Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n
 Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even
 Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once?
 Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce
 Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er
 Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score?
 Had I near London in this rug been seen
 Without doubt I had executed been
 For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge
 Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge.
 When first I bore it, my oppressèd feet
 Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet;
 Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes
 Were made, that I began to doubt my soles,
 And ev'ry step—so near necessity—
 Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by;
 Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag
 Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag.
 Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we
 Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee,
 When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap
 It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap,
 To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
 Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood,
 While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side
 Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide:
 I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate
 Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state,
 And with a shallow smile or two profess
 Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress.
 Didst ever see the good wife—as they say—
 March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day,
 With what soft motions she salutes the church,
 And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch;
 Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge
 Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge.
 But this was civil. I have since known more
 And worser pranks: one night—as heretofore
 Th' hast known—for want of change—a thing which I
 And Bias us'd before me—I did lie
 Pure Adamite, and simply for that end
 Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend.
 O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
 Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy!
 Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood,
 For one of the seven pillars before the flood.
 Such characters and hieroglyphics were
 In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear
 I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where
 The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear
 To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks
 Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts;
 His villanous, biting, wire-embraces
 Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces
 Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read
 In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread,
 With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear
 Of being handled by some conjurer;
 And nearer, thou wouldst think—such strokes were drawn—
 I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane.
 Nay, I believe, had I that instant been
 By surgeons or apothecaries seen,
 They had condemned my raz'd skin to be
 Some walking herbal, or anatomy.
 But—thanks to th' day!—'tis off. I'd now advise
 Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise.
 The pedlars of our age have business yet,
 And gladly would against the Fair-day fit
 Themselves with such a roof, that can secure
 Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower.
 It shall perform; or if this will not do
 'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two
 Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick
 Is a partition, without lime or brick.
 Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret
 To think what mouths and elbows it would set
 In a wet day! have you for twopence ere
 Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster,
 Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone
 The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one,
 In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee,
 Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?
 Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon
 Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom.
 O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate
 Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate
 Would I have bought it then; what was there but
 I would have giv'n for the compendious hut?
 I do not doubt but—if the weight could please—
 'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease.
 Or a German shirt with enchanted lint
 Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.
 But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
 This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.
 I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse
 So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.
 She did this, 'cause—perhaps—thy love paid thus
 Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.

UPON MR. FLETCHER'S PLAYS, PUBLISHED 1647.

I knew thee not, nor durst attendance strive,
 Label to wit, verser remonstrative,
 And in some suburb-page—scandal to thine—
 Like Lent before a Christmas scatter mine.
 This speaks thee not, since at the utmost rate
 Such remnants from thy piece entreat their date;
 Nor can I dub the copy, or afford
 Titles to swell the rear of verse with lord;
 Nor politicly big, to inch low fame,
 Stretch in the glories of a stranger's name,
 And clip those bays I court; weak striver I,
 But a faint echo unto poetry.
 I have not clothes t'adopt me, nor must sit
 For plush and velvet's sake, esquire of wit.
 Yet modesty these crosses would improve,
 And rags near thee, some reverence may move.
 I did believe—great Beaumont being dead—
 Thy widow'd Muse slept on his flow'ry bed;
 But I am richly cozen'd, and can see
 Wit transmigrates: his spirit stay'd with thee;
 Which, doubly advantag'd by thy single pen,
 In life and death now treads the stage again.
 And thus are we freed from that dearth of wit
 Which starv'd the land, since into schisms split,
 Wherein th' hast done so much, we must needs guess
 Wit's last edition is now i' th' press.
 For thou hast drain'd invention, and he
 That writes hereafter, doth but pillage thee.
 But thou hast plots; and will not the Kirk strain
 At the designs of such a tragic brain?
 Will they themselves think safe, when they shall see
 Thy most abominable policy?
 Will not the Ears assemble, and think't fit
 Their Synod fast and pray against thy wit?
 But they'll not tire in such an idle quest;
 Thou dost but kill, and circumvent in jest;
 And when thy anger'd Muse swells to a blow
 'Tis but for Field's, or Swansted's overthrow.
 Yet shall these conquests of thy bays outlive
 Their Scottish zeal, and compacts made to grieve
 The peace of spirits: and when such deeds fail
 Of their foul ends, a fair name is thy bail.
 But—happy thou!—ne'er saw'st these storms, our air
 Teem'd with even in thy time, though seeming fair.
 Thy gentle soul, meant for the shade and ease,
 Withdrew betimes into the Land of Peace.
 So nested in some hospitable shore
 The hermit-angler, when the mid-seas roar,
 Packs up his lines, and—ere the tempest raves—
 Retires, and leaves his station to the waves.
 Thus thou died'st almost with our peace, and we
 This breathing time thy last fair issue see,
 Which I think such—if needless ink not soil
 So choice a Muse—others are but thy foil.
 This, or that age may write, but never see
 A wit that dares run parallel with thee.
 True, Ben must live! but bate him, and thou hast
 Undone all future wits, and match'd the past.

