Classic Poem

Shew me the flames you brag of, you that be
Arm'd with those two fires, Wine, and Poetry:
Y'are now benum'd spight of your Gods and Verse;
And may your Metaphors for Prayers rehearse;
Whiles you that call'd Snow Fleece , and Feathers , do
Wish for true Fleeces, and true Feathers too.
Waters have bound themselves, and cannot run,
Suff'ring what Xerxes fetters would have done;
Our Rivers are one Christall; Shoares are fit
Mirrours, being now, not like to Glass, but it:
Our Ships stand all as planted, we may swear
They are not born up only, but grow there.
Whiles Waters thus are Pavements, firm as Stone,
And without faith are each day walk'd upon,
What Parables call'd folly heretofore,
Were wisdome now, To build upon the Shoare .
There's no one dines among us with washt hands,
Water's as scarce here, as in Africk Sands;
And we expect it not but from some God
Opening a Fountain, or some Prophets Rod,
Who need not seek out where he may unlock
A stream, what e'r he strook would be true Rock.
When Heaven drops some smaller Showers, our sense
Of Griefe's encreas'd, being but deluded thence;
For whiles we think those drops to entertain,
They fall down Pearl, which came down half way Rain.
Green-Land 's Removall, now the poor man fears,
Seeing all Waters frozen, but his Tears.
We suffer Day continuall, and the Snow
Doth make our Little Night become Noon now.
We hear of some Enchristal'd, such as have
That, which procur'd their death, become their Grave.
Bodies, that destitute of Soul yet stood,
Dead, and not faln; drown'd, and without a Floud;
Nay we, who breath still, are almost as they,
And only may be stil'd a softer Clay;
We stand like Statues, as if Cast, and fit
For life, not having, but expecting it;
Each man's become the Stoick 's wise one hence;
For can you look for Passion , where's no Sense ?
Which we have not, resolv'd to our first Stone,
Unless it be one Sense to feel w' have none.
Our very Smiths now work not, nay what's more.
Our Dutchmen write but five hours and give o'r.
We dare provoke Fate now: we know what is
That last cold, Death, only by suff'ring this.
All fires are Vestall now, and we as they,
Do in our Chimneys keep a Lasting day;
Boasting within doores this domestique Sun,
Adored too with our Religion.
We laugh at fire-Briefs now, although they be
Commended to us by his Majesty;
And 'tis no Treason, for we cannot guess
Why we should pay them for their happiness.
Each hand would be a Scavola 's: let Rome
Call that a pleasure henceforth, not a doom.
A Feaver is become a wish: we sit
And think fall'n Angels have one Benefit,
Nor can the thought be impious, when we see
Weather, that Bowker durst not Prophesie;
Such as may give new Epochaes , and make
Another SINCE in his bold Almanack;
Weather may save his doom, and by his foe
Be thought enough for him to undergo.
We now think Alabaster true, and look
A suddain Trump should antedate his Book;
For whiles we suffer this, ought we not fear
The World shall not survive to a fourth year?
And sure we may conclude weak Nature old
And Crazed now, being shee's grown so Cold.
But Frost's not all our Grief: we that so sore
Suffer its stay, fear its departure more:
For when that Leaves us, which so long hath stood,
'Twill make a New Accompt From th' second Floud .