5. [INCERTI.]

So our decays G.o.d comforts by The stars' concurrent state on high.

6. [JUVENAL. SATIRE XIII. 86-8.]

There are that do believe all things succeed By chance or fortune: and that nought's decreed By a divine, wise Will; but blindly call Old Time and Nature rulers over all.

7. [INCERTI.]

From the first hour the heavens were made Unto the last, when all shall fade, Count--if thou canst--the drops of dew, The stars of heav'n and streams that flow, The falling snow, the dropping show'rs, And in the month of May, the flow'rs, Their scents and colours, and what store Of grapes and apples Autumn bore, How many grains the Summer bears, What leaves the wind in Winter tears; Count all the creatures in the world, The motes which in the air are hurl'd, The hairs of beasts and mankind, and The sh.o.r.e's innumerable sand, The blades of gra.s.s, and to these last Add all the years which now are past, With those whose course is yet to come, And all their minutes in one sum.

When all is done, the d.a.m.ned's state Outruns them still, and knows no date.

8. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, IV. 12-138.]

I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours.

Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field, Which neither gra.s.s, nor corn, nor vines would yield, He did possess. There--amongst thorns and weeds-- Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow, And vervain with white lilies caused to grow.

Content he was, as are successful kings, And late at night come home--for long work brings The night still home--with unbought messes laid On his low table he his hunger stay'd.

Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring, And apples in the Autumn home did bring: And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost, He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide!

9. [VIRGIL. AENEID, III. 515.]

And rising at midnight the stars espied, All posting westward in a silent glide.

10. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, II. 58.]

The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade Stays for our sons, while we--the planters--fade.

From _Man in Glory_: translated from Anselm (1652).

1. [ANSELM.]

Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page, And sits archbishop still, to vex the age.

Had he foreseen--and who knows but he did?-- This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid, 'Tis but just to believe, that little hand Which clouded him, but now benights our land, Had never--like Elias--driv'n him hence, A sad retirer for a slight offence.

For were he now, like the returning year, Restor'd, to view these desolations here, He would do penance for his old complaint, And--weeping--say, that Rufus was a saint.

From the Epistle-Dedicatory to _Flores Solitudinis_ (1654).

1. [BISSELLIUS.]

The whole wench--how complete soe'er--was but A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting s.l.u.t; A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair, Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air; A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn; Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn.

2. [AUGURELLIUS.]

Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see, Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity, Not real things, but false, and through the air Each-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair.

The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs, The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows, The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains, The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains, The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head, The gladsome, easy youth by light love led; And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyes Thou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguise Worn by eternal things, a pa.s.sive dress Put on by beings that are pa.s.siveless.

From a Discourse _Of Temperance and Patience_: translated from Nierembergius (1654).

1. [INCERTI.]

The naked man too gets the field, And often makes the armed foe to yield.

2. [LUCRETIUS, IV. 1012-1020.]

[Some] struggle and groan as if by panthers torn, Or lions' teeth, which makes them loudly mourn; Some others seem unto themselves to die; Some climb steep solitudes and mountains high, From whence they seem to fall inanely down, Panting with fear, till wak'd, and scarce their own They feel about them if in bed they lie, Deceiv'd with dreams, and Night's imagery.

In vain with earnest strugglings they contend To ease themselves: for when they stir and bend Their greatest force to do it, even then most Of all they faint, and in their hopes are cross'd.

Nor tongue, nor hand, nor foot will serve their turn, But without speech and strength within, they mourn.

3. [INCERTI.]

Thou the nepenthe easing grief Art, and the mind's healing relief.