UPON THE POEMS AND PLAYS OF THE EVER-MEMORABLE MR. WILLIAM CARTWRIGHT.

I did but see thee! and how vain it is
 To vex thee for it with remonstrances,
 Though things in fashion; let those judge, who sit
 Their twelve pence out, to clap their hands at wit
 I fear to sin thus near thee; for—great saint!—
 'Tis known true beauty hath no need of paint.
 Yet, since a label fix'd to thy fair hearse
 Is all the mode, and tears put into verse
 Can teach posterity our present grief
 And their own loss, but never give relief;
 I'll tell them—and a truth which needs no pass—
 That wit in Cartwright at her zenith was.
 Arts, fancy, language, all conven'd in thee,
 With those grand miracles which deify
 The old world's writings, kept yet from the fire
 Because they force these worst times to admire.
 Thy matchless genius, in all thou didst write,
 Like the sun, wrought with such staid heat and light,
 That not a line—to the most critic he—
 Offends with flashes, or obscurity.
 When thou the wild of humours track'st, thy pen
 So imitates that motley stock in men,
 As if thou hadst in all their bosoms been,
 And seen those leopards that lurk within.
 The am'rous youth steals from thy courtly page
 His vow'd address, the soldier his brave rage;
 And those soft beauteous readers whose looks can
 Make some men poets, and make any man
 A lover, when thy slave but seems to die,
 Turn all his mourners, and melt at the eye.
 Thus thou thy thoughts hast dress'd in such a strain
 As doth not only speak, but rule and reign;
 Nor are those bodies they assum'd dark clouds,
 Or a thick bark, but clear, transparent shrouds,
 Which who looks on, the rays so strongly beat
 They'll brush and warm him with a quick'ning heat;
 So souls shine at the eyes, and pearls display
 Through the loose crystal-streams a glance of day.
 But what's all this unto a royal test?
 Thou art the man whom great Charles so express'd!
 Then let the crowd refrain their needless hum,
 When thunder speaks, then squibs and winds are dumb.

TO THE BEST AND MOST ACCOMPLISHED COUPLE ——

Blessings as rich and fragrant crown your heads
 As the mild heav'n on roses sheds,
 When at their cheeks—like pearls—they wear
 The clouds that court them in a tear!
 And may they be fed from above
 By Him which first ordain'd your love!
Fresh as the hours may all your pleasures be,
 And healthful as eternity!
 Sweet as the flowers' first breath, and close
 As th' unseen spreadings of the rose,
 When he unfolds his curtain'd head,
 And makes his bosom the sun's bed!
Soft as yourselves run your whole lives, and clear
 As your own glass, or what shines there!
 Smooth as heav'n's face, and bright as he
 When without mask or tiffany!
 In all your time not one jar meet
 But peace as silent as his feet!
Like the day's warmth may all your comforts be,
 Untoil'd for, and serene as he,
 Yet free and full as is that sheaf
 Of sunbeams gilding ev'ry leaf,
 When now the tyrant-heat expires
 And his cool'd locks breathe milder fires!
And as those parcell'd glories he doth shed
 Are the fair issues of his head,
 Which, ne'er so distant, are soon known
 By th' heat and lustre for his own;
 So may each branch of yours we see
 Your copies and our wonders be!
And when no more on earth you must remain,
 Invited hence to heav'n again,
 Then may your virtuous, virgin-flames
 Shine in those heirs of your fair names,
 And teach the world that mystery,
 Yourselves in your posterity!
So you to both worlds shall rich presents bring,
 And, gather'd up to heav'n, leave here a spring.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF MR. R. HALL,
SLAIN AT PONTEFRACT, 1648.

