Classic Poem

ODE LIX

1

Not, though wee keepe a Soft
Low number; scorne to read our verse;
Strong Pineons flye aloft,
And haughtie Quills, high Things reherse.
Mee, better suits to Creepe,
Then with Icarian winge,
Contrive a scorned Ruine. To the Cheape
Ayre of opinion, will I never Sing;
I cannot weepe,
Nor Laugh, to Please; I can doe noe such Thinge.


2

Shall I soe farre Submitt
My Reason? perhaps to one lesse?
Or prostitute my witt,
To a more Customarie Dresse?
I am not borne a Slave.
If Fortune worse contrive,
Nature intended better; yet I have
Somewhat She cannot take, She did not give:
There am I brave;
A Monarch free, though I in fetters Live.

3

Ah, but I must resigne;
For I am not my owne, to Say
Or Doe: nothing of mine
But I submitt, to the worne way
Of Custome. I will write
Full Panegerickes to
Celebrate Justice in our Age: make white
Foule Crimes; and tell Posteritie wee owe
To those, that fight
Soe good a Cause, all wee can Say, or Doe.

4

Yes; I will say it: and
Put of my Nature, for a while:
My witt, to anie hand
Entrust; and sing for a State Smile,
Or potent Countenance.
Tis wisedome, to forgett
Sometimes our Interests; wise men make Chance
A Deitie. Tis madnes to love witt,
May disadvance
A further reach: I'me taught, and I submitt.

5

Were I an Atome, in
The Ages Glasse, I must run free,
Or stop the passage. Men
Are Sands, and run Successivelie;
Each in his way, and Place.
If any make a Stop,
The rest want motion. Each graine, to the Masse
Contributes, to the consummating up
Of the full Glasse;
And as the lowest Slide, soe sinkes the Toppe.

6

But thus I trifle out,
In weake Surmises, all my Inke;
And loose my better thought,
Whilest I of Time, or customes thinke.
My numbers, not Enthralled,
I will noe longer Span
By that uncertaine Measure. I have fail'd,
And let some better Liricke, if he can,
Prove it Entailed,
From Theban Lire, and Sweet Dircean Swan.