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In vain a breast-plate now I wear,
Since in my breast the foe I bear;
In vain my feet their swiftness try;
For from the body can they fly?

OF

V.

A G E.

FT am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon! thou grow'ft old:
Look how thy hairs are falling all ;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!

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By th' effects I do not know;
This I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old;
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the best to make,
And manage wifely the last stake.

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WHEN all the stars are by thee told

(The endless fums of heavenly gold);

Or when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From fickly autumn's head that fall;
Or when the drops that make the fea,
Whilst all her fands thy counters bez

}

Thou then, and thou alone, may'st prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.

An hundred loves at Athens fcore,
At Corinth write an hundred more:
Fair Corinth does fuch beauties bear,
So few, is an escaping there.
Write then at Chios feventy-three;
Write then at Lefbos (let me fee)
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one.
And, next to these, let me prefent
The fair Ionian regiment;
And next the Carian company;
Five hundred both effectively.

Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ;
Three hundred 'tis, I'm fure, complete ;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And every eye 's an archer there.

Go on this stop why doft thou make ?
Thou think'ft, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a fum ?
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different nations in his hoft.
On; for my love, if thou be'st weary,
Muft find some better fecretary.

I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;

Nor Cyprian loves, nor African;

Nor

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.

VII.

GỌ L D.

A Mighty pain to love it is,

And 'tis a pain that pain to mifs;

But, of all pains, the greatest 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 firft did coin it!'
A curfe, all curses else above,

On him who us'd it first in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate;

VOL. I..

Gold'

L.

Gold does friendships separate ;

Gold docs civil wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.

VIII.

EPICURE.

THE

ILL the bowl with rofy wine!

our temples twine!

And let us chearfully awhile,

Like the wine and rofes, fmile.
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 business, banish forrow;
To the Gods belongs to-morrow.

IX.

ANOTH, E R.

UNderneath this myrtle shade,

On flowery beds supinely laid,

With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it rofes growing,

What

What thould 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 caft into the cup.
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health and gay defires.
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 fpread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but duft can fhow,
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 haye,
All are Stoics in the grave.

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