underneath this myrtle thade,
On flowery beds fupinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it rofes growing,
What fhould I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state
Love himself fhall 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
The wheel of life no lefs will stay
In a smooth than rugged way:
Since it equally doth flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments fhower?
Nobler wines why do we pour?
Beauteous flowers why do we spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead ?
Nothing they but duft can show,
Or bones that haften to be fo.
Crown me with rofes whilft I live,
Now your wines and ointments give;
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoics in the grave.
HAPPY infect! what can be
In happiness compar'd to thee ?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee ftill,
And thy verdant cup does fill ;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou doft tread,
Nature's felf 's thy Ganymede.
Thou doft drink, and dance, and fing
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou doft fee,,
All the plants, belong to thee ;
All that fummer-hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does fow and plow ;;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou doft innocently joy;
Nor does thy luxury destroy ;
The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee country hinds with gladness heary.
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;.
Phoebus is himself thy fire,
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy infect, happy thou!
Doft neither age nor winter know;
But, when thou 'ft drunk, and danc'd, and fung;
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among
(Voluptuous, and wife withal,
Epicurean animal !)
Sated with thy fummer feast,
Thou retir'ft to endless reft.
FOOLISH prater, what doft 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 doft all the winter rest,
And dreameft o'er thy fummer joys,
Free from the formy feafons' noife :
Free from th' ill thou 'ft done to me;
Who disturbs or feeks-out thee?
Hadft thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
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