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’Tis now since I began to die Four months, yet still I gasping live; Wrapp’d up in sorrow do I lie, Hoping, yet doubting a reprieve. Adam from Paradise expell’d Just such a wretched being held. ’Tis not thy love I fear to lose, That will in spite of absence hold; But ’tis the benefit and use Is lost, as in imprison’d gold: Which though the sum be ne’er so great, Enriches nothing but conceit. What angry star then governs me That I must feel a double smart, Prisoner to fate as well as thee; Kept from thy face, link’d to thy heart? Because my love all love excels, Must my grief have no parallels? Sapless and dead as Winter here I now remain, and all I see Copies of my wild state appear, But I am their epitome. Love me no more, for I am grown Too dead and dull for thee to own.

As we went walking far and wide Through silent fields and countryside, We watched together star signs brim And rise above the ocean’s rim, And planets too, that fret with light The icy caverns of the Night. These constellations we now mark, When we were not, in formless dark, A poet, centuries before, Would watch from the Italian shore Drop in the sea, and mindful Earth Had made him mortal from his birth, He set on high his music’s bars Among the everlasting stars, To those to come, clear warning sign To place no faith in the divine; For sacred to the pole unfurled Above, and compassing the world, These songs yet suffered sad disgrace And almost sank without a trace: Though to our strand this wreckage came, It scarcely owned its author’s name. Mine not to exhort the gods Or stars that vex our mortal odds, But love of virtue quick to fade Makes me seek fame with human aid. A man, I chose a man to stand At this front page and my right hand— Who thrive or perish in my pages, Brief friend, your name should last the ages. I send these lines to you who went Where stars rise in the Orient, From here where constellations sink Below the ocean’s western brink. Take them: for that day will come To add us to the canceled sum And give our bones to earth to rot (For we have no immortal lot, And souls that will not last forever) And the chain of comrades sever.

Late October. It is afternoon. My daughter and I walk through the leaf-strewn Corridors of the park In the light and the dark Of the elms' thin arches. Around us brown leaves fall and spread. Small winds stir the minor dead. Dust powders the air. Those shrivelled women stare. At us from their cold benches. Child, your mittens tug your sleeves. They lick your drumming feet, the leaves. You come so fast, so fast. You violate the past, My daughter, as your coat dances.

Dear to my heart as life’s warm stream Which animates this mortal clay, For thee I court the waking dream, And deck with smiles the future day; And thus beguile the present pain With hopes that we shall meet again. Yet, will it be as when the past Twined every joy, and care, and thought, And o’er our minds one mantle cast Of kind affections finely wrought? Ah no! the groundless hope were vain, For so we ne’er can meet again! May he who claims thy tender heart Deserve its love, as I have done! For, kind and gentle as thou art, If so beloved, thou art fairly won. Bright may the sacred torch remain, And cheer thee till we meet again!

Highlight Actions Enable or disable annotations If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee. If ever wife was happy in a man, Compare with me, ye women, if you can. I prize prize Value thy love more than whole mines of gold, Or all the riches that the East the East East Indies, southeast Asia, including India; the English East India Company began in 1600. doth hold. My love is such that rivers cannot quench, My ... rivers cannot quench Compare the Song of Solomon: “Muche water can not quenche love, nether can the floods drowne it." (Geneva Bible) Also, quench could mean to satisfy. Nor ought ought Anything but love from thee give recompense recompense Return payment; reward . Thy love is such I can no way repay; The heavens reward thee manifold manifold In abundance , I pray. Then while we live, in love let’s so persever persever Both to continue steadfastly, and in the Theological sense to remain in a state of grace. An earlier spelling of the word “persevere.” , That when we live no more, we may live ever.

