Their dull and fleepy streams are not at all,
Like other floods, poetical;

They have no dance, no wanton sport,
No gentle murmur, the lov'd fhore to court.

No fish inhabit the adulterate flood,

Nor can it feed the neighbouring wood;
No flower or herb is near it found,
But a perpetual winter starves the ground.
Give me a river which doth fcorn to fhow
An added beauty; whofe clear brow
May be my looking-glass, to fee

What my face is, and what

my mind:fhould be!

Here waves call waves, and glide along in rank,
And prattle to the smiling bank;

Here fad king-fifhers tell their tales,

And fish enrich the brook with filver fcales.

Daifies, the firft-born of the teeming spring,
On each fide their embroidery bring;
Here lilies wash, and grow more white,
And daffodils, to fee themfelves, delight.

Here a fresh arbour gives her amorous shade,
Which Nature, the best gardener, made.
Here I would fit and fing rude lays,

Such as the nymphs and me myself should please.

Thus I would wafte, thus end, my careless days;
And robin-red-breafts, whom men praise

For pious birds, fhould, when I die,
Make both my monument and elegy.

ODE

TYR

O DE III.

TO HIS MISTRESS.

YRIAN dye why do you wear,
You whofe cheeks beft fcarlet are?
Why do you fondly pin

Pure linen o'er your skin,
(Your fkin that 's whiter far)
Cafting a dusky cloud before a star?

Why bears your neck a golden chain?
Did Nature make your hair in vain,
Of gold most pure and fine ?

With gems why do you thine?
They, neighbours to your eyes,
Shew but like Phosphor when the fun doth rife.

I would have all my mistress' parts,

Owe more to nature than to arts;

I would not wooe the dress,
Or one whofe nights give less
Contentment than the day.

She 's fair, whose beauty only makes her gay.

For 'tis not buildings make a court,

Or pomp, but 'tis the king's refort:

If Jupiter down pour
Himself, and in a fhower

Hide fuch bright majesty,

Less than a golden one it cannot be.

ODE

L

ON THE UNCERTAINTY OF FORTUNE.

A TRANSLATION.

E AVE off unfit complaints, and clear

From fighs your breast, and from black clouds
your brow,

When the sun shines not with his wonted cheer,
And fortune throws an adverse caft for you!

The

That fea which vext with Notus is,

merry Eaft-winds will to-morrow kifs.

The fun to-day rides drowsily,
To-morrow 'twill put on a look more fair : ́
Laughter and groaning do alternately

Return, and tears' fports nearest neighbours are.
"Tis by the gods appointed fo,

That good fare fhould with mingled dangers flow.
Who drave his oxen yesterday,

Doth now over the noblest Romans reign,
And on the Gabii and the Cures lay

The yoke which from his oxen he had taken
Whom Hesperus faw poor and low,
The morning's eye beholds him greatest now.

If Fortune knit amongst her play
But seriousness, he fhall again go home
To his old country-farm of yesterday,
To fcoffing people no mean jeft become

And

And with the crowned axe, which he
Had rul'd the world, go back and prune some tree;
Nay, if he want the fuel cold requires,
With his own fafces he fhall make him fires.

IN COMMENDATION OF THE TIME WE LIVE UNDER, THE REIGN OF OUR GRACIOUS KING CHARLES.

CUR

URST be that wretch (death's factor fure) who
brought

Dire fwords into the peaceful world, and taught
Smiths (who before could only make

The spade, the plow-fhare, and the rake),
Arts, in moft cruel wife

Man's life t' epitomize !!

Then men (fond men, alas !) ride poft to th' grave,

And cut those threads which yet the Fates would fave 3 Then Charon fweated at his trade,

And had a larger ferry made;

Then, then the filver hair,

Frequent before, grew rare..

Then Revenge, married to Ambition,

Begat black War; then Avarice crept on ;

Then limits to each field were strain'd,

And Terminus a god-head gain'd.
To men, before, was found,
Befides the fea, no bound.

In what plain, or what river, hath not been
War's story writ in blood (fad story !) seen ?
This truth too well our England knows :
'Twas civil flaughter dy'd her rofe;

Nay, then her lily too

With blood's lofs paler grew.

Such griefs, nay worse than thefe, we now should feel,
Did not just Charles filence the rage of steel;

He to our land blest Peace doth bring,
All neighbour countries envying.
Happy who did remain

Unborn till Charles's reign!

Where, dreaming chemicks! is your pain and cost?
How is your oil, how is your labour loft!
Our Charles, bleft alchemist! (though strange,
Believe it, future times!) did change

The iron-age of old
Into an age of gold.

O DE VI.

UPON THE SHORTNESS OF MAN'S LIFE.

MARK that fwift arrow! how it cuts the air,

How it out-runs thy following eye!

Use all perfuafions now, and try

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.

That way it went; but thou shalt find
No tract is left behind.

Foel!