Classic Poem

D AMON , P HILLIS .

Phillis.

Damon,

Is't true, or do they fain
Who say that we shall live again
After w' are dead?

Damon.

Phillis, 'tis so,
That thou and I, and all must go
To another world, where we
In endless joyes or pains must be.

Phillis.

Damon, I prethee Damon tell,
How call'st thou it?

Damon.

Heaven or hell.

Phillis.

What is heaven, Damon? say

Damon.

A place where all year is May
Where every bird doth sit and sing
Continually, as in the Spring,
Where are always to be seen
Flow'ry meadows, pastures green:
Where many springs and fountaines meet,
As chrystal cleer, and hony sweet;
Rich flocks, whose fleeces are of gold,
And whose flesh never wil grow old,
But the ewe is as tender there,
As the new fallen lamb is here.
The shepherd needs not watch to keep
Either from wolfe or bear, his sheep.
No beast comes there that's fierce or wild,
They are all innocent and mild;
No grief nor want amongst them found,
But all are wel, and safe and sound.
Our roundelayes harsh discords be
Unto their sweetest harmonie,
Beyond the musick of the spheares.
O thou wouldst wish to be all ears.
Our feasts, if we to theirs compare,
Not feasts, but rather fasts they are:
Their food so ful yet without waste
O thou wouldst wish to be all taste!

Phillis.

O happie place, be thou my guide
That I may ever there abide,
But once more Damon, prethee tell,
What is that place thou callest hel?

Damon.

A dismal place, where is no light,
'Tis alwaies winter, alwaies night,
Where vultures feed on men, and where
The screech-owle cryeth all the year,
The ground with flames is parcht about,
Like those mount Etna sendeth out;
No flowers nor wholesome herbs are seen;
Not any that are sweet or green
Grow in that soile, which nought else breeds
But hemlock, and such poisonous weeds,
Which whoso tastes, he soon goes sad,
And thorow deep despaire runs mad;
No fountain, but one standing ditch,
Whose water is as black as pitch,
Bitter as gall, so foul doth stink,
That you may smel't before you drink;
But if you drink, it poisons you,
And makes you black as itself too.
There be no sheep, but goats, whose hair
Doth like horse bristles wildely stare.
They're old and tough, and monstrous evil,
Fit meat for none, but for the divel.
Pandora's box there opened first,
Hath made the place e're since accurst
With all diseases, which do stil
Much torment cause, yet never kil;
Th' inhabitants there never dye,
But in quenchlesse fire they fry;
Their best musick is the groans
And howlings of the damned ones;
Instead of feasting on good meat
The worm of conscience doth them eate;
Like Tantalus, fruit they may see,
Yet never taste but starved be.

Phil.

O wretched place! be thou my guide,
That I may never there abide.