Loose humour nor to please, That neither spares nor spends; But by discretion weighs What is to needful ends. To him deserving not, Not yielding: nor doth hold What is not his: doing what He ought, not what he could. Whom the base tyrants' will So much could never awe As him, for good or ill, From honesty to draw. Whose constancy doth rise 'Bove undeservèd spite; Whose valuers to despise That most doth him delight. That early leave doth take Of th' World, though to his pain, For Virtue's only sake; And not till need constrain. No man can be so free, Though in imperial seat; Nor eminent: as he That deemeth nothing great. ODE 5. [_An Amouret Anacreontic._] [Illustration] Most good! most fair! Or thing as rare! To call you's lost; For all the cost Words can bestow So poorly show Upon your praise, That all the ways Sense hath, come short. Whereby Report Falls them under: That when Wonder More hath seized; Yet not pleased That it, in kind, Nothing can find, You to express. Nevertheless As by globes small This mighty ALL Is shewed, though far From life; each star A World being: So we seeing You, like as that, Only trust what Art doth us teach. And when I reach At Moral Things, And that my strings Gravely should strike; Straight some mislike Blotteth mine Ode; As, with the Load, The Steel we touch: Forced ne'er so much; Yet still removes To that it loves, Till there it stays. So to your praise I turn ever: And though never From you moving; Happy so loving. ODE 6. [_Love's Conquest._] [Illustration] Wer 't granted me to choose, How I would end my days, Since I this life must lose; It should be in your praise: For there are no Bays Can be set above You. S'impossibly I love You; And for You sit so high (Whence none may remove You) In my clear Poesy, That I oft deny You so ample merit. The freedom of my spirit Maintaining, still, my cause; Your sex not to inherit, Urging the Salic Laws: But your virtue draws From me every due. Thus still You me pursue, That nowhere I can dwell; By fear made just to You, Who naturally rebel; Of You that excel That should I still endite. Yet will You want some rite. That lost in your high praise, I wander to and fro; As seeing sundry ways: Yet which the right not know To get out of this Maze. ODE 7. [_An Ode written in the Peak._] [Illustration] This while we are abroad, Shall we not touch our Lyre? Shall we not sing an Ode? Shall that holy fire, In us that strongly glowed, In this cold air expire?