Shall I complain, or not? or shall I mask
 Thy hateful name, and in this bitter task
 Master my just impatience, and write down
 Thy crime alone, and leave the rest unknown?
 Or wilt thou the succeeding years should see
 And teach thy person to posterity?
 No, hope it not; for know, most wretched man,
 'Tis not thy base and weak detraction can
 Buy thee a poem, nor move me to give
 Thy name the honour in my verse to live.
 Whilst yet my ship did with no storms dispute,
 And temp'rate winds fed with a calm salute
 My prosp'rous sails, thou wert the only man
 That with me then an equal fortune ran;
 But now since angry heav'n with clouds and night
 Stifled those sunbeams, thou hast ta'en thy flight;
 Thou know'st I want thee, and art merely gone
 To shun that rescue I reli'd upon;
 Nay, thou dissemblest too, and dost disclaim
 Not only my acquaintance, but my name.
 Yet know—though deaf to this—that I am he
 Whose years and love had the same infancy
 With thine, thy deep familiar that did share
 Souls with thee, and partake thy joys or care;
 Whom the same roof lodg'd, and my Muse those nights
 So solemnly endear'd to her delights.
 But now, perfidious traitor, I am grown
 The abject of thy breast, not to be known
 In that false closet more; nay, thou wilt not
 So much as let me know I am forgot.
 If thou wilt say thou didst not love me, then
 Thou didst dissemble: or if love again,
 Why now inconstant? Came the crime from me
 That wrought this change? Sure, if no justice be
 Of my side, thine must have it. Why dost hide
 Thy reasons then? For me, I did so guide
 Myself and actions, that I cannot see
 What could offend thee, but my misery.
 'Las! if thou wouldst not from thy store allow
 Some rescue to my wants, at least I know
 Thou couldst have writ, and with a line or two
 Reliev'd my famish'd eye, and eas'd me so.
 I know not what to think! and yet I hear,
 Not pleas'd with this, th'art witty, and dost jeer.
 Bad man! thou hast in this those tears kept back
 I could have shed for thee, shouldst thou but lack.
 Know'st not that Fortune on a globe doth stand,
 Whose upper slipp'ry part without command
 Turns lowest still? the sportive leaves and wind
 Are but dull emblems of her fickle mind.
 In the whole world there's nothing I can see
 Will throughly parallel her ways but thee.
 All that we hold hangs on a slender twine,
 And our best states by sudden chance decline.
 Who hath not heard of Crœsus' proverb'd gold,
 Yet knows his foe did him a pris'ner hold?
 He that once aw'd Sicilia's proud extent
 By a poor art could famine scarce prevent;
 And mighty Pompey, ere he made an end,
 Was glad to beg his slave to be his friend.
 Nay, he that had so oft Rome's consul been,
 And forc'd Jugurtha and the Cimbrians in,
 Great Marius! with much want and more disgrace,
 In a foul marsh was glad to hide his face.
 A Divine hand sways all mankind, and we
 Of one short hour have not the certainty.
 Hadst thou one day told me the time should be
 When the Getes' bows, and th' Euxine I should see,
 I should have check'd thy madness, and have thought
 Th' hadst need of all Anticyra in a draught.
 And yet 'tis come to pass! nor, though I might
 Some things foresee, could I procure a sight
 Of my whole destiny, and free my state
 From those eternal, higher ties of fate.
 Leave then thy pride, and though now brave and high,
 Think thou mayst be as poor and low as I.

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

TO HIS WIFE AT ROME, WHEN HE WAS SICK.

