by Paul Keegan
And ten times easier it is
To rebuild Pauls, than any work of his.
That mighty Task none but himself can do,
Nay, scarce himself too now,
For though his Wit the force of Age withstand,
His Body alas! and Time it must command,
And Nature now, so long by him surpass’t,
Will sure have her revenge on him at last.
ABRAHAM COWLEY The Country Mouse. A Paraphrase upon Horace Book II, Satire 6
At the large foot of a fair hollow tree,
Close to plow’d ground, seated commodiously,
His antient and Hereditary House,
There dwelt a good substantial Country-Mouse:
Frugal, and grave, and careful of the main,
Yet, one, who once did nobly entertain
A City Mouse well coated, sleek, and gay,
A Mouse of high degree, which lost his way,
Wantonly walking forth to take the Air,
And arriv’d early, and belighted there,
For a days lodging: the good hearty Hoast,
(The antient plenty of his hall to boast)
Did all the stores produce, that might excite,
With various tasts, the Courtiers appetite.
Fitches and Beans, Peason, and Oats, and Wheat,
And a large Chesnut, the delicious meat
Which Jove himself, were he a Mouse, would eat.
And for a Haut goust there was mixt with these
The swerd of Bacon, and the coat of Cheese.
The precious Reliques, which at Harvest, he
Had gather’d from the Reapers luxurie.
Freely (said he) fall on and never spare,
The bounteous Gods will for to morrow care.
And thus at ease on beds of straw they lay,
And to their Genius sacrific’d the day.
Yet the nice guest’s Epicurean mind,
(Though breeding made him civil seem and kind)
Despis’d this Country feast, and still his thought
Upon the Cakes and Pies of London wrought.
Your bounty and civility (said he)
Which I’m surpriz’d in these rude parts to see,
Shews that the Gods have given you a mind,
Too noble for the fate which here you find.
Why should a Soul, so virtuous and so great,
Lose it self thus in an Obscure retreat?
Let savage Beasts lodg in a Country Den,
You should see Towns, and Manners know, and men:
And taste the generous Lux’ury of the Court,
Where all the Mice of quality resort;
Where thousand beauteous shees about you move,
And by high fare, are plyant made to love.
We all e’re long must render up our breath,
No cave or hole can shelter us from death.
Since Life is so uncertain, and so short,
Let’s spend it all in feasting and in sport.
Come, worthy Sir, come with me, and partake,
All the great things that mortals happy make.
Alas, what virtue hath sufficient Arms,
T’ oppose bright Honour, and soft Pleasures charms?
What wisdom can their magick force repel?
It draws this reverend Hermit from his Cel.
It was the time, when witty Poets tell,
That Phoebus into Thetis bosom fell:
She blusht at first, and then put out the light,
And drew the modest Curtains of the night.
Plainly, the troth to tell, the Sun was set,
When to the Town our wearied Travellers get,
To a Lords house, as Lordly as can be
Made for the use of Pride and Luxury,
They come; the gentle Courtier at the door
Stops and will hardly enter in before.
But ’tis, Sir, your command, and being so,
I’m sworn t’ obedience, and so in they go.
Behind a hanging in a spacious room,
(The richest work of Mortclakes noble Loom)
They wait awhile their wearied limbs to rest,
Till silence should invite them to their feast.
About the hour that Cynthia’s Silver light,
Had touch’d the pale Meridies of the night;
At last the various Supper being done,
It happened that the Company was gone,
Into a room remote, Servants and all,
To please their nobles fancies with a Ball.
Our host leads forth his stranger, and do’s find,
All fitted to the bounties of his mind.
Still on the Table half fill’d dishes stood,
And with delicious bits the floor was strow’d.
The courteous mouse presents him with the best,
And both with fat varieties are blest,
Th’ industrious Peasant every where does range,
And thanks the gods for his Life’s happy change.
Loe, in the midst of a well fraited Pye,
They both at last glutted and wanton lye.
When see the sad Reverse of prosperous fate,
And what fierce storms on mortal glories wait.
With hideous noise, down the rude servants come,
Six dogs before run barking into th’ room;
The wretched gluttons fly with wild affright,
And hate the fulness which retards their flight.
Our trembling Peasant wishes now in vain,
That Rocks and Mountains cover’d him again.
Oh how the change of his poor life he curst!
This, of all lives (said he) is sure the worst.
Give me again, ye gods, my Cave and wood;
With peace, let tares and acorns be my food.
EDWARD, LORD HERBERT OF CHERBURY Sonnet 1665
Made upon the Groves near Merlou Castle
You well compacted Groves, whose light and shade
Mixt equally, produce nor heat, nor cold,
Either to burn the young, or freeze the old,
But to one even temper being made,
Upon a Greene embroidering through each Glade
An Airy Silver, and a Sunny Gold,
So cloath the poorest that they do behold
Themselves, in riches which can never fade,
While the wind whistles, and the birds do sing,
While your twigs clip, and while the leaves do friss,
While the fruit ripens which those trunks do bring,
Sensless to all but love, do you not spring
Pleasure of such a kind, as truly is
A self-renewing vegetable bliss?
(written 1620)
JOHN MILTON from Paradise Lost 1667
from Book I [Invocation]
OF Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidd’n Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav’nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav’ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos: Or if Sion Hill
Delight thee more, and Siloa’s Brook that flowd
Fast by the Oracle of God; I thence
Invoke thy aid to my adventrous Song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th’ Aonian Mount; while it persues
Things unattempted yet in Prose or Rime.
