Instead of Arrow, or of Dart,
He shot Himself into my Heart.
The Living and the Killing Arrow
Ran through the skin, the Flesh, the Blood,
And broke the Bones, and scorcht the Marrow,
No Trench or Work of Life withstood.
In vain I now the Walls maintain,
I set out Guards and Scouts in vain,
Since th' En'emy does within remain.
In vain a Breastplate now I wear,
Since in my Breast the Foe I bear.
In vain my Feet their swiftness try;
For from the Body can they fly?
Ft am I by the Women told,
Poor Anacreon thou grow'st old.
Look how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon how they fall?
Whether I grow old or no,
By th'effects I do not know.
This I know without being told,
'Tis Time to Live if I grow Old,
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little Life the best to make,
And manage wisely the last stake.
Hen all the Stars are by thee told,
(The endless Sums of heav'nly Gold)
Or when the Hairs are reckon❜d all,
From sickly Autumns Head that fall,
Or when the drops that make the Sea,
Whilst all her Sands thy Counters be;
Thou then, and Thou alone maist prove
Th' Arithmetician of my Love.
An hundred Loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more.
Fair Corinth does such Beauties bear,
So few is an Escaping there.
Write then at Chios seventy three;
Write then at Lesbos (let me see)
Write me at Lesbos ninety down,
Full ninety Loves, and half a One.
And next to these let me present,
The fair Ionian Regiment.
And next the Carian Company,
Five hundred both Effectively.
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;
Three hundred 'tis I'am sure Complete.
For arms at Crete each Face does bear,
And every Eye's an Archer there.
Go on; this stop why dost thou make?
Thou thinkst, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a Summe?
Why many Thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different Nations in his Host.
On; for my Love, if thou be'st weary,
Must find some better Secretary.
I have not yet my Persian told,
Nor yet my Syrian Loves enroll'd,
Nor Indian, nor Arabian;
Nor Cyprian Loves, nor African;
Nor Scythian, nor Italian fames;
There's a whole Map behind of Names.
Of gentle Love i'th' temperate Zone,
And cold ones in the Frigid One,
Cold frozen Loves with which I pine,
And parched Loves beneath the Line.
Mighty pain to Love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss.
But of all pains the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now nor noble Blood,
Nor Wit by Love is understood,
Gold alone does passion move,
Gold Monopolizes love!
A curse on her, and on the Man
Who this traffick first began!
A curse on him who found the Ore!
A curse on him who digg'd the store!
A curse on him who did refine it!
A curse on him who first did coyn it!
A Curse all curses else above
On him, who us'd it first in Love!
Gold begets in Brethren hate,
Gold in Families debate;
Gold does Friendships separate,
Gold does Civil Wars create.
These the smallest harms of it!
Gold, alas, does Love beget.
The Epicure.
Ill the Bowl with rosie Wine,
Around our temples Roses twine.
And let us chearfully awhile,
Like the Wine and Roses smile.
Crown'd with Roses we contemn
Gyge's wealthy Diadem.
To day is Ours; what do we fear?
To day is Ours; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to stay.
Let's banish Business, banish Sorrow;
To the Gods belongs To morrow.
Nderneath this Myrtle shade,
On flowry beds supinely laid,
With od'orous Oyls my head o're-flowing,
And around it Roses growing,
What should I do but drink away
The Heat, and troubles of the Day?
In this more then Kingly state,
Love himself shall on me wait.
Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;
And mingled cast into the Cup,
Wit, and Mirth, and noble Fires,
Vigorous Health, and gay Desires.
The Wheel of Life no less will stay
In a smooth then Rugged way.
Since it equally does flee,
Let the Motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious Oyntments shower,
Nobler wines why do we pour,
Beauteous Flowers why do we spread,
Upon the Mon'uments of the Dead?
Nothing they but Dust can show,
Or Bones that hasten to be so.
Crown me with Roses whilst I Live,
Now your Wines and Oyntments give.
After Death I nothing crave,
Let me Alive my pleasures have,
All are Stoicks in the Grave.
The Grashopper.
HAppy Insect, what can be
In happiness compar'd to Thee?
Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy Mornings gentle Wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant Cup does fill,
'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread,
Nature selfe's thy Ganimed.
Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
Happier then the happiest King!
All the Fields which thou dost see,
All the Plants belong to Thee,
All that Summer Hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice.
Man for thee does sow and plow;
Farmer He, and Land-Lord Thou!
Thou doest innocently joy;
Nor does thy Luxury destroy;
The Shepherd gladly heareth thee,
More Harmonious then He.
Thee Country Hindes with gladness hear,
Prophet of the ripened year!
Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy Sire.
To thee of all things upon earth,
Life is no longer then thy Mirth.
Happy Insect, happy Thou,
Dost neither Age, nor Winter know.
But when thou'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung,
Thy fill, the flowry Leaves among
(Voluptuous, and Wise with all,
Epicurean Animal!)
Sated with thy Summer Feast,
Thou retir'est to endless Rest.
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