Quam fugeret. Fugitiva, tuum Cor!si Cor haberes, Non meminisse Mei non Meminise Sui.
The FLIGHT of the HEART
Where's thy Heart flown if thou a Heart hast got, Who both Thyself and Me remembrest not.
The ABSENCE of the Heart.
Wherefore is there a price in the hand of a fool to get wisdom, seeing he hath no heart to it?
HADST thou an heart, thou fickle fugitive,
How would thine heart hate and disdain to live
Mindful of such vain trifles as these be !
Brave, dainty, curious, rare, rich, precious things!
Able to make fate-blasted mortals blest,
Peculiar treasures, and delights for kings,
That having pow'r of all, would chuse the best.
How do I hug mine happiness, that have
Present possession of what others crave!
Poor, silly, simple, sense-besotted soul,
Why dost thou hug thy self-procured woes ?
Release thy free-born thoughts, at least controul
Those passions that enslave thee to thy foes.
How wouldst thou hate thyself, if thou didst know,
The baseness of those things thou prizest so!
They talk of goodness, virtue, piety,
Religion, honesty, I know not what
So let them talk for me: so long as I
Have goods and lands, and gold and jewels, that
Both equal and excel all other treasure,
Why should I strive to make their pain my pleasure?
So swine neglect the pearls that lie before them,
Trample them under foot, and feed on draff:
So fools gild rotten idols, and adore them,
Cast all the corn away, and keep the chaff.
That ever reason should be blinded so;
To grasp the shadow, let the substance go!
All's but opinion that the world accounts
Matter of worth: as this or that man sets
A value on it, so the price amounts:
The sound of strings is vary'd by the frets,
My mind's my kingdom: why should I withstand, Or question that, which I myself command ?
Thy tyrant passions captivate thy reason:
Thy lusts usurp the guidance of the mind:
Thy sense-led fancy barters good for geason † :
Thy seed is vanity, thine harvest wind:
Thy rules are crooked, and thou write'st awry:
Thy ways are wand'ring, and thy mind to die.
This table sums me myriads of pleasure;
That book enrols mine honour's inventory:
These bags are stuff'd with millions of treasure:
Those writings evidence my state of glory:
These bells ring heav'nly music in mine cars,
To drown the noise of cumb'rous cares and fears.
* Draff, i, e. swill, or hog's-meat.
Geazon, or gazon, i. e. a sod of earth,
Those pleasures one day will procure thy pain:
That which thou glori'st in, will be thy shame :
Thou'lt find thy loss in what thou thought'st thy gain :
Thine honour will put on another name.
That music, in the close, will ring thy knell;
Instead of heaven, toll thee into hell.
But why do I thus waste my words in vain
On one that's wholly taken up with toys;
That will not lose one dram of earth, to gain
A full eternal weight of heav'nly joys?
All's to no purpose: 'tis as good forbear,
As speak to one that hath по heart to hear.
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