I saw beneath Tarentum's stately towers An old Cilician spend his peaceful hours. Some few bad acres in a waste, wild field, Which neither grass, nor corn, nor vines would yield, He did possess. There--amongst thorns and weeds-- Cheap herbs and coleworts, with the common seeds Of chesboule or tame poppies, he did sow, And vervain with white lilies caused to grow. Content he was, as are successful kings, And late at night come home--for long work brings The night still home--with unbought messes laid On his low table he his hunger stay'd. Roses he gather'd in the youthful Spring, And apples in the Autumn home did bring: And when the sad, cold Winter burst with frost The stones, and the still streams in ice were lost, He would soft leaves of bear's-foot crop, and chide The slow west winds and ling'ring Summer-tide! 9. [VIRGIL. AENEID, III. 515.] And rising at midnight the stars espied, All posting westward in a silent glide. 10. [VIRGIL. GEORGICS, II. 58.] The trees we set grow slowly, and their shade Stays for our sons, while we--the planters--fade. From _Man in Glory_: translated from Anselm (1652). 1. [ANSELM.] Here holy Anselm lives in ev'ry page, And sits archbishop still, to vex the age. Had he foreseen--and who knows but he did?-- This fatal wrack, which deep in time lay hid, 'Tis but just to believe, that little hand Which clouded him, but now benights our land, Had never--like Elias--driv'n him hence, A sad retirer for a slight offence. For were he now, like the returning year, Restor'd, to view these desolations here, He would do penance for his old complaint, And--weeping--say, that Rufus was a saint. From the Epistle-Dedicatory to _Flores Solitudinis_ (1654). 1. [BISSELLIUS.] The whole wench--how complete soe'er--was but A specious bait; a soft, sly, tempting slut; A pleasing witch; a living death; a fair, Thriving disease; a fresh, infectious air; A precious plague; a fury sweetly drawn; Wild fire laid up and finely dress'd in lawn. 2. [AUGURELLIUS.] Peter, when thou this pleasant world dost see, Believe, thou seest mere dreams and vanity, Not real things, but false, and through the air Each-where an empty, slipp'ry scene, though fair. The chirping birds, the fresh woods' shady boughs, The leaves' shrill whispers, when the west wind blows, The swift, fierce greyhounds coursing on the plains, The flying hare, distress'd 'twixt fear and pains, The bloomy maid decking with flow'rs her head, The gladsome, easy youth by light love led; And whatsoe'er here with admiring eyes Thou seem'st to see, 'tis but a frail disguise Worn by eternal things, a passive dress Put on by beings that are passiveless. From a Discourse _Of Temperance and Patience_: translated from Nierembergius (1654).