Dearest! if you those fair eyes—wond'ring—stick
 On this strange character, know I am sick;
 Sick in the skirts of the lost world, where I
 Breathe hopeless of all comforts, but to die.
 What heart—think'st thou?—have I in this sad seat,
 Tormented 'twixt the Sauromate and Gete?
 Nor air nor water please: their very sky
 Looks strange and unaccustom'd to my eye;
 I scarce dare breathe it, and, I know not how,
 The earth that bears me shows unpleasant now.
 Nor diet here's, nor lodging for my ease,
 Nor any one that studies a disease;
 No friend to comfort me, none to defray
 With smooth discourse the charges of the day.
 All tir'd alone I lie, and—thus—whate'er
 Is absent, and at Rome, I fancy here.
 But when thou com'st, I blot the airy scroll,
 And give thee full possession of my soul.
 Thee—absent—I embrace, thee only voice.
 And night and day belie a husband's joys.
 Nay, of thy name so oft I mention make
 That I am thought distracted for thy sake.
 When my tir'd spirits fail, and my sick heart
 Draws in that fire which actuates each part,
 If any say, th'art come! I force my pain,
 And hope to see thee gives me life again.
 Thus I for thee, whilst thou—perhaps—more blest,
 Careless of me dost breathe all peace and rest,
 Which yet I think not, for—dear soul!—too well
 Know I thy grief, since my first woes befell.
 But if strict Heav'n my stock of days hath spun,
 And with my life my error will be gone,
 How easy then—O Cæsar!—were't for thee
 To pardon one, that now doth cease to be?
 That I might yield my native air this breath,
 And banish not my ashes after death.
 Would thou hadst either spar'd me until dead,
 Or with my blood redeem'd my absent head!
 Thou shouldst have had both freely, but O! thou
 Wouldst have me live to die an exile now.
 And must I then from Rome so far meet death,
 And double by the place my loss of breath?
 Nor in my last of hours on my own bed
 —In the sad conflict—rest my dying head?
 Nor my soul's whispers—the last pledge of life,—
 Mix with the tears and kisses of a wife?
 My last words none must treasure, none will rise
 And—with a tear—seal up my vanquish'd eyes;
 Without these rites I die, distress'd in all
 The splendid sorrows of a funeral;
 Unpitied, and unmourn'd for, my sad head
 In a strange land goes friendless to the dead.
 When thou hear'st this, O! how thy faithful soul
 Will sink, whilst grief doth ev'ry part control!
 How often wilt thou look this way, and cry,
 O! where is't yonder that my love doth lie?
 Yet spare these tears, and mourn not thou for me,
 Long since—dear heart!—have I been dead to thee.
 Think then I died, when thee and Rome I lost,
 That death to me more grief than this hath cost.
 Now, if thou canst—but thou canst not—best wife,
 Rejoice, my cares are ended with my life.
 At least, yield not to sorrows, frequent use
 Should make these miseries to thee no news.
 And here I wish my soul died with my breath,
 And that no part of me were free from death;
 For, if it be immortal, and outlives
 The body, as Pythagoras believes,
 Betwixt these Sarmates' ghosts, a Roman I
 Shall wander, vex'd to all eternity.
 But thou—for after death I shall be free—
 Fetch home these bones, and what is left of me;
 A few flow'rs give them, with some balm, and lay
 Them in some suburb grave, hard by the way;
 And to inform posterity, who's there,
 This sad inscription let my marble wear;
 "Here lies the soft-soul'd lecturer of love,
 Whose envi'd wit did his own ruin prove.
 But thou,—whoe'er thou be'st, that, passing by,
 Lend'st to this sudden stone a hasty eye,
 If e'er thou knew'st of love the sweet disease,
 Grudge not to say, May Ovid rest in peace!"
 This for my tomb: but in my books they'll see
 More strong and lasting monuments of me,
 Which I believe—though fatal—will afford
 An endless name unto their ruin'd lord.
 And now thus gone, it rests, for love of me,
 Thou show'st some sorrow to my memory;
 Thy funeral off'rings to my ashes bear,
 With wreaths of cypress bath'd in many a tear.
 Though nothing there but dust of me remain,
 Yet shall that dust perceive thy pious pain.
 But I have done, and my tir'd, sickly head,
 Though I would fain write more, desires the bed;
 Take then this word—perhaps my last—to tell,
 Which though I want, I wish it thee, farewell!

