That fill'd with costly spoil his gaping den,
And trode down all the rest to dust and clay :
His battering horns pull'd out by civil hands,
And iron teeth lie scatter'd on the sands;

Back'd, bridled by a monk, with sev'n heads yoked stands.

And that black vulture,* which with deathful wing
O'ershadows half the earth, whose dismal sight
Frighten'd the Muses from their native spring,
Already stoops, and flags with weary flight:
Who then shall look for happiness beneath?
Where each new day proclaims chance, change,
and death,

And life itself's as flit as is the air we breathe.

HAPPINESS OF THE SHEPHERD'S LIFE.

From the same. Canto xii.

THRICE, oh, thrice happy, shepherd's life and state!
When courts are happiness, unhappy pawns!
His cottage low and safely humble gate

Shuts out proud Fortune, with her scorns and fawns:
No feared treason breaks his quiet sleep:

Singing all day, his flocks he learns to keep;
Himself as innocent as are his simple sheep.

No Serian worms he knows, that with their thread Draw out their silken lives: nor silken pride:

The Turk.

His lambs' warm fleece well fits his little need,
Not in that proud Sidonian tincture dy'd:
No empty hopes, no courtly fears him fright;
Nor begging wants his middle fortune bite :
But sweet content exiles both misery and spite.

Instead of music and base flattering tongues,
Which wait to first salute my lord's uprise ;
The cheerful lark wakes him with early songs,
And birds sweet whistling notes unlock his eyes:
In country, plays is all the strife he uses;
Or sing, or dance unto the rural Muses;
And but in music's sports all difference refuses.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,
Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content:
The smooth-leav'd beeches in the field receive him
With coolest shades, till noon-tide rage is spent:
His life is neither toss'd in boist'rous seas

Of troublous world, nor lost in slothful ease: Pleas'd, and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

His bed of wool yields safe and quiet sleeps, While by his side his faithful spouse hath place; His little son into his bosom creeps,

The lively picture of his father's face:

Never his humble house nor state torment him; Less he could like, if less his God had sent him; And when he dies, green turfs, with grassy tomb content him.

ELIZA;

OR AN ELEGY UPON THE UNRIPE DECEASE OF

SIR ANTONY IRBY.

Composed at the request (and for a monument) of his surviving lady. By Phineas Fletcher.

Look as a stag, pierc'd with a fatal bow, (As by a wood he walks securely feeding) In coverts thick conceals his deadly blow, And feeling death swim in his endless bleeding, (His heavy head his fainting strength exceeding) Bids woods adieu, so sinks into his grave;

Green brakes and primrose sweet his seemly hearse embrave:

So lay a gentle knight now full of death,
With cloudy eyes his latest hour expecting;
And by his side, sucking his fleeting breath,
His weeping spouse Eliza, life neglecting,

And all her beauteous fairs with grief infecting: Her cheek as pale as his, 'twere hard to scan, If death or sorrow's face did look more pale or

wan.

Close by, her sister, fair Alicia, sits;
Fairest Alicia, to whose sweetest graces
His tears and sighs a fellow passion fits:
Upon her eye (his throne) love sorrow places;
There comfort sadness, beauty grief embraces:
Pity might seem a while that face to borrow,

And thither now was come to comfort death and

sorrow.

At length loud grief thus with a cheerful shriek (His trumpet) sounds a battle, joy defying; Spreading his colours in Eliza's cheek,

And from her eyes (his watch-tower) far, espying,
With hope, delight, and joy, and comfort flying,
Thus with her tongue their coward flight pursues,
While sighs, shrieks, tears, give chase with never
fainting creus:

"Thou traitour joy, that in prosperity
So loudly vaunt'st! whither, ah, whither fliest?
And thou that bragg'st never from life to fly,
False hope, ah! whither now so speedy hiest?
In vain thy winged feet so fast thou pliest :
Hope, thou art dead, and Joy, in hope relying,
Bleeds in his hopeless wounds, and in his death
lies dying."

With that her fainting spouse lifts up his head,
And with some joy his inward griefs refraining,
Thus with a feeble voice, yet cheerful, said:
"Spend not in tears this little time remaining;
Thy grief doth add to mine, not ease my paining:
My death is life; such is the scourge of God:
Ah! if his rod be such, who would not kiss his
rod?

"My dear, (once all my joy, now all my care)
To these my words (these my last words) apply
thee!

Give me thy hand; these my last greetings are: Show me thy face, I never more shall eye thee. Ah, would our boys, our lesser selves, were by thee!

Those my live pictures to the world I give : So single only die, in them twice-two I live.

"I touch the shore, and see my rest preparing.
Oh, blessed God! how infinite a blessing

Is in this thought, that thro' this troubled faring,
Through all the faults this guilty age depressing,
I guiltless past, no helpless man oppressing;
And coming now to thee, lift to the skies
Unbribed hands, cleans'd heart, and never tainted
eyes!

"Life, life! how many Scyllas dost thou hide
In thy calm streams, which sooner kill than

threaten!

Gold, honour, greatness, and their daughter, pride! More quiet lives, and less with tempests beaten ! Whose middle state content doth richly sweeten! He knows not strife, or brabling lawyers' brawls; His love and wish live pleas'd within his private walls.

"Thou God of Peace, with what a gentle tide Through this world's raging tempest hast thou brought me?

Thou, thou my open soul didst safely hide,
When thousand crafty foes so nearly sought me ;
Else had the endless pit too quickly caught me;
That endless pit, where it is easier never

To fall, than being fall'n, to cease from falling ever.
"Ah, life! once virtue's spring, now sink of evil!
Thou change of pleasing pain, and painful pleasure;
Thou brittle painted bubble, shop o' th' Devil;
How dost thou bribe us with false guilded treasure,

That in thy joys we find no mean or measure! How dost thou witch! I know thou dost deceive [thee. I know I should, I must, and yet I would not leave

me: