The Athenian mules, that from the quarry drew
Marble, hewed for the temples of the gods,
The great work ended, were dismissed, and fed
At the public cost; nay, faithful dogs have found
Their sepulchres; but man, to man more cruel,
Appoints no end to the sufferings of his slave;
Since pride stepped in and riot, and o'erturned
This goodly frame of concord, teaching masters
To glory in the abuse of such as are
Brought under their command; who, grown unuseful,
Are less esteemed than beasts.-This you have practised,
Practised on us with rigour; this hath forced us
To shake our heavy yokes off; and, if redress
Of these just grievances be not granted us,
We'll right ourselves, and by strong hand defend
What we are now possessed of.
THRICE happy he who by some shady grove,
Far from the clam'rous world, doth live his own;
Though solitary, who is not alone,
But doth converse with that eternal love :
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious moan,
Or the hoarse sobbings of the widowed dove,
Than those smooth whisperings near a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtful, do the ill approve!
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs embalmed, which new-born flowers unfold,
Than that applause vain honour doth bequeath:
How sweet are streams to poison drunk in gold:
The world is full of horrors, troubles, slights,
Woods' harmless shades have only true delights.
DRUMMOND.
TRIUMPHING chariots, statues, crowns of bays,
Sky-threat'ning arches, the rewards of worth,
Books heavenly-wise in sweet harmonious lays,
Which men divine unto the world set forth:
States which ambitious minds, in blood, do raise,
From frozen Tanais unto sun-burnt Gange,
Gigantic frames, held wonders rarely strange,
Like spiders' webs, are made the sport of days:
Nothing is constant but inconstant change;
What's done still is undone, and when undone
Into some other fashion doth it range:
Thus goes the floating world beneath the moon;
Wherefore my mind above time, motion, place,
Rise up, and steps unknown to nature trace.
TRUST not, sweet soul! those curled waves of gold,
With gentle tides that on your temples flow!
Nor temples spread with flakes of virgin snow!
Nor snow of cheeks, with Tyrian grain enrolled :
Trust not those shining lights, which wrought my woe
When first I did their azure rays behold;
Nor voice, whose sound more strange effects do show
Than of the Thracian harper have been told.
Look to this dying lily, fading rose!
Dark hyacinth, of late whose blushing beams
Made all the neighbouring herbs and grass rejoice!
And think how little is 'twixt life's extremes!
The cruel tyrant, that did kill those flowers,
Shall once, ah me! not spare that spring of yours.
DRUMMOND.
Look how the flower, which ling'ringly doth fade,
The morning's darling late, the summer's queen,
Spoiled of that juice which kept it fresh and green,
As high as it did raise, bows low the head:
Just so the pleasures of my life being dead,
Or in their contraries but only seen,
With swifter speed declines than erst it spread,
And, blasted, scarce now shows what it hath been.
Therefore, as doth the pilgrim, whom the night
Hastes darkly to imprison on his way,
Think on thy home, my soul, and think aright
Of what's yet left thee of life's wasting day:
Thy sun posts westward, passed is thy morn,
And twice it is not given thee to be born.
YE, the heavenly creatures of the west,
In whom the virtues and the graces rest,
Pardon that I have run astray so long,
And grow so tedious in so rude a song.
If you yourselves should come to add one grace
Unto a pleasant grove or such like place,
Where, here, the curious cutting of a hedge,
There in a pond, the trimming of the sedge;
Here the fine setting of well-shaded trees,
The walks there mounting up by small degrees,
The gravel and the green so equal lie,
It, with the rest, draws on the lingering eye:
Here the sweet smells that do perfume the air,
Arising from the infinite repair
Of odoriferous buds and herbs of price
(As if it were another paradise),
So please the smelling sense, that you are fain
Where last you walked, to turn and walk again.
There the small birds with their harmonious notes
Sing to a spring that smileth as she floats:
For in her face a many dimples show,
And often skips as it did dancing go;
Here further down an over-arched alley
That from a hill goes winding in a valley,
You spy at end thereof a standing lake,
Where some ingenious artist strives to make
The water (brought in turning pipes of lead,
Through birds of earth most lively fashioned),
To counterfeit and mock the sylvans all,
In singing well their own set madrigal.
WEIGH me the fire; or canst thou find
A way to measure out the wind;
Distinguish all those floods that are
Mixt in that watery theatre,
And taste thou them as saltless there,
As in their channel first they were.
Tell me the people that do keep
Within the kingdoms of the deep;
Or fetch me back that cloud again,
Beshivered into seeds of rain.
Tell me the motes, dusts, sands, and spears
Of corn, when summer shakes his ears;
Show me that world of stars, and whence
They noiseless spill their influence :
This if thou canst, then show me Him
That rides the glorious cherubim.
FAIR daffodils, we weep to see
You haste away so soon;
As yet, the early-rising sun
Has not attained its noon.
But to the even song;
And having prayed together, we
Will go with you along.
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