I was persuaded in those days
There was no crown like love and bays.

But now my youth and pride are gone,
And age and cares come creeping on,
And business checks my love :
What need I take a needless toil
To spend my labour, time, and oil,
Since no design can move?

For now the cause is ta'en away
What reason is't the effect should stay?

'Tis but a folly now for me

To spend my time and industry

About such useless wit:

For when I think I have done well,
I see men laugh, but can not tell
Where't be at me or it.

Great madness 'tis to be a drudge,
When those that can not write dare judge.

Besides the danger that ensu❜th

To him that speaks or writes the truth,

The premium is so small :

To be call'd Poet and wear bays,

And factor turn of songs and plays,

This is no wit at all.

Wit only good to sport and sing

Is a needless and an endless thing.

Give me the wit that can't speak sense,
Nor read it but in's own defence,

Ne'er learn'd but of his Gran'am!
He that can buy and sell and cheat
May quickly make a shift to get

His thousand pound per annum ; And purchase without more ado The poems, and the poet too.

ANDREW MARVELL.

1621-1678.

THE PICTURE OF LITTLE T. C.

In a prospect of flowers.

See! with what simplicity

This Nymph begins her golden days. In the green grass she loves to lie,

And there with her fair aspect tames

The wilder flowers, and gives them names;
But only with the roses plays,

And them does tell

What colour best becomes them, and what smell.

Who can foretell for what high cause

This Darling of the Gods was born?

Yet this is She whose chaster laws
The wanton Love shall one day fear,
And, under her command severe,

See his bow broke and ensigns torn.
Happy who can

Appease this virtuous enemy of man!

O then let me in time compound;

And parley with those conquering eyes
Ere they have tried their force to wound,
Ere with their glancing wheels they drive
In triumph over hearts that strive,

And them that yield but more despise!
Let me be laid

Where I may see the glories from some shade!

Meantime, whilst every verdant thing
Itself does at thy beauty charm,

Reform the errors of the Spring!
Make that the tulips may have share
Of sweetness, seeing they are fair;
And roses of their thorns disarm;
But most procure

That violets may a longer age endure !

But O, Young Beauty of the Woods!

Whom Nature courts with fruits and flowers,
Gather the flowers, but spare the buds!
Lest Flora, angry at thy crime

-To kill her infants in their prime,
Should quickly make the example yours;
And, ere we see,

Nip in the blossom all our hopes in thee.

TO THE GLOW-WORMS.

Ye living lamps, by whose dear light
The nightingale does sit so late,
And, studying all the summer night,
Her matchless songs does meditate !

Ye country comets, that portend
No war nor prince's funeral,
Shining unto no higher end

Than to presage the grass's fall!

Ye glow-worms, whose officious flame
To wandering mowers shows the way,
That in the night have lost their aim
And after foolish fires do stray!

Your courteous lights in vain you waste
Since Juliana here is come:
For she my mind hath so displaced
That I shall never find my home.

HORATIAN ode.

Upon Cromwell's Return from Ireland. The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing

His numbers languishing.

'Tis time to leave the books in dust,
And oil the unusèd armour's rust,
Removing from the wall
The corslet of the hall.

So restless Cromwell could not cease
In the inglorious arts of peace,
But through adventurous war
Urgèd his active star;

And, like the three-fork'd lightning first
Breaking the clouds where it was nursed,
Did thorough his own side

His fiery way divide.

(For 'tis all one to courage high,
The emulous or enemy;

And with such to enclose
Is more than to oppose.)

Then burning through the air he went,
And palaces and temples rent,
And Cæsar's head at last

Did through his laurels blast.

'Tis madness to resist or blame
The face of heavens angry flame;
And, if we would speak true,
Much to the man is due,

Who from his private gardens, where

He lived reservèd and austere (As if his highest plot

To plant the bergamot),

Could by industrious valour climb
To ruin the great work of Time,
And cast the kingdoms old

Into another mould.

Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain : But those do hold or break

As men are strong or weak.

Nature, that hateth emptiness,
Allows of penetration less,

And therefore must make room
Where greater Spirits come.

What field of all the Civil War
Where his were not the deepest scar?
And Hampton shows what part
He had of wiser art,—

Where, twining subtle fears with hope
He wove a net of such a scope

That Charles himself might chase
To Carisbrook's narrow case;

That thence the royal actor borne
The tragic scaffold might adorn,

While round the armed bands
Did clap their bloody hands.

He nothing common did or mean
Upon that memorable scene,

But with his keener eye

The axe's edge did try;

Nor call'd the Gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right,