THE THIRD PART.

Now must I draw my forces 'gainst that host Of pleasures, which i' th'sea of age are lost. O thou most high transcendant gift of age! Youth from its folly thus to disengage. And now receive from me that most divine Oration of that noble Tarentine,[1] Which at Tarentum I long since did hear, When I attended the great Fabius there. 440 Ye gods, was it man's nature, or his fate, Betray'd him with sweet pleasure's poison'd bait? Which he, with all designs of art or power, Doth with unbridled appetite devour: And as all poisons seek the noblest part, Pleasure possesses first the head and heart; Intoxicating both by them, she finds, And burns the sacred temples of our minds. Furies, which reason's divine chains had bound, (That being broken) all the world confound. 450 Lust, murder, treason, avarice, and hell Itself broke loose, in reason's palace dwell: Truth, honour, justice, temperance, are fled, All her attendants into darkness led. But why all this discourse? when pleasure's rage Hath conquer'd reason, we must treat with age. Age undermines, and will in time surprise Her strongest forts, and cut off all supplies; And join'd in league with strong necessity, Pleasure must fly, or else by famine die. 460 Flaminius, whom a consulship had graced, (Then Censor) from the Senate I displaced; When he in Gaul, a Consul, made a feast, A beauteous courtesan did him request To see the cutting off a pris'ner's head; This crime I could not leave unpunished, Since by a private villany he stain'd That public honour which at Rome he gain'd. Then to our age (when not to pleasures bent) This seems an honour, not disparagement. 470 We not all pleasures like the Stoics hate, But love and seek those which are moderate. (Though divine Plato thus of pleasures thought, They us, with hooks and baits, like fishes caught.) When Questor, to the gods in public halls I was the first who set up festivals. Not with high tastes our appetites did force, But fill'd with conversation and discourse; Which feasts, Convivial Meetings we did name: Not like the ancient Greeks, who to their shame, 480 Call'd it a Compotation, not a feast; Declaring the worst part of it the best. Those entertainments I did then frequent Sometimes with youthful heat and merriment: But now I thank my age, which gives me ease From those excesses; yet myself I please With cheerful talk to entertain my guests (Discourses are to age continual feasts), The love of meat and wine they recompense, And cheer the mind, as much as those the sense. 490 I'm not more pleased with gravity among The aged, than to be youthful with the young; Nor 'gainst all pleasures proclaim open war, To which, in age, some nat'ral motions are. And still at my Sabinum I delight To treat my neighbours till the depth of night. But we the sense of gust and pleasure want, Which youth at full possesses; this I grant; But age seeks not the things which youth requires, And no man needs that which he not desires. 500 When Sophocles was asked if he denied Himself the use of pleasures, he replied, 'I humbly thank th'immortal gods, who me From that fierce tyrant's insolence set free.' But they whom pressing appetites constrain, Grieve when they cannot their desires obtain. Young men the use of pleasure understand, As of an object new, and near at hand: Though this stands more remote from age's sight, 509 Yet they behold it not without delight: As ancient soldiers, from their duties eased, With sense of honour and rewards are pleased; So from ambitious hopes and lusts released, Delighted with itself our age doth rest. No part of life's more happy, when with bread Of ancient knowledge and new learning fed; All youthful pleasures by degrees must cease, But those of age even with our years increase. We love not loaded boards and goblets crown'd, But free from surfeits our repose is sound. 520 When old Fabricius to the Samnites went Ambassador, from Rome to Pyrrhus sent, He heard a grave philosopher maintain, That all the actions of our life were vain Which with our sense of pleasure not conspired; Fabricius the philosopher desired, That he to Pyrrhus would that maxim teach, And to the Samnites the same doctrine preach; Then of their conquest he should doubt no more, Whom their own pleasures overcame before. 530 Now into rustic matters I must fall, Which pleasure seems to me the chief of all. Age no impediment to those can give, Who wisely by the rules of Nature live. Earth (though our mother) cheerfully obeys All the commands her race upon her lays. For whatsoever from our hand she takes, Greater or less, a vast return she makes. Nor am I only pleased with that resource, But with her ways, her method, and her force. 