Flye on, flye on, swift Racer, untill she Whom thou of all ador'st shall learne of thee The pace t'outfly thee, and shall teach thee groan, What terrour 'tis t'outgo and be outgon. Nor yet looke back, nor yet must we Run then like spoakes in wheeles eternally, And never overtake? Be dragg'd on still By the weake cordage of your untwin'd will Round without hope of rest? No, I will turne, And with my goodnes boldly meete your scorne; My goodnesse which Heav'n pardon, and that fate MADE YOU HATE LOVE, AND FALL IN LOVE WITH HATE. But I am chang'd! Bright reason, that did give My soule a noble quicknes, made me live One breath yet longer, and to will, and see Hath reacht me pow'r to scorne as well as thee: That thou, which proudly tramplest on my grave, Thyselfe mightst fall, conquer'd my double slave: That thou mightst, sinking in thy triumphs, moan, And I triumph in my destruction. Hayle, holy cold! chaste temper, hayle! the fire Rav'd<40.2> o're my purer thoughts I feel t' expire, And I am candied ice. Yee pow'rs! if e're I shall be forc't unto my sepulcher, Or violently hurl'd into my urne, Oh make me choose rather to freeze than burne. <40.1> Carew (POEMS, ed. 1651, p. 53) has some lines, entitled, "In the person of a Lady to her Inconstant Servant," which are of nearly similar purport to Lovelace's poem, but are both shorter and better. <40.2> RAV'D seems here to be equivalent to REAV'D, or BEREAV'D. Perhaps the correct reading may be "reav'd." See Worcester's DICTIONARY, art. RAVE, where Menage's supposition of affinity between RAVE and BEREAVE is perhaps a little too slightingly treated. THE GRASSEHOPPER. TO MY NOBLE FRIEND, MR. CHARLES COTTON.<41.1> ODE. I. Oh thou, that swing'st upon the waving eare<41.2> Of some well-filled oaten beard,<41.3> Drunk ev'ry night with a delicious teare<41.4> Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard. II. The joyes of earth and ayre are thine intire, That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye; And when thy poppy workes, thou dost retire To thy carv'd acorn-bed to lye. III. Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomst then, Sportst in the guilt plats<41.5> of his beames, And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,<41.6> Thy selfe, and melancholy streames. IV. But ah, the sickle! golden eares are cropt; CERES and BACCHUS bid good-night; Sharpe frosty fingers all your flowrs have topt, And what sithes spar'd, winds shave off quite. V. Poore verdant foole! and now green ice, thy joys Large and as lasting as thy peirch<41.7> of grasse, Bid us lay in 'gainst winter raine, and poize Their flouds with an o'erflowing glasse. VI. Thou best of men and friends? we will create A genuine summer in each others breast; And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate, Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.