Classic Poem

The west-sea's goddess in a crimson robe,
 Her temples circled with a coral wreath,
Waited her love, the lightener of earth's globe:
 The wanton wind did on her bosom breathe;
The nymphs of springs did hallow'd water pour;
Whate'er was cold help'd to make cool her bower.

And now the fiery horses of the Sun
 Were from their golden-flaming car untrac'd,
And all the glory of the day was done,
 Save here and there some light moon-clouds enchas'd,
A parti-colour'd canopy did spread
Over the Sun and Thetis' amorous bed.

Now had the shepherds folded in their flocks,
 The sweating teams uncoupled from their yokes:
The wolf sought prey, and the sly-murdering fox
 Attempts to steal; fearless of rural strokes,
All beasts took rest that liv'd by labouring toil;
Only such rang'd as had delight in spoil.

Now in the pathless region of the air
 The wingèd passengers had left to soar,
Except the bat and owl, who bode sad care,
 And Philomel, that nightly doth deplore,
In soul-contenting tunes, her change of shape,
Wrought first by perfidy and lustful rape.

This poor musician, sitting all alone
 On a green hawthorn from the thunder blest,
Carols in varied notes her antique moan,
 Keeping a sharpen'd briar against her breast:
Her innocence this watchful pain doth take,
To shun the adder and the speckled snake.

These two, like her old foe the lord of Thrace,
 Regardless of her dulcet-changing song,
To serve their own lust have her life in chase;
 Virtue by vice is offer'd endless wrong:
Beasts are not all to blame, for now and then
We see the like attempted amongst men.

Under the tree whereon the poor bird sat,
 There was a bed of busy-toiling ants,
That in their summer winter's comfort gat,
 Teaching poor men how to shun after-wants;
Whose rules if sluggards could be learn'd to keep,
They should not starve awake, lie cold asleep.

One of these busy brethren, having done
 His day's true labour, got upon the tree,
And with his little nimble legs did run;
 Pleas'd with the hearing, he desir'd to see
What wondrous creature nature had compos'd,
In whom such gracious music was enclos'd.

He got too near; for the mistrustful bird
 Guess'd him to be a spy from her known foe:
Suspicion argues not to hear a word:
 What wise man fears not that's inur'd to woe?
Then blame not her she caught him in her beak,
About to kill him ere the worm could speak.

But yet her mercy was above her heat;
 She did not, as a many silken men
Call'd by much wealth, small wit, to judgment's seat,
 Condemn at random; but she pitied then
When she might spoil: would great ones would do so!
Who often kill before the cause they know.

O, if they would, as did this little fowl,
 Look on their lesser captives with even ruth,
They should not hear so many sentenc'd howl,
 Complaining justice is not friend to truth!
But they would think upon this ancient theme,
Each right extreme is injury extreme.

Pass them to mend, for none can them amend
 But heaven's lieutenant and earth's justice-king;
Stern will hath will; no great one wants a friend;
 Some are ordain'd to sorrow, some to sing;
And with this sentence let thy griefs all close,
Whoe'er are wrong'd are happier than their foes.

So much for such. Now to the little ant
 In the bird's beak and at the point to die:
Alas for woe, friends in distress are scant!
 None of his fellows to his help did hie;
They keep them safe; they hear, and are afraid:
'Tis vain to trust in the base number's aid.

Only himself unto himself is friend:
 With a faint voice his foe he thus bespake;
Why seeks your gentleness a poor worm's end?
 O, ere you kill, hear the excuse I make!
I come to wonder, not to work offence:
There is no glory to spoil innocence.

Perchance you take me for a soothing spy,
 By the sly snake or envious adder fee'd:
Alas, I know not how to feign and lie,
 Or win a base intelligencer's meed,
That now are Christians, sometimes Turks, then Jews,
Living by leaving heaven for earthly news.

I am a little emmet, born to work,
 Ofttimes a man, as you were once a maid:
Under the name of man much ill doth lurk,
 Yet of poor me you need not be afraid;
Mean men are worms, on whom the mighty tread;
Greatness and strength your virtue injurèd.

With that she open'd wide her horny bill,
 The prison where this poor submissant lay;
And seeing the poor ant lie quivering still,
 Go, wretch, quoth she, I give thee life and way;
The worthy will not prey on yielding things,
Pity's infeoffèd to the blood of kings.