I knew it would be thus! and my just fears
 Of thy great spirit are improv'd to tears.
 Yet flow these not from any base distrust
 Of a fair name, or that thy honour must
 Confin'd to those cold relics sadly sit
 In the same cell an obscure anchorite.
 Such low distempers murder; they that must
 Abuse thee so, weep not, but wound thy dust.
 But I past such dim mourners can descry
 Thy fame above all clouds of obloquy,
 And like the sun with his victorious rays
 Charge through that darkness to the last of days.
 'Tis true, fair manhood hath a female eye,
 And tears are beauteous in a victory,
 Nor are we so high-proof, but grief will find
 Through all our guards a way to wound the mind;
 But in thy fall what adds the brackish sum
 More than a blot unto thy martyrdom?
 Which scorns such wretched suffrages, and stands
 More by thy single worth than our whole bands.
 Yet could the puling tribute rescue ought
 In this sad loss, or wert thou to be brought
 Back here by tears, I would in any wise
 Pay down the sum, or quite consume my eyes.
 Thou fell'st our double ruin; and this rent
 Forc'd in thy life shak'd both the Church and tent.
 Learning in others steals them from the van,
 And basely wise emasculates the man,
 But lodg'd in thy brave soul the bookish feat
 Serv'd only as the light unto thy heat.
 Thus when some quitted action, to their shame,
 And only got a discreet coward's name,
 Thou with thy blood mad'st purchase of renown,
 And died'st the glory of the sword and gown.
 Thy blood hath hallow'd Pomfret, and this blow
 —Profan'd before—hath church'd the Castle now.
 Nor is't a common valour we deplore,
 But such as with fifteen a hundred bore,
 And lightning-like—not coop'd within a wall—
 In storms of fire and steel fell on them all.
 Thou wert no woolsack soldier, nor of those
 Whose courage lies in winking at their foes,
 That live at loopholes, and consume their breath
 On match or pipes, and sometimes peep at death;
 No, it were sin to number these with thee,
 But that—thus pois'd—our loss we better see.
 The fair and open valour was thy shield,
 And thy known station, the defying field.
 Yet these in thee I would not virtues call,
 But that this age must know that thou hadst all.
 Those richer graces that adorn'd thy mind
 Like stars of the first magnitude, so shin'd,
 That if oppos'd unto these lesser lights
 All we can say is this, they were fair nights.
 Thy piety and learning did unite,
 And though with sev'ral beams made up one light,
 And such thy judgment was, that I dare swear
 Whole councils might as soon and synods err.
 But all these now are out! and as some star
 Hurl'd in diurnal motions from far,
 And seen to droop at night, is vainly said
 To fall and find an occidental bed,
 Though in that other world what we judge West
 Proves elevation, and a new, fresh East;
 So though our weaker sense denies us sight,
 And bodies cannot trace the spirit's flight,
 We know those graces to be still in thee,
 But wing'd above us to eternity.
 Since then—thus flown—thou art so much refin'd
 That we can only reach thee with the mind,
 I will not in this dark and narrow glass
 Let thy scant shadow for perfections pass,
 But leave thee to be read more high, more quaint,
 In thy own blood a soldier and a saint.
——Salve æternum mihi maxime Palla!
 Æternumque vale!——

TO MY LEARNED FRIEND, MR. T. POWELL,
UPON HIS TRANSLATION OF
MALVEZZI'S CHRISTIAN POLITICIAN.

We thank you, worthy Sir, that now we see
 Malvezzi languag'd like our infancy,
 And can without suspicion entertain
 This foreign statesman to our breast or brain;
 You have enlarg'd his praise, and from your store
 By this edition made his worth the more.
 Thus by your learnèd hand—amidst the coil—
 Outlandish plants thrive in our thankless soil,
 And wise men after death, by a strange fate,
 Lie leiger here, and beg to serve our State.
 Italy now, though mistress of the bays,
 Waits on this wreath, proud of a foreign praise;
 For, wise Malvezzi, thou didst lie before
 Confin'd within the language of one shore,
 And like those stars which near the poles do steer
 Were't but in one part of the globe seen clear.
 Provence and Naples were the best and most
 Thou couldst shine in; fix'd to that single coast,
 Perhaps some cardinal, to be thought wise,
 And honest too, would ask, what was thy price?
 Then thou must pack to Rome, where thou mightst lie
 Ere thou shouldst have new clothes eternally,
 For though so near the sev'n hills, ne'ertheless
 Thou cam'st to Antwerp for thy Roman dress.
 But now thou art come hither, thou mayst run
 Through any clime as well known as the sun,
 And in thy sev'ral dresses, like the year,
 Challenge acquaintance with each peopled sphere.
 Come then, rare politicians of the time,
 Brains of some standing, elders in our clime,
 See here the method. A wise, solid State
 Is quick in acting, friendly in debate,
 Joint in advice, in resolutions just,
 Mild in success, true to the common trust.
 It cements ruptures, and by gentle hand
 Allays the heat and burnings of a land;
 Religion guides it, and in all the tract
 Designs so twist, that Heav'n confirms the act.
 If from these lists you wander as you steer,
 Look back, and catechize your actions here.
 These are the marks to which true statesmen tend,
 And greatness here with goodness hath one end.

