  Upon being Contented with a Little. We deem them moderate, but Enough implore, What barely will suffice, and ask no more: Who say, (O Jove) a competency give, Neither in Luxury, or Want we'd live. But what is that, which these Enough do call? If both the Indies unto some should fall, Such Wealth would yet Enough but onely be, And what they'd term not Want, or Luxury. Among the Suits, O Jove, my humbler take; A little give, I that Enough will make. The Second Epigram.On BILLINDA.Wanton Billinda loudly does complain, I've chang'd my Love of late into disdain: Calls me unconstant, cause I now adore The chast Marcella, that lov'd her before. Sin or Dishonour, me as well may blame, That I repent, or do avoid a shame. The Third Epigram.On an ATHEIST.Posthumus boasts he does not Thunder fear, And for this cause would Innocent appear; That in his Soul no Terrour he does feel, At threatn'd Vultures, or Ixion's Wheel, Which fright the Guilty: But when Fabius told What Acts 'gainst Murder lately were enrol'd, 'Gainst Incest, Rapine,——straight upon the Tale His Colour chang'd, and Posthumus grew pale. His Impious Courage had no other Root, But that the Villaine, Atheist was to boot. The Fourth Epigram.On GALLA.Now liquid Streams by the fierce Cold do grow As solid as the Rocks from whence they flow; Now Tibers Banks with Ice united meet, And it's firm Stream may well be term'd its Street; Now Vot'ries 'fore the Shrines like Statues show, And scarce the Men from Images we know; Now Winters Palsey seizes ev'ry Age, And none's so warm, but feels the Seasons Rage; Even the bright Lillies and triumphant Red Which o're Corinna's youthful cheeks are spred, Look pale and bleak, and shew a purple hew, And Violets staine, where Roses lately grew. Galla alone, with wonder we behold, Maintain her Spring, and still out-brave the Cold; Her constant white does not to Frost give place, Nor fresh Vermillion fade upon her face: Sure Divine beauty in this Dame does shine? Not Humane, one reply'd, yet not Divine. A FarewelTo Worldly Joys.Farewel ye Unsubstantial Joyes, Ye Gilded Nothings, Gaudy Toyes, Too long ye have my Soul misled, Too long with Aiery Diet fed: But now my Heart ye shall no more Deceive, as you have heretofore: For when I hear such Sirens sing, Like Ithacas's fore-warned King, With prudent Resolution I Will so my Will and Fancy tye, That stronger to the Mast not he, Than I to Reason bound will be: And though your Witchcrafts strike my Ear, Unhurt, like him, your Charms I'll hear. THEComplaint of a Lover.Seest thou younder craggy Rock, Whose Head o'er-looks the swelling Main, Where never Shepherd fed his Flock, Or careful Peasant sow'd his Grain. No wholesome Herb grows on the same, Or Bird of Day will on it rest; 'Tis Barren as the Hopeless Flame, That scortches my tormented Breast. Deep underneath a Cave does lie, Th'entrance hid with dismal Yew, Where Phebus never shew'd his Eye, In that dark Melancholy Cell, (Retreate and Sollace to my Woe) Love, sad Dispair, and I, do dwell, The Springs from whence my Griefs do flow. Treacherous Love that did appear, (When he at first approach't my Heart) Drest in a Garb far from severe, Or threatning ought of future smart. So Innocent those Charms then seem'd, When Rosalinda first I spy'd, Ah! Who would them have deadly deem'd? But Flowrs do often Serpents hide. Beneath those sweets conceal'd lay, To Love the cruel Foe, Disdain, With which (alas) she does repay When I in Tears have spent the Night, With Sighs I usher in the Sun, Who never saw a sadder sight, In all the Courses he has run. Sleep, which to others Ease does prove, Comes unto me, alas, in vain: For in my Dreams I am in Love, And in them too she does Disdain. Some times t'Amuse my Sorrow, I Unto the hollow Rocks repair, And loudly to the Eccho cry, Ah! gentle Nimph come ease my Care. Thou who, times past, a Lover wer't, Ah! pity me, who now am so, And by a sense of thine own smart, Come Flatter then, or Chide my Grief; Catch my last Words, and call me Fool; Or say, she Loves, for my Relief; My Passion either sooth, or School. |
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