Classic Poem

But grant age lack'd these plagues; yet must they see
As great, as many: Fraile Mortalitie
In such a length of yeares, hath many falls,
And deads a life with frequent funerals.
The nimblest houre in all the span, can steale
A friend, or brother from's; there's no Repeale
In death, or time; this day a wife we mourne,
To morrowes teares a sonne, and the next Urne
A Sister fills; Long-livers have assign'd
These curses still: That with a restles mind,
An age of fresh renewing cares they buye,
And in a tide of teares grow old and dye.
Nestor , (if we great Homer may believe)
In his full strength three hundred yeares did live:
Happy (thou'lt say) that for so long a time
Enjoy'd free nature, with the grape, and Wine
Of many Autumnes; but I prethee, heare
What Nestor sayes himselfe, when he his deare
Antilochus had lost, how he complaines
Of life's too large Extent, and copious paines?
Of all he meets, he askes what is the cause
He lived thus long; for what breach of their Laws
The gods thus punish'd him? what sinne had he
Done worthy of a long lifes miserie?
Thus Peleus his Achilles mourned, and he
Thus wept that his Vlysses lost at Sea.
Had Priam dyed, before Phereclus Fleet
Was built, or Paris stole the fatall Greeke,
Troy had yet stood, and he perhaps had gone
In peace unto the lower shades; His sonne
Saved with his plenteous offspring, and the rest
In solemne pompe bearing his fun'rall Chest;
But long life hinder'd this: Unhappy he,
Kept for a publick ruine; lived to see
All Asia lost, and e're he could expire,
In his owne house saw both the sword, and fire;
All white with age, and cares, his feeble arme
Had now forgot the warre; but this Allarme
Gathers his dying spirits; and as wee
An aged Oxe worne out with labour, see,
By his ungratefull Master, after all
His yeares of toyle, a thankles victime fall:
So he by Ioves owne Altar; which shewes, wee
Are no where safe from Heaven, and destinie:
Yet dyed a man; but his surviving Queene,
Freed from the Greekish sword was barking seen
I haste to Rome, and Pontus King let passe,
With Lydian Craesus , whom in vaine (Alas!)
Just Solons grave advice bad to attend,
That happines came not before the end.
What man more blest in any age to come
Or past, could Nature shew the world, or Rome,
Then Marius was? if 'midst the pompe of war,
And triumphs fetch'd with Roman bloud from far
His soule had fled; Exile, and fetters then,
He ne're had seen, nor known Mynturna's fenne;
Nor had it, after Carthage got, been sed,
A Roman Generall had beg'd his bread.
Thus Pompey th' envious gods, & Romes ill stars
(Freed from Campania's feavers, and the Wars)
Doom'd to Achilles sword: Our publick vowes
Made Cusar guiltles; but sent him to loose
His head at Nile; This curse Cethegus mist;
This Lentulus , and this made him resist
That mangled by no Lictors axe, fell dead
Entirely Catiline , and saved his head.
The anxious Matrons, with their foolish zeale,
Are the last Votaries, and their Appeale
Is all for beauty; with soft speech, and slow,
They pray for sons, but with a louder vow
Commend a female feature: All that can
Make woman pleasing now they shift, and scan:
And why reprov'd they say, Latona's paire
The Mother never thinks can be too faire.
But sad Lucretia warnes to wish no face
Like hers; Virginia would bequeath her grace
To Crooke-backe Rutila in exchange; for still
The fairest children do their Parents fill
With greatest cares; so seldome Chastitie
Is found with beauty; though some few there be
That with a strict, religious care contend
Th' old, modest, Sabine Customes to defend:
Besides, wise nature to some faces grants
An easie blush, and where shee freely plants,
A lesse Instruction serves; but both these joyn'd,
At Rome would both be forc'd or else purloyn'd.