In vain, my feet their swiftnefs try;
For from the body can they fly?
OFT am I by the women told,
Poor Anacreon, thou grow'ft old:
Look, how thy hairs are falling all;
Poor Anacreon, how they fall!
Whether I grow old or no,
By th' effects I do not know,
This I know, without being told,
'Tis time to live, if I grow old,
'Tis time short pleasures now to take,
Of little life the beft to make,
And manage wifely the laft ftake.
WHEN all the stars are by thee told,
The endless fums of heavenly gold)
Or, when the hairs are reckon'd all,
From fickly autumn's head that fall,
Or, when the drops that make the sea,
Whilft all her fands thy counters be;
Thou then, and thou alone, may'st prove
Th' arithmetician of my love.
An hundred loves at Athens score,
At Corinth write an hundred more:
Fair Corinth does fuch beauties bear,
So few is an escaping there [o],
Write then at Chios feventy-three;
Write then at Lesbos (let me fee)
Write me at Lefbos ninety down,
Full ninety loves, and half a one.
And next to these let me present
The fair Ionian regiment.
And next the Carian company,
Five hundred both effectively [p].
Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete ;
Three hundred, 'tis I'm fure, complete ;
For arms at Crete each face does bear,
And every eye's an archer there.
Go on; this ftop why doft thou make?
Thou think'ft, perhaps, that I mistake.
Seems this to thee too great a fum?
Why many thousands are to come;
The mighty Xerxes could not boast
Such different nations in his hoft.
On; for my love, if thou be'ft weary,
Muft find some better fecretary.
[•] -an efcaping there.] A ftroke of moral fatire, flid in, on that city, fo infamous for its brothelry. The poet is fage, even in these mad Anacreontics. [P]-effectively.] The term in ufe with military men (and therefore humorously affected here) for completely.
Nor Cyprian loves, nor African;
Nor Scythian, nor Italian flames;
There's a whole map behind of names:
Of gentle loves i' th' temperate zone,
And cold ones in the frigid zone;
Cold frozen loves, with which I pine,
And parched loves, beneath the line.
A MIGHTY pain to love it is,
And 'tis a pain that pain to miss.
But of all pains the greatest pain
It is to love, but love in vain.
Virtue now, nor noble blood,
Nor wit by love is understood,
Gold alone does passion move,
Gold monopolizes love!
A curfe on her, and on the man
Who this traffic firft began!
A curfe on him who found the ore!
A curfe on him who digg'd the store!
A curfe on him who did refine it!
A curfe on him who firft did coin it!
A curfe, all curfes elfe above,
On him, who us'd it first in love!
FILL the bowl with rofy wine,
Around our temples roses twine,
And let us chearfully awhile,
Like the wine and rofes, fmile.
Crown'd with rofes, we contemn
Gyges' wealthy diadem.
To-day is our's; what do we fear?
To-day is our's; we have it here.
Let's treat it kindly, that it may
Wish, at least, with us to ftay.
Let's banish business, banish forrow;
To the gods, belongs to-morrow.
UNDERNEATH this myrtle shade,
On flowery beds fupinely laid,
With odorous oils my head o'er-flowing,
And around it rofes growing,
What fhould I do but drink away
The heats and troubles of the day?
In this more than kingly state,
Love himself fhall on me wait.
Fill to me, love, nay, fill it up;
And mingled caft into the cup,
Wit, and mirth, and noble fires,
Vigorous health, and gay defires.
The wheel of life no lefs will stay
In a smooth, than rugged way.
Since it equally does flee,
Let the motion pleasant be.
Why do we precious ointments shower,
Nobler wines why do we pour,
Beauteous flowers why do we fpread,
Upon the monuments of the dead?
Nothing they but duft can fhew,
Or bones, that haften to be fo.
Crown me with roses whilft I live,
wines and ointments give.
After death I nothing crave,
Let me alive my pleasures have;
All are Stoics in the grave.
HAPPY infect, what can be,
In happiness, compar'd to thee?
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