TO LIVE MERRILY; AND TO TRUST

TO GOOD VERSES.

Now is the time for mirth!

Nor cheek, or tongue, be dumb!

For with flow'ry earth,

The Golden Pomp is come!

The Golden Pomp is come!
For now each tree does wear,

Made of her pap and gum,

Rich beads of amber here!

Now reigns the rose! and now
Th' Arabian dew besmears

My uncontrolled brow

And my retortèd hairs!

HOMER! this Health to thee!
In Sack of such a kind,
That it would make thee see;
Though thou wert ne'er so blind!

Next, VIRGIL I'll call forth!

To pledge this second Health
In wine! whose each cup 's worth
An Indian common wealth!

A goblet next I'll drink
To OVID! and suppose
Made he the pledge, he'd think
The World had all one nose.

Then, this immensive cup
Of aromatic wine,
CATULLUS! I quaff up

To that terse Muse of thine!

Wild I am now, with heat!

O, BACCHUS! Cool thy rays;

Or, frantic, I shall eat

Thy Thyrse, and bite the bays!

Round, round, the roof does run!
And, being ravished thus,
Come, I will drink a tun
To my PROPERTIUS!

Now, to TIBULLUS next;

This flood I drink to thee!

But stay! I see a text

That this presents to me.

Behold, TIBULLUS lies

Here burnt! whose small return

Of ashes scarce suffice

To fill a little urn.

Trust to Good Verses then!
They only will aspire,
When pyramids, as men,
Are lost i' th' funeral fire!

And when all bodies meet

In Lethe, to be drowned;
Then only Numbers sweet,
With endless life are crowned!

DELIGHT IN DISORDER.

A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness;
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction;

An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher;
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly;

A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;

A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility;

Do more bewitch me, than when Art
Is too precise in every part.

TO MUSIC,

TO BECALM HIS FEVER.

CHARM me asleep! and melt me so
With thy delicious Numbers;
That, being ravished, hence I go
Away in easy slumbers!
Ease my sick head,

And make my bed,

Thou, Power that canst sever

From me this ill!

And quickly still,

Though thou not kill,

My fever!

Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire,

Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire!
Then make me weep
My pains asleep,
And give me such reposes,
That I, poor I!

May think, thereby,
I live and die

'Mongst roses!

Fall on me, like a silent dew;
Or like those maiden showers,
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers!
Melt, melt my pains

With thy soft strains!
That, having ease me given,
With full delight,
I leave this light,
And take my flight
For Heaven!

KISSING USURY.

BIANCHA! let
Me pay the debt
I owe thee, for a kiss,
Thou lend'st to me;

And I to thee

Will render ten for this!

If thou wilt say,
'Ten will not pay

For that so rich a one!'

I'll clear the sum!

If it will come

Unto a million.