Glory no other thing is, Tully says, Than a man's frequent fame spoke out with praise. 711. POSSESSIONS. Those possessions short-liv'd are, Into the which we come by war. 713. HIS RETURN TO LONDON. From the dull confines of the drooping West To see the day spring from the pregnant East, Ravish'd in spirit I come, nay, more, I fly To thee, bless'd place of my nativity! Thus, thus with hallowed foot I touch the ground, With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown'd. O fruitful Genius! that bestowest here An everlasting plenty, year by year. O place! O people! Manners! fram'd to please All nations, customs, kindreds, languages! I am a free-born Roman; suffer, then, That I amongst you live a citizen. London my home is: though by hard fate sent Into a long and irksome banishment; Yet since call'd back; henceforward let me be, O native country, repossess'd by thee! For, rather than I'll to the West return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn. Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall; Give thou my sacred relics burial. 714. NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE. 'Tis not ev'ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy; No; but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles Full of fire, then I write As the godhead doth indite. Thus enrag'd, my lines are hurled, Like the Sybil's, through the world. Look how next the holy fire Either slakes, or doth retire; So the fancy cools, till when That brave spirit comes again. _Fantastic pannicles_, brain cells of the imagination. _Sybil's_, the oracles of the Cumæan Sybil were written on leaves, which the wind blew about her cave.--Virg. Æn. iv. 715. POVERTY THE GREATEST PACK. To mortal men great loads allotted be, _But of all packs, no pack like poverty_. 716. A BUCOLIC, OR DISCOURSE OF NEATHERDS. 1. Come, blitheful neatherds, let us lay A wager who the best shall play, Of thee or I, the roundelay That fits the business of the day. _Chor._ And Lalage the judge shall be, To give the prize to thee, or me. 2. Content, begin, and I will bet A heifer smooth, and black as jet, In every part alike complete, And wanton as a kid as yet. _Chor._ And Lalage, with cow-like eyes, Shall be disposeress of the prize. 1. Against thy heifer, I will here Lay to thy stake a lusty steer With gilded horns, and burnish'd clear. _Chor._ Why, then, begin, and let us hear The soft, the sweet, the mellow note That gently purls from either's oat. 2. The stakes are laid: let's now apply Each one to make his melody. _Lal._ The equal umpire shall be I, Who'll hear, and so judge righteously.