'Oolish Prater, what do'st thou So early at my window do
With thy tuneless Serenade?
Well t'had been had Tereus made Thee as Dumb as Philomel;
There his Knife had done but well. In thy undiscover❜ed Nest Thou dost all the winter rest, And dreamest o're thy summer joys Free from the stormy seasons noise: Free from th'Ill thou'st done to me; Who disturbs, or seeks out Thee? Had'st thou all the charming notes. Of the woods Poetick Throats, All thy art could never pay What thou'st ta'ne from me away; Cruel Bird, thou'st ta'ne away A Dream out of my arms to day, A Dream that ne're must equall'd be By all that waking Eyes may see. Thou this damage to repair,
Nothing half so sweet or fair, Nothing half so good can'st bring,
Though men say, Thou bring'st the Spring.
ANACREON,
Who was choaked by a GRAPE-Stone.
Spoken by the God of Love.
Ow shall I lament thine end, My best Servant, and my Friend?
Nay and, if from a Deity
So much Deifi'ed as I,
It sound not too profane and odd, Oh my Master, and my God! For 'tis true, most mighty Poet,
(Though I like not Men should know it) I am in naked Nature less,
Less by much then in thy Dress.
All thy Verse is softer far
Then the downy Feathers are, Of my Wings, or of my Arrows, Of my Mothers Doves, or Sparrows. Sweet as Lovers freshest kisses, Or their riper following blisses, Graceful, cleanly, smooth and round, All with Venus Girdle bound, And thy Life was all the while Kind and gentle as thy Stile.
The smooth-pac'd Hours of ev'ery day Glided numerously away.
Like thy Verse each Hour did pass, Sweet and short, like that it was.
Some do but their Youth allow me, Just what they by Nature owe me, The Time that's mine, and not their own, The certain Tribute of my Crown, When they grow old, they grow to be Too Busie, or too wise for me. Thou wert wiser, and did'st know None too wise for Love can grow, Love was with thy Life entwin'd Close as Heat with Fire is joyn'd, A powerful Brand prescrib'd the date Of thine, like Meleagers Fate. Th' Antiperistasis of Age
More enflam'd thy amorous rage, Thy silver Hairs yielded me more Then even golden curls before.
Had I the power of Creation,
As I have of Generation,
Where I the matter must obey, And cannot work Plate out of Clay, My Creatures should be all like Thee, 'Tis Thou shouldst their Idea be. They, like Thee, should throughly hate Bus'iness, Honor, Title, State.
Other wealth they should not know But what my Living Mines bestow; The pomp of Kings they should confess At their Crownings to be less Then a Lovers humblest guise, When at his Mistress feet he lies. Rumour they no more should mind Then Men safe-landed do the Wind, Wisdom it self they should not hear When it presumes to be Severe. Beauty alone they should admire; Nor look at Fortunes vain attire,
Nor ask what Parents it can shew; With Dead or Old t'has nought to do. They should not love yet All, or Any, But very Much, and very Many. All their Life should gilded be With Mirth, and Wit, and Gayety, Well remembring, and Applying The Necessity of Dying.
Their chearful Heads should always wear All that crowns the flowry year.
They should always laugh, and sing,
And dance, and strike th'harmonious string. Verse should from their Tongue so flow, As if it in the Mouth did grow, As swiftly answering their command, As tunes obey the artful Hand. And whilst I do thus discover Th'ingredients of a happy Lover, 'Tis, my Anacreon, for thy sake I of the Grape no mention make.
Till my Anacreon by thee fell, Cursed Plant, I lov'd thee well. And 'twas oft my wanton use To dip my Arrows in thy juice. Cursed Plant, 'tis true I see, Th'old report that goes of Thee, That with Gyants blood the Earth Stain'd and poys'ned gave thee birth,
And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spight On Men in whom the Gods delight. Thy Patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder, Was brought forth in Flames and Thunder, In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, Worse then his Tygers he delights; In all our heaven I think there be No such ill-natur'd God as He. Thou pretendest, Trayt'erous Wine, To be the Muses friend and Mine. With Love and Wit thou dost begin, False Fires, alas, to draw us in.
Which, if our course we by them keep, Misguide to Madness, or to Sleep. Sleep were well; thou hast learnt a way To Death it self now to betray.
It grieves me when I see what Fate Does on the best of Mankind wait. Poets or Lovers let them be, 'Tis neither Love nor Poesie Can arm against Deaths smallest dart The Poets Head, or Lovers Heart. But when their Life in its decline, Touches th'Inevitable Line,
All the Worlds Mortal to'em then, And Wine is Aconite to men.
Nay in Deaths Hand the Grape-stone proves As strong as Thunder is in Joves.
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