AUSONII. IDYLL VI.

CUPIDO [CRUCI AFFIXUS].

In those bless'd fields of everlasting air
 —Where to a myrtle grove the souls repair
 Of deceas'd lovers—the sad, thoughtful ghosts
 Of injur'd ladies meet, where each accosts
 The other with a sigh, whose very breath
 Would break a heart, and—kind souls—love in death.
 A thick wood clouds their walks, where day scarce peeps,
 And on each hand cypress and poppy sleeps;
 The drowsy rivers slumber, and springs there
 Blab not, but softly melt into a tear;
 A sickly dull air fans them, which can have,
 When most in force, scarce breath to build a wave.
 On either bank through the still shades appear
 A scene of pensive flow'rs, whose bosoms wear
 Drops of a lover's blood, the emblem'd truths
 Of deep despair, and love-slain kings and youths.
 The Hyacinth, and self-enamour'd boy
 Narcissus flourish there, with Venus' joy,
 The spruce Adonis, and that prince whose flow'r
 Hath sorrow languag'd on him to this hour;
 All sad with love they hang their heads, and grieve
 As if their passions in each leaf did live;
 And here—alas!—these soft-soul'd ladies stray,
 And—O! too late!—treason in love betray.
 Her blasted birth sad Semele repeats,
 And with her tears would quench the thund'rer's heats,
 Then shakes her bosom, as if fir'd again,
 And fears another lightning's flaming train.
 The lovely Procris here bleeds, sighs, and swoons,
 Then wakes, and kisses him that gave her wounds.
 Sad Hero holds a torch forth, and doth light
 Her lost Leander through the waves and night,
 Her boatman desp'rate Sappho still admires,
 And nothing but the sea can quench her fires.
 Distracted Phædra with a restless eye
 Her disdain'd letters reads, then casts them by.
 Rare, faithful Thisbe—sequest'red from these—
 A silent, unseen sorrow doth best please;
 For her love's sake and last good-night poor she
 Walks in the shadow of a mulberry.
 Near her young Canace with Dido sits,
 A lovely couple, but of desp'rate wits;
 Both di'd alike, both pierc'd their tender breasts,
 This with her father's sword, that with her guest's.
 Within the thickest textures of the grove
 Diana in her silver beams doth rove;
 Her crown of stars the pitchy air invades,
 And with a faint light gilds the silent shades,
 Whilst her sad thoughts, fix'd on her sleepy lover,
 To Latmos hill and his retirements move her.
 A thousand more through the wide, darksome wood
 Feast on their cares, the maudlin lover's food;
 For grief and absence do but edge desire,
 And death is fuel to a lover's fire.
 To see these trophies of his wanton bow,
 Cupid comes in, and all in triumph now—
 Rash unadvisèd boy!—disperseth round
 The sleepy mists; his wings and quiver wound
 With noise the quiet air. This sudden stir
 Betrays his godship, and as we from far
 A clouded, sickly moon observe, so they
 Through the false mists his eclips'd torch betray.
 A hot pursuit they make, and, though with care
 And a slow wing, he softly stems the air,
 Yet they—as subtle now as he—surround
 His silenc'd course, and with the thick night bound
 Surprise the wag. As in a dream we strive
 To voice our thoughts, and vainly would revive
