Selected quad for the lemma: death_n

Word A	Word B	Word C	Word D	Occurrence	Frequency Band	MI	MI Band	Prominent
death_n	age_n	life_n	old_a	5,148	5	5.6715	4	false

Text snippets containing the quad

ID	Title	Author	Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication)	STC	Words	Pages
A55279	Poems to the memory of that incomparable poet Edmond Waller Esquire by several hands.	Rymer, Thomas, 1641-1713.; Behn, Aphra, 1640-1689.; Cotton, John, Sir, 1621-1701.	1688 (1688)	Wing P2724; ESTC R17154	6,887	32

lucky hand made every thing a Flower So every Shrub to Iessamin improves And rudest Holts to goodly Myrtle Groves Some from a Sprig he carelesly had thrown Have furnish'd a whole Garden of their own Some by a Spark that from his Chariot came Take Fire and blaze and raise a deathless Name Others a luckless Imitation try And whilst they soar and whilst they venture high Flutter and flounce but have not Wing to fly Some in loose Words their empty Fancies bind Which whirl about with Chaff before the Wind. Here brave Conceits in the Expression fail There big the Words but with no Sense at all Still Waller's Sense might Waller's Language trust Both pois'd and always bold and always just None ere may reach that strange Felicity Where Thoughts are easie Verse so sweet and free Yet not descend one Step from Majesty T. RYMER Monsieur St. Euremon 1684. WAller qui ne sent rien des Maux de la vieillesse Dont la vivacité fait honte aux jeunes Gens S'attache â la Beauté pour vivre plus long temps Et ce qu'on nomeroit dans un autre foiblesse Est en ce rare Esprit une sage tendresse Qui le fait resister à l'injure des Ans. In English by T. R. VAin Gallants look on Waller and despair He only he may boast the Grand Receit Of Fourscore Years he never feels the weight Still in his Element when with the Fair There gay and fresh drinks in the rosie Air There happy he enjoys his leisure hours Nor thinks of Winter whilst amidst the Flowers Vpon the Inimitable Mr. VValler THE Witty and the Brave survive the Tomb Poets and Heroes Death it self o'recome By what they write or act Immortal made They only change their World but are not Dead Waller can never dye of Life secure As long as Fame or aged Time endure A Tree of Life is Sacred Poetry Whoe're has leave to tast can never dye Many Pretenders to the Fruit there be Who against Nature's Will do pluek the Tree They nibble and are Damn'd But only those Have Life who are by partial Nature chose VValler was Nature's Darling free to tast Of all her Store The Master of the Feast Not like old Adam stinted in his Choice But Lord of all the spatious Paradise Mysteriously the Bounteous Gods were kind And in his Favour Contradictions joyn'd Honest and Just yet Courted by the Great A Poet yet a Plentiful Estate Witty yet Wise Unenvi'd and yet Prais'd And shew'd the Age could be with Merit pleas'd Malice and Spite to Virtue certain Foes Were dumb to him nor durst his Fame oppose Those cruel VVolves he tam'd their Rage disarm'd And with his tuneful Song like Orpheus charm'd To Love or Business both he was enclin'd Could counsel Senates or make Virgins kind The Factious with persuasive Rhetorick move Or teach disdainful Fair ones how to love The stubborn of each Sex to Reason bring Like Cato he could Speak like Ovid Sing Our British Kings are rais'd above the Hearse Immortal made in his immortal Verse No more are Mars and Iove Poetick Theams But the two peaceful Charleses and Great Iames. Iulia and Delia do no more delight But Sacharissa now is only bright