Classic Poem

Happy, thrice happy times in silver age!
When generous plants advanc't their lofty crest;
When honour stoopt to be learn'd wisdomes page;
When baser weeds starv'd in their frozen nest;
When th' highest flying Muse still highest climbes;
And vertues rise keeps down all rising crimes.
Happy, thrice happy age! happy, thrice happy times!

But wretched we, to whom these iron daies
(Hard daies) afford nor matter, nor reward!
Sings Maro? men deride high Maro's layes;
Their hearts with lead, with steel their sense is barr'd:
Sing Linus, or his father, as he uses,
Our Midas eares their well tun'd verse refuses.
What cares an asse for arts? he brayes at sacred Muses.

But if fond Bavius vent his clouted song,
Or Maevius chaunt his thoughts in brothell charm;
The witlesse vulgar, in a numerous throng,
Like summer flies about their dunghills swarm:
They sneer, they grinne. Like to his like will move.
Yet never let them greater mischief prove
Than this, Who hates not one, may he the other love.

Witnesse our Colin; whom though all the Graces,
And all the Muses nurst; whose well taught song
Parnassus self, and Glorian embraces,
And all the learn'd, and all the shepherds throng;
Yet all his hopes were crost, all suits deni'd;
Discourag'd, scorn'd, his writing vilifi'd:
Poorly (poore man) he liv'd; poorly (poore man) he di'd.

And had not that great Heart (whose honour'd head
Ah! lies full low) piti'd thy wofull plight;
There hadst thou lien unwept, unburied,
Unblest, nor grac't with any common rite:
Yet shalt thou live, when thy great foe shall sink
Beneath his mountain tombe, whose fame shall stink;
And time his blacker name shall blurre with blackest ink.

O let th' Iambick Muse revenge that wrong,
Which cannot slumber in thy sheets of lead:
Let thy abused honour crie as long
As there be quills to write, or eyes to reade:
On his rank name let thine own votes be turn'd,
Oh may that man that hath the Muses scorn'd,
Alive, nor dead, be ever of a Muse adorn'd!

Oft therefore have I chid my tender Muse;
Oft my chill breast beats off her fluttering wing:
Yet when new spring her gentle rayes infuse,
All storms are laid, I 'gin to chirp and sing:
At length soft fires disperst in every vein,
Yeeld open passage to the thronging train,
And swelling numbers tide rolls like the surging main.

So where fair Thames, and crooked Isis sonne
Payes tribute to his King, the mantling stream
Encounter'd by the tides (now rushing on
With equall force) of's way doth doubtfull seem:
At length the full-grown sea, and waters King
Chide the bold waves with hollow murmuring:
Back flie the streams to shroud them in their mother spring.

Yet thou sweet numerous Muse, why should'st thou droop
That every vulgar eare thy musick scorns?
Nor can they rise, nor thou so low canst stoop;
No seed of heav'n takes root in mud or thorns.
When owls or crows, imping their flaggy wing
With thy stoln plumes, their notes through th'ayer fling;
Oh shame! They howl and croak, while fond they strain to sing.

Enough for thee in heav'n to build thy nest;
(Farre be dull thoughts of winning dunghill praise)
Enough, if Kings enthrone thee in their breast,
And crown their golden crowns with higher baies:
Enough that those who weare the crown of Kings
(Great Israels Princes) strike thy sweetest strings:
Heav'ns Dove when high'st he flies, flies with thy heav'nly wings.

Let others trust the seas, dare death and hell,
Search either Inde, vaunt of their scarres and wounds;
Let others their deare breath (nay silence) sell
To fools, and (swoln, not rich) stretch out their bounds
By spoiling those that live, and wronging dead;
That they may drink in pearl, and couch their head
In soft, but sleeplesse down; in rich, but restlesse bed.

Oh let them in their gold quaffe dropsies down;
Oh let them surfets feast in silver bright:
While sugar hires the taste the brain to drown,
And bribes of sauce corrupt false appetite,
His masters rest, health, heart, life, soul to sell.
Thus plentie, fulnesse, sicknesse, ring their knell:
Death weds and beds them; first in grave, and then in hell.

But (ah!) let me under some Kentish hill
Neare rolling Medway 'mong my shepherd peers,
With fearelesse merrie-make, and piping still,
Securely passe my few and slow-pac'd yeares:
While yet the great Augustus of our nation
Shuts up old Janus in this long cessation,
Strength'ning our pleasing ease, and gives us sure vacation.

There may I, master of a little flock,
Feed my poore lambes, and often change their fare:
My lovely mate shall tend my sparing stock,
And nurse my little ones with pleasing care;
Whose love and look shall speak their father plain.
Health be my feast, heav'n hope, content my gain:
So in my little house my lesser heart shall reigne.

The beech shall yield a cool safe canopie,
While down I sit, and chaunt to th' echoing wood:
Ah singing might I live, and singing die!
So by fair Thames, or silver Medwayes floud,
The dying swan, when yeares her temples pierce,
In musick strains breathes out her life and verse;
And chaunting her own dirge tides on her wat'ry hearse.

What shall I then need seek a patron out,
Or begge a favour from a mistress' eyes,
To fence my song against the vulgar rout,
Or shine upon me with her Geminies?
What care I, if they praise my slender song?
Or reck I, if they do me right, or wrong?
A shepherds blisse nor stands nor falls to ev'ry tongue.

Great prince of shepherds, than thy heav'ns more high,
Low as our earth, here serving, ruling there;
Who taught'st our death to live, thy life to die;
Who when we broke thy bonds, our bonds would'st bear;
Who reignedst in thy heav'n, yet felt'st our hell;
Who (God) bought'st man, whom man (though God) did sell;
Who in our flesh, our graves, (and worse) our hearts would'st dwell:

Great Prince of shepherds, thou who late didst deigne
To lodge thy self within this wretched breast,
(Most wretched breast such guest to entertain,
Yet oh, most happy lodge in such a guest!)
Thou first and last, inspire thy sacred skill;
Guide thou my hand, grace thou my artlesse quill:
So shall I first begin, so last shall end thy will.