Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow, A flower of purpose sprung to bow To headless tempests, and the rage Of an incensed, stormy age.

Others, ere their afflictions grow, Are tim'd and season'd for the blow, But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part, Fell on a young and harmless heart.

And yet, as balm-trees gently spend Their tears for those that do them rend, So mild and pious thou wert seen, Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen, Thou didst not murmur, nor revile, But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.

As envious eyes blast and infect, And cause misfortunes by aspect, So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee No influx but calamity; They view'd thee with eclipsed rays, And but the back side of bright days.

These were the comforts she had here, As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear, Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears A crown with Him who wipes off tears.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen Poets shall live, when princes die like men.

Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill, Of late years clouded with imputed ill, And the soft, youthful couples there may move, As chaste as stars converse and smile above.

Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow, Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd, They both delight and dignify the mind; Like to the wat'ry music of some spring, Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.

And where before heroic poems were Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear, And show'd--through all the melancholy flight-- Like some dark region overcast with night, As if the poet had been quite dismay'd, While only giants and enchantments sway'd; Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise, Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries So rare and learned fill'd the place, that we Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee, And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd Which bred the wonder of the former world.

'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did, At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid, Refrain wise appet.i.te. This made thy fire Break through the ashes of thy aged sire, To lend the world such a convincing light As shows his fancy darker than his sight.

Nor was't alone the bars and length of days --Though those gave strength and stature to his bays-- Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint.

How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones, Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans?

And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide 'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride?

Through all the tenour of thy ample song, Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among Those fair adventurers, we plainly see Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee.

Then live for ever--and by high desert-- In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert, And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind, While all confess thee--as they ought to do-- The prince of poets, and of lovers too.

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.

TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME, UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.

This is the day--blithe G.o.d of sack--which we, If I mistake not, consecrate to thee, When the soft rose we marry to the bays, And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehea.r.s.e thy praise; 'Mongst whom--while to thy poet fate gave way-- I have been held no small part of the day.

But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat, Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.

My former life, unlike to this my last, With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste, Who since have seen the savage Pontic band, And all the choler of the sea and land.

Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd, And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd, Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo, And free thy votary and poet too; Or are you G.o.ds--like us--in such a state As cannot alter the decrees of fate?

I know with much ado thou didst obtain Thy jovial G.o.dhead, and on earth thy pain Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon, With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.

But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee --To make all sure--doubled thy misery.

My sufferings too are many--if it be Held safe for me to boast adversity-- Nor was't a common blow, but from above, Like his that died for imitating Jove; Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine And mother-like should make thee pity mine, And on this day, which poets unto thee Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?

Help, buxom G.o.d, then! so may thy lov'd vine Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!

So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest, Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!

And so for ever bright--thy chief desires-- May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires!

If but now, mindful of my love to thee, Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.

You G.o.ds have commerce with yourselves; try then If Caesar will restore me Rome again.

And you, my trusty friends--the jolly crew Of careless poets! when, without me, you Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be Your first appeal unto his deity, And let one of you--touch'd with my sad name-- Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same, And--sighing--to the rest this thought commend, O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?

This do, if in your b.r.e.a.s.t.s I e'er deserv'd So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd, Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow Condemning others, did myself allow.

And may your happier wits grow loud with fame As you--my best of friends!--preserve my name.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].

TO HIS FRIENDS--AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS--REFUSING TO PEt.i.tION CaeSAR FOR HIS RELEAs.e.m.e.nT.

You have consum'd my language, and my pen, Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.

You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I Had taught it you in frequent elegy.

That I believe--yet seal'd--you have divin'd Our repet.i.tions, and forestall'd my mind, So that my thronging elegies and I Have made you--more than poets--prophesy.

But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream Which made me cross the proverb and the stream, And pardon, friends, that I so long have had Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad As to continue them. You shall no more Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er How I endanger you, and vex my wife With the sad legends of a banish'd life.

I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pa.s.s'd Through greater ones, and can as well at last These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity, I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare The highest ills your malice can prepare.

'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow Of cloudy aemus, and if she decree Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be, I am content; nay, more, she cannot do That act which I would not consent unto.

I can delight in vain hopes, and desire That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r I hug a strong despair, and think it brave To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.

Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath, Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.

Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch, And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?

These errors grieve: and now I must forget Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set Unto myself, with many fancied springs And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.

And yet I would the worst of fate endure, Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.

But--base, low souls!--you left me not for this, But 'cause you durst not. Caesar could not miss Of such a trifle, for I know that he Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.

Then since--degen'rate friends--not he, but you Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new, You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.

TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.

Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task Master my just impatience, and write down Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?

Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see And teach thy person to posterity?

No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man, 'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give Thy name the honour in my verse to live.

Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute, And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man That with me then an equal fortune ran; But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight; Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone To shun that rescue I reli'd upon; Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim Not only my acquaintance, but my name.

Yet know--though deaf to this--that I am he Whose years and love had the same infancy With thine, thy deep familiar that did share Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care; Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights So solemnly endear'd to her delights.

But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown The abject of thy breast, not to be known In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not So much as let me know I am forgot.

If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then Thou didst dissemble: or if love again, Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide Myself and actions, that I cannot see What could offend thee, but my misery.

'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow Some rescue to my wants, at least I know Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.

I know not what to think! and yet I hear, Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.

Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.

Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand, Whose upper slipp'ry part without command Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.

In the whole world there's nothing I can see Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.

All that we hold hangs on a slender twine, And our best states by sudden chance decline.

Who hath not heard of Cr[oe]sus' proverb'd gold, Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?

He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent By a poor art could famine scarce prevent; And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end, Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.

Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been, And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in, Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace, In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.

A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we Of one short hour have not the certainty.

Hadst thou one day told me the time should be When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see, I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.

And yet 'tis come to pa.s.s! nor, though I might Some things foresee, could I procure a sight Of my whole destiny, and free my state From those eternal, higher ties of fate.

Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high, Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.