540 The seed her bosom (by the plough made fit) Receives, where kindly she embraces it, Which with her genuine warmth diffused and spread, Sends forth betimes a green and tender head, Then gives it motion, life, and nourishment, Which from the root through nerves and veins are sent; Straight in a hollow sheath upright it grows, And, form receiving, doth itself disclose: Drawn up in ranks and files, the bearded spikes Guard it from birds as with a stand of pikes. 550 When of the vine I speak, I seem inspired, And with delight, as with her juice, am fired; At Nature's godlike power I stand amazed, Which such vast bodies hath from atoms raised. The kernel of a grape, the fig's small grain, Can clothe a mountain and o'ershade a plain: But thou, (dear Vine!) forbid'st me to be long; Although thy trunk be neither large nor strong, Nor can thy head (not help'd) itself sublime, Yet, like a serpent, a tall tree can climb; 560 Whate'er thy many fingers can entwine, Proves thy support, and all its strength is thine. Though Nature gave not legs, it gave the hands, By which thy prop the proudest cedar stands: As thou hast hands, so hath thy offspring wings, And to the highest part of mortals springs. But lest thou should'st consume thy wealth in vain, And starve thyself to feed a num'rous train, Or like the bee (sweet as thy blood) design'd To be destroy'd to propagate his kind, 570 Lest thy redundant and superfluous juice, Should fading leaves instead of fruits produce, The pruner's hand, with letting blood, must quench Thy heat, and thy exub'rant parts retrench: Then from the joints of thy prolific stem A swelling knot is raised (call'd a gem), Whence, in short space, itself the cluster shows, 577 And from earth's moisture mixed with sunbeams grows. I' th'spring, like youth, it yields an acid taste, But summer doth, like age, the sourness waste; Then clothed with leaves, from heat and cold secure, Like virgins, sweet and beauteous, when mature. On fruits, flowers, herbs, and plants, I long could dwell, At once to please my eye, my taste, my smell; My walks of trees, all planted by my hand, Like children of my own begetting stand. To tell the sev'ral natures of each earth, What fruits from each most properly take birth: And with what arts to enrich every mould, The dry to moisten, and to warm the cold. 590 But when we graft, or buds inoculate, Nature by art we nobly meliorate; As Orpheus' music wildest beasts did tame, From the sour crab the sweetest apple came: The mother to the daughter goes to school, The species changed, doth her law overrule; Nature herself doth from herself depart, (Strange transmigration!) by the power of art. How little things give law to great! we see The small bud captivates the greatest tree. 600 Here even the power divine we imitate, And seem not to beget, but to create. Much was I pleased with fowls and beasts, the tame For food and profit, and the wild for game. Excuse me when this pleasant string I touch (For age, of what delights it, speaks too much). Who twice victorious Pyrrhus conquered, The Sabines and the Samnites captive led, Great Curius, his remaining days did spend, And in this happy life his triumphs end. 610 My farm stands near, and when I there retire, His, and that age's temper I admire: The Samnites' chief, as by his fire he sate, With a vast sum of gold on him did wait; 'Return,' said he, 'your gold I nothing weigh, When those who can command it me obey.' This my assertion proves, he may be old, And yet not sordid, who refuses gold. In summer to sit still, or walk, I love, Near a cool fountain, or a shady grove. 620 What can in winter render more delight, Than the high sun at noon, and fire at night? While our old friends and neighbours feast and play, And with their harmless mirth turn night to day, Unpurchased plenty our full tables loads, And part of what they lent, return t'our gods. That honour and authority which dwells With age, all pleasures of our youth excels. Observe, that I that age have only praised Whose pillars were on youth's foundations raised, 630 And that (for which I great applause received) As a true maxim hath been since believed. That most unhappy age great pity needs, Which to defend itself, new matter pleads; Not from gray hairs authority doth flow, Nor from bald heads, nor from a wrinkled brow, But our past life, when virtuously spent, Must to our age those happy fruits present. Those things to age most honourable are, Which easy, common, and but light appear, 640 Salutes, consulting, compliment, resort, Crowding attendance to and from the court: And not on Rome alone this honour waits, But on all civil and well-govern'd states. Lysander, pleading in his city's praise, From thence his strongest argument did raise, That Sparta did with honour age support, Paying them just respect at stage and court. But at proud Athens youth did age outface, Nor at the plays would rise, or give them place. 