Nor can the Paphian Goddess longer move But Gloriana is the Queen of Love. The Father of so many Gods is he He must himself be sure some Deity Minerva and Apollo shall submit And VValler be the only God of VVit. This equal Rise be to his Merit given On Earth the King the God of Verse in Heaven GEORGE GRANVILLE On the Death of Mr. VValler AH had thy Body lasted as thy Name Secure of Life as now thou art of Fame Thou had'st more Ages than old Nestor seen Nor had thy Phaebus more immortal been To thee alone we are beholden more Than all the Poets of the Times before Thy Muse inspir'd with a Genteeler Rage Did first refine the Genius of our Age. In thee a clear and female Softness shin'd VVith Masculine Vigour Force and Judgment joyn'd You in soft Strains for Courts and Ladies sung So natural your Thought so sweet your Song The gentle Sex did still partake your Flame And all the Coyness of your Mistress blame Still mov'd with you did the same Passions find And vow'd that Sacharissa was unkind Oh! may the VVorld ne're lose so brave a Flame May one succeed in Genius and in Fame May from thy Urn some Phoenix VValler rise VVhom the admiring VVorld like thee may prize May he in thy immortal Numbers sing And paint the Glories of our matchless King Oh! may his Verse of mighty VValler taste And mend the coming Age as you the last VVithin that Sacred Pile where Kings do come Both to receive their Crowns and find a Tomb There is a lonely Isle which holy Place The lasting Monuments of Poets grace Thither amongst th' inspired Train convey And in their Company his Ashes lay Let him with Spencer and great Cowley be He who is much the greatest of the Three Thô there so many Crowns and Mitres lye For Kings and Saints as well as we must dye Those venerable VValls were never blest Since their Foundation with a nobler Guest VVith them great Soul thou shalt Immortal live And in thy deathless Numbers Fate survive Fresh as thy Sacharissa's Beauty still Thy Bays shall grow which Time can never kill Far as our conqu'ring British Lyon roars Far as the Poles or the remotest Shores Where're is known or heard the English Name The distant World shall hear of VValler's Fame Thou only shalt with Natures self expire And all the World in the supreamest Fire When Horace and fam'd Virgil dye when all That 's Great or Noble shall together fall BEVILL HIGGONS On the Death of E. Waller Esq HOW to thy Sacred Memory shall I bring Worthy thy Fame a grateful Offering I who by Toils of Sickness am become Almost as near as thou art to a Tomb While every soft and every tender Strain Is ruffl'd and ill-natur'd grown with Pain But at thy Name my languisht Muse revives And a new Spark in the dull Ashes strives I hear thy tuneful Verse thy Song Divine And am Inspir'd by every charming Line But Oh! What Inspiration at the second hand Can an Immortal Elegie Command Unless like Pious Offerings mine should be Made Sacred being Consecrate to thee Eternal as thy own Almighty Verse Should be those Trophies that adorn thy Hearse The Thought Illustrious and the Fancy Young The Wit Sublime the Iudgment Fine and Strong Soft as thy Notes to Sacharissa sung Whilst mine like Transitory Flowers decay That come to deck thy Tomb a short-liv'd Day Such Tributes are like Tenures only fit To shew from whom we hold our Right to Wit. Hail wondrous Bard whose Heav'n-born Genius first My Infant Muse and Blooming Fancy Nurst With thy soft Food of Love I first began Then fed on nobler Panegyrick Strain Numbers Seraphic and at every View My

