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TELL me not, I my time misspend!
'Tis time lost, to reprove me!
Pursue thou thine! I have my end;
So CHLORIS only love me!
Tell me not, others' flocks are full;
Mine poor! Let them despise me,
Who more abound in milk and wool;
SO CHLORIS only prize me!
Tire others' easier ears with these
He never felt the World's disease,
Who cared not for her glories!
For pity! thou that wiser art,
Whose thoughts lie wide of mine,
Let me alone, with mine own heart;
And I'll ne'er envy thine!
Nor blame him, whoe'er blames my wit;
That seeks no higher prize
Than, in unenvied shades, to sit
And sing of CHLORIS' eyes.
THE HUMBLE PETITION OF THE POETS.
AFTER SO many concurring Petitions, From all ages, and sexes, and all conditions; We come in the rear, to present our follies TO PYM, STRODE, HASLERIG, H[AMPDEN], and H[OLLES]! Though Set Form of Prayer be an abomination; Set Forms of Petitions find great approbation! Therefore, as others from the bottom of their souls, So we, from the depth and bottom of our bowls, According unto the blessed form you have taught us, We thank you, first, for all the Ills you have brought us! For the Good we receive, we thank Him that gave it! And you, for the confidence only to crave it!
Next in course, we complain of the great Violation Of Privilege, like the rest of our nation:
But 'tis none of yours, of which we have spoken;
Which never had being, until it was broken!
But ours is a Privilege ancient and native;
Hangs not on an Ordinance, or Power Legislative!
And, first, 'tis to speak whatever we please ;
Without fear of a prison, or Pursuivant's fees.
Next, that we only, may lie by authority;
But in that also, you have got the priority!
Next, an old custom, our fathers did name it
Poetical License; and always did claim it.
By this, we have power to change Age into Youth; Turn Nonsense to Sense, and Falsehood to Truth.
In brief, we make good whatsoever is faulty;
This art, some Poet, or the Devil, has taught ye!.
And thus our property you have invaded;
And a Privilege of both Houses have made it!
But that trust above all, in Poets reposed;
That Kings by them only, are made and deposed
(This, though you cannot do; yet you are willing!):
But when we undertake deposing, or killing,
They're tyrants! and monsters! and yet then, the Poet
Takes full revenge on the villains that do it!
And when we resume a sceptre, or a crown;
We are modest, and seek not to make it our own!
But is 't not presumption to write verses to you;
Who make the better Poems of the two!
For all those pretty knacks you compose;
Alas, what are they but Poems in Prose!
And between those and ours there 's no difference;
But that yours want the rhyme, the wit, and the sense!
But for lying (the most noble part of a Poet!),
You have it abundantly; and yourselves know it!
And though you are modest, and seem to abhor it;
'T has done you good service, and thank Hell for it!
Although the old maxim remains still in force,
That a Sanctified Cause must have a Sanctified Course;
poverty be a part of our trade,
So far, the whole Kingdom, Poets you have made! even so far as undoing will do it,
You have made King CHARLES himself a Poet!
But provoke not his Muse! for all the World knows,
Already you have had too much of his Prose!
MORPHEUS, the humble God that dwells
In cottages and smoky cells,
Hates gilded roofs, and beds of down;
And (though he fears no Prince's frown)
Flies from the circle of a crown!
Come, I say, thou powerful God!
And thy leaden charming rod
(Dipped in the Lethean lake)
O'er his wakeful temples shake!
Lest he should sleep, and never wake.
Nature! alas, why art thou so
Obliged to thy greatest foe?
Sleep, that is thy best repast,
Yet of Death it bears a taste!
And both are the same thing at last.
THE night is come, like to the day; Depart not, Thou, great GOD, away! Let not my sins, black as the night, Eclipse the lustre of Thy light! Keep still in my horizon! for, to me, The sun makes not the day; but Thee! Thou, whose nature cannot sleep, On my temples, sentry keep!
Guard me 'gainst those watchful foes;
Whose eyes are open, while mine close!
Let no dreams my head infest,
But such as JACOB's temples blest!
While I do rest, my soul advance!
Make my sleep a holy trance;
That I may, my rest being wrought,
Awake into some holy thought!
And with as active vigour run
My course, as doth the nimble sun!
Sleep is a death! O, make me try,
By sleeping, what it is to die!
And as gently lay my head
Upon my grave, as, now, my bed!
Howe'er I rest, great GOD, let me
A wake again, at last, with Thee!
And thus assured, behold, I lie
Securely, or to wake! or die!
These are my drowsy days! In vain
I do now wake; to sleep again!
O, come that hour, when I shall never
Sleep again; but wake for ever!