And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost preferr
Before all Temples th’ upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspred
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
; And mad’st it pregnant: What in mee is dark
Illumin, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.
from Book I [‘Satan with his Angels now fallen into Hell’]
Is this the Region, this the Soil, the Clime,
Said then the lost Arch-Angel, this the seat
That we must change for Heav’n, this mournful gloom
For that celestial light? Be it so, since hee
Who now is Sovran can dispose and bid
What shall be right: fardest from him is best
Whom reason hath equald, force hath made supream
Above his equals. Farewel happy Fields
Where Joy for ever dwells: Hail horrours, hail
Infernal World, and thou profoundest Hell
Receive thy new Possessor: One who brings
A mind not to be chang’d by Place or Time.
The mind is its own place, and in it self
Can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
What matter where, if I be still the same,
And what I should be, all but less then hee
Whom Thunder hath made greater? Here at least
We shall be free; th’ Almighty hath not built
Here for his envy, will not drive us hence:
Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, then serve in Heav’n.
But wherefore let we then our faithful friends,
Th’ associats and copartners of our loss
Lye thus astonisht on th’ oblivious Pool,
And call them not to share with us their part
In this unhappy Mansion; or once more
With rallied Arms to try what may be yet
Regaind in Heav’n, or what more lost in Hell?
So Satan spake, and him Bëëlzebub
Thus answerd. Leader of those Armies bright,
Which but th’ Omnipotent none could have foild,
If once they hear that voice, thir liveliest pledge
Of hope in fears and dangers, heard so oft
In worst extreams, and on the perilous edge
Of battel when it rag’d, in all assaults
Thir surest signal, they will soon resume
New courage and revive, though now they lye
Groveling and prostrate on yon Lake of Fire,
As wee erewhile, astounded and amaz’d:
No wonder, fall’n such a pernicious highth.
He scarce had ceas’t when the superiour Fiend
Was moving toward the shore; his ponderous shield
Ethereal temper, massy, large and round,
Behind him cast; the broad circumference
Hung on his shoulders like the Moon, whose Orb
Through Optic Glass the Tuscan Artist views
At Ev’ning from the top of Fesole,
Or in Valdarno, to descry new Lands,
Rivers or Mountains in her spotty Globe.
His Spear, to equal which the tallest Pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the Mast
Of some great Ammiral, were but a wand,
He walkd with, to support uneasie steps
Over the burning Marie, not like those steps
On Heavens Azure; and the torrid Clime
Smote on him sore besides, vaulted with Fire;
Nathless he so endur’d, till on the Beach
Of that inflamed Sea, he stood and calld
His Legions, Angel Forms, who lay intranst
Thick as Autumnal Leaves that strow the Brooks
In Vallombrosa, where th’ Etrurian shades
High overarcht imbowr; or scatterd sedge
Afloat, when with fierce Winds Orion armd
Hath vext the Red-Sea Coast, whose waves orethrew
Busiris and his Memphian Chivalrie,
While with perfidious hatred they persu’d
The Sojourners of Goshen, who beheld
From the safe shore thir floating Carcasses
And brok’n Chariot Wheels. So thick bestrown
Abject and lost lay these, covering the Flood,
Under amazement of thir hideous change.
He calld so loud, that all the hollow deeps
Of Hell resounded.
from Book IX [‘The Serpent finds Eve alone’]
For now, and since first break of dawne the Fiend,
Meer Serpent in appearance, forth was come,
And on his Quest, where likeliest he might finde
The onely two of Mankinde, but in them
The whole included Race, his purposd prey.
In Bowre and Field he sought, where any tuft
Of Grove or Garden-Plot more pleasant lay,
Thir tendance or Plantation for delight,
By Fountain or by shadie Rivulet
He sought them both, but wishd his hap might find
Eve separate, he wishd, but not with hope
Of what so seldom chanc’d, when to his wish,
Beyond his hope, Eve separate he spies,
Veild in a Cloud of Fragrance, where she stood,
Half spi’d, so thick the Roses bushing round
About her glowd, oft stooping to support
Each Flour of slender stalk, whose head though gay
Carnation, Purple, Azure, or spect with Gold,
Hung drooping unsustaind, them she upstaies
Gently with Mirtle band, mindless the while,
Her self, though fairest unsupported Flour,
From her best prop so farr, and storm so nigh.
Neerer he drew, and many a walk travers’d
Of stateliest Covert, Cedar, Pine, or Palme,
Then voluble and bold, now hid, now seen
Among thick-woven Arborets and Flours
Imborderd on each Bank, the hand of Eve:
Spot more delicious then those Gardens feignd
Or of reviv’d Adonis, or renownd
Alcinous, host of old Laertes Son,
Or that, not Mystic, where the Sapient King
Held dalliance with his faire Egyptian Spouse.
Much he the Place admir’d, the Person more.
As one who long in populous City pent,
Where Houses thick and Sewers annoy the Aire,
Forth issuing on a Summers Morn to breathe
Among the pleasant Villages and Farmes
Adjoind, from each thing met conceaves delight,
The smell of Grain, or tedded Grass, or Kine,
Or Dairie, each rural sight, each rural sound;
If chance with Nymphlike step fair Virgin pass,
What pleasing seemd, for her now pleases more,