TO MY WORTHY FRIEND, MASTER T. LEWES.

Sees not my friend, what a deep snow
 Candies our country's woody brow?
 The yielding branch his load scarce bears,
 Oppress'd with snow and frozen tears;
 While the dumb rivers slowly float,
 All bound up in an icy coat.
 Let us meet then! and while this world
 In wild eccentrics now is hurl'd,
 Keep we, like nature, the same key,
 And walk in our forefathers' way.
 Why any more cast we an eye
 On what may come, not what is nigh?
 Why vex ourselves with fear, or hope
 And cares beyond our horoscope?
 Who into future times would peer,
 Looks oft beyond his term set here,
 And cannot go into those grounds
 But through a churchyard, which them bounds.
 Sorrows and sighs and searches spend
 And draw our bottom to an end,
 But discreet joys lengthen the lease,
 Without which life were a disease;
 And who this age a mourner goes,
 Doth with his tears but feed his foes

TO THE MOST EXCELLENTLY ACCOMPLISHED MRS. K. PHILIPS.

Say, witty fair one, from what sphere
 Flow these rich numbers you shed here?
 For sure such incantations come
 From thence, which strike your readers dumb.
 A strain, whose measures gently meet
 Like virgin-lovers or Time's feet;
 Where language smiles, and accents rise
 As quick and pleasing as your eyes;
 The poem smooth, and in each line
 Soft as yourself, yet masculine;
 Where not coarse trifles blot the page
 With matter borrow'd from the age,
 But thoughts as innocent and high
 As angels have, or saints that die.
 These raptures when I first did see
 New miracles in poetry,
 And by a hand their good would miss
 His bays and fountains but to kiss,
 My weaker genius—cross to fashion—
 Slept in a silent admiration:
 A rescue, by whose grave disguise
 Pretenders oft have pass'd for wise.
 And yet as pilgrims humbly touch
 Those shrines to which they bow so much,
 And clouds in courtship flock, and run
 To be the mask unto the sun,
 So I concluded it was true
 I might at distance worship you,
 A Persian votary, and say
 It was your light show'd me the way.
 So loadstones guide the duller steel,
 And high perfections are the wheel
 Which moves the less, for gifts divine
 Are strung upon a vital line,
 Which, touch'd by you, excites in all
 Affections epidemical.
 And this made me—a truth most fit—
 Add my weak echo to your wit;
 Which pardon, Lady, for assays
 Obscure as these might blast your bays;
 As common hands soil flow'rs, and make
 That dew they wear weep the mistake.
 But I'll wash off the stain, and vow
 No laurel grows but for your brow.

AN EPITAPH UPON THE LADY ELIZABETH, SECOND DAUGHTER TO HIS LATE MAJESTY.

Youth, beauty, virtue, innocence,
 Heav'n's royal and select expense,
 With virgin-tears and sighs divine
 Sit here the genii of this shrine;
 Where now—thy fair soul wing'd away—
 They guard the casket where she lay.
 Thou hadst, ere thou the light couldst see,
 Sorrows laid up and stor'd for thee;
 Thou suck'dst in woes, and the breasts lent
 Their milk to thee but to lament;
 Thy portion here was grief, thy years
 Distill'd no other rain but tears,
 Tears without noise, but—understood—
 As loud and shrill as any blood.
 Thou seem'st a rosebud born in snow,
 A flower of purpose sprung to bow
 To headless tempests, and the rage
 Of an incensèd, stormy age.
 Others, ere their afflictions grow,
 Are tim'd and season'd for the blow,
 But thine, as rheums the tend'rest part,
 Fell on a young and harmless heart.
 And yet, as balm-trees gently spend
 Their tears for those that do them rend,
 So mild and pious thou wert seen,
 Though full of suff'rings; free from spleen,
 Thou didst not murmur, nor revile,
 But drank'st thy wormwood with a smile.
 As envious eyes blast and infect,
 And cause misfortunes by aspèct,
 So thy sad stars dispens'd to thee
 No influx but calamity;
 They view'd thee with eclipsèd rays,
 And but the back side of bright days.
 ········
 These were the comforts she had here,
 As by an unseen Hand 'tis clear,
 Which now she reads, and, smiling, wears
 A crown with Him who wipes off tears.

