English

(From " The Village " )

Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet praised his native plains:
No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs rehearse;
Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,
And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,
The only pains, alas! they never feel.
On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign,
If Tityrus found the Golden Age again,

Love he to-morrow, who loved never;
To-morrow, who hath loved, persever.
The spring appears, in which the earth
Receives a new harmonious birth;
When all things mutual love unites;
When birds perform their nuptial rites;
And fruitful by her watery lover,
Each grove its tresses doth recover.
Love's Queen to-morrow, in the shade,
Which by these verdant trees is made,
Their sprouting tops in wreaths shall bind,
And myrtles into arbors wind,
To-morrow, raised on a high throne,
Dione shall her laws make known.

THE MARRIAGE IN EDEN

And then, without his knowing, sweet sleep descended down
On all of Adam's senses, heaven's grace so girt him round;
No sense, no feeling knew he, and yet his spirit brought
Awareness that he saw what God now wrought.

For in this sleep of Adam's he thought he saw the Lord,
With whom he held such sweet converse before,
Make an incision in his breast, the left side split apart,
There opposite the root of Adam's heart.

And then draw forth a bone with his celestial hand,

Great God, whom wee with humble thoughts adore,
Eternall, infinite, almightie king,
Whose pallace heauen transcends, whose throne before
Archangells serue, and seraphins doe sing;
Of nought who wrought all that with wondring eyes
Wee doe behold within this spacious round,
Who mak'st the rockes to rocke, and stand the skies,
At whose command the horride thunders sound;
Ah! spare vs wormes, weigh not how wee, alas!
Euill to our selues, against thy lawes rebell;
Wash off those spots, which still in conscience' glasse,

What serues it to bee good? Goodnesse, by thee
The holy-wise is thought a foole to bee;
For thee the man to temperance inclin'de,
Is held but of a base and abject minde;
The continent is thought for thee but cold;
Who yet was good, that euer died old?
The pittifull who others feares to kill,
Is kill'd himselfe, and goodnesse doth him ill:
The meeke and humble man who cannot braue,
By thee is to some giant's brood made slaue.
Poore goodnesse, thine thou to such wrongs sett'st forth,
That O! I feare mee, thou art nothing worth:

Astrea in this time
Now doth not liue, but is fled vp to heauen;
Or if shee liue, it is not without crime
That shee doth vse her power,
And shee is no more virgine, but a whoure,
Whoure prostitute for gold:
For shee doth neuer holde her ballance euen,
And when her sword is roll'd,
The bad, injurious, false shee not o'rethrowes,
But on the innocent lets fall her blowes.

Why, worldlings, doe ye trust fraile honour's dreames,
And leane to guilded glories which decay;
Why doe yee toyle to registrate your names
In ycie columnes, which soone melt away?
True honour is not here; that place it claimes,
Where blacke-brow'd night doth not exile the day,
Nor no farre-shining lampe diues in the sea,
But an eternall sunne spreades lasting beames.
There it attendeth you, where spotlesse bands
Of sprights stand gazing on their soueraigne blisse,
Where yeeres not hold it in their cankring hands,

Thrise happie hee, who by some shadie groue,
Farre from the clamarous world doth liue his owne,
Though solitare, yet who is not alone,
But doth conuerse with that eternall loue.
O how more sweet is birds' harmonious mone,
Or the soft sobbings of the widow'd doue,
Than those smoothe whisp'rings neare a prince's throne,
Which good make doubtfull, doe the euill approue?
O how more sweet is zephyr's wholesome breath,
And sighs perfum'd, which doe the flowres vnfold,
Than that applause vaine honour doth bequeath?

What haplesse hap had I now to bee borne
In these vnhappie times, and dying dayes,
Of this else-doating world, when good decayes,
Loue is quench'd forth, and vertue held a scorne;
When such are onely priz'd, by wretched wayes
Who with a golden fleece them can adorne,
When auarice and lust are counted praise,
And noble mindes liue orphane-like forlorne?
Why was not I into that golden age,
When gold yet was not knowne, and those blacke artes,
By which base mortalles vildely play their parts,

Loue which is heere a care,
That wit and will doth marre,
Vncertaine truce, and a most certaine warre,
A shrill tempestuous winde,
Which doth disturbe the minde,
And, like wilde waues, our dessignes all commoue;
Among those sprights aboue
Which see their Maker's face,
It a contentment is, a quiet peace,
A pleasure voide of griefe, a constant rest,
Eternall ioy which nothing can molest.