Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou.
Of all the time thou 'ft fhot away,

I 'll-bid thee fetch but yesterday,
And it fhall be too hard a task to do.

Befides repentance, what canft find
That it hath left behind?

Our life is carried with too strong a tide

A doubtful cloud our fubftance bears,
And is the horse of all our years.

Each day doth on a winged whirlwind ride.
We and our glafs run out, and mut
Both render up our duft.

But his past life who without grief can fee;
Who never thinks his end too near,

But fays to fame, Thou art mine heir;
That man extends life's natural brevity -
This is, this is the only way

To out-live Neftor in a day.

AN ANSWER TO AN INVITATION TO CAMBRIDGES

JICHOLS, my better self! forbear;

NICH

For, if thou tell'st what Cambridge pleasures are,
The school-boys' fin will light on me,

Ishall, in mind at least, a truant be.

Tell me not how you feed your mind
With dainties of philofophy;

In Ovid's nut I fhall not find

The tafte once pleafed me.

O tell

O tell me not of logick's diverse cheer!
I fhall begin to loathe our cramboe here.

Tell me not how the waves appear
Of Cam, or how it cuts the learned fhire ;

I fhall contemn, the troubled Thames
On her chief holiday; ev'n when her streams
Are with rich folly gilded; when
The quondam dung-boat is made gay,
Just like the bravery of the men,

And graces with fresh paint that day; When th' city fhines with flags and pageants there, And fatin doublets, feen not twice a year.

Why do I stay then? I would meet Thee there, but plummets hang upon my feet: Tis my chief wifh to live with thee,

But not till I deferve thy company :

Till then, we 'll fcorn to let that toy,
Some forty miles, divide our hearts:
Write to me, and I shall enjoy,

Friendship and wit, thy better parts.

Though envious Fortune larger hindrance brings,
We'll easily fee each other; Love hath wings.

MISCEL

MISCELLANIE S.

THE

мотто.

"Tentanda via eft, &c."

WHAT fhall I do to be for ever known,

And make the age to come my own?

I shall, like beasts or common people, die,
Unless you write my elegy ;

Whilst others great, by being born, are grown;
Their mothers' labour, not their own.

In this scale gold, in th' other fame does lie,
The weight of that mounts this fo high.
These men are Fortune's jewels, moulded bright;
Brought forth with their own fire and light :
If I, her vulgar stone, for either look,

Out of myself it must be strook.

Yet I must on; What found is 't strikes mine ear?
Sure I Fame's trumpet hear :

It founds like the last trumpet; for it can

Raife up the buried man.

Unpast Alps stop me; but I'll cut through all,

And march, the Mufes' Hannibal..

Hence, all the flattering vanities that lay

Nets of rofes in the way!

Hence,

Hence, the defire of honours or estate,

And all that is not above Fate !

Hence, Love himself, that tyrant of my days!
Which intercepts my coming praise.

Come, my best friends, my books! and lead me on ; :
'Tis time that I were gone.
Welcome, great Stagyrite! and teach me now

All I was born to know:

Thy scholar's victories thou dost far out-do;

He conquer'd th' earth, the whole world you. Welcome; learn'd Cicero ! whofe bleft tongue and wit Preferves Rome's greatnefs yet:

Thou art the first of Orators; only he
Who beft can praise thee, next must be.
Welcome the Mantuan fwan, Virgil the wife !*
Whofe verfe walks higheft, but not flies ;
Who brought green Poefy to her perfect age,
And made that Art which was a Rage.
Tell me, ye mighty Three! what fhall I do
To be like one of you?

But

you have climb'd the mountain's top, there fit
On the calm flourishing head of it,

And, whilft with wearied fteps we upward go,
See us, and clouds, below.

ODE.

TE

ELL me, O tell, what kind of thing is Wit,
Thou who master art of it:

For the first matter loves variety less ;

Lefs women love 't, either in love or drefs.

A thousand different shapes it bears,
Comely in thousand shapes appears.
Yonder we saw it plain; and here 'tis now,
Like fpirits, in a place we know not how.

London, that vents of false ware so much store,
In no ware deceives us more;

For men, led by the colour and the shape,
Like Zeuxis' birds, fly to the painted grape.

Some things do through our judgment pass
As through a multiplying-glafs;

And fometimes, if the object be too far,
We take a falling meteor for a star.

Hence 'tis a Wit, that greatest word of fame,
Grows fuch a common name;

And Wits by our creation they become,
Just so as titular bishops made at Rome.
'Tis not a tale, 'tis not a jelt

Admir'd with laughter at a feast, Nor florid talk, which can that title gain; The proofs of Wit for ever muft remain.

VOL. I.

H

'Tis