TO SIR WILLIAM D'AVENANT UPON HIS GONDIBERT.

Well, we are rescued! and by thy rare pen
 Poets shall live, when princes die like men.
 Th' hast clear'd the prospect to our harmless hill,
 Of late years clouded with imputed ill,
 And the soft, youthful couples there may move,
 As chaste as stars converse and smile above.
 Th' hast taught their language and their love to flow
 Calm as rose-leaves, and cool as virgin-snow,
 Which doubly feasts us, being so refin'd,
 They both delight and dignify the mind;
 Like to the wat'ry music of some spring,
 Whose pleasant flowings at once wash and sing.
 And where before heroic poems were
 Made up of spirits, prodigies, and fear,
 And show'd—through all the melancholy flight—
 Like some dark region overcast with night,
 As if the poet had been quite dismay'd,
 While only giants and enchantments sway'd;
 Thou like the sun, whose eye brooks no disguise,
 Hast chas'd them hence, and with discoveries
 So rare and learnèd fill'd the place, that we
 Those fam'd grandezas find outdone by thee,
 And underfoot see all those vizards hurl'd
 Which bred the wonder of the former world.
 'Twas dull to sit, as our forefathers did,
 At crumbs and voiders, and because unbid,
 Refrain wise appetite. This made thy fire
 Break through the ashes of thy aged sire,
 To lend the world such a convincing light
 As shows his fancy darker than his sight.
 Nor was't alone the bars and length of days
 —Though those gave strength and stature to his bays—
 Encounter'd thee, but what's an old complaint
 And kills the fancy, a forlorn restraint.
 How couldst thou, mur'd in solitary stones,
 Dress Birtha's smiles, though well thou mightst her groans?
 And, strangely eloquent, thyself divide
 'Twixt sad misfortunes and a bloomy bride?
 Through all the tenour of thy ample song,
 Spun from thy own rich store, and shar'd among
 Those fair adventurers, we plainly see
 Th' imputed gifts inherent are in thee.
 Then live for ever—and by high desert—
 In thy own mirror, matchless Gondibert,
 And in bright Birtha leave thy love enshrin'd
 Fresh as her em'rald, and fair as her mind,
 While all confess thee—as they ought to do—
 The prince of poets, and of lovers too.

TRANSLATIONS FROM OVID

[OVID,] TRISTIUM, LIB. V. ELEG. III.

TO HIS FELLOW-POETS AT ROME,
UPON THE BIRTHDAY OF BACCHUS.

