Selected quad for the lemma: death_n
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A26293
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Lyric poems, made in imitation of the Italians of which, many are translations from other languages / by Philip Ayres, Esq.
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Ayres, Philip, 1638-1712.
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1687
(1687)
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Wing A4312; ESTC R8291
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51,544
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192
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Vice brings with it chastis'd That Course I left and turning good agen Was hated and oppress'd by Wicked Men. Thus seems the Partial World on all sides bent It 's utmost Spight on wretched me to vent My Sins were fruitless Must when Life is done Vertue lye buried in Oblivion A Contemplation on Man's Life Out of Spanish VILE Composition Earth inspir'd with Breath Man that at first wert made of Dust and Tears And then by Law Divine condemn'd to Death When wilt thou check thy Lusts in their Carreers Change all thy Mirth to Sorrow and repent That thou so often didst just Heav'n offend Deplore thy precious Hours so vainly spent If thou wilt 'scape such Pains as have no end The gaping Grave expects thee as its right 'T is a straight place but can contain with ease Honour Command Wealth Beauty and Delight And all that does our Carnal Senses please Only th' immortal Soul can never dye Therefore on that thy utmost Care employ The Nightingale that was drowned UPON a Bough hung trembling o're a Spring Sate Philomel to respite Grief and sing Tuning such various Notes there seem'd to nest A Choir of little Songsters in her Breast Whilst Echo at the close of ev'ry Strain Return'd her Musick Note for Note again The Jealous Bird who ne'er had Rival known Not thinking these sweet Points were all her own So fill'd with Emulation was that she Express'd her utmost Art and Harmony Till as she eagerly for Conquest try'd Her Shadow in the Stream below she spy'd â—hen heard the Waters bubbling but mistook And thought the Nymphs were laughing in the Brook â—he then inrag'd into the Spring did fall â—nd in sad Accents thus upbraids them all â—ot Tereus self offer'd so great a Wrong â—ymphs take my Life since you despise my Song On a Child sleeping in Cynthia's Lap. SLEEP Happy Boy there sleep and take thy Reâ—â— Free from the Passions which disturb my Brest Yet know 't is Innocence that thee has freed And lets thee sleep so quiet on this Bed Thy wearied Limbs have sweetly rested here If with less Sun in a more happy Sphere Whilst in Despair my Soul afflicted lyes And of meer Envy to behold thee dyes Dream thou enjoy'st more true Felicity Than lavish Fortune can bestow on thee That thou amidst such Pretious Gems art hurl'd Are able to enrich th' insatiate World That thou the Phoenix shalt transcend in Fame Who sleep'st and risest in a Purer Flame That thou' rt an Angel Heav'n's that Lap I view â—et all this while it is no Dream but true Cure for AFFLICTIONS A Hint from an imperfect Ode of ARCHILOCHVS Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 SOUL rule thy Passions dry thy weeping Eyes Thou Breath of Heav'n should'st Earthly Cares despise When fiercest troubles thus disturb thy Rest To their Assaults oppose a constant Breast O'er Fortune's Pow'r then shalt thou have command So Rocks unmov'd 'gainst Beating Surges stand Nor boast if in this Conflict thou o'ercome Or when subdu'd poorly lament at home Think having cause to grieve or to rejoyce No Course of Humane Things is in thy Choyce Cynthia sporting ALONG the River's side did Cynthia stray More like a Goddess than a Nymph at play The Flood stopt to behold her pleas'd to see 't She to its Kisses yields her naked Feet Brisk Air saluted her ne'er stay'd to wooe The very Boughs reach'd to be toying too The little Birds came thronging to admire And for her Entertainment made a Choire The Meadows smile and Joy surrounds the place As if all things were infl'enc'd by her Face The Grass and Leaves take Freshness from her Eyes And as of lesser Force Sol's Beams despise No Herb press'd by her Foot but blossomes strait Flowers for her Touch to ripen them do wait They from her Hand new Fragrancy do yield Her Presence sills with Perfumes all the Field The FLY Out of Spanish from Don Francisco de Quevedo Out of the Wine-Pot cry'd the Fly Whilst the Grave Frog sate croaking by Than live a Watry Life like thine I 'd rather choose to dye in Wine I. Never