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That with your numbers you our zeal might raise, 27
PICTURE OF SENECA DYING IN A BATH.
By JoRDAIN. AT THE RIGHT HON. THE EARL OF EXETER's AT BURLEIGH HOUSE.
WHILE cruel Nero only drains
Heightened revenge he should have took ;
AN ODE. 1 WHILE blooming youth, and gay delight
Sit on thy rosy cheeks confessed, Thou hast, my dear, undoubted right
To triumph o'er this destined breast. My reason bends to what thy eyes ordain; For I was born to love, and thou to reign.
2 But would you meanly thus rely
On power, you know I must obey ?
And do an ill, because you may?
3 Take heed, my dear, youth flies apace;
As well as Cupid, Time is blind; Soon must those glories of thy face
The fate of vulgar beauty find; The thousand loves, that arm thy potent eye, Must drop their quivers, flag their wings, and die.
4 Then wilt thou sigh, when in each frown
A hateful wrinkle more appears; And putting peevish humours on,
Seems but the sad effect of years; Kindness itself too weak a charm will prove, To raise the feeble fires of agèd love.
5 Forced compliments and formal bows
Will show thee just above neglect:
Will settle into cold respect;
6 Then shun the ill, and know, my dear,
Kindness and constancy will prove
So vast a weight as that of love:
7 Haste, Celia, haste, while youth invites,
Obey kind Cupid's present voice; Fill every sense with soft delights,
And give thy soul a loose to joys; Let millions of repeated blisses prove, That thou all kindness art, and I all love.
8 Be mine, and only mine; take care
Thy looks, thy thoughts, thy dreams to guide To me alone; nor come so far,
As liking any youth beside: What men e'er court thee, fly them, and believe, They're serpents all, and thou the tempted Eve.
9 So shall I court thy dearest truth,
When beauty ceases to engage;
I 'll love it o'er again in age;
AN EPISTLE TO FLEETWOOD SHEPHERD,1
BURLEIGH, MAY 14, 1689.
Or as with gondolas, and men, his
Or, not to rove, and pump one's fancy
Present a turkey, or a hen
each year a homely letter, Who may return me much a better.
Then take it, Sir, as it was writ, To pay respect and not show wit; Nor look askew at what it saith; There's no petition in it,—’Faith.
Here some would scratch their heads, and try What they should write, and how, and why; But I conceive, such folks are quite in Mistakes, in theory of writing. If once for principle 'tis laid, That thought is trouble to the head; I argue thus: the world agrees, That he writes well who writes with ease; Then he, by sequel logical, Writes best who never thinks at all.
Verse comes from Heaven, like inward light;
Memnon, though stone, was counted vocal;