Whose little arms about thy Legs are cast, And climbing for a Kiss prevent their Mothers hast, Inspiring secret pleasure thro' thy Breast, All these shall be no more: Thy Friends opprest 81 Thy Care and Courage now no more shall free; Ah Wretch thou cry'st, ah! miserable me; One woful day sweeps children, friends, and wife, And all the brittle blessings of my life! Add one thing more, and all thou say'st is true; Thy want and wish of them is vanish'd too: Which, well consider'd, were a quick relief, To all thy vain imaginary grief. For thou shalt sleep, and never wake again, And, quitting life, shalt quit thy living pain. But we, thy friends, shall all those sorrows find, Which in forgetful death thou leav'st behind; No time shall dry our tears, nor drive thee from our mind. 91 The worst that can befall thee, measur'd right, Is a sound slumber, and a long good night. Yet thus the Fools, that would be thought the Wits, Disturb their mirth with melancholy fits: When healths go round, and kindly brimmers flow, 'Till the fresh Garlands on their foreheads glow, 100 They whine, and cry, Let us make haste to live, Shortare the joys that humane Life can give. Eternal Preachers, that corrupt the draught, And pall the God, that never thinks, with thought; Ideots with all that Thought, to whom the worst Of death is want of drink, and endless thirst, Are moving near to sense; we do but shake And rouze that sense, and straight we are awake. Then death to us, and deaths anxiety, Is less than nothing, if a less could be. And never can return into their place, When once the pause of Life has left an empty space. 120 And last, suppose Great Natures Voice shou'd call To thee, or me, or any of us all, What dost thou mean, ungrateful Wretch, thou vain, Thou mortal thing, thus idly to complain, And sigh and sob, that thou shalt be no more? For if thy Life were pleasant heretofore, If all the bounteous Blessings, I cou'd give, Thou hast enjoy'd, if thou hast known to live, And Pleasure not leak'd through thee like a Seive, Why dost thou not give thanks as at a plenteous feast, 130 Suppose thou art not broken yet with years, Yet still the self same Scene of things appears, And wou'd be ever, coud'st thou ever live; For Life is still but Life, there's nothing new to give. Or any fond desire as vain as these. But if an old decrepit Sot lament; Dost thou complain, who hast enjoy'd my Not tho' his monstrous Bulk had cover'd o're But this is still th' effect of wishing more. Within themselves, have tantaliz'd thy Life. E're thou hadst gorg'd thy Soul & Senses New Matter must be found for things to And these must waste like those, and follow Natures doom. 170 All things, like thee, have time to rise and And from each other's ruin are begot : Thus may'st thou judge the future by the What horrour seest thou in that quiet state, No Ghost, no Gobblins, that still passage But all is there serene, in that eternal Sleep. more; Not tho' the Globe of earth had been the Nor in eternal torments could he lie : The Sisiphus is he, whom noise and strife 200 And sweats & toils in vain, to mount the For still to aim at Pow'r and still to fail, 210 Which urg'd, and labour'd, and forc'd up Then still to treat thy ever-craving mind This is the Fables Moral, which they tell As for the Dog, the Furies, and their Snakes They neither are, nor were, nor e're can be. But here on Earth, the guilty have in view The mighty Pains to mighty mischiefs due; Racks, Prisons, Poisons, the Tarpeian Rock, Stripes, Hangmen, Pitch, and suffocating Smoak; And last, and most, if these were cast behind, 230 Th' avenging horrour of a Conscious mind, Whose deadly fear anticipates the blow, And sees no end of Punishment and woe; But looks for more, at the last gasp of breath: This makes an Hell on Earth, and Life a death. Mean time when thoughts of death disturb thy head; Consider, Ancus great and good is dead; Who rul'd the World, were over-rul'd by fate. That haughty King, who lorded o're the Main, And whose stupendous Bridge did the wild Waves restrain, (In vain they foam'd, in vain they threatned wreck, While his proud Legions march'd upon their back :) Ilim death, a greater Monarch, overcame; Nor spar'd his guards the more, for their immortal name. The Roman chief, the Carthaginian dread, Scipio, the Thunder Bolt of War, is dead, And like a common Slave, by fate in triumph led. 250) The Founders of invented Arts are lost; And Wits who made Eternity their boast. Where now is Homer, who possest the Throne ? Th' immortal Work remains, the mortal Author's gone. Democritus, perceiving age invade, live as now, Uncertain what to wish or what to vow. Uneasie both in Countrey and in Town, They search a place to lay their burden down. One, restless in his Palace, walks abroad, And vainly thinks to leave behind the load: 280 But straight returns; for he's as restless there : And finds there's no relief in open Air. And spurs as hard as if it were on fire No prospect of repose, nor hope of case; The Wretch is ignorant of his disease; Which known wou'd all his fruitless trouble spare; 254 mortall By a wost absurd error the For he wou'd know the World not worth English editors change this into immortal his care; Then wou'd he search more deeply for the cause; And study Nature well, and Natures For in this moment lies not the debate, Whom Death has doom'd to everlasting Why are we then so fond of mortal Life, A Life, which all our care can never save; Besides, we tread but a perpetual round; And the same Maukish joyes in the same track are found. For still we think an absent blessing best, Which cloys, and is no blessing when possest; A new arising wish expells it from the Breast. 310 The Feav'rish thirst of Life increases still; We call for more and more, and never have our fill; Yet know not what to-morrow we shall try, What dregs of life in the last draught may lie: Nor, by the longest life we can attain, One moment from the length of death we gain; For all behind belongs to his Eternal When once the Fates have cut the mortal The Man as much to all intents is dead, FROM LUCRETIUS-BOOK THE FIFTH. Thus like a Sayler by a Tempest hurl'd Naked he lies, and ready to expire ; (Too true presages of his future doom.) By more indulgent Nature are increas'd, 10 BOOK IV. It is impossible to reprint this piece. They want no Rattles for their froward mood, Nor Nurse to reconcile them to their food, With broken words; nor Winter blasts they fear, Nor change their habits with the changing Nor, for their safety, Citadels prepare; Unlabour'd Earth her bounteous treasure And Nature's lavish hand supplies their common wants. BOOK V. 18 hand] hands 1685. A misprint. TRANSLATIONS FROM HORACE. THE THIRD ODE OF THE FIRST BOOK OF HORACE; on his Intended Voyage to IRELAND. Inscrib'd to the Earl of Roscommon, So may th' auspicious Queen of Love, As thou, to whom the Muse commends Divide the Waters from the Land, 10 Thus bold Prometheus did aspire, And stole from heav'n the seed of Fire : 30 40 50 With borrow'd wings to sail in Air: Nay scarce the Gods, or heav'nly Climes, |