Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing, All the fields which thou dost see, Nor does thy luxury destroy. The shepherd gladly heareth thee, More harmonious than he. Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year! Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire; Phoebus is himself thy sire. To thee of all things upon earth, Life is no longer than thy mirth. Happy insect! happy thou, Dost neither age nor winter know: But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung (Voluptuous, and wise withal, Sated with thy summer feast, COWLEY. Death's Final Conquest. THE glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things; Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds: Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds: All heads must come To the cold tomb; Only the actions of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust. SHIRLEY. Youth and Age. VERSE, a breeze mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a beeBoth were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young! When I was young? Ah, woful When! Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flashed along: Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Nought cared this body for wind or weather, When Youth and I lived in 't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; O! the joys, that came down shower-like, Ere I was old! Ere I was Old? Ah woeful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! Dew-drops are the gems of morning, That only serves to make us grieve COLERIDGE. Sonnet xxix. WHEN in disgrace, with fortune and men's eyes, And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries, SHAKSPEARE. |