ODE XLIII

1

Walke noe more, in those Sweet Shades,
Where Roses canopie your Heads;
And the fragrant violet spreads
A purple Tapistrie;
Where all the Quire, had wont to Sing
Their earlie notes; and everie thing
Was pleasure, to entrance a King,
Beyond his Destinie;
Ah, now noe more
Frequent those Shades, you knew or loved before.
2

Goe, to the horrid vale of Care;
And tread the maze, of your owne Feare.
There grow noe Bayes, nor mirtles there,
But the Sad dismall Yeiugh:
Day birds are banished this grove.
The monstrous Batt, alone doth rove;
And the dire Screich-owle, percht above
Your over-clouded Brow
Shall make you Sad,
Beyond the Cause of Sorrow, which you had.
3

There horrid Croakings sound; and sad
Accents of Death, untimelie made,
Rend humane Eares. Oh, Dismall Shade,
Why am I curst? to Chuse
In thy Sad Alleyes, to weare out
My Youth? in all my Joyes forgot?
To thy unhappie walkes, I brought
A more unhappie Muse;
But a Muse, fitt
To joyne with thy Inhabitants; and Sitt

4

Upon the Bankes, of thy Sad Poole;
Where Frogs, and loathsome Toads doe houle;
Where all their Spaune, with yellings foule,
Fill the corrupted Ayre.
To these, my Accents well may Suite;
My harsher grones will strike em mute;
And teach em to draw ruder out,
Deeper, and worse by farre;
For they are free,
Of that ranke venome which imposthumes Mee.

5

With these then, will I joyne my verse;
And everie Accent, unto theirs
Shall double grones; let me reherse
Noe more, the tuned Lay
To liveing waters; bid Farewell
To all the Silver birds, which dwell
Upon their Streams; and never tell
Of my owne Devia.
Farewell to all
Wee Joy, or Peace, or Light, or Pleasure call.