Water could endure Though ne're so Crystalline and Pure Water 's a Murmurer and they Design more Mischief than they say Where Rivers smoothest are and clear Oh there 's the Danger there 's the Fear But I 'll not grieve to dye in Wine That Name is sweet that Sound 's Divine Thus from the Wine-Pot c. II. Dull Fish in Water live we know And such insipid Souls as thou While to the Wine do nimbly fly Many such pretty Birds as I With Wine refresh'd as Flowers with Rain My Blood is clear'd inspir'd my Brain That when the Tory Boys do sing I buz i' th' Chorus for the King Thus from the Wine-Pot c. III. I 'm more belov'd than thou canst be Most Creatures shun thy Company I go unbid to ev'ry Feast Nor stay for Grace but fall o' th' Best There while I quaff in Choicest Wine Thou dost with Puddle-water dine Which makes thee such a Croaking thing Learn to drink Wine thou Fool and sing Thus from the Wine-Pot c. IV. In Gardens I delight to stray And round the Plants do sing and play Thy Tune no Mortal does avail Thou art the Dutch-man's Nightingale Wouldst thou with Wine but wet thy Throat Sure thou would'st leave that Dismal Note Lewd Water spoils thy Organs quite And Wine alone can set them right Thus from the Wine-Pot c. V. Thy Comerades still are Newts and Frogs Thy Dwelling Saw-pits Holes and Bogs In Cities I and Courts am free An Insect too of Quality What Pleasures Ah! didst thou but know This Heav'nly Liquor can bestow To drink and drown thou'dst ne'er repine The Great Anacreon dy'd by Wine Thus from the Wine-Pot c. On GOLD THIS Glitt'ring Metal Dazler of the Eyes In so small Bulk where so much Mischief lyes Disclaims the Earth when it has pass'd the Fire And then no longer owns the Rock for Sire When coyn'd it boasts of Pow'r Omnipotent Which Monstrous Birth the long scorn'd Mountains sent â—Tis Bane of Peace 't is Nourisher of War And o'er the World does spread its Venom far With Confidence this bold Usurper can Hold Competition with its Former Man Man whose sublimer Soul should upward soar Yet for a God can his own Works adore Laws are remiss when Thou the Pow'r dost git All Vices thou unpunish'd dost permit Torrent of Mischiefs Source of Ills the worst The more we drink of thee the more we thirst To his Grace George Duke of Northumberland TH' Unruly Steed by Laws to tame and ride With graceful Course the well-pois'd Lance to guide In Martial Sports ever to win the Prize And Troops with Skill and Judgment exercise In a calm Breast a Warlike Heart to show To Glory Friend to Wantonness a Foe To keep on Passion Reason's powerful Hand Over his Soul and self to have command To sport with Books whil'st Arms aside he lays
Lips and thus in Anger said Here I 'm resolv'd shall a Memorial be Of this my sweet but punish'd Robbery Let him endure as great a Pain as this Who next presumes these Nectar Lips to kiss Their Sweetness shall convey revenging Smart Honey to 's Mouth but Torment to his Heart The Young Fowler that mistook his Game An Idyllium of BION 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 A Brisk Young Archer that had scarce his Trade In search of Game alone his Progress made To a Near Wood and as he there did rove Spy'd in a Box-Tree perch'd the God of Love For Joy did he his lucky Stars adore Ne'er having seen so large a Bird before Then in due Order all his Lime-twigs set Prepar'd his Arrows and display'd his Net Yet would the Crafty Bird no Aim allow But flew from Tree to Tree and Bough to Bough At which his strange Success for Grief he cry'd In Anger throwing Bow and Toyls aside And to the Man that taught him ran in Hast To whom he gave Account of all that past Making him leave his Plow to come and see And shew'd him Cupid sitting in the Tree The good Man when he saw it shook his Head Leave off Fond Boy leave off he smiling sed Hast from this Dang'rous Fowl that from you flies And follow other Game let me advise For when to riper Age you shall attain This Bird that shuns you now you 'll find again Then use your Skill 't will all your Art abide Sit on your Shoulders and in Triumph ride CUPID 's Nest. AH Tell me Love thy Nesting Place Is 't in my Heart or Cynthia's Face For when I see her Graces shine There art thou perch'd with Pow'r Divine Yet strait I feel thy pointed Dart And find thee flutt'ring in my Heart Then since amongst us thou wilt show The many Tricks thou Love canst doe Prithee for sport remove thy Nest First to my Face and then to Cynthia's Brest An Ode of ANACREON To HIMSELF 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 WHEN Fumes of Wine ascend into my Brain Care sleeps and I the Bustling