650 When an Athenian stranger of great age Arrived at Sparta, climbing up the stage, To him the whole assembly rose, and ran To place and ease this old and rev'rend man, Who thus his thanks returns, 'Th' Athenians know What's to be done, but what they know not do.' Here our great Senate's orders I may quote, The first in age is still the first in vote. Nor honour, nor high birth, nor great command, In competition with great years may stand. 660 Why should our youth's short, transient, pleasures dare With age's lasting honours to compare? On the world's stage, when our applause grows high, For acting here life's tragic-comedy, The lookers-on will say we act not well, Unless the last the former scenes excel: But age is froward, uneasy, scrutinous, Hard to be pleased, and parsimonious; But all those errors from our manners rise, Not from our years; yet some morosities 670 We must expect, since jealousy belongs To age, of scorn, and tender sense of wrongs: Yet these are mollified, or not discern'd, Where civil arts and manners have been learn'd: So the Twins' humours,[2] in our Terence, are Unlike-this harsh and rude, that smooth and fair. Our nature here is not unlike our wine, 677 Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine; So age's gravity may seem severe, But nothing harsh or bitter ought t'appear. Of age's avarice I cannot see What colour, ground, or reason there should be: Is it not folly, when the way we ride Is short, for a long voyage to provide? To avarice some title youth may own, To reap in autumn what the spring had sown; And, with the providence of bees, or ants, Prevent with summer's plenty winter's wants. But age scarce sows till death stands by to reap, And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap; 690 Afraid to be so once, she's always poor, And to avoid a mischief makes it sure. Such madness, as for fear of death to die, Is to be poor for fear of poverty.

[1] 'Tarentine': Archytas, much praised by Horace. [2] 'Twins' humours': in his comedy called 'Adelphi.'



THE FOURTH PART.

Now against (that which terrifies our age) The last, and greatest grievance, we engage; To her grim Death appears in all her shapes, The hungry grave for her due tribute gapes. Fond, foolish man! with fear of death surprised, Which either should be wish'd for, or despised; 700 This, if our souls with bodies death destroy; That, if our souls a second life enjoy. What else is to be fear'd, when we shall gain Eternal life, or have no sense of pain? The youngest in the morning are not sure That till the night their life they can secure; Their age stands more exposed to accidents Than ours, nor common care their fate prevents: Death's force (with terror) against Nature strives, 709 Nor one of many to ripe age arrives. From this ill fate the world's disorders rise, For if all men were old, they would be wise; Years and experience our forefathers taught, Them under laws and into cities brought: Why only should the fear of death belong To age, which is as common to the young? Your hopeful brothers, and my son, to you (Scipio) and me, this maxim makes too true: But vig'rous youth may his gay thoughts erect To many years, which age must not expect. 720 But when he sees his airy hopes deceived, With grief he says, Who this would have believed? We happier are than they, who but desired To possess that which we long since acquired. What if our age to Nestor's could extend? 'Tis vain to think that lasting which must end; And when 'tis past, not any part remains Thereof, but the reward which virtue gains. Days, months, and years, like running waters flow, Nor what is past, nor what's to come, we know: 730 Our date, how short soe'er, must us content. When a good actor doth his part present, In every act he our attention draws, That at the last he may find just applause; So (though but short) yet we must learn the art Of virtue, on the stage to act our part; True wisdom must our actions so direct, Not only the last plaudit to expect; Yet grieve no more, though long that part should last, Than husbandmen, because the spring is past. 740 The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth produce, But autumn makes them ripe and fit for use: So age a mature mellowness doth set On the green promises of youthful heat. All things which Nature did ordain, are good, And so must be received and understood. Age, like ripe apples, on earth's bosom drops, While force our youth, like fruits