Classic Poem

Limos had all this while been wanting thence,
And but just Heav'n preserv'd pure innocence
By the two birds, her life to air had flit,
Ere the curst caitiff should have forced it.
The first night that he left her in his den,
He got to shore, and near th' abodes of men
That live as we by tending of their flocks,
To interchange for Ceres' golden locks,
Or with the neatherd for his milk and cream,
Things we respect more than the diadem
His choice made-dishes. O! the golden age
Met all contentment in no surplusage
Of dainty viands, but, as we do still,
Drank the pure water of the crystal rill,
Fed on no other meats than those they fed,
Labour the salad that their stomachs bred.
Nor sought they for the down of silver swains,
Nor those sow-thistle locks each small gale fans,
But hides of beasts, which when they liv'd they kept,
Serv'd them for bed and cov'ring when they slept.
If any softer lay, 'twas (by the loss
Of some rock's warmth) on thick and spongy moss,
Or on the ground: some simple wall of clay
Parting their beds from where their cattle lay.
And on such pallets one man clipped then
More golden slumbers than this age again.
That time physicians thriv'd not: or, if any,
I dare say all: yet then were thrice as many
As now profess't, and more; for every man
Was his own patient and physician.
None had a body then so weak and thin,
Bankrupt of nature's store, to feed the sin
Of an insatiate female, in whose womb
Could nature all hers past, and all to come
Infuse, with virtue of all drugs beside,
She might be tir'd, but never satisfied.
To please which ork her husband's weaken'd piece
Must have his cullis mix'd with ambergris;
Pheasant and partridge into jelly turn'd,
Grated with gold, seven times refin'd and burn'd
With dust of Orient pearl, richer the East
Yet ne'er beheld: (O Epicurean feast!)
This is his breakfast; and his meal at night
Possets no less provoking appetite,
Whose dear ingredients valu'd are at more
Than all his ancestors were worth before.
When such as we by poor and simple fare
More able liv'd, and died not without heir,
Sprung from our own loins, and a spotless bed
Of any other power unseconded:
When th' other's issue, like a man fall'n sick,
Or through the fever, gout, or lunatic,
Changing his doctors oft, each as his notion
Prescribes a sev'ral diet, sev'ral potion,
Meeting his friend (who meet we nowadays
That hath not some receipt for each disease?)
He tells him of a plaister, which he takes;
And finding after that, his torment slakes,
(Whether because the humour is out-wrought,
O by the skill which his physician brought,
It makes no matter:) for he surely thinks
None of their purges nor their diet drinks
Have made him sound; but his belief is fast
That med'cine was his health which he took last:
So by a mother being taught to call
One for his father, though a son to all,
His mother's often 'scapes, though truly known,
Cannot divert him; but will ever own
For his begetter him, whose name and rents
He must inherit. Such are the descents
Of these men; to make up whose limber heir
As many as in him must have a share;
When he that keeps the last yet least ado,
Father the people's child, and gladly too.
Happier those times were when the flaxen clew
By fair Arachne's hand the Lydians knew,
And sought not to the worm for silken threads,
To roll their bodies in, or dress their heads,
When wise Minerva did th' Athenians learn
To draw their milk-white fleeces into yarn;
And knowing not the mixtures which began
(Of colours) from the Babylonian,
Nor wool in Sardis dyed, more various known
By hues, than Iris to the world hath shown:
The bowels of our mother were not ripp'd
For madder-pits, nor the sweet meadows stripp'd
Of their choice beauties, nor for Ceres' load
The fertile lands burden'd with needless woad.
Through the wide seas no winged pine did go
To lands unknown for staining indico;
Nor men in scorching climates moor'd their keel
To traffic for the costly cochineal.
Unknown was then the Phrygian broidery,
The Tyrian purple, and the scarlet dye,
Such as their sheep clad, such they wove and wore,
Russet or white, or those mix'd, and no more:
Except sometimes (to bravery inclin'd)
They dyed them yellow caps with alder rind.
The Grecian mantle, Tuscan robes of state,
Tissue, nor cloth of gold of highest rate,
They never saw; only in pleasant woods,
Or by th' embroidered margin of the floods,
The dainty nymphs they often did behold
Clad in their light silk robes, stitch'd oft with gold.
The arras hangings round their comely halls
Wanted the cerite's web and minerals:
Green boughs of trees which fatt'ning acorns lade,
Hung full with flowers and garlands quaintly made,
Their homely cotes deck'd trim in low degree,
As now the court with richest tapestry.
Instead of cushions wrought in windows lain,
They pick'd the cockle from their fields of grain,
Sleep-bringing poppy, by the ploughmen late
Not without cause to Ceres consecrate,
For being round and full at his half birth
It signified the perfect orb of earth;
And by his inequalities when blown,
The earth's low vales and higher hills were shown.
By multitude of grains it held within,
Of men and beasts the number noted been;
And she since taking care all earth to please,
Had in her Thesmophoria offer'd these.
Or cause that seed our elders us'd to eat,
With honey mix'd, and was their after meat,
Or since her daughter that she lov'd so well
By him that in th' infernal shades doth dwell,
And on the Stygian banks for ever reigns,
Troubled with horrid cries and noise of chains,
Fairest Proserpina, was rapt away;
And she in plaints the night, in tears the day
Had long time spent, when no high Power could give her
Any redress; the poppy did relieve her:
For eating of the seeds they sleep procur'd,
And so beguil'd those griefs she long endur'd.
Or rather since her love, then happy man,
Micon ycleep'd, the brave Athenian,
Had been transform'd into this gentle flower,
And his protection kept from Flora's power.
The daisy scatter'd on each mead and down,
A golden tuft within a silver crown;
(Fair fall that dainty flower! and may there be
No shepherd grac'd that doth not honour thee!)
The primrose, when with six leaves gotten grace
Maids as a true-love in their bosoms place;
The spotless lily, by whose pure leaves be
Noted the chaste thoughts of virginity;
Carnations sweet with colour like the fire,
The fit impresas for inflam'd desire;
The harebell for her stainless azur'd hue
Claims to be worn of none but those are true;
The rose, like ready youth, enticing stands,
And would be cropp'd if it might choose the hands.
The yellow kingcup Flora them assign'd
To be the badges of a jealous mind;
The orange-tawny marigold: the night
Hides not her colour from a searching sight.
To thee then, dearest friend (my song's chief mate),
This colour chiefly I appropriate,
That spite of all the mists oblivion can
Or envious frettings of a guilty man,
Retain'st thy worth; nay, mak'st it more in price,
Like tennis-balls, thrown down hard, highest rise.
The columbine in tawny often taken,
Is then ascrib'd to such as are forsaken;
Flora's choice buttons of a russet dye
Is hope even in the depth of misery.
The pansy, thistle, all with prickles set,
The cowslip, honeysuckle, violet,
And many hundreds more that grac'd the meads,
Gardens and groves, where beauteous Flora treads,
Were by the shepherds' daughters (as yet are
Us'd in our cotes) brought home with special care:
For bruising them they not alone would quell
But rot the rest, and spoil their pleasing smell.
Much like a lad, who, in his tender prime,
Sent from his friends to learn the use of time,
As are his mates or good or bad, so he
Thrives to the world, and such his actions be.