Our beauty is to us that which to men
Wit is, or strength unto the lion. Then
Let us use it whilst wee may;
Snatch those joyes that haste away.
Earth her winter-coat may cast,
And renew her beauty past;
But, our winter come, in vain
We sollicite spring again:
And when our furrows snow shall cover,
Love may return, but never Lover.

Let us use it while we may;
Snatch those joys that haste away.
Earth her winter-coat may cast,
And renew here beauty past;
But, our winter come, in vain
We solicit spring again:
And when our furrows snow shall cover,
Love may return, but never lover.

Now war is all the world about,
And everywhere Erynnis reigns,
Or else, the torch so late put out,
The stench remains.

Holland for many years hath been
Of Christian tragedies the stage,
Yet seldom hath she played a scene
Of bloodier rage.

And France that was not long composed,
With civil drums again resounds,
And ere the old are fully closed
Receives new wounds.

The great Gustavus in the west
Plucks the Imperial Eagle's wing,
Than whom the earth did ne'er invest
A fiercer king;

Revenging lost Bohemia,

Learn women all from this housewifery,
Make you conserve of Lovers to keep by.
Had I no Sweet-heart but this sullen Boy,
Were I not well provided of a joy?
To extreme want how likely to be hurl'd
Is that ill houswife, who in all the world
But one Love onely, but one Servant hath?
Corsica will be no such fool. What's faith?
What's constancy? Tales which the jealous feign
To awe fond girls: names as absurd as vain.
Faith in a woman (if at least there be
Faith in a woman unreveal'd to me)
Is not a vertue, nor a heavenly grace,

How I forsook
Elias and Pisa after, and betook
Myself to Argos and Mycenae, where
An earthly god I worshiped, with what there
I suffered in that hard captivity,
Would be too long for thee to hear, for me
Too sad to utter. Only thus much know;--
I lost my labor, and in sand did sow:
I writ, wept, sung; hot and cold fits I had;
I rid, I stood, I bore, now sad, now glad,
Now high, now low, now in esteem, now scorned;
And as the Delphic iron, which is turned
Now to heroic, now mechanic use,
I feared no danger,--did no pains refuse;

To hope is good, but with such wild applause
Each promise Fabius thou dost entertain;
As if decreed thee by fates certain Laws,
Or in possession now it did remain.

Wisdom is arm'd 'gainst all that can succeed,
Time's changes and his stratagems: for such
His nature is, that when his wings we need,
He will come creeping on his halting Crutch.

Do not, if wise, then to thy self assure
The future, nor on present goods rely,
Or think there's any time from time secure:
For then when patience sees her Harvest nigh,

Fair golden Age! when milk was th' onely food,
And cradle of the infant-world the wood
(Rock'd by the windes); and th' untoucht flocks did bear
Their deer young for themselves! None yet did fear
The sword or poyson: no black thoughts begun
T' eclipse the light of the eternall Sun:
Nor wandring Pines unto a forreign shore
Or War, or Riches, (a worse mischief) bore.
That pompous sound, Idoll of vanity,
Made up of Title, Pride, and Flattery,
Which they call Honour whom Ambition blindes,
Was not as yet the Tyrant of our mindes,

When Cupid once the little Thief would play,
And search'd a Hive to steal the Combs away;
A watchful Bee that in her waxen Cell,
To guard her Nectar then stood Centinel,
Wounded his Fingers as they still drew near,
And to the head bury'd her poyson'd Spear;
He cry'd, and stamp'd, and frisk'd, and blow'd his hand,
And to his Mother of the Bee complain'd;
He sobb'd, and wonder'd how there could be found
A Fly so small to make so great a wound;
But Venus laugh'd to see how Cupid cry'd,
And thus at length she smilingly reply'd:

Eschines . Tom, Will , and Dick , and I, a jovial Crew,
Not minding Fate that did too close pursue,
Drank at my House, the Glass went briskly round,
Our hearts were merry, and each head was crown'd;
I made them welcome, got the best I cou'd,
A sucking Pig, two Chicken, Country food,
And, tho I say't my self, my Wine was good:
Twas four years old, yet mild, I vow tis true,

Thus sweetly sad of old, the Cyclops strove
To soften his uneasie hours of Love.
Then when hot Youth urg'd him to fierce desire,
And Galatea 's eyes kindled the raging fire,
His was no common Flame, nor could he move
In the old Arts, and beaten Paths of Love;
Nor Flowers, nor Fruits sent to oblige the Fair,
Nor more to please, curl'd his neglected Hair.
His was all Rage, all Madness; To his Mind
No other Cares their wonted entrance find.
Oft from the Feild his Flock return'd alone
Unheeded, unobserv'd: He on some stone,