O you the virgins nine!

That do our souls incline To n.o.ble discipline!

Nod to this vow of mine.

Come, then, and now inspire My viol and my lyre With your eternal fire, And make me one entire Composer in your choir.

Then I'll your altars strew With roses sweet and new; And ever live a true Acknowledger of you.

658. ON HIMSELF.

I'll sing no more, nor will I longer write Of that sweet lady, or that gallant knight.

I'll sing no more of frosts, snows, dews and showers; No more of groves, meads, springs and wreaths of flowers.

I'll write no more, nor will I tell or sing Of Cupid and his witty cozening: I'll sing no more of death, or shall the grave No more my dirges and my trentalls have.

_Trentalls_, service for the dead.

660. TO MOMUS.

Who read'st this book that I have writ, And can'st not mend but carp at it; By all the Muses! thou shalt be Anathema to it and me.

661. AMBITION.

In ways to greatness, think on this, _That slippery all ambition is_.

662. THE COUNTRY LIFE, TO THE HONOURED M. END. PORTER, GROOM OF THE BEDCHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTY.

Sweet country life, to such unknown Whose lives are others', not their own!

But serving courts and cities, be Less happy, less enjoying thee.

Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam To seek and bring rough pepper home; Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove To bring from thence the scorched clove; Nor, with the loss of thy lov'd rest, Bring'st home the ingot from the West.

No, thy ambition's masterpiece Flies no thought higher than a fleece; Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear All scores, and so to end the year: But walk'st about thine own dear bounds, Not envying others larger grounds: For well thou know'st _'tis not th' extent Of land makes life, but sweet content_.

When now the c.o.c.k (the ploughman's horn) Calls forth the lily-wristed morn, Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go, Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know That the best compost for the lands Is the wise master's feet and hands.

There at the plough thou find'st thy team With a hind whistling there to them; And cheer'st them up by singing how The kingdom's portion is the plough.

This done, then to th' enamelled meads Thou go'st, and as thy foot there treads, Thou see'st a present G.o.d-like power Imprinted in each herb and flower; And smell'st the breath of great-ey'd kine, Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.

Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat Unto the dew-laps up in meat; And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer, The heifer, cow, and ox draw near To make a pleasing pastime there.

These seen, thou go'st to view thy flocks Of sheep, safe from the wolf and fox, And find'st their bellies there as full Of short sweet gra.s.s as backs with wool, And leav'st them, as they feed and fill, A shepherd piping on a hill.

For sports, for pageantry and plays Thou hast thy eves and holidays; On which the young men and maids meet To exercise their dancing feet; Tripping the comely country round, With daffodils and daisies crown'd.

Thy wakes, thy quintels here thou hast, Thy May-poles, too, with garlands grac'd; Thy morris dance, thy Whitsun ale, Thy shearing feast which never fail; Thy harvest-home, thy wa.s.sail bowl, That's toss'd up after fox i' th' hole; Thy mummeries, thy Twelfth-tide kings And queens, thy Christmas revellings, Thy nut-brown mirth, thy russet wit, And no man pays too dear for it.

To these, thou hast thy times to go And trace the hare i' th' treacherous snow; Thy witty wiles to draw, and get The lark into the trammel net; Thou hast thy c.o.c.krood and thy glade To take the precious pheasant made; Thy lime-twigs, snares and pit-falls then To catch the pilfering birds, not men.

O happy life! if that their good The husbandmen but understood!

Who all the day themselves do please, And younglings, with such sports as these, And lying down have nought t' affright Sweet sleep, that makes more short the night.

_Caetera desunt ----_

_Soil'd_, manured.

_Compost_, preparation.

_Fox i' th' hole_, a hopping game in which boys beat each other with gloves.

_c.o.c.krood_, a run for snaring woodc.o.c.ks.

_Glade_, an opening in the wood across which nets were hung to catch game. (Willoughby, _Ornithologie_, i. 3.)

663. TO ELECTRA.

I dare not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air That lately kissed thee.

664. TO HIS WORTHY FRIEND, M. ARTHUR BARTLY.

When after many l.u.s.ters thou shalt be Wrapt up in sear-cloth with thine ancestry; When of thy ragg'd escutcheons shall be seen So little left, as if they ne'er had been; Thou shalt thy name have, and thy fame's best trust, Here with the generation of my Just.

_l.u.s.ter_, a period of five years.

665. WHAT KIND OF MISTRESS HE WOULD HAVE.

Be the mistress of my choice Clean in manners, clear in voice; Be she witty more than wise, Pure enough, though not precise; Be she showing in her dress Like a civil wilderness; That the curious may detect Order in a sweet neglect; Be she rolling in her eye, Tempting all the pa.s.sers-by; And each ringlet of her hair An enchantment, or a snare For to catch the lookers-on; But herself held fast by none.

Let her Lucrece all day be, Thais in the night to me.

Be she such as neither will _Famish me, nor overfill_.

667. THE ROSEMARY BRANCH.

Grow for two ends, it matters not at all, Be 't for my bridal or my burial.

669. UPON CRAB. EPIG.

Crab faces gowns with sundry furs; 'tis known He keeps the fox fur for to face his own.

670. A PARANaeTICALL, OR ADVISIVE VERSE, TO HIS FRIEND, M. JOHN WICKS.

Is this a life, to break thy sleep, To rise as soon as day doth peep?

To tire thy patient ox or a.s.s By noon, and let thy good days pa.s.s, Not knowing this, that Jove decrees Some mirth t' adulce man's miseries?

No; 'tis a life to have thine oil Without extortion from thy soil; Thy faithful fields to yield thee grain, Although with some, yet little, pain; To have thy mind, and nuptial bed, With fears and cares unc.u.mbered; A pleasing wife, that by thy side Lies softly panting like a bride.

This is to live, and to endear Those minutes Time has lent us here.

Then, while fates suffer, live thou free As is that air that circles thee, And crown thy temples too, and let Thy servant, not thy own self, sweat, To strut thy barns with sheafs of wheat.

Time steals away like to a stream, And we glide hence away with them.

_No sound recalls the hours once fled, Or roses, being withered_; Nor us, my friend, when we are lost, Like to a dew or melted frost.

Then live we mirthful while we should, And turn the iron age to gold.

Let's feast, and frolic, sing, and play, And thus less last than live our day.

_Whose life with care is overcast, That man's not said to live, but last; Nor is't a life, seven years to tell, But for to live that half seven well;_ And that we'll do, as men who know, Some few sands spent, we hence must go, Both to be blended in the urn From whence there's never a return.

_Adulce_, sweeten.

_Strut_, swell.

671. ONCE SEEN AND NO MORE.