The fair Ionian regiment;

Crown me with roses whilst I live, And next the Carian company,

Now your wines and ointments give; Five hundred both effectively;

After death I nothing crave, Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ;

Let me alive your pleasures have,
Three hundred 'tis, I am sure, complete ;

All are Stoics in the grave.
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And ev'ry eye's an archer there.

The Grasshopper.
Go on, this stop why dost thou make?

Happy insect! what can be Thou think’st, perhaps, that I mistake.

In happiness compar'd to thee? Seems this to thee too great a sum?

Fed with nourishment divine, Why many thousands are to come ;

The dewy morning's gentle wine ! The mighty Xerxes could not boast

Nature waits upon thee still, Such diff'rent nations in his host.

And thy verdant cup does fill; On; for my love, if thou be’st weary,

'Tis till'd wherever thou dost tread, Must find some better secretary.

Nature self's thy Ganymede. I have not yet my Persian told,

Thou dost drink, and dance and sing, Nor yet my Syrian loves inrollid,

Happier than the happiest king! Nor Indian nor Arabian,

All the fields which thou dost see, Nor Cyprian loves nor African,

All the plants, belong to thee; Nor Scythian nor Italian flames;

All that summer-hours produce, There's a whole map behind of names,

Fertile made with early juice: Of gentle loves i' th’ Temp’rate Zone,

Man for thee does sow and plow; And cold ones in the Frigid one,

Farmer he, and landlord thou ! Cold frozen loves with which I pine,

Thou dost innocently joy, And parched loves beneath the Line.

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
The Epicure.

More harmonious than he.
Fill the bowl with rosy wine,

Thee country hinds with gladness hear, Around our temples roses twine,

Prophet of the ripen'd year! And let us cheerfully awhile,

Thee Phæbus loves, and does inspire; Like the wine and roses smile;

Phæbus is himself thy sire. Crown'd with roses we contemn

To thee of all things upon earth, Gyges' wealthy diadem.

Life is no longer than thy mirth. To-day is ours; what do we fear?

Happy insect! happy thou, To-day is ours, we have it here;

Dost neither age nor winter know: Let us treat it kindly, that it may

But when thou 'st drunk, and danc'd, and sung Wish, at least, with us to stay:

Thy fill, the flow'ry leaves among, Let us banish bus'ness, banish sorrow;

(Voluptuous, and wise withal, To the gods belongs to-morrow.

Epicurean animal !)

Sated with thy summer feast,
Another.

Thou retir'st to endless rest.
Underneath this myrtle shade,

The Swallow,
On flow'ry beds supinely laid,
With od'rous oils my head o'erflowing,

Foolish prater! what dost thou
And around it roses growing,

So early at my window do What should I do but drink away

With thy tuneless serenade? The heat and troubles of the day?

Well it had been had Tereus made In this more than kingly state,

Thee as dumb as Philomel ; Love himself shall on me wait.

There his knife had done but well. Fill to me, Love! nay fill it up,

In thy undiscover'd nest And mingled cast into the cup

Thou dost all the winter rest, Wit and mirth, and noble fires,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys Vigorous health, and gay desires.

Free from the stormy season's noise; The wheel of life no less will stay

Free from th' ill thou 'st done to me; In a smooth than rugged way;

Who disturbs or seeks out thee? Since it equally doth tlee,

Hadst thou all the charming notes Let the motion pleasant be.

Of the woods' poetic throats, Why do we precious ointments show'r,

All thy art could never pay Nobler wines why do we pour?

What thou 'st ta'en from me away. Beauteous flow'rs why do we spread,

Cruel bird! thou 'st ta'en away Upon the mon'ments of the dead?

A dream out of my arms to-day; Nothing they but dust can shew,

A dream that ne'er must equall'd be Or bones that hasten to be so.

By all that waking eyes may see:

Thou this damage to repair,

Than men safe-landed, do the wind. Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Wisdom itself they should not hear Nothing half so good can'st bring,

When it presumes to be severe. Tho' men say thou bring'st the Spring.

Beauty alone they should admire,

Nor look at Fortune's vain attire, Elegy upon Anacreon who was choaked by a Grape

Nor ask what parents it can shew ; stone. Spoken by the God of Love.

With dead or old it has nought to do. How shall I lament thine end,

They should not love yet all, or any, My best servant and my friend?

But very much, and very many. Nay, and if from a deity

All their life should gilded be So much deify'd as I,

With mirth, and wit, and gaiety, It sound not too profane and odd,

Well rememb'ring, and applying Oh! my Master, and my God!

The necessity of dying. For 'tis true, most mighty Poet!

Their cheerful heads should always wear (Tho' I like not men should know it)

All that crowns the flow'ry year. I am in naked Nature less,

They should always laugh and sing, Less by much than in thy dress.

And dance, and strike th' harmonious string. All thy verse is softer far

Verse should from their tongue so flow, Than the downy feathers are

As if it in the mouth did grow; Of my wings, or of my arrows,

As swiftly answ'ring their command, Of my mother's doves or sparrows.

As tunes obey the artful hand: Sweet as lovers' freshest kisses,

And whilst I do thus discover Or their riper following blisses,

Th' ingredients of a happy lover, Graceful, cleanly, smooth, and round,

'Tis, my Anacreon! for thy sake All with Venus' girdle bound,

I of the Grape no mention make. And thy life was all the while

Till my Anacreon by thee fell, Kind and gentle as thy style:

Cursed Plant! I lov'd thee well, The smooth pac'd hours of ev'ry day

And 'twas oft my wanton use Glided num'rously away;

To dip my arrows in thy juice. Like thy verse each hour did pass,

Cursed Plant ! 'tis true I see Sweet and short, like that it was.

