Cowley's Essays [22]
No cave or hole can shelter us from death. Since life is so uncertain and so short, Let's spend it all in feasting and in sport. Come, worthy sir, come with me, and partake All the great things that mortals happy make." Alas, what virtue hath sufficient arms To oppose bright honour and soft pleasure's charms? What wisdom can their magic force repel? It draws the reverend hermit from his cell. It was the time, when witty poets tell, That Phoebus into Thetis' bosom fell: She blushed at first, and then put out the light, And drew the modest curtains of the night. Plainly the truth to tell, the sun was set, When to the town our wearied travellers get. To a lord's house, as lordly as can be, Made for the use of pride and luxury, They some; the gentle courtier at the door Stops, and will hardly enter in before; - But 'tis, sir, your command, and being so, I'm sworn t' obedience--and so in they go. Behind a hanging in a spacious room (The richest work of Mortlake's noble loom) They wait awhile their wearied limbs to rest, Till silence should invite them to their feast, About the hour that Cynthia's silver light Had touched the pale meridies of the night, At last, the various supper being done, It happened that the company was gone Into a room remote, servants and all, To please their noble fancies with a ball. Our host leads forth his stranger, and does find All fitted to the bounties of his mind. Still on the table half-filled dishes stood, And with delicious bits the floor was strewed; The courteous mouse presents him with the best, And both with fat varieties are blest. The industrious peasant everywhere does range, And thanks the gods for his life's happy change. Lo, in the midst of a well-freighted pie They both at last glutted and wanton lie, When see the sad reverse of prosperous fate, And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait! With hideous noise, down the rude servants come, Six dogs before run barking into th' room; The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright, And hate the fulness which retards their flight. Our trembling peasant wishes now in vain. That rocks and mountains covered him again. Oh, how the change of his poor life, he cursed! "This, of all lives," said he, "is sure the worst. Give me again, ye gods, my cave and wood; With peace, let tares and acorns be my food."
A Paraphrase upon the Eightieth Epistle of the First Book of Horace. HORACE TO FUSCUS ARISTIUS.
Health, from the lover of the country, me, Health, to the lover of the city, thee, A difference in our souls, this only proves, In all things else, we agree like married doves. But the warm nest and crowded dove house thou Dost like; I loosely fly from bough to bough; And rivers drink, and all the shining day, Upon fair trees or mossy rocks I play; In fine, I live and reign when I retire From all that you equal with heaven admire. Like one at last from the priest's service fled, Loathing the honied cakes, I long for bread. Would I a house for happiness erect, Nature alone should be the architect. She'd build it more convenient than great, And doubtless in the country choose her seat. Is there a place doth better helps supply Against the wounds of winter's cruelty? Is there an air that gentler does assuage The mad celestial dog's or lion's rage? Is it not there that sleep (and only there) Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear? Does art through pipes a purer water bring Than that which nature strains into a spring? Can all your tapestries, or your pictures, show More beauties than in herbs and flowers do grow? Fountains and trees our wearied pride do please, Even in the midst of gilded palaces. And in your towns that prospect gives delight Which opens round the country to our sight. Men to the good, from which they rashly fly, Return at last, and their wild luxury Does but in vain with those true joys contend Which nature did to mankind recommend. The man who changes gold for burnished brass, Or small right gems for larger ones of glass, Is not, at length, more certain to be made Ridiculous and wretched by the trade, Than he who
A Paraphrase upon the Eightieth Epistle of the First Book of Horace. HORACE TO FUSCUS ARISTIUS.
Health, from the lover of the country, me, Health, to the lover of the city, thee, A difference in our souls, this only proves, In all things else, we agree like married doves. But the warm nest and crowded dove house thou Dost like; I loosely fly from bough to bough; And rivers drink, and all the shining day, Upon fair trees or mossy rocks I play; In fine, I live and reign when I retire From all that you equal with heaven admire. Like one at last from the priest's service fled, Loathing the honied cakes, I long for bread. Would I a house for happiness erect, Nature alone should be the architect. She'd build it more convenient than great, And doubtless in the country choose her seat. Is there a place doth better helps supply Against the wounds of winter's cruelty? Is there an air that gentler does assuage The mad celestial dog's or lion's rage? Is it not there that sleep (and only there) Nor noise without, nor cares within does fear? Does art through pipes a purer water bring Than that which nature strains into a spring? Can all your tapestries, or your pictures, show More beauties than in herbs and flowers do grow? Fountains and trees our wearied pride do please, Even in the midst of gilded palaces. And in your towns that prospect gives delight Which opens round the country to our sight. Men to the good, from which they rashly fly, Return at last, and their wild luxury Does but in vain with those true joys contend Which nature did to mankind recommend. The man who changes gold for burnished brass, Or small right gems for larger ones of glass, Is not, at length, more certain to be made Ridiculous and wretched by the trade, Than he who