Soul extended and much larger grew Where e're I Read new Raptures seiz'd my Blood Methought I heard the Language of a God. Long did the untun'd World in Ign'rance stray Producing nothing that was Great and Gay Till taught by thee the true Poetick way Rough were the Tracts before Dull and Obscure Nor Pleasure nor Instruction could procure Their thoughtless Labour could no Passion move Sure in that Age the Poets knew not Love That Charming God like Apparitions then Was only talk'd on but ne're seen by Men Darkness was o're the Muses Land displaid And even the Chosen Tribe unguided straid Till by thee rescu'd from th' Egyptian Night They now look up and view the God of Light That taught them how to Love and how to Write And to Enhance the Blessing which Heav'n lent When for our great Instructor thou wert sent Large was thy Life but yet thy Glories more And like the Sun did still dispense thy Power Producing somthing wondrous every hour And in thy Circulary Course didst see The very Life and Death of Poetry Thou saw'st the Generous Nine neglected lie None listning to their Heav'nly Harmony The VVorld being grown to that low Ebb of Sense To disesteem the noblest Excellence And no Encouragement to Prophets shewn Who in past Ages got so great Renown Though Fortune Elevated thee above Its scanty Gratitude or fickle Love Yet sullen with the VVorld untir'd by Age Scorning th'unthinking Crowd thou quit'st the Stage A. BEHN On the Death of Mr. VValler THô ne're so Base or never so Sublime All Human things must be the Spoil of Time Poet and Heroe with the rest must go Their Fame may mount their Dust must lie as low Thus mighty Waller is at last expir'd VVith Cowley from a vitious Age retir'd As much Lamented and as much Admir'd Long we enjoy'd him on his tuneful Tongue All Ears and Hearts with the same Rapture hung As his on lovely Chloris while she Sung His Style does so much Strength and Sweetness bear Hear it but once and you 'd for ever hear Various his Subjects yet they joyntly warm All Spirit Life and every Line a Charm Correct throughout so exquisitely penn'd VVhat he had Finish'd nothing else could mend Now in soft Notes like dying Swans h'ed Sing Now tow'r aloft like Eagles on the Wing Speak of adventrous Deeds in such a Strain As all but Milton would attempt in vain And only there where his rap't Muse does tell How in th' Aetherial War th' Apostate Angels fell His Labours thus peculiar Glory claim As writ with somthing more than Mortal Flame VVit Judgment Fancy and a Heat Divine Throughout each part throughout the whole does shine Th' Expression clear the Thought sublime and high No flut'ring but with even wing he glides along the Skie Here the two bold contending Fleets are found The mighty Rivals of the watery Round In Smoak and Flame involv'd they could not Fight VVith so much Force and Fire as he does Write Here Galatea mourns In such sad Strains Poor Philomel her wretched Fate complains Here Fletcher and Immortal Iohnson shine Deathless preserv'd in his Immortal Line But where O mighty Bard where is that He Surviving now to do the same for Thee At such a Theam my conscious Muse retires Unable to attempt thy Praise she silently admires VVhether for Peaceful Charles or Warlike Iames His Lyre was Strung the Muses dearest Theams VVhether of Loves Success when in the Eyes Of the kind Nymph the conscious Glances rise When blushing she breaths short and with constraint denies Whether he paint the Lover's restless Care Or Sacharissa the disdainful Fair Relentless Sacharissa Deaf to Love The only She his Verse could never move But sure she stopt her Ears and shut her Eyes He could not else have miss'd the Heav'nly Prize All this is manag'd with that Strength of Wit So Happily So Smoothly Courtly writ As nothing but himself could e're have done And we no more must hope now he great King of Verse is gone Nor did Old Age damp the Poetick Flame Loaded with Fourscore Years 't was still the same Some we may see who in their Youth have writ Good Sense at Fifty take their leave of Wit Chimaera's and incongruous Fables feign Tedious Insipid Impudent and Vain But he knew no Decay the Sacred Fire Bright to the last did with himself expire Such was the Man whose Loss we now deplore Such was the Man but we should call him more Immortal in himself we need not strive To keep his Sacred Memory alive Just Loyal Brave Obliging Gen'rous Kind The English he has to the height refin'd And the best Standard of it leaves his Legacy behind To Mr. Riley Drawing Mr. VValler's Picture NOT Flesh and Blood can Riley's Pride confine He must be adding still some Ray Divine Nor is content when he true Likeness shows Unless that Glory also Crown the Brows This Subject Riley this for long has he Scow'rd the bright Roads of Immortality New Rapture wants no human Touch can reach His Lawrels and Poetick Triumphs pitch On Face and Out-side stay thy bold Design 'T is Sacred 't is Apollo's all within Thou may'st slight Sketches of the Surface shew Not vex the Mine whence God-like Treasures flow Came twenty Nymphs his Muse contented all None went away without her Golden Ball The Gods of old were not so liberal How many free from Fate enjoy his Song Drink Nectar ever Gay and ever Young Thô to thy Genius no Attempt is vain Think not to draw the Poet but the Man. Yet Riley thus thou endless Fame must share His Generous Pen thy Pencil shall prefer It draw him Man and he make it a Star. T. R. FINIS * Hesiod * Cowley