For I was once, though now a feather'd veil
 Cover my wrongèd body, queen-like clad;
This down about my neck was erst a rail
 Of byss embroider'd—fie on that we had!
Unthrifts and fools and wrongèd ones complain
Rich things were theirs must ne'er be theirs again.

I was, thou know'st, the daughter to a king,
 Had palaces and pleasures in my time;
Now mine own songs I am enforc'd to sing,
 Poets forget me in their pleasing rhyme;
Like chaff they fly, toss'd with each windy breath,
Omitting my forc'd rape by Tereus' death.

But 'tis no matter; I myself can sing
 Sufficient strains to witness mine own worth:
They that forget a queen soothe with a king;
 Flattery's still barren, yet still bringeth forth:
Their works are dews shed when the day is done,
But suck'd up dry by the next morning's sun.

What more of them? they are like Iris' throne,
 Commix'd with many colours in moist time:
Such lines portend what's in that circle shewn;
 Clear weather follows showers in every clime,
Averring no prognosticator lies,
That says, some great ones fall, their rivals rise.

Pass such for bubbles; let their bladder-praise
 Shine and sink with them in a moment's change:
They think to rise when they the riser raise;
 But regal wisdom knows it is not strange
For curs to fawn: base things are ever low;
The vulgar eye feeds only on the show.

Else would not soothing glosers oil the son,
 Who, while his father liv'd, his acts did hate:
They know all earthly day with man is done
 When he is circled in the night of fate;
So the deceasèd they think on no more,
But whom they injur'd late, they now adore.

But there's a manly lion now can roar
 Thunder more dreaded than the lioness;
Of him let simple beasts his aid implore,
 For he conceives more than they can express:
The virtuous politic is truly man,
Devil the atheist politician.

I guess'd thee such a one; but tell thy tale:
 If thou be simple, as thou hast exprest,
Do not with coinèd words set wit to sale,
 Nor with the flattering world use vain protest:
Sith man thou say'st thou wert, I prithee, tell
While thou wert man what mischiefs thee befell.

Princess, you bid me buried cares revive,
 Quoth the poor ant; yet sith by you I live,
So let me in my daily labourings thrive
 As I myself do to your service give:
I have been oft a man, and so to be
Is often to be thrall to misery.

But if you will have me my mind disclose,
 I must entreat you that I may set down
The tales of my black fortunes in sad prose:
 Rhyme is uneven, fashion'd by a clown;
I first was such a one, I till'd the ground;
And amongst rurals verse is scarcely found.

Well, tell thy tales; but see thy prose be good;
 For if thou Euphuize, which once was rare,
And of all English phrase the life and blood,
 In those times for the fashion past compare,
I'll say thou borrow'st, and condemn thy style,
As our new fools, that count all following vile.

Or if in bitterness thou rail, like Nash—
 Forgive me, honest soul, that term thy phrase
Railing! for in thy works thou wert not rash,
 Nor didst affect in youth thy private praise:
Thou hadst a strife with that Trigemini;
Thou hurt'dst not them till they had injur'd thee.

Thou wast indeed too slothful to thyself,
 Hiding thy better talent in thy spleen;
True spirits are not covetous in pelf;
 Youth's wit is ever ready, quick, and keen:
Thou didst not live thy ripen'd autumn-day,
But wert cut off in thy best blooming May:

Else hadst thou left, as thou indeed hast left,
 Sufficient test, though now in others' chests,
T' improve the baseness of that humorous theft,
 Which seems to flow from self-conceiving breasts:
Thy name they bury, having buried thee;
Drones eat thy honey—thou wert the true bee.

Peace keep thy soul! And now to you, sir ant:
 On with your prose, be neither rude nor nice;
In your discourse let no decorum want,
 See that you be sententious and concise;
And, as I like the matter, I will sing
A canzonet, to close up everything.

N IGHTINGALE .

There keep thee still;
Since all are ill,
 Venture no more;
'Tis better be a little ant
Than a great man and live in want,
 And still deplore:
 So rest thee now
 From sword, book, or plough.

By this the day began to spring,
 And seize upon her watchful eyes,
When more tree-quiristers did sing,
 And every bird did wake and rise:
Which was no sooner seen and heard,
But all their pretty chat was marr'd;
 And then she said,
 We are betray'd,
The day is up, and all the birds
And they abroad will blab our words.

With that she bade the ants farewell,
And all they likewise Philomel:
 Away she flew,
 Crying Tereu!
And all the industrious ants in throngs,
Fell to their work and held their tongues.