THE GRASSHOPPER

From ODE TO MR. C. COTTON

RICHARD LOVELACE

H! thou that swingst upon the waving ear
Of some well-filled oaten beard,

Drunk every night with a delicious tear,

Dropt thee from heaven, where thou wert reared;

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,

That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly, And, when thy poppy works, thou dost retire To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomest then,
Sport'st in the gilt plaits of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

S

VIRTUE

GEORGE HERBERT

WEET Day, so cool, so calm, so bright,
The bridal of the earth and sky,
The dew shall weep thy fall to-night;

For thou must die.

Sweet Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye,

Thy root is ever in its grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet Spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie,

My music shows ye have your closes,

And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,

Then chiefly lives.

THE THIRSTY EARTH SOAKS UP THE

RAIN

ABRAHAM COWLEY

HE thirsty earth soaks up the rain,

THE

And drinks, and gapes for drink again,
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair,
The sea itself, which one would think
Should have but little need of drink,
Drinks ten thousand rivers up,
So fill'd that they o'erflow the cup.
The busy sun (and one would guess
By its drunken fiery face no less)
Drinks up the sea, and when he's done,
The moon and stars drink up the sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.

THE GRASSHOPPER

ABRAHAM COWLEY

APPY insect! what can be

In happiness compared to thee?

Fed with nourishment divine,
The dewy morning's gentle wine!
Nature waits upon thee still,
And thy verdant cup does fill;
'Tis fill'd wherever thou dost tread,
Nature's self's thy Ganymede.

Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing,
Happier than the happiest king!
All the fields which thou dost see,
All the plants belong to thee,
All that summer hours produce,
Fertile made with early juice:
Man for thee does sow and plough;
Farmer he and landlord thou!
Thou dost innocently joy,

Nor does thy luxury destroy.

The shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee, country minds with gladness hear, Prophet of the ripened year!

Thee Phoebus loves and does inspire;
Phoebus is himself thy sire.

To thee of all things upon earth,

Life is no longer than thy mirth.
Happy insect! happy thou,

Dost neither age nor winter know:

But when thou'st drunk, and danced, and sung

Thy fill, the flowery leaves among, (Voluptuous and wise withal,

Epicurean animal)

Sated with the summer feast
Thou retir'st to endless rest.