These the smalleft harms of it!
Gold, alas, does love beget.
FILL the bowl with rofy wine,
Around our temples rofes 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 ftay.
Let's banish bufinefs, banifh forrow;
To the gods, belongs to-morrow.
UNDERNEATH this myrtle fhade,
On flowery beds fupinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it roses growing,
What fhould I do but drink away
The heat and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly ftate,
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 stay
In a smooth, than rugged way.
Since it equally does 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 roses 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.
HAPPY infect, what can be,
In happiness, compar'd to thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee ftill,
And thy verdant cup does fill,
"Tis fill'd, wherever thou doft tread,
Nature's felf's thy Ganymed.
Thou doft drink, and dance, and fing;
Happier, than the happiest king!
All the fields, which thou doft see,
All the plants, belong to thee,
All that fummer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does fow and plow;
Farmer he, and landlord thou!
Thou doft innocently joy,
Nor does thy luxury deftroy;
The fhepherd gladly heareth thee,
More harmonious than he.
Thee, country hinds with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripen'd year!
Thee, Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy fire.
To thee, of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy infect, happy thou
Doft neither age nor winter know.
But, when thou'ft drunk, and danc'd, and fung
Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
(Voluptuous, and wife, with all,
Epicurean animal!)
Sated with thy fummer feaft,
Thou retir'ft to endless reft.
THE SWALLOW.
FOOLISH prater, what doft thou
So early at my window do,
With thy tuneless ferenade?
Well 't had been, had Tereus made
Thee, as dumb, as Philomel;
There his knife had done but well.
In thy undiscover'd neft
Thou doft all the winter reft,
And dreameft o'er thy fummer joys,
Free from the ftormy feason's noife:
Free from th' ill thou'ft done to me:
Who difturbs, or feeks out thee?
Hadft thou all the charming notes
Of the wood's poetic throats,
All thy art could never pay
What thou'ft ta'en from me away;
Cruel bird, thou'ft ta'en away
A dream out of my arms to-day,
A dream, that ne'er muft equal'd be
By all that waking eyes may fee.
Thou, this damage to repair,
Nothing half fo fweet or fair,
Nothing half fo good can'ft bring,
Though men fay, Thou bring't the spring.
ELEGY UPON ANACREON, who was choaked by a GRAPE STONE.
Spoken by the God of Love.
HOW fhall I lament thine end, My best fervant, and my friend?
Nay, and, if from a deity
So much deified as I,
|