This is the day—blithe god of sack—which we,
 If I mistake not, consecrate to thee,
 When the soft rose we marry to the bays,
 And, warm'd with thy own wine, rehearse thy praise;
 'Mongst whom—while to thy poet fate gave way—
 I have been held no small part of the day.
 But now, dull'd with the cold Bear's frozen seat,
 Sarmatia holds me, and the warlike Gete.
 My former life, unlike to this my last,
 With Rome's best wits of thy full cup did taste,
 Who since have seen the savage Pontic band,
 And all the choler of the sea and land.
 Whether sad chance or Heav'n hath this design'd,
 And at my birth some fatal planet shin'd,
 Of right thou shouldst the sisters' knots undo,
 And free thy votary and poet too;
 Or are you gods—like us—in such a state
 As cannot alter the decrees of fate?
 I know with much ado thou didst obtain
 Thy jovial godhead, and on earth thy pain
 Was no whit less, for, wand'ring, thou didst run
 To the Getes too, and snow-weeping Strymon,
 With Persia, Ganges, and whatever streams
 The thirsty Moor drinks in the mid-day beams.
 But thou wert twice-born, and the Fates to thee
 —To make all sure—doubled thy misery.
 My sufferings too are many—if it be
 Held safe for me to boast adversity—
 Nor was't a common blow, but from above,
 Like his that died for imitating Jove;
 Which, when thou heardst, a ruin so divine
 And mother-like should make thee pity mine,
 And on this day, which poets unto thee
 Crown with full bowls, ask what's become of me?
 Help, buxom god, then! so may thy lov'd vine
 Swarm with the num'rous grape, and big with wine
 Load the kind elm, and so thy orgies be
 With priests' loud shouts and satyrs' kept to thee!
 So may in death Lycurgus ne'er be blest,
 Nor Pentheus' wand'ring ghost find any rest!
 And so for ever bright—thy chief desires—
 May thy wife's crown outshine the lesser fires!
 If but now, mindful of my love to thee,
 Thou wilt, in what thou canst, my helper be.
 You gods have commerce with yourselves; try then
 If Cæsar will restore me Rome again.
 And you, my trusty friends—the jolly crew
 Of careless poets! when, without me, you
 Perform this day's glad myst'ries, let it be
 Your first appeal unto his deity,
 And let one of you—touch'd with my sad name—
 Mixing his wine with tears, lay down the same,
 And—sighing—to the rest this thought commend,
 O! where is Ovid now, our banish'd friend?
 This do, if in your breasts I e'er deserv'd
 So large a share, nor spitefully reserv'd,
 Nor basely sold applause, or with a brow
 Condemning others, did myself allow.
 And may your happier wits grow loud with fame
 As you—my best of friends!—preserve my name.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. III. [EPIST. VII.].

TO HIS FRIENDS—AFTER HIS MANY SOLICITATIONS—REFUSING TO PETITION CÆSAR FOR HIS RELEASEMENT.

You have consum'd my language, and my pen,
 Incens'd with begging, scorns to write again.
 You grant, you knew my suit: my Muse and I
 Had taught it you in frequent elegy.
 That I believe—yet seal'd—you have divin'd
 Our repetitions, and forestall'd my mind,
 So that my thronging elegies and I
 Have made you—more than poets—prophesy.
 But I am now awak'd; forgive my dream
 Which made me cross the proverb and the stream,
 And pardon, friends, that I so long have had
 Such good thoughts of you; I am not so mad
 As to continue them. You shall no more
 Complain of troublesome verse, or write o'er
 How I endanger you, and vex my wife
 With the sad legends of a banish'd life.
 I'll bear these plagues myself: for I have pass'd
 Through greater ones, and can as well at last
 These petty crosses. 'Tis for some young beast
 To kick his bands, or wish his neck releas'd
 From the sad yoke. Know then, that as for me
 Whom Fate hath us'd to such calamity,
 I scorn her spite and yours, and freely dare
 The highest ills your malice can prepare.
 'Twas Fortune threw me hither, where I now
 Rude Getes and Thrace see, with the snowy brow
 Of cloudy Æmus, and if she decree
 Her sportive pilgrim's last bed here must be,
 I am content; nay, more, she cannot do
 That act which I would not consent unto.
 I can delight in vain hopes, and desire
 That state more than her change and smiles; then high'r
 I hug a strong despair, and think it brave
 To baffle faith, and give those hopes a grave.
 Have you not seen cur'd wounds enlarg'd, and he
 That with the first wave sinks, yielding to th' free
 Waters, without th' expense of arms or breath,
 Hath still the easiest and the quickest death.
 Why nurse I sorrows then? why these desires
 Of changing Scythia for the sun and fires
 Of some calm kinder air? what did bewitch
 My frantic hopes to fly so vain a pitch,
 And thus outrun myself? Madman! could I
 Suspect fate had for me a courtesy?
 These errors grieve: and now I must forget
 Those pleas'd ideas I did frame and set
 Unto myself, with many fancied springs
 And groves, whose only loss new sorrow brings.
 And yet I would the worst of fate endure,
 Ere you should be repuls'd, or less secure.
 But—base, low souls!—you left me not for this,
 But 'cause you durst not. Cæsar could not miss
 Of such a trifle, for I know that he
 Scorns the cheap triumphs of my misery.
 Then since—degen'rate friends—not he, but you
 Cancel my hopes, and make afflictions new,
 You shall confess, and fame shall tell you, I
 At Ister dare as well as Tiber die.

[OVID, EPISTOLARUM] DE PONTO, LIB. IV. EPIST. III.

TO HIS INCONSTANT FRIEND, TRANSLATED FOR THE USE OF ALL THE JUDASES OF THIS TOUCHSTONE-AGE.