Anacreontiques:

I. Love

I'LL sing of Heroes, and of Kings;

In mighty Numbers, mighty things,

Begin, my Muse; but lo, the strings

To my great Song rebellious prove;

The strings will sound of nought but Love.

I broke them all, and put on new;

'Tis this or nothing sure will do.

These sure (said I) will me obey;

These sure Heroic Notes will play.

Straight I began with thundering Jove,

And all th' immortal Powers, but Love.

Love smil'd, and from my enfeebled Lyre

Came gentle airs, such as inspire

Melting love, soft desire.

Farewell then Heroes, farewell Kings,

And mighty Numbers, mighty Things;

Love tunes my Heart just to my strings.

II. Drinking

THE thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain,

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 or'eflow the Cup.

The busy Sun (and one would guess)

By's 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.

Nothing in Nature's Sober found,

But an eternal Health goes round.

Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high,

Fill all the Glasses there, for why

Should every creature drink but I,

Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?

III. Beauty.

LIBERAL Nature did dispense

To all things Arms for their defence;

And some she arms with sin'ewy force,

And some with swiftness in the course;

Some with hard Hoofs, or forked claws,

And some with Horns, or tusked jaws.

And some with Scales, and some with Wings,

And some with Teeth, and some with Stings,

Wisdom to Man she did afford,

Wisdom for Shield, and Wit for Sword.

What to beauteous Woman-kind,

What Arms, what Armour has she assign'd?

Beauty is both; for with the Fair

What Arms, what Armour can compare?

What Steel, what Gold, or Diamond,

More impassible is found?

And yet what Flame, what Lightning e're

So great an active force did bear?

They are all weapon, and they dart

Like Porcupines from every part.

Who can, alas, their strength express,

Arm'd when they themselves undress,

Cap-á-pe with Nakedness?

IV. The Duel.

YES, I will love then, I will love,

I will not now Love's Rebel prove,

Though I was once his Enemy;

Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,

Did to the Combat him defy,

An Helmet, Spear, and mighty shield,

Like some new Ajax I did wield.

Love, in one hand his Bow did take,

In th'other hand a Dart did shake.

But yet in vain the Dart did throw,

In vain he often drew the Bow.

So well my Armour did resist

So oft by flight the blow I missed.

But when I thought all danger past,

His Quiver emptied quite at last,

Instead of Arrow, or of Dart,

He shot Himself into my Heart.

The Living and the Killing Arrow

Ran through the skin, the Flesh, the Blood,

And broke the Bones, and scorch'd the Marrow,

No Trench or Work of Life withstood.

In vain I now the Walls maintain,

I set out Guards and Scouts in vain,

Since th' Enemy does within remain.

In vain a breastplate now I wear,

Since in my Breast the Foe I bear.

In vain my Feet their swiftness try;

For from the Body can they fly?

V. Age.

OFT am I by the Women told,

Poor Anacreon thou grow'st 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 best to make,

And manage wisely the last stake.

VI. The Account.

WHEN all the Stars are by thee told,

(The endless sums of heav'nly gold)

Or when the Hairs are reckon'd all,

From sickly Autumn's Head that fall,

Or when the drops that make the Sea,

Whilst all her Sands thy Counters be;

Thou, then, and Thou alone mayst prove

Th' Arithmetician of my Love.

An hundred Loves at Athens score,

At Corinth write an hundred more.

Fair Corinth does such Beauties bear,

So few is an Escaping there.

Write then at Chios seventy-three;

Write then at Lesbos (let me see)

Write me at Lesbos 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.

Three hundred more at Rhodes and Crete;

Three hundred 'tis I'm sure complete.

For arms at Crete each Face does bear,

And every Eye's an Archer there.

Go on; this stop why dost thou make?

Thou thinkst, perhaps, that I mistake.

Seems this to thee too great a Sum?

Why many thousands are to come;

The mighty Xerxes could not boast

Such different Nations in his Host.

On; for my Love, if thou be'st weary,

Must find some better Secretary.

I have not yet my Persian told,

Nor yet my Syrian Loves enroll'd,

Nor Indian, nor Arabian;

Nor Cyprian Loves, nor African;

Nor Scythian, nor Italian flames;

There's a whole Map behind of Names.

Of gentle Love i'th' temperate Zone,

And cold ones in the Frigid one,

Cold frozen Loves with which I pine,

And parched Loves beneath the Line.

VII. Gold.

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 curse on her, and on the Man

Who this traffic first began!

A curse on him who found the Ore!

A curse on him who digg'd the store!

A curse on him who did refine it!

A curse on him who first did coin it!

A curse all curses else above

On him, who us'd it first in Love!

Gold begets in Brethren hate,

Gold in Families debate;

Gold does Friendships separate,

Gold does Civil Wars create.

These the smallest harms of it!

Gold, alas, does Love beget.

VIII. The Epicure.

FILL the Bowl with rosy Wine,

Around our temples Roses twine.

And let us cheerfully awhile,

Like the Wine and Roses smile.

Crown'd with Roses we contemn

Gyge's wealthy Diadem.

Today is ours; what do we fear?

Today is ours; we have it here.

Let's treat it kindly, that it may

Wish, at least, with us to stay.

Let's banish Business, banish Sorrow;

To the Gods belongs tomorrow.

IX. Another.

UNDERNEATH this Myrtle shade,

On flowry beds supinely laid,

With od'rous Oils my head o'er-flowing,

And around it Roses growing,

What should I do but drink away

The heat and troubles of the Day?

In this more than Kingly state,

Love himself shall on me wait.

Fill to me, Love, nay fill it up;

And mingled cast into the Cup,

Wit, and Mirth, and noble Fires,

Vigorous Health, and gay Desires.

The Wheel of Life no less 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 spread,

Upon the Monuments of the Dead?

Nothing they but Dust can show,

Or Bones that hasten to be so.

Crown me with Roses whilst I live,

Now your Wines and Ointments give.

After Death I nothing crave,

Let me alive my pleasures have,

All are Stoics in the Grave.

X. The Grasshopper.

HAPPY Insect, what can be

In happiness compar'd to Thee?

Fed with nourishment divine,

The dewey Morning's gentle Wine!

Nature waits upon thee still,

And thy verdant Cup does fill,

'Tis fill'd where ever thou dost tread,

Nature's self's thy Ganimed.

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 plow;

Farmer he, and Landlord thou!

Thou doest innocently joy;

Nor does thy Luxury destroy;

The Shepherd gladly heareth thee,

More harmonious than he.

Thee Country Hinds with gladness hear,

Prophet of the ripen'd 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 danc'd, and sung

Thy fill, the flowry leaves among

(Voluptuous, and Wise with all,

Epicuræan Animal!)

Sated with thy Summer Feast,

Thou retir'est to endless Rest.

XI. The Swallow.

FOOLISH Prater, what dost thou

So early at my window do

With thy tuneless Serenade?

Well 't had been had Tereus made

Thee as dumb as Philomel;

There his Knife had done but well.

In thy undiscover'd Nest

Thou dost all the winter rest,

And dreamest o'er thy summer joys

Free from the stormy season's noise:

Free from th' ill thou'st done to me;

Who disturbs, or seeks out thee?

Had'st thou all the charming notes

Of the wood's poetic throats,

All thy art could never pay

What thou'st ta'en from me away;

Cruel Bird, thou'st ta'en away

A Dream out of my arms today,

A Dream that ne'er must equall'd be

By all that waking Eyes may see.

Thou this damage to repair,

Nothing half so sweet or fair,

Nothing half so good canst bring,

Though men say, Thou bring'st the Spring.