« 이전계속 »
For that's no love, but gratitude, and all
If friends or birth created love within me,
Then princes I'll adore,
And only scorn the poor:
I'd turn Platonic, and ne'er vex
My soul with difference of sex;
Reason and wisdom are to love high treason;
Nor can he truly love,
Whose flame's not far above, And far beyond his wit or reason ;
Then ask no reason for my fires,
For infinite are my desires.
ADVICE TO CELA.
My lovely Celia, whilst thou dost enjoy
Since all those lilies and those roses,
To flourish in thy face,
Will tarry but a little space.
You should enjoy, but not abuse 'em, And when enjoyments may be had, not fondly to
Let lovers' fatt'ry ne'er prevail with thee;
Nor their old compliments deceive thee,
And those high praises of the witty
Or if it true should be
Now what thy lovers say of thee, Sickness or age will quickly strip away Those fading glories of thy youthful May,
And of thy graces all bereave thee: Then those that thee ador'd before will slight thee,
and so leave thee.
Then while thou’rt fair and young, be kind, but wise,
Doat not, nor proudly use denying;
And he that doats on thee may smother
Or flying at all game
May quench, or else divert his flame. His reason too may chance to interpose, And love declines as fast as reason grows.
There is a knack to find love's treasures : Too young, too old, too nice, too free, too slow,
destroys your pleasures.
Or all the rare juices,
That Bacchus or Ceres produces,
For this is the thing
This first got a king,
And next the nine Muses; 'Twas this made old poets so sprightly to sing, And fill all the world with the glory and fame
on't, They Helicon call'd it, and the Thespian spring, But this was the drink, though they knew not
the name on't.
Our cider and perry,
It makes people wind-mill pated,
And your hops, yest, and malt,
Makes our fancies to halt,
jest, These liquors wont raise, but drown and o'er
Our drowsy metheglin
The novice, that knows not to drink yet,
But is fuddled before he can think it : And your claret and white
Have a gunpowder fury,
But they wont long endure you.
Have only this property and virtue that's fit in't. They'll make a man sleep till a preachment be
spent, But we neither can warm our blood nor wit in't.
The bagrag and Rhenish
But 'tis sack makes the sport,
Though an abbess he court, In his high-shoes he'll have her; 'Tis this that advances the drinker and drawer: Though the father came to town in his hobnails
and leather, He turns it to velvet, and brings up an heir, In the town in his chain, in the field with his feather.
What madness is't for him that's wise
To be so much self-hating?
By meddling still with things too higli,
His lechery of prating.
But longer not an hour.
Nature made all alike at first,
But men that fram'd this fiddle
To tune this state down diddle.
The blinded ruler, that by night
Sits with his host of bill-men,
As if they sate to kill men.
Will do the same trick too.