The Hesperides & Noble Numbers Part 57

The palms put forth their gems, and every tree Now swaggers in her leafy gallantry.

The while the Daulian minstrel sweetly sings, With warbling notes, her Terean sufferings.

What gentle winds perspire! As if here Never had been the northern plunderer To strip the trees and fields, to their distress, Leaving them to a pitied nakedness.

And look how when a frantic storm doth tear A stubborn oak, or holm, long growing there, But lull'd to calmness, then succeeds a breeze That scarcely stirs the nodding leaves of trees: So when this war, which tempest-like doth spoil Our salt, our corn, our honey, wine and oil, Falls to a temper, and doth mildly cast His inconsiderate frenzy off, at last, The gentle dove may, when these turmoils cease, Bring in her bill, once more, the branch of peace.

_Gems_, buds.

_Daulian minstrel_, the nightingale Philomela.

_Terean sufferings_, _i.e._, at the hands of Tereus.

643. THE HAG.

The hag is astride This night for to ride, The devil and she together; Through thick and through thin, Now out and then in, Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a burr She takes for a spur, With a lash of a bramble she rides now; Through brakes and through briars, O'er ditches and mires, She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast for his food Dare now range the wood, But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking; While mischiefs, by these, On land and on seas, At noon of night are a-working.

The storm will arise And trouble the skies; This night, and more for the wonder, The ghost from the tomb Affrighted shall come, Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.

644. UPON AN OLD MAN: A RESIDENTIARY.

Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye can Upon the grave of this old man.

Twice forty, bating but one year And thrice three weeks, he lived here.

Whom gentle fate translated hence To a more happy residence.

Yet, reader, let me tell thee this, Which from his ghost a promise is, If here ye will some few tears shed, He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.

_Residentiary_, old inhabitant.

645. UPON TEARS.

Tears, though they're here below the sinner's brine, Above they are the angels' spiced wine.

646. PHYSICIANS.

Physicians fight not against men; but these Combat for men by conquering the disease.

647. THE PRIMITIae TO PARENTS.

Our household-G.o.ds our parents be; And manners good require that we The first fruits give to them, who gave Us hands to get what here we have.

649. UPON LUCY. EPIG.

Sound teeth has Lucy, pure as pearl, and small, With mellow lips, and luscious therewithal.

651. TO SILVIA.

I am holy while I stand Circ.u.m-crost by thy pure hand; But when that is gone, again I, as others, am profane.

_Circ.u.m-crost_, marked round with a cross.

652. TO HIS CLOSET-G.o.dS.

When I go hence, ye Closet-G.o.ds, I fear Never again to have ingression here Where I have had whatever thing could be Pleasant and precious to my muse and me.

Besides rare sweets, I had a book which none Could read the intext but myself alone.

About the cover of this book there went A curious-comely clean compartlement, And, in the midst, to grace it more, was set A blus.h.i.+ng, pretty, peeping rubelet.

But now 'tis closed; and being shut and seal'd, Be it, O be it, never more reveal'd!

Keep here still, Closet-G.o.ds, 'fore whom I've set Oblations oft of sweetest marmelet.

_Ingression_, entrance.

_Intext_, contents.

653. A BACCHa.n.a.lIAN VERSE.

Fill me a mighty bowl Up to the brim, That I may drink Unto my Jonson's soul.

Crown it again, again; And thrice repeat That happy heat, To drink to thee, my Ben.

Well I can quaff, I see, To th' number five Or nine; but thrive In frenzy ne'er like thee.

_To the number five or nine_, see Note.

654. LONG-LOOKED-FOR COMES AT LAST.

Though long it be, years may repay the debt; _None loseth that which he in time may get_.

655. TO YOUTH.

Drink wine, and live here blitheful, while ye may: _The morrow's life too late is; live to-day_.

656. NEVER TOO LATE TO DIE.

No man comes late unto that place from whence Never man yet had a regredience.

_Regredience_, return.

657. A HYMN TO THE MUSES.