Th’old report that goes of thee, Some do but their youth allow me,

That with giants' blood th’ earth Just what they by Nature owe me,

Stain'd and poison'd gave thee birth. The time that's mine, and not their own,

And now thou wreak'st thy ancient spite The certain tribute of my crown;

On men in whom the Gods delight. When they grow old, they grow to be

Thy patron Bacchus, 'tis no wonder, Too busy or too wise for me.

Was brought forth in flames and thunder; Thou wert wiser, and didst know

In rage, in quarrels, and in fights, None too wise for love can grow.

Worse than his tigers he delights; Love was with thy life entwin'd,

In all our heav'n, I think there be Close as heat with fire is join'd;

No such ill-natur'd God as he. A pow'rful brand prescrib'd the date

Thou pretendest, trait'rous Wine ! Of thine, like Meleager's fate.

To be the Muses' friend and mine : Th' antiperistasis of age

With love and wit thou dost begin, More inflam'd thy amorous rage;

False fires, alas ! to draw us in ; Thy silver hairs yielded me more

Which, if our course we by them keep, Than even golden curls before.

Misguide to madness or to sleep: Had I the power of creation,

Sleep were well: thou hast learn'd a way As I have of generation,

To death itself now to betray. Where I the matter must obey,

It grieves me when I see what fate And cannot work plate out of clay,

Does on the best of mankind wait. My creatures should be all like thee;

Poets or lovers let them be, 'Tis thou shouldst their idea be.

'Tis neither love nor poesy They, like thee, should thoroughly hate

Can arm against Death's smallest dart Bus’ness, honour, title, state:

The poet's head or lover's heart; Other wealth they should not know

But when their life in its decline But what my living mines bestow:

Touches th' inevitable line, The pomp of kings they should confess

All the world's mortal to 'em then, At their crownings to be less

And wine is aconite to men: Than a lover's humblest guise,

Nay, in Death's hand the Grape-stone proves When at his mistress' feet he lies.

As ong as thunder is in Jove's. Rumour they no more should mind

MARVELL-A.D. 1620-1678.

And nothing may we use in vain,

Among the beds of lilies I Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain ;

Have sought it oft, where it should lye ; Else men are made their deodands.

Yet could not, till itself would rise, Though they should wash their guilty hands Find it, although before mine eyes; In this warm life-blood, which doth part

For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, From thine, and wound me to the heart,

It like a bank of lilies laid. Yet could they not be clean : their stain

Upon the roses it would feed, Is dy'd in such a purple grain.

Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed ; There is not such another in

And then to me 'twould boldly trip, The world to offer for their sin.

And print those roses on my lip. Inconstant Sylvio, when yet

But all its chief delight was still I had not found him counterfeit,

On roses thus itself to fill; One morning (I remember well)

And its pure virgin limbs to fold Ty'd in this silver chain and bell,

In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Gave it to me: nay, and I know

Had it lived long, it would have been What he said then I'm sure I do.

Lilies without, roses within. Said he, . Look how your huntsman here

O help! O help! I see it faint, • Hath taught a Fawn to hunt his Dear.'

And dye as calmly as a saint. But Sylvio soon had me beguilid:

See how it weeps ! the tears do come, This waxed tame, while he grew wild,

Sad, slowly, dropping like a gum. And quite regardless of my smart,

So weeps the wounded balsam; so Left me his Fawn, but took his Heart.

The holy frankincense doth flow. Thenceforth I set myself to play

The brotherless Heliades My solitary time away,

Melt in such amber tears as these. With this : and, very well content,

I in a golden vial will Could so mine idle life have spent.

Keep these two crystal tears; and fill For it was full of sport, and light

It, till it do o'erflow with mine; Of foot and heart, and did invite

Then place it in Diana's shrine. Me to its game : it seem'd to bless

Now my sweet Fawn is vanish'd to Itself in me. How could I less

Whither the swans and turtles go ; Than love it? 0 I cannot be

In fair Elizium to endure, Unkind t'a beast that loveth me.

With milk-white lambs, and ermins pure. Had it liv'd long, I do not know

O do not run too fast: for I Whether it too might have done so

Will but bespeak thy grave, and dye. As Sylvio did : his gifts might be

First my unhappy statue shall Perhaps as false, or more, than he.

Be cut in marble ; and withal, For I am sure, for aught that I

Let it be weeping too; but there Could in so short a time espy,

Th'engraver sure his art may spare, Thy love was far more better than

For I so truly thee bemoan, The love of false and cruel man.

That I shall weep though I be stone; With sweetest milk, and sugar, first

Until my tears, still drooping, wear lit at mine own fingers nursed ;

My breast, themselves engraving there. And as it grew, so every day

There at my feet shalt thou be laid, It wax'd more white and sweet than they.

Of purest alabaster made; It had so sweet a breath! And oft

For I would have thine image be
I blush'd to see its foot more soft,

White as I can, though not as thee.
And white, shall I say than my hand ?
Nay, any lady's of the land.
It is a wondrous thing how fleet

THE DROP OF DEW. 'Twas on those little silver feet.

See how the orient dew With what a pretty skipping grace

Shed from the bosom of the morn, It oft would challenge me the race;

Into the blowing roses, And when 't had left me far away,

Yet careless of its mansion new, "Twould stay, and run again, and stay.

For the clear region where 'twas born, For it was nimbler much than hinds;

Round in itself incloses : And trod, as if on the four winds.

And in its little globe's extent, I have a garden of my own,

Frames, as it can, its native element. But so with roses overgrown,

How it the purple flow'r does slight, And lilies, that you would it guess

Scarce touching where it lys ; To be a little wilderness,

But gazing back upon the skys, And all the spring-time of the year

Shines with a mournful light, It only loved to be there.

Like its own tear,