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And I must die.

Desire that still doth burn me,

To life again will turn me,
And live must I;

O kill me then, Disdain,

That I may live again.

Thy looks are life unto me,

And yet these looks undo me:

O death and life!

Thy smile some rest doth shew me,

Thy frown with war o'erthrow me;
O peace and strife!

Nor life nor death is either,
Then give me both, or neither!

Life only cannot please me,

Death only cannot ease me;

Change is Delight.

I live, that Death may kill me,
I die, that Life may fill me;

Both day and night.

If once Despair decay,
Desire will wear away."

a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 154.

CUPID BENIGHTED.a

From Anacreon.

Or late what time the Bear turn'd round
At midnight in her wonted way,
And men of all sorts slept full sound,

O'ercome with labours of the day:

The following Translation of this Ode, in the subsequent century, from the scarce "Poems of Thomas Stanley, Esq. 1651." 8vo. the learned Editor of "Eschylus," and Author of "The Lives of the Philosophers," deserves to be subjoined, that the Reader may compare it, for the purpose of remarking the progress of our language.

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DOWNWARD was the wheeling Bear

Driven by the waggoner:

Men by powerful sleep opprest

Gave their busy troubles rest:

Love in this still depth of night

Lately at my house did light;
Where perceiving all fast lock'd,
At the door he boldly knock'd.
"Who's that," said I, "that does keep
Such a noise, and breaks my sleep?"
"Ope," saith Love," for pity hear;
"Tis a child; thou need'st not fear,

Wet and weary from his way
Led by this dark night astray."

With compassion this I heard;

Light I struck; the door unbarr'd;
Where a little boy appears,

Who wings, bow, and quiver bears.

The God of Love came to my door,

And took the ring, and knock'd it hard:

"Who's there," quoth I, " that knocks so sore? You break my sleep; my dreams are marr'd!" "A little Boy, forsooth," quoth he;

"Dring wet with rain this moonless night." With that methought it pitied me; I op'd the door, and candle light; And straight a little boy I spied;

A winged lad with shaft and bow;

I took him to the fire-side,

And set him down to dry him so:

His little hand in mine I strain,

To rub and warm them there-withall;

Out of his locks I crush'd the rain,

From which the drops apace down fall;

Near the fire I made him stand;
With my own I chaf'd his hand;
And with kindly busy care
Wrung the chill drops from his hair.
When well-warm'd he was, and dry,
"Now," saith he, "'tis time to try

If my bow no hurt did get;
For methinks the string is wet."

With that, drawing it, a dart
He let fly that pierc'd my heart.
Leaping then, and laughing said,
66 Come, my friend, with me be glad;
For my bow, thou seest, is sound,
Since thy heart hath got a wound."

At last, when he was waxen warm; "Now let me try my bow," quoth he; "I fear my string hath caught some harm; And wet, will prove too slack for me.” He said; and bent his bow and shot; And rightly hit me in the heart. The wound was sore, and raging hot; The heat-like fury ekes my smart. "Mine host," quoth he, "my string is well:" And laugh'd so, that he leap'd again; "Look to your wound, for fear it swell; Your heart may chance to feel the pain.'

ON FORTITUDE OF MIND.

VIRTUE can bear, what can on Virtue fall;

Who cheapeneth Honour, must not stand on price; Who beareth Heaven, they say, can well bear all;

A yielding mind doth argue cowardice;
Our haps do turn, as chances, on the dice.
Nor never let him from this hope remove,
That under him hath mould, the stars above!

b Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 145.

b Stanley's Translation of this Ode is very well; but I very much doubt whether this old Version is not more spirited; and on the whole still better. Such specimens of the gradual progress of language are curious and useful.

Let dull-brain'd slaves contend for mud and earth;

Let blocks and stones sweat but for blocks and stones;

Let peasants speak of plenty and of dearth;

Fame never looks so low as on those drones!

Let Courage manage empires, sit on thrones!
And he that Fortune at command will keep,
He must be sure, he never let her sleep.

Who wins her grace, must with achievement woo her;
As she is blind, so never had she ears;

Nor must with puling eloquence go to her;

She understands not sighs; she hears not prayers;
Flatter'd she flies; controul'd she ever fears;

And though awhile she nicely do forsake it,

She is a woman, and at last will take it.

Nor never let him dream once of a crown,

his

game;

For one bad cast that will give up And though by idle hap he be o'erthrown, Yet let him manage her, till she be tame: The path is set with danger leads to Fame. When Minos did the Grecians' fate deny, He made him wings, and mounted through the sky."

a Harl. MSS. 6910, f. 125.

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