 Our entranc'd tongues, but cannot speech enlarge,
 'Till the soul wakes and reassumes her charge;
 So, joyous of their prize, they flock about
 And vainly swell with an imagin'd shout.
 Far in these shades and melancholy coasts
 A myrtle grows, well known to all the ghosts,
 Whose stretch'd top—like a great man rais'd by Fate—
 Looks big, and scorns his neighbour's low estate;
 His leafy arms into a green cloud twist,
 And on each branch doth sit a lazy mist,
 A fatal tree, and luckless to the gods,
 Where for disdain in life—Love's worst of odds—
 The queen of shades, fair Proserpine, did rack
 The sad Adonis: hither now they pack
 This little god, where, first disarm'd, they bind
 His skittish wings, then both his hands behind
 His back they tie, and thus secur'd at last,
 The peevish wanton to the tree make fast.
 Here at adventure, without judge or jury,
 He is condemn'd, while with united fury
 They all assail him. As a thief at bar
 Left to the law, and mercy of his star,
 Hath bills heap'd on him, and is question'd there
 By all the men that have been robb'd that year;
 So now whatever Fate or their own will
 Scor'd up in life, Cupid must pay the bill.
 Their servant's falsehood, jealousy, disdain,
 And all the plagues that abus'd maids can feign,
 Are laid on him, and then to heighten spleen,
 Their own deaths crown the sum. Press'd thus between
 His fair accusers, 'tis at last decreed
 He by those weapons, that they died, should bleed.
 One grasps an airy sword, a second holds
 Illusive fire, and in vain wanton folds
 Belies a flame; others, less kind, appear
 To let him blood, and from the purple tear
 Create a rose. But Sappho all this while
 Harvests the air, and from a thicken'd pile
 Of clouds like Leucas top spreads underneath
 A sea of mists; the peaceful billows breathe
 Without all noise, yet so exactly move
 They seem to chide, but distant from above
 Reach not the ear, and—thus prepar'd—at once
 She doth o'erwhelm him with the airy sconce.
 Amidst these tumults, and as fierce as they,
 Venus steps in, and without thought or stay
 Invades her son; her old disgrace is cast
 Into the bill, when Mars and she made fast
 In their embraces were expos'd to all
 The scene of gods, stark naked in their fall.
 Nor serves a verbal penance, but with haste
 From her fair brow—O happy flow'rs so plac'd!—
 She tears a rosy garland, and with this
 Whips the untoward boy; they gently kiss
 His snowy skin, but she with angry haste
 Doubles her strength, until bedew'd at last
 With a thin bloody sweat, their innate red,
 —As if griev'd with the act—grew pale and dead.
 This laid their spleen; and now—kind souls—no more
 They'll punish him; the torture that he bore
 Seems greater than his crime; with joint consent
 Fate is made guilty, and he innocent.
 As in a dream with dangers we contest,
 And fictious pains seem to afflict our rest,
 So, frighted only in these shades of night,
 Cupid—got loose—stole to the upper light,
 Where ever since—for malice unto these—
 The spiteful ape doth either sex displease.
 But O! that had these ladies been so wise
 To keep his arms, and give him but his eyes!

