In vain a breast-plate now I wear,
Since in my breast the foe I bear;
In vain my feet their swiftnefs try;
For from the body can they fly?
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!
old or no, 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.
(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,
Whilft all her fands thy counters be;
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 Lefbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one.
And, next to these, let me present
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 ftop why dost thou make?
Thou think'st, 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 fome better fecretary.
I have not yet my Perfian told,
Nor yet my Syrian loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian loves, nor African;
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.
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 curfes elfe above,
On him who us'd it firft in love!
Gold begets in brethren hate;
Gold in families debate ;
Gold does friendships feparate;
Gold does civil wars create.
Thefe the fmalleft harms of it!
Gold, alas! does love beget.
ILL the bowl with rofy wine!
Around our temples roles 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 bufinefs, banifh forrow;
To the Gods belongs to-morrow.
Underneath this myrtle hade,
On flowery beds fupinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it rofes growing,
What should 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 ftay
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 spread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but duft can show,
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 have,
All are Stoics in the grave.
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