N'oserez-vous? mon bel! mon bel!
N'oserez-vous? mon bel ami!
FRANCIS BACON.
(LORD VERULAM.) 1560-1626.
THE WORLD-BUBBLE.
The World's a bubble, and the Life of Man
Less than a span:
In his conception wretched, from the womb
So to the tomb;
Cursed from the cradle, and brought up to years
With cares and fears.
Who then to frail Mortality shall trust
But limns on water or but writes in dust.
Yet, since with sorrow here we live oppress'd,
What life is best?
Courts are but only superficial schools
The rural parts are turn'd into a den
Of savage men ;
And where's the city from foul vice so free
But may be term'd the worst of all the three?
Domestic cares afflict the husband's bed,
Or pains his head ;
Those that live single take it for a curse,
Or do things worse;
Some would have children, those that have them moan
Or wish them gone :
What is it then to have or have no wife,
But single thraldom or a double strife?
Our own affections still at home to please
Is a disease;
To cross the seas to any foreign soil
Wars with their noise affright us; when they cease,
We are worse in peace.
What then remains but that we still should cry
For being born or, being born, to die?
CHANGE AND COMPENSATION.
The lopped tree in time may grow again;
Most-naked plants renew both fruit and flower;
The sorest wight may find release of pain;
The driest soil suck in some moistening shower :
Times go by turns, and chances change by course,
From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,-
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tides have equal times to come and go ;
Her loom doth weave the fine and coarser web :
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No hap so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever Spring;
No endless night, yet no eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing;
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay :
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
The net that holds not great takes little fish ;
In some things all, in all things none are cross'd;
Few all they need, but none have all they wish :
Unmeddled joys here to no man befall;
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.
Unto the boundless ocean of thy beauty
Runs this poor river, charged with streams of zeal,
Returning thee the tribute of my duty,
Which here my love, my youth, my plaints reveal.
Here I unclasp the book of my charged soul,
Where I have cast the accounts of all my care;
Here have I summ'd my sighs, here I enroll
How they were spent for thee: look what they are!
Look on the dear expenses of my youth,
And see how just I reckon with thine eyes!
Examine well thy beauty with my truth,
And cross my cares ere greater sums arise!
Read it, sweet Maid! though it be done but slightly: Who can show all his love doth love but lightly.
I once may see when years shall wreak my wrong,
When golden hairs shall change to silver wire,
And those bright rays that kindle all this fire
Shall fail in force, their working not so strong.
Then Beauty, now the burthen of my song,
Whose glorious blaze the world doth so admire,
Must yield up all to tyrant Time's desire;
Then fade those flowers that deck'd her pride so long.
When, if she grieve to gaze her in her glass,
Which then presents her winter-wither'd hue,
Go you, my Verse! go tell her what she was,
For what she was she best shall find in you.
Your fiery heat lets not her glory pass,
But, Phoenix-like, shall make her live anew.
Care-charmer, Sleep! son of the sable Night,
Brother to Death, in silent darkness born!
Relieve my languish, and restore the light,
With dark forgetting of my care's return;
And let the day be time enough to mourn
The shipwreck of my ill-adventured youth.
Let waking eyes suffice to wail their scorn,
Without the torment of the night's untruth!
Cease, Dreams! the images of day-desires,
To model forth the passions of the morrow;
Never let rising sun approve you liars,
To add more grief to aggravate my sorrow!
Still let me sleep, embracing clouds in vain,
And never wake to feel the day's disdain !
Beauty, sweet Love! is like the morning dew,
Whose short refresh upon the tender green
Cheers for a time, but till the sun doth shew,
And straight is gone as it had never been.
Soon doth it fade that makes the fairest flourish;
Short is the glory of the blushing rose,-
The hue which thou so carefully dost nourish,
Yet which at length thou must be forced to lose :
When thou, surcharged with burthen of thy years,
Shalt bend thy wrinkles homeward to the earth,
And that in Beauty's lease expired appears
The date of age, the kalends of our dearth :-
But ah, no more! this must not be foretold :
For women grieve to think they must be old.
I must not grieve my Love, whose eyes would read
Lines of delight, whereon her youth might smile :
Flowers have a time before they come to seed,
And she is young, and now must sport the while.
And sport, sweet Maid! in season of these years,
And learn to gather flowers before they wither,
And where the sweetest blossom first appears
Let love and youth conduct thy pleasures thither!
Lighten forth smiles to clear the clouded air,
And calm the tempest which my sighs do raise !
Pity and smiles do best become the Fair;
Pity and smiles must only yield thee praise.
Make me to say, when all my griefs are gone,
Happy the heart that sigh'd for such a One!
Tongue! never cease to sing Fidessa's praise;
Heart! howe'er she deserve, conceive the best ;
Eyes! stand amazed to see her beauty's rays;
Lips! steal one kiss and be for ever bless'd;
Hands! touch that hand wherein your life is closed;
Breast! lock up fast in thee thy life's sole treasure ;
Arms! still embrace, and never be disclosed;
Feet! run to her without or pace or measure :
Tongue! heart! eyes! lips! hands! breast! arms! feet!
Consent to do true homage to your Queen :
Lovely, fair, gent, wise, virtuous, sober, sweet,
Whose like shall never be, hath never been!
O that I were all tongue, her praise to show!
Then surely my poor heart were freed from woe.
If great Apollo offer'd as a dower
His burning throne to Beauty's excellence,-
If Jove himself came in a golden shower
Down to the earth, to fetch fair Io thence,—
If Venus in the curled locks was tied
Of proud Adonis, not of gentle kind,-
If Tellus for a shepherd's favour died
(The favour cruel Love to her assign'd),-
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