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behold Jove's now resolv'd to please you all.
Thou, soldier, be a merchant; merchant, thou
a soldier be; and lawyer, to the plough.
Change all their stations straight; why do they stay?
the devil a man will change, now when he may,
Were I in General Jove's abused case,

by Jove I'd cudgel this rebellious race:
but he's too good. Be all then as you were,
however, make the best of what you are,
and in that state be cheerful and rejoice,
which either was your fate or was your choice.
No; they must labour yet, and sweat, and toil,
and very miserable be a while;

but 't is with a design only to gain

what may their age with plenteous ease maintain.
The prudent pismire does this lesson teach,
and industry to lazy mankind preach :

the little drudge does trot about and sweat,
nor does he straight devour all he can get,
but in his temp'rate mouth carries it home,
a stock for winter, which he knows must come;
and when the rolling world to creatures here
turns up the deform'd wrong side of the year,
and shuts him in with storms, and cold, and wet,
he cheerfully does his past labours eat.
O, does he so? your wise example, th' ant,
does not at all times rest and plenty want;
but weighing justly a mortal ant's condition,
divides his life 'twixt labour and fruition.
Thee neither heat, nor storms, nor wet, nor cold,
from thy unnatural diligence can withhold:
to th' Indies thou wouldst run, rather than see
another, tho' a friend, richer than thee.

Fond Man! what good or beauty can be found

in heaps of treasure bury'd under ground?
Which rather than diminish'd e'er to see,
thou wouldst thyself, too, bury'd with them be.
And what's the diff'rence? Is it not quite as bad
never to use, as never to have had?

In thy vast barns millions of quarters store,
thy belly, for all that, will hold no more

than mine does. Ev'ry baker makes much bread; what then? he's with no more than others fed. Do you within the bounds of nature live, and to agument your own you need not strive. One hundred acres will no less for you

your life's whole bus'ness than ten thousand do, But pleasant 't is to take from a great store.

What, man! through you're resolved to take no more than I do from a small one? If your will

be but a pitcher or a pot to fill.

To some great river for it must you go,
when a clear spring just at your feet does flow?
give me the spring which does to human use
safe, easy, and untroubled stores produce:
he who scorns these, and needs will drink at Nile
must run the danger of the crocodile,

and of the rapid stream itself, which may
at unawares bear him, perhaps, away.
In a full flood Tantalus stands, his skin
wash'd o'er in vain for ever dry within;
he catches at the stream with greedy lips,
from his touch'd mouth the wanton torrent slips.
You laugh, now, and expand your careful brow;
't is finely said, but what 's all this to you?
Change but the name, this fable is thy story;
thou in a flood of useless wealth dost glory,
which thou canst only touch, but never taste;

th' abundance still, and still the wants does last. The treasures of the gods thou wouldst not spare, but when they're made thine own, they sacred are, and must be kept with rev'rence, as if thou no other use of precious gold didst know, but that of curious pictures, to delight, with the fair stamp, thy virtuoso sight. The only true and genuine use is this, to buy the things which Nature cannot miss without discomfort; oil, and vital bread, and wine, by which the life of Life is fed, and all those few things else by which we live; all that remains is giv'n for thee to give. If cares and troubles, envy, grief, and fear, the bitter fruits be which fair Riches bear, if a new poverty grow out of store,

the old plain way, ye Gods! let me be poor.

Sapere aude,

incipe, vivendi recte qui prorogat horam,
rusticus expectat dum defluat amnis, at ille
labitur, et labetur in omne volubilis ævum.
Begin, be bold, and venture to be wise;
he who defers this work from day to day,
does on a river's bank expecting stay,


till the whole stream, which stopp'd him, should be

that runs, and as it runs, for ever will run on.

Jam cras hesternum consumpsimus, ecce aliud cras egerit hos annos.

Our yesterday's to-morrow now is gone, and still a new to-morrow does come on. We by to-morrows draw up all our store, till the exhausted well can yield no more.

CLAUDIAN'S OLD MAN OF VERONA. Happy the man who his whole time doth bound within th' enclosure of his little ground:

happy the man whom the same humble place (th' hereditary cottage of his race)

from his first rising infancy has known, and by degrees sees gently bending down, with natural propension to that earth which both preserv'd his life and gave him birth, Him no false distant lights, by Fortune set, could ever into foolish wand'rings get; he never dangers either saw or fear'd; the dreadful storms at sea he never heard: he never heard the shrill alarms of war, or the worse noises of the lawyer's bar; no change of Consuls marks to him the year; the change of seasons is his calendar:

the cold and heat winter and summer shews,
autumn by fruits, and spring by flow'rs, he knows:
he measures time by landmarks, and has found
for the whole day the dial of his ground:

a neighb'ring wood, born with himself, he sees,
and loves his old contemporary trees;
he's only heard of near Verona's name,
and knows it, like the Indies, but by fame:
does with a like concernment notice take
of the Red sea, and of Benacus' lake:

thus health and strength he to' a third age enjoys,

and sees a long posterity of boys.

About the spacious world let others roam, the voyage, life, is longest made at home.



Here, Passenger! beneath this shade,
lies Cowley, tho' entomb'd, not dead,
yet freed from human toil and strife,
and all the impertinence of life;
who in his poverty is neat,
and even in retirement great!
with gold, the people's idol, he
holds endless war and enmity.

Can you not say he has resign'd
his breath, to this small cell confin'd
with this sinall mansion let him have
the rest and silence of the grave.

Strew roses here, as on his herse,
and reckon this his fun'ral verse:
with wreaths of fragrant herbs adorn
the yet surviving Poet's urn.

Latin Epitaph on the Author's Tomb in Westminster



Anglorum, Pindarus, Flaccus, Maro,
Deliciæ, Decus, Desiderium, Ævi sui,
Hic juxta situs est.

Aurea dum volitant latè tua scripta per orbem,
et Famâ æternum vivis, Divine Poeta,
hic placidâ jaceas requie, Custodiat urnaṁ ·
cana Fides, vigilentq; perenni lampade Musæ,

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