untimely, crops; The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires, As when huge streams are pour'd on raging fires; 750 But age unforced falls by her own consent, As coals to ashes, when the spirit's spent; Therefore to death I with such joy resort, As seamen from a tempest to their port. Yet to that port ourselves we must not force, Before our pilot, Nature, steers our course. Let us the causes of our fear condemn, Then Death at his approach we shall contemn. Though to our heat of youth our age seems cold, Yet when resolved, it is more brave and bold. 760 Thus Solon to Pisistratus replied, Demanded, on what succour he relied, When with so few he boldly did engage? He said, he took his courage from his age. Then death seems welcome, and our nature kind, When, leaving us a perfect sense and mind, She (like a workman in his science skill'd) Pulls down with ease what her own hand did build. That art which knew to join all parts in one, Makes the least vi'lent separation. 770 Yet though our ligaments betimes grow weak, We must not force them till themselves they break. Pythagoras bids us in our station stand, Till God, our general, shall us disband. Wise Solon dying, wish'd his friends might grieve, That in their memories he still might live. Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all 777 His friends not to bewail his funeral; Your tears for such a death in vain you spend, Which straight in immortality shall end. In death, if there be any sense of pain, But a short space to age it will remain; On which, without my fears, my wishes wait, But tim'rous youth on this should meditate: Who for light pleasure this advice rejects, Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects. Our death (though not its certain date) we know; Nor whether it may be this night, or no: How then can they contented live, who fear A danger certain, and none knows how near? 790 They err, who for the fear of death dispute, Our gallant actions this mistake confute. Thee, Brutus! Rome's first martyr I must name; The Curtii bravely dived the gulf of flame: Attilius sacrificed himself, to save That faith, which to his barb'rous foes he gave; With the two Scipios did thy uncle fall, Rather than fly from conqu'ring Hannibal. The great Marcellus (who restored Rome) His greatest foes with honour did entomb. 800 Their lives how many of our legions threw Into the breach, whence no return they knew? Must then the wise, the old, the learned fear, What not the rude, the young, th'unlearn'd forbear? Satiety from all things else doth come, Then life must to itself grow wearisome. Those trifles wherein children take delight, Grow nauseous to the young man's appetite; And from those gaieties our youth requires To exercise their minds, our age retires. 810 And when the last delights of age shall die, Life in itself will find satiety. Now you (my friends) my sense of death shall hear, Which I can well describe, for he stands near. Your father, Laelius, and your's, Scipio, My friends, and men of honour, I did know; As certainly as we must die, they live That life which justly may that name receive: Till from these prisons of our flesh released, Our souls with heavy burdens lie oppress'd; 820 Which part of man from heaven falling down, Earth, in her low abyss, doth hide and drown, A place so dark to the celestial light, And pure, eternal fire's quite opposite, The gods through human bodies did disperse An heavenly soul, to guide this universe, That man, when he of heavenly bodies saw The order, might from thence a pattern draw: Nor this to me did my own dictates show, But to the old philosophers I owe. 830 I heard Pythagoras, and those who came With him, and from our country took their name; Who never doubted but the beams divine, Derived from gods, in mortal breasts did shine. Nor from my knowledge did the ancients hide What Socrates declared the hour he died; He th'immortality of souls proclaim'd, (Whom th'oracle of men the wisest named) Why should we doubt of that whereof our sense Finds demonstration from experience? 840 Our minds are here, and there, below, above; Nothing that's mortal can so swiftly move. Our thoughts to future things their flight direct, And in an instant all that's past collect. Reason, remembrance, wit, inventive art, No nature, but immortal, can impart. Man's soul in a perpetual motion flows, And to no outward cause that motion owes; And therefore that no end can overtake, Because our minds cannot themselves forsake. 