Whoever this world's happiness would see As they who only heaven desire Do from the world retire. This was my error, this my gross mistake, Myself a demi-votary to make. Thus with Sapphira and her husband's fate, And perish for the part which I retain. The heaven under which I live is fair, Thine, thine is all the barrenness, if thou Makest me sit still and sing when I should plough. When I but think how many a tedious year. Our patient sovereign did attend His long misfortune's fatal end; How cheerfully, and how exempt from fear, To wait on his, O thou fallacious Muse! Kings have long hands, they say, and though I be So distant, they may reach at length to me. However, of all princes thou Shouldst not reproach rewards for being small or slow; Thou! who rewardest but with popular breath, THE DESPAIR. 1 Beneath this gloomy shade, By Nature only for my sorrows made, I'll spend this voice in cries, In tears I'll waste these eyes, So lust of old the deluge punished. Ah, wretched youth, said I; Ah, wretched youth! twice did I sadly cry; 2 When thoughts of love I entertain, I meet no words but Never, and In vain: Which fuels the infernal flame: Never! my time to come must waste; In vain, in vain! twice did I sadly cry; 3 No more shall fields or floods do so, No comfort to my wounded sight, In the sun's busy and impert'nent light. Then down I laid my head, Down on cold earth, and for a while was dead, And my freed soul to a strange somewhere fled. 4 Ah, sottish soul! said I, When back to its cage again I saw it fly: Fool! to resume her broken chain, And row her galley here again! Fool! to that body to return, Where it condemned and destined is to burn! Once dead, how can it be Death should a thing so pleasant seem to thee, OF WIT. 1 Tell me, O tell! what kind of thing is Wit, For the first matter loves variety less; 2 London, that vends of false ware so much store, For men, led by the colour and the shape, And sometimes, if the object be too far, 3 Hence 'tis a wit, that greatest word of fame, And wits by our creation they become, Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; 4 "Tis not to force some lifeless verses meet All everywhere, like man's, must be the soul, Such miracles are ceased; and now we see 5 Yet 'tis not to adorn and gild each part; Jewels at nose and lips but ill appear; If there be nothing else between. Men doubt, because they stand so thick i' the sky, If those be stars which paint the galaxy. 6 'Tis not when two like words make up one noise, Jests for Dutch men and English boys; In which who finds out wit, the same may see Much less can that have any place At which a virgin hides her face; Such dross the fire must purge away; 'tis just 7 'Tis not such lines as almost crack the stage, Nor a tall met'phor in the bombast way, Nor upon all things to obtrude And force some old similitude. What is it then, which, like the Power Divine, 8 In a true piece of wit all things must be, Yet all things there agree: As in the ark, joined without force or strife, If we compare great things with small, OF SOLITUDE. 1 Hail, old patrician trees, so great and good! Hail, ye plebeian underwood! Where the poetic birds rejoice, And for their quiet nests and plenteous food 2 Hail the poor Muse's richest manor-seat! Ye country houses and retreat, Which all the happy gods so love, That for you oft they quit their bright and great Metropolis above. 3 Here Nature does a house for me erect, Nature the fairest architect, Who those fond artists does despise That can the fair and living trees neglect, 4 Here let me, careless and unthoughtful lying, With all their wanton boughs dispute, |