English

IN THE NINTH BOOK OF LUCAN .

What, Labienus! would thy fond desire
Of horned Jove's prophetick shrine inquire
Whether to seek in arms a glorious doom
Or basely live and be a king in Rome?
If life be nothing more than death's delay,
If impious Force can honest minds dismay,
Or Probity may Fortune's frown disdain,
If well to mean is all that Virtue can,
And right dependant on itself alone
Gains no addition from success — 'Tis known
Fix'd in my heart these constant truths I bear,

BY THE SAME .

I N a fair temple, by the virtues grac'd,
The throne of spotless Innocence was plac'd;
On which the radiant goddess sat serene,
A blooming beauty of a dove-like mien;
On her right hand sat Peace and Concord fair,
As seraphs beauteous, and as soft as air;
Close by her side, attir'd in robes of white,
Fair Candour sat, and look'd divinely bright;
So mild, yet so commanding, was her mien,
She seem'd at once an angel and a queen!

Once as I dyd contemplate with myn Eyes
the hugie frame of all the heavens abowe
The moone the Starres and bewtye of the skies
and how each thinge in order due dyd move
Me thoughte the syght thereoff lyked me so well
as that I wishte in that fayre place to dwell

And with my selfe begann to Reasone this
o Bewtie rare, whose lyke yett never was
For since the same withoute so gloryous is
within me thinks ytt needes muste farr surpass
And therewithall I dyd this worlde dyspise

Lockes, ornament of angels, diademes
Which the triumphing quires aboue doe crowne;
Rich curles of bountie, pinnions of renowne,
Of that immortall sunne immortall beames;
Lockes, sacred lockes, no, adamantine chaines,
Which doe shut vp and firme together binde
Both that contentment which in life wee finde,
And blisse which with vnbodied soules remaines;
Faire locks, all locks compar'd to you, though gold,
Are comets' locks, portending harme and wrath,
Or bauld Occasion's locke, that none can holde,

BY THE SAME .

The charms of fair Benevolence I sing,
For her the muse shall wake the hallow'd lyre;
Soft as the dews of heav'n, and mild as spring,
Bright emanation of her heav'nly Sire.

Far from the pomp of courts she loves to dwell:
Offspring of Pity, whither art thou fled?
To the dark dungeon or the gloomy cell,
To raise some hapless mortal's drooping head!

Scarce I four lusters had enjoyed breath,
When my life's threid was cut by cruel death;
Few were my yeares, so were my sorrowes all,
Long dayes have drammes of sweet, but pounds of gall;
And yet the fruites which my faire spring did give,
Prove some may longer breath, not longer live.
That craggie path which doth to vertue lead,
With steps of honor I did stronglie tread;
I made sweet layes, and into notes divyne
Out sung Apollo and the Muses nyne.
For this sweetest swannets did extolle my verse,

Pallas-Lied
Heiliges Mädchen, du Glückliche du, die es bleiben und sein darf,
Oh Pallas, immer ein Mädchen,
Nimm die Weihe von denen, die's morgen schon nicht sein dürfen,
Oh Pallas, nimmer ein Mädchen!

Glückliche du, die die Liebe nicht kennt und sie darf dir ein Greul sein,
Greul sein, sie, die wir lieber nicht kennten, und müssen sie heilig,
Oh Pallas, nennen und halten,
Oh Pallas, halten von morgen!

Glückliche du, die den Mann nicht kennt, den Entsetzlichen, Einen,
Welcher uns morgen zerreißt!

Come forth, Laissa, spred thy lockes of gold,
Show thy cheekes' roses in their virgine prime,
And though no gemmes thee decke which Indies hold,
Yeild not vnto the fairest of thy tyme.
No ceruse brought farre farre beyond the seas,
Noe poisone lyke cinabre paints thy face,
Let them have that whose natiue hues displease,
Thow gracest nakednesse, it doth thee grace.
Thy syre no pyick-purse is of other's witt,
Those jewellis be his owne which thee adorne;
And though thow after greatter ones be borne,

She whome I holde so deare
too cruell thoughe She bee
Did in my sleepe appeare
this other night to me
Sweet were the lookes shee lente
and with such cheare Shee spake
As who shoulde say shee ment
remorce on me to take
I pressed with my payne
sayd unto her withall
Faire one doo not disdaine
the harte that is your thrall
And with a vapored Eye
this onely dyd I crave
That I the death might dye
yf grace I might nott have
Wherwith shee dyd disclose
those faire sweet Coralls twaine

Carnation, whit and watchede .

I saue of late a Ladie weare a shoo
that was as white as any dryven snowe
Her softe sylke hose was off Carnation hewe
and this She ware because the worlde should know
Shee dyd desire a virgins stepps to treade
this with those collours Shee her fancye fedd

The gartyer which did strayne her tender kne
by spetiall grace myn eyes did lyckewise vewe
But more then that (oh griefe) I might not see
whereof the colloure was a watched blewe