Too soon we languish with desire Of what we never could enough admire. On th' billows of this world sometimes we rise So dangerously high, We are to Heaven too nigh: When all in rage (Grown hoary with one minute's age) The very self-same fickle wave, Which the entrancing prospect gave, 50 Swoln to a mountain, sinks into a grave. Too happy mortals, if the Powers above As merciful would be, And easy to preserve the thing we love, As in the giving they are free! But they too oft delude our wearied eyes, They fix a flaming sword 'twixt us and Paradise! A weeping evening blurs a smiling day, Yet why should heads of gold have feet of clay? Why should the man that wav'd th' Almighty wand, 60 That led the murmuring crowd By pillar and by cloud, Shivering atop of aery Pisgah stand Only to see, but never, never tread the Promis'd Land? IV. Throw your swords and gauntlets by, You daring Sons of War! You cannot purchase ere you die One honourable scar, Since that fair hand that gilded all your bays; That in heroic numbers wrote your praise, 70 That you might safely sleep in Honour's bed, Itself, alas! is wither'd, cold, and dead: Cold and dead are all those charms That burnish'd your victorious arms; Those useless things hereafter must Blush first in blood, and then in rust: No oil but that of her smooth words can serve Weapon and warrior to preserve. Expect no more from this dull age But folly or poetic rage, 80 Short-liv'd nothings of the stage, Vented to-day, and cried to-morrow down; With her the soul of Poesie is gone, Gone, while our expectations flew As high a pitch as she has done, Exhal'd to Heaven like early dew, Betimes the little shining drops are flown, Ere th' drowsy world perceiv'd that manna was come down V. You of the sex that would be fair, Exceeding lovely, hither come, 90 Would you be pure as Angels are, Come dress you by Orinda's tomb, And leave your flattering glass at home. Within that marble mirror see, How one day such as she You must, and yet alas! can never be! Think on the heights of that vast soul, And then admire, and then condole. Think on the wonders of her generous pen, 'Twas she made Pompey truly great; 100 Neither the purchase of his sweat Nor yet Cornelia's kindness made him live again: With envy think, when to the grave you go, How very little must be said of you, Since all that can be said of virtuous woman was her due.