BOET[HIUS, DE CONSOLATIONE]

LIB. I. METRUM I.

I whose first year flourish'd with youthful verse,
 In slow, sad numbers now my grief rehearse.
 A broken style my sickly lines afford,
 And only tears give weight unto my words.
 Yet neither fate nor force my Muse could fright,
 The only faithful consort of my flight.
 Thus what was once my green years' greatest glory,
 Is now my comfort, grown decay'd and hoary;
 For killing cares th' effects of age spurr'd on,
 That grief might find a fitting mansion;
 O'er my young head runs an untimely grey,
 And my loose skin shrinks at my blood's decay.
 Happy the man, whose death in prosp'rous years
 Strikes not, nor shuns him in his age and tears!
 But O! how deaf is she to hear the cry
 Of th' oppress'd soul, or shut the weeping eye!
 While treach'rous Fortune with slight honours fed
 My first estate, she almost drown'd my head,
 And now since—clouded thus—she hides those rays,
 Life adds unwelcom'd length unto my days.
 Why then, my friends, judg'd you my state so good?
 He that may fall once, never firmly stood.

METRUM II.

O in what haste, with clouds and night
 Eclips'd, and having lost her light,
 The dull soul whom distraction rends
 Into outward darkness tends!
 How often—by these mists made blind—
 Have earthly cares oppress'd the mind!
 This soul, sometimes wont to survey
 The spangled Zodiac's fiery way,
 Saw th' early sun in roses dress'd,
 With the cool moon's unstable crest,
 And whatsoever wanton star,
 In various courses near or far,
 Pierc'd through the orbs, he could full well
 Track all her journey, and would tell
 Her mansions, turnings, rise and fall,
 By curious calculation all.
 Of sudden winds the hidden cause,
 And why the calm sea's quiet face
 With impetuous waves is curl'd,
 What spirit wheels th' harmonious world,
 Or why a star dropp'd in the west
 Is seen to rise again by east,
 Who gives the warm Spring temp'rate hours,
 Decking the Earth with spicy flow'rs,
 Or how it comes—for man's recruit—
 That Autumn yields both grape and fruit,
 With many other secrets, he
 Could show the cause and mystery.
 But now that light is almost out,
 And the brave soul lies chain'd about
 With outward cares, whose pensive weight
 Sinks down her eyes from their first height.
 And clean contrary to her birth
 Pores on this vile and foolish Earth.

METRUM IV.

Whose calm soul in a settled state
 Kicks under foot the frowns of Fate,
 And in his fortunes, bad or good,
 Keeps the same temper in his blood;
 Not him the flaming clouds above,
 Nor Ætna's fiery tempests move;
 No fretting seas from shore to shore,
 Boiling with indignation o'er,
 Nor burning thunderbolt that can
 A mountain shake, can stir this man.
 Dull cowards then! why should we start
 To see these tyrants act their part?
 Nor hope, nor fear what may befall,
 And you disarm their malice all.
 But who doth faintly fear or wish,
 And sets no law to what is his,
 Hath lost the buckler, and—poor elf!—
 Makes up a chain to bind himself.

METRUM V.

O Thou great builder of this starry frame,
 Who fix'd in Thy eternal throne doth tame
 The rapid spheres, and lest they jar
 Hast giv'n a law to ev'ry star.
 Thou art the cause that now the moon
 With fall orb dulls the stars, and soon
 Again grows dark, her light being done,
 The nearer still she's to the sun.
 Thou in the early hours of night
 Mak'st the cool evening-star shine bright,
 And at sun-rising—'cause the least—
 Look pale and sleepy in the east.
 Thou, when the leaves in winter stray,
 Appoint'st the sun a shorter way,
 And in the pleasant summer light,
 With nimble hours dost wing the night.
 Thy hand the various year quite through
 Discreetly tempers, that what now
 The north-wind tears from ev'ry tree
 In spring again restor'd we see.
 Then what the winter stars between
 The furrows in mere seed have seen,
 The dog-star since—grown up and born—
 Hath burnt in stately, full-ear'd corn.
 Thus by creation's law controll'd
 All things their proper stations hold,
 Observing—as Thou didst intend—
 Why they were made, and for what end.
 Only human actions Thou
 Hast no care of, but to the flow
 And ebb of Fortune leav'st them all.
 Hence th' innocent endures that thrall
 Due to the wicked; whilst alone
 They sit possessors of his throne.
 The just are kill'd, and virtue lies
 Buried in obscurities;
 And—which of all things is most sad—
 The good man suffers by the bad.
 No perjuries, nor damn'd pretence
 Colour'd with holy, lying sense
 Can them annoy, but when they mind
 To try their force, which most men find,
 They from the highest sway of things
 Can pull down great and pious kings.
 O then at length, thus loosely hurl'd,
 Look on this miserable world,
 Whoe'er Thou art, that from above
 Dost in such order all things move!
 And let not man—of divine art
 Not the least, nor vilest part—
 By casual evils thus bandied, be
 The sport of Fate's obliquity.
 But with that faith Thou guid'st the heaven
 Settle this earth, and make them even.

METRUM VI.

