These vows to thee! for since great Talbot's gone Where you yourself shall lose; for though you breathe Upward to pride, your center is beneath. And 'twill thy rhetoric, false flesh! confound, "MY HARP IS TURNED TO MOURNING."-JOB. LOVE! I no orgies sing Nor from the East rich perfumes bring Nor while I did frequent Religious was the charm I us'd affection to entice : And thought none burnt more bright or warm; Yet chaste as winter was the sacrifice. But now I thee bequeath To the soft silken youths at court; To raise their mistress' smile, or make her sport. They'll smooth thee into rhyme, Such as shall catch the wanton ear: To make them a high sail of honour bear. And may a powerful smile Cherish their flatteries of wit! While I my life of fame beguile, And under my own vine uncourted sit. For I have seen the pine, Fam'd for its travels o'er the sea, I have seen cedars fall, And in their room a mushroom grow: Vain trivial dust! weak man! Where is that virtue of thy breath, That others save or ruin can, When thou thyself art call'd to account by Death? When I consider thee, The scorn of Time, and sport of Fate; My ill-strung harp, and court the delicate? How can I but disdain The empty fallacies of mirth; And in my midnight thoughts retain, Fond youth! too long I play'd The wanton with a false delight; Which when I touch'd, I found a shade, Then since pride doth betray The soul to flatter'd ignorance, "LET ME KNOW THE NUMBER OF MY DAYS." DAVID. TELL me, O great All-knowing God! What period Hast thou unto my days assign'd? Like some old leafless tree, shall I Wither away, or violently Fall by the axe, by lightning, or the wind? Here, where I first drew vital breath, And find in the same vault a room Shall I 'gainst the swift Parthians fight, And in their flight Receive my death? Or shall I see Astrologers, who calculate Affirm my scheme doth not presage But they are jugglers, and by sleight Of faith delude; and in their school They only practise how to make And teach strange words credulity to fool. For thou, who first didst motion give, And time hath being, to conceal To check the ambition of our wit, Therefore, so I prepar'd still be, My God, for thee, O' th' sudden on my spirits may Or let me by a dull disease, Or weaken'd by a feeble age, decay. And so I in thy favour die, No memory For me a well-wrought tomb prepare: "NOT UNTO US, O LORD.”—DAVID. |