850 And since the matter of our soul is pure And simple, which no mixture can endure Of parts, which not among themselves agree; Therefore it never can divided be. And Nature shows (without philosophy) What cannot be divided, cannot die. We even in early infancy discern Knowledge is born with babes before they learn; Ere they can speak they find so many ways To serve their turn, and see more arts than days: 860 Before their thoughts they plainly can express, The words and things they know are numberless; Which Nature only and no art could find, But what she taught before, she call'd to mind, These to his sons (as Xenophon records) Of the great Cyrus were the dying words; 'Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn) I shall be nowhere, or to nothing turn: That soul which gave me life, was seen by none, Yet by the actions it design'd was known; 870 And though its flight no mortal eye shall see, Yet know, for ever it the same shall be. That soul which can immortal glory give To her own virtues must for ever live. Can you believe that man's all-knowing mind Can to a mortal body be confined? Though a foul foolish prison her immure On earth, she (when escaped) is wise and pure. Man's body when dissolved is but the same 879 With beasts, and must return from whence it came; But whence into our bodies reason flows, None sees it when it comes, or where it goes. Nothing resembles death so much as sleep, Yet then our minds themselves from slumber keep. When from their fleshly bondage they are free, Then what divine and future things they see! Which makes it most apparent whence they are, And what they shall hereafter be, declare.' This noble speech the dying Cyrus made. Me (Scipio) shall no argument persuade, 890 Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom Fame Gave, from two conquer'd parts o' th'world, their name, Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul, Who fell at Cannae against Hannibal; Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the aged To boast their actions) had so oft engaged In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought, That only fame our virtuous actions bought; 'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close: 900 Some high assurance hath possess'd my mind, After my death an happier life to find. Unless our souls from the immortals came, What end have we to seek immortal fame? All virtuous spirits some such hope attends, Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends. The foolish and short-sighted die with fear, That they go nowhere, or they know not where. The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes, Before she parts, some happy port descries. 910 My friends, your fathers I shall surely see: Nor only those I loved, or who loved me, But such as before ours did end their days, Of whom we hear, and read, and write their praise. This I believe; for were I on my way, None should persuade me to return, or stay: Should some god tell me that I should be born And cry again, his offer I would scorn; Asham'd, when I have ended well my race, To be led back to my first starting-place. 920 And since with life we are more grieved than joy'd, We should be either satisfied or cloy'd: Yet will I not my length of days deplore, As many wise and learn'd have done before: Nor can I think such life in vain is lent, Which for our country and our friends is spent. Hence from an inn, not from my home, I pass, Since Nature meant us here no dwelling-place. Happy when I, from this turmoil set free, That peaceful and divine assembly see: 930 Not only those I named I there shall greet, But my own gallant virtuous Cato meet. Nor did I weep, when I to ashes turn'd His belov'd body, who should mine have burn'd. I in my thoughts beheld his soul ascend, Where his fixed hopes our interview attend: Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief From age, which is of my delights the chief. My hopes if this assurance hath deceived (That I man's soul immortal have believed), 940 And if I err, no power shall dispossess My thoughts of that expected happiness, Though some minute philosophers pretend, That with our days our pains and pleasures end. If it be so, I hold the safer side, For none of them my error shall deride. And if hereafter no rewards appear, 947 Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here. If those who this opinion have despised, And their whole life to pleasure sacrificed, Should feel their error, they, when undeceived, Too late will wish that me they had believed. If souls no immortality obtain, 'Tis fit our bodies should be out of pain. The same uneasiness which everything Gives to our nature, life must also bring. Good acts, if long, seem tedious; so is age, Acting too long upon this earth her stage.— Thus much for age, to which when you arrive, That joy to you, which it gives me, 'twill give. 960



END OF DENHAM'S POETICAL WORKS.