When the Crab's fierce constellation
 Burns with the beams of the bright sun,
 Then he that will go out to sow,
 Shall never reap, where he did plough,
 But instead of corn may rather
 The old world's diet, acorns, gather.
 Who the violet doth love,
 Must seek her in the flow'ry grove,
 But never when the North's cold wind
 The russet fields with frost doth bind.
 If in the spring-time—to no end—
 The tender vine for grapes we bend,
 We shall find none, for only—still—
 Autumn doth the wine-press fill.
 Thus for all things—in the world's prime—
 The wise God seal'd their proper time,
 Nor will permit those seasons, He
 Ordain'd by turns, should mingled be;
 Then whose wild actions out of season
 Cross to Nature, and her reason,
 Would by new ways old orders rend,
 Shall never find a happy end.

METRUM VII.

Curtain'd with clouds in a dark night,
 The stars cannot send forth their light.
 And if a sudden southern blast
 The sea in rolling waves doth cast,
 That angry element doth boil,
 And from the deep with stormy coil
 Spews up the sands, which in short space
 Scatter, and puddle his curl'd face.
 Then those calm waters, which but now
 Stood clear as heaven's unclouded brow,
 And like transparent glass did lie
 Open to ev'ry searcher's eye,
 Look foully stirr'd and—though desir'd—
 Resist the sight, because bemir'd.
 So often from a high hill's brow
 Some pilgrim-spring is seen to flow,
 And in a straight line keep her course,
 'Till from a rock with headlong force
 Some broken piece blocks up the way,
 And forceth all her streams astray.
 Then thou that with enlighten'd rays
 Wouldst see the truth, and in her ways
 Keep without error; neither fear
 The future, nor too much give ear
 To present joys; and give no scope
 To grief, nor much to flatt'ring hope.
 For when these rebels reign, the mind
 Is both a pris'ner, and stark blind.

LIB. II. METRUM I.

Fortune—when with rash hands she quite turmoils
 The state of things, and in tempestuous foils
 Comes whirling like Euripus—beats quite down
 With headlong force the highest monarch's crown,
 And in his place, unto the throne doth fetch
 The despis'd looks of some mechanic wretch:
 So jests at tears and miseries, is proud,
 And laughs to hear her vassals groan aloud.
 These are her sports, thus she her wheel doth drive,
 And plagues man with her blind prerogative;
 Nor is't a favour of inferior strain,
 If once kick'd down, she lets him rise again.

METRUM II.

If with an open, bounteous hand
 —Wholly left at man's command—
 Fortune should in one rich flow
 As many heaps on him bestow
 Of massy gold, as there be sands
 Toss'd by the waves and winds rude bands,
 Or bright stars in a winter night
 Decking their silent orbs with light;
 Yet would his lust know no restraints,
 Nor cease to weep in sad complaints.
 Though Heaven should his vows regard,
 And in a prodigal reward
 Return him all he could implore,
 Adding new honours to his store,
 Yet all were nothing. Goods in sight
 Are scorn'd, and lust in greedy flight
 Lays out for more; what measure then
 Can tame these wild desires of men?
 Since all we give both last and first
 Doth but inflame, and feed their thirst.
 For how can he be rich, who 'midst his store
 Sits sadly pining, and believes he's poor.

METRUM III.

When the sun from his rosy bed
 The dawning light begins to shed,
 The drowsy sky uncurtains round,
 And the—but now bright—stars all drown'd
 In one great light look dull and tame,
 And homage his victorious flame.
 Thus, when the warm Etesian wind
 The Earth's seal'd bosom doth unbind,
 Straight she her various store discloses,
 And purples every grove with roses;
 But if the South's tempestuous breath
 Breaks forth, those blushes pine to death.
 Oft in a quiet sky the deep
 With unmov'd waves seems fast asleep,
 And oft again the blust'ring North
 In angry heaps provokes them forth.
 If then this world, which holds all nations,
 Suffers itself such alterations,
 That not this mighty massy frame,
 Nor any part of it can claim
 One certain course, why should man prate,
 Or censure the designs of Fate?
 Why from frail honours, and goods lent
 Should he expect things permanent?
 Since 'tis enacted by Divine decree
 That nothing mortal shall eternal be.

METRUM IV.