World disdain Nor all the Wealth of Croesus I esteem â—â—ng of Mirth for Jollity's my Theme With Garlands I my Ruby Temples crown Keeping Rebellious Thoughts of Business down â—n Broyls and Wars while others take Delight 〈◊〉 with choice Friends indulge my Appetite Then fetch more Bottles Boy and charge us round We 'll fall to Bacchus Victims on the Ground Nor value what dull Moralists have sed I 'm sure 't is better to be drunk than dead An Ode of ANACREON To his Mistress 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 NEAR Latona's Rival makes her Mone Chang'd by the Gods into a Weeping Stone And ravish'd Philomel they say 't is true Became a Bird stretch'd out her Wings and flew But I could wish to be your Looking-Glass Thence to admire the Beauties of your Face Or Robe de Chambrè that each Night and Morn On those sweet Limbs undrest I might be worn Or else a Crystal Spring for your Delight And you to bathe in those cool Streams invite Or be some precious Sweets to please the Smell That in your Hand I near your Lips might dwell Or String of Pearls upon your Neck to rest Or Pendent Gem kissing your Snowy Brest E'en to your Feet would I my Wish pursue A Shoe I 'd be might I be worn by you To LOVE An Ode of ANACREON 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 'T IS sad if Love should miss a Heart Yet sadder much to feel the Smart But who can Cupid's Wounds indure And have no Prospect of a Cure We Lovers are not look'd upon For what our Ancestors have done Wit and good Parts have slight Regard No Vertue can obtain Reward They ask what Coyn our Purses hold No Object 's like a Heap of Gold But doubly be the Wretch accurst Who taught us to esteem it first This Thirst of Gold incites one Brother To ruine or destroy another Our Fathers we for Gold despise Hence Envy Strife and VVars arise And Gold 's the Bane as I could prove Of all that truly are in Love A Sonnet Out of Spanish from Don Luis de Gongora On a Death's-Head covered with Cobwebs kept in a Library and said to be the Scull of a King THIS Mortal Spoil which so neglected lies Death's sad Memento now where Spiders weave Their Subtil Webs which Innocence deceive Whose Strength to break their Toyls cannot suffice Saw it self Crown'd it self Triumphant saw With Mighty Deeds proclaiming its Renown Its Smiles were Favours Terrour was its Frown The World of its Displeasure stood in Awe Where Pride ordaining Laws did once preside Which Land should Peace enjoy which Wars abide There boldly now these little Insects nest Then raise not Kings your Haughty Plumes so high For in Death's cold Embraces when you lye Your Bones with those of common Subjects rest From an Imperfect Ode of Hybrias the Cretan Beginning 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 MY Riches are a Trusty Sword and Spear And a tough Shield which I in Battel wear This as a Rampart its Defence does lend Whilst with the others I my Foes offend With these I plow with these my Crops I reap With these for VVine I press the Juicie Grape These are unless I fall by Fickle Chance Machines which me to Dignities advance Oh thrice Beloved Target Spear and Sword That all these Heav'nly Blessings can afford Those who the Havock of my Weapons fear And tremble when of Blood and VVounds they hear They are the Men which me my Treasures bring Erect my Trophies stile me Lord and King And such while I my Conquests spread abroad Fall and adore me as they do their God Complains of the Shortness of Life An Idyllium of BION 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 〈◊〉 THO' I had writ such Poems that my Name Deserv'd Enrollment in the Book of Fame Or thô my Muse could ne'er acquire the Bays VVhy thus in drudging do I spend my Days For should indulgent Heav'n prolong our Date Doubling the Term of Life prescrib'd by Fate That we might half in Care and Toyl employ And spend the other in Delights and Joy VVe then this sweet Assurance might retain To reap in Time the Fruits of all our Pain But since none can the Bounds of Life extend And all our Troubles have a speedy End VVhy do we wrack our Brains and waste our Health To study Curious Arts or heap up VVealth Sure we forget we came of Mortal Seed And the short Time Fate has for us decreed Out of Latine from Iovianus Pontâ—â—â—s Being sick of a Fever complains of the Fountain CASIS CASIS to craving Fields thou lib'ral Flood Why so remote when thou should'st cool my Blood From Mossie Rocks thy Silver Streams do glide By which the soultry Air is qualifi'd Tall Trees do kindly yield thy Head their Shade Where Choirs of Birds their sweet Retreats have made But