Classic Poem

Horace: Ode: 9: Lib: 1:

Dos't thou not see how in one night
The fields grow aged, and turn white?
The ofspring of the Forrest now
Putts on a night-capp, and doth bow.
The sharper frost lays an arrest
Upon faire Avons Liquid brest.

Why should we shiv'ring turne with these to ice,
When an increase of fire, with Ale and spice
May thaugh us througly? double then thy pains
Thou blinking Ned; lett Leonard fill our vaines
With the Sunns last-years Nectar, better farre
Than the Diota, or Sabinian starre.

Putt we the rest to God; who makes
A warr at Sea with windes, yet shakes
Neither the Ash, nor Cypress tree;
Leave to Curiosity
What shall the morrow-work be, and
The Guifts of Fortune lett's command.

Nor whilst the rising sapp proclaimes us young,
And free from crooked Ages peivish toung
Lett us refuse to sport, to daunce or sing,
Sheltered under Cupids golden wing:
Now on the Plaines with Hound, or Hawke
Wee'll spend the day; at Even the walk

Shall our retrear be, where we may discover
The whisp'ring repetitions of some Lover?
Or heare the inward pretty giglings, beene
From a wench in a corner, and not seene?
Or see one runn away half madd for joy
He'd gott a Ring from's Mistress, or some toy?

Thus, though both woods and fields seeme olde,
And Avon's frozen up with colde,
Whilst there is fire in Venus court
We shall not want for heat and sport.