Who wisely would for his retreat
 Build a secure and lasting seat,
 Where stov'd in silence he may sleep
 Beneath the wind, above the deep;
 Let him th' high hills leave on one hand,
 And on the other the false sand.
 The first to winds lies plain and even,
 From all the blust'ring points of heaven;
 The other, hollow and unsure,
 No weight of building will endure.
 Avoiding then the envied state
 Of buildings bravely situate,
 Remember thou thyself to lock
 Within some low neglected rock.
 There when fierce heaven in thunder chides,
 And winds and waves rage on all sides,
 Thou happy in the quiet sense
 Of thy poor cell, with small expense
 Shall lead a life serene and fair,
 And scorn the anger of the air.

METRUM V.

Happy that first white age! when we
 Lived by the Earth's mere charity.
 No soft luxurious diet then
 Had effeminated men,
 No other meat, nor wine had any
 Than the coarse mast, or simple honey,
 And by the parents' care laid up
 Cheap berries did the children sup.
 No pompous wear was in those days
 Of gummy silks, or scarlet baize,
 Their beds were on some flow'ry brink,
 And clear spring-water was their drink.
 The shady pine in the sun's heat
 Was their cool and known retreat,
 For then 'twas not cut down, but stood
 The youth and glory of the wood.
 The daring sailor with his slaves
 Then had not cut the swelling waves,
 Nor for desire of foreign store
 Seen any but his native shore.
 No stirring drum had scarr'd that age,
 Nor the shrill trumpet's active rage,
 No wounds by bitter hatred made
 With warm blood soil'd the shining blade;
 For how could hostile madness arm
 An age of love, to public harm?
 When common justice none withstood,
 Nor sought rewards for spilling blood.
 O that at length our age would raise
 Into the temper of those days!
 But—worse than Ætna's fires!—debate
 And avarice inflame our State.
 Alas! who was it that first found
 Gold, hid of purpose under ground,
 That sought our pearls, and div'd to find
 Such precious perils for mankind!

METRUM VII.

He that thirsts for glory's prize,
 Thinking that the top of all,
 Let him view th' expansèd skies,
 And the earth's contracted ball;
 'Twill shame him then: the name he wan
 Fills not the short walk of one man.

2

O why vainly strive you then
 To shake off the bands of Fate,
 Though Fame through the world of men
 Should in all tongues your names relate,
 And with proud titles swell that story:
 The dark grave scorns your brightest glory.

3

There with nobles beggars sway,
 And kings with commons share one dust.
 What news of Brutus at this day,
 Or Fabricius the just?
 Some rude verse, cut in stone, or lead,
 Keeps up the names, but they are dead.

4

So shall you one day—past reprieve—
 Lie—perhaps—without a name.
 But if dead you think to live
 By this air of human fame,
 Know, when Time stops that posthume breath,
 You must endure a second death.

METRUM VIII.

That the world in constant force
 Varies her concordant course;
 That seeds jarring hot and cold
 Do the breed perpetual hold;
 That in his golden coach the sun
 Brings the rosy day still on;
 That the moon sways all those lights
 Which Hesper ushers to dark nights;
 That alternate tides be found
 The sea's ambitious waves to bound,
 Lest o'er the wide earth without end
 Their fluid empire should extend;
 All this frame of things that be,
 Love which rules heaven, land, and sea,
 Chains, keeps, orders as we see.
 This, if the reins he once cast by,
 All things that now by turns comply
 Would fall to discord, and this frame
 Which now by social faith they tame,
 And comely orders, in that fight
 And jar of things would perish quite.
 This in a holy league of peace
 Keeps king and people with increase;
 And in the sacred nuptial bands
 Ties up chaste hearts with willing hands;
 And this keeps firm without all doubt
 Friends by his bright instinct found out.
 O happy nation then were you,
 If love, which doth all things subdue,
 That rules the spacious heav'n, and brings
 Plenty and peace upon his wings,
 Might rule you too! and without guile
 Settle once more this floating isle!

CASIMIRUS, [LYRICORUM] LIB. IV. ODE XXVIII.