Well then; the promis'd hour is come at last; The present age of wit obscures the past: Strong were our sires; and as they fought they writ, Conqu'ring with force of arms, and dint of wit; Theirs was the giant race, before the Flood; And thus, when Charles return'd, our empire stood. Like Janus he the stubborn soil manur'd, With rules of husbandry the rankness cur'd: Tam'd us to manners, when the stage was rude; And boisterous English wit, with art endu'd. Our age was cultivated thus at length; But what we gained in skill we lost in strength. Our builders were, with want of genius, curst; The second temple was not like the first: Till you, the best Vitruvius, come at length; Our beauties equal; but excel our strength. Firm Doric pillars found your solid base: The fair Corinthian crowns the higher space; Thus all below is strength, and all above is grace. In easy dialogue is Fletcher's praise: He mov'd the mind, but had not power to raise. Great Jonson did by strength of judgment please: Yet doubling Fletcher's force, he wants his ease. In differing talents both adorn'd their age; One for the study, t'other for the stage. But both to Congreve justly shall submit, One match'd in judgment, both o'er-match'd in wit. In him all beauties of this age we see; Etherege's courtship, Southern's purity; The satire, wit, and strength of manly Wycherly. All this in blooming youth you have achiev'd; Nor are your foil'd contemporaries griev'd; So much the sweetness of your manners move, We cannot envy you because we love. Fabius might joy in Scipio, when he saw A beardless Consul made against the law, And join his suffrage to the votes of Rome; Though he with Hannibal was overcome. Thus old Romano bow'd to Raphael's fame; And scholar to the youth he taught, became. Oh that your brows my laurel had sustain'd, Well had I been depos'd, if you had reign'd! The father had descended for the son; For only you are lineal to the throne. Thus when the State one Edward did depose; A greater Edward in his room arose. But now, not I, but poetry is curs'd; For Tom the second reigns like Tom the first. But let 'em not mistake my patron's part; Nor call his charity their own desert. Yet this I prophesy; thou shalt be seen, (Tho' with some short parenthesis between:) High on the throne of wit; and seated there, Not mine (that's little) but thy laurel wear. Thy first attempt an early promise made; That early promise this has more than paid. So bold, yet so judiciously you dare, That your least praise, is to be regular. Time, place, and action, may with pains be wrought, But genius must be born; and never can be taught. This is your portion; this your native store; Heav'n that but once was prodigal before, To Shakespeare gave as much; she could not give him more. Maintain your post: that's all the fame you need; For 'tis impossible you should proceed. Already I am worn with cares and age; And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage: Unprofitably kept at Heav'n's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence: But you, whom ev'ry muse and grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and oh defend, Against your judgment your departed friend! Let not the insulting foe my fame pursue; But shade those laurels which descend to you: And take for tribute what these lines express: You merit more; nor could my love do less.

I did not live until this time Crowned my felicity, When I could say without a crime, I am not thine, but thee. This carcass breathed, and walked, and slept, So that the world believed There was a soul the motions kept; But they were all deceived. For as a watch by art is wound To motion, such was mine: But never had Orinda found A soul till she found thine; Which now inspires, cures and supplies, And guides my darkened breast: For thou art all that I can prize, My joy, my life, my rest. No bridegroom’s nor crown-conqueror’s mirth To mine compared can be: They have but pieces of the earth, I’ve all the world in thee. Then let our flames still light and shine, And no false fear control, As innocent as our design, Immortal as our soul.

Leo bends over his desk Gazing at a memorandum While Stuart stands beside him With a smile, saying, "Leo, the order for those desks Came in today From Youngstown Needle and Thread!" C. Loth Inc., there you are Like Balboa the conqueror Of those who want to buy office furniture Or bar fixtures In nineteen forty in Cincinnati, Ohio! Secretaries pound out Invoices on antique typewriters— Dactyllographs And fingernail biters. I am sitting on a desk Looking at my daddy Who is proud of but feels unsure about Some aspects of his little laddie. I will go on to explore Deep and/or nonsensical themes While my father's on the dark hardwood floor Hit by a couple of Ohio sunbeams. Kenny, he says, some day you'll work in the store. But I felt "never more" or "never ever" Harvard was far away World War Two was distant Psychoanalysis was extremely expensive All of these saved me from you. C. Loth you made my father happy I saw his face shining He laughed a lot, working in you He said to Miss Ritter His secretary "Ritt, this is my boy, Kenny!" "Hello there Kenny," she said My heart in an uproar I loved you but couldn't think Of staying with you I can see the virtues now That could come from being in you A sense of balance Compromise and acceptance— Not isolated moments of brilliance Like a girl without a shoe, But someone that you Care for every day— Need for customers and the economy Don't go away. There were little pamphlets Distributed in you About success in business Each about eight to twelve pages long One whole series of them All ended with the words "P.S. He got the job" One a story about a boy who said, "I swept up the street, Sir, Before you got up." Or "There were five hundred extra    catalogues So I took them to people in the city who have a dog"— P.S. He got the job. I didn't get the job I didn't think that I could do the job I thought I might go crazy in the job Staying in you You whom I could love But not be part of The secretaries clicked Their Smith Coronas closed at five p.m. And took the streetcars to Kentucky then And I left too.

Of Chesterton, In the County of Huntingdon, Esquire How blessed is he, who leads a Country Life, Unvex’d with anxious Cares, and void of Strife! Who studying Peace, and shunning Civil Rage, Enjoy’d his Youth, and now enjoys his Age: All who deserve his Love, he makes his own; And, to be lov’d himself, needs only to be known. Just, Good, and Wise, contending Neighbours come From your Award to wait their final Doom; And, Foes before, return in Friendship home. Without their Cost, you terminate the Cause; And save th’ Expence of long Litigious Laws: Where Suits are travers’d; and so little won, That he who conquers, is but last undone: Such are not your Decrees; but so design’d, The Sanction leaves a lasting Peace behind; Like your own Soul, Serene; a Pattern of your Mind. Promoting Concord, and composing Strife, Lord of your self, uncumber’d with a Wife; Where, for a Year, a Month, perhaps a Night, Long Penitence succeeds a short Delight: Minds are so hardly match’d, that ev’n the first, Though pair’d by Heav’n, in Paradise, were curs’d. For Man and Woman, though in one they grow, Yet, first or last, return again to Two. He to God’s Image, She to His was made; So, farther from the Fount, the Stream at random stray’d. How cou’d He stand, when, put to double Pain, He must a Weaker than himself sustain! Each might have stood perhaps; but each alone; Two Wrestlers help to pull each other down. Not that my Verse wou’d blemish all the Fair; But yet, if some be Bad, ‘tis Wisdom to beware; And better shun the Bait, than struggle in the Snare. Thus have you shunn’d, and shun the married State, Trusting as little as you can to Fate. No porter guards the Passage of your Door; T’ admit the Wealthy, and exclude the Poor: For God, who gave the Riches, gave the Heart To sanctifie the Whole, by giving Part: Heav’n, who foresaw the Will, the Means has wrought, And to the Second Son, a Blessing brought: The First-begotten had his Father’s Share, But you, like Jacob, are Rebecca’s Heir. So may your Stores, and fruitful Fields increase; And ever be you bless’d, who live to bless. As Ceres sow’d where e’er her Chariot flew; As Heav’n in Desarts rain’d the Bread of Dew, So free to Many, to Relations most, You feed with Manna your own Israel-Host. With Crowds attended of your ancient Race, You seek the Champian-Sports, or Sylvan-Chace: With well-breath’d Beagles, you surround the Wood, Ev’n then, industrious of the Common Good: And often have you brought the wily Fox To suffer for the Firstlings of the Flocks; Chas’d ev’n amid the Folds; and made to bleed, Like Felons, where they did the murd’rous Deed. This fiery Game, your active Youth maintain’d: Not yet, by years extinguish’d, though restrain’d: You season still with Sports your serious Hours; For Age but tastes of Pleasures, Youth devours. The Hare, in Pastures or in Plains is found, Emblem of Humane Life, who runs the Round; And, after all his wand’ring Ways are done, His Circle fills, and ends where he begun, Just as the Setting meets the Rising Sun. Thus Princes ease their Cares: But happier he, Who seeks not Pleasure thro’ Necessity, Than such as once on slipp’ry Thrones were plac’d; And chasing, sigh to think themselves are chas’d. So liv’d our Sires, e’er Doctors learn’d to kill, And multiply’d with theirs, the Weekly Bill: The first Physicians by Debauch were made: Excess began, and Sloth sustains the Trade. Pity the gen’rous Kind their Cares bestow To search forbidden Truths; (a Sin to know:) To which, if Humane Science cou’d attain, The Doom of Death, pronounc’d by God, were vain. In vain the Leech wou’d interpose Delay; Fatefastensfirst, and vindicates the Prey. What Help from Arts Endeavours can we have! Guibbons but guesses, nor is sure to save: But Maurus sweeps whole Parishes, and Peoples ev’ry Grave, And no more Mercy to Mankind will use, Than when he robb’d and murder’d Maro’s Muse. Wou’dst thou be soon dispatch’d, and perish whole? Trust Maurus with thy Life, and M-lb-rne with thy Soul. By Chace our long-liv’d Fathers earned their Food; Toil strung the Nerves, and purifi’d the Blood: But we, their Sons, a pamper’d Race of Men, Are dwindl’d down to threescore Years and ten. Better to hunt in Fields, for Health unbought, Than fee the Doctor for a nauseous Draught. The Wise, for Cure, on Exercise depend; God never made his Work, for Man to mend. The Tree of Knowledge, one in Eden plac’d, Was easie found, but was forbid the Taste: O, had our Grandsire walk’d without his Wife, He first had sought the better Plant of Life! Now, both are lost: Yet, wandring in the dark, Physicians for the Tree have found the Bark They, lab’ring for Relief of Humane Kind, With sharpen’d sight some Remedies may find; Th’ Apothecary-Train is wholly blind. From Files, a Random-Recipe they take, And Many Deaths of One Prescription make. Garth, gen’rous as his Muse, prescribes and gives; The Shop-man sells; and by Destruction lives: Ungrateful Tribe! who, like the Viper’s Brood, From Med’cine issuing, suck their Mother’s Blood! Let These obey; and let the Learn’d prescribe; That Men may die, without a double Bribe: Let Them, but under their Superiours, kill; When Doctors first have sign’d the bloody Bill: He scapes the best, who Nature to repair, Draws Phisick from the Fields, in Draughts of Vital Air. You hoard not Health, for your own private use, But on the Publick spend the rich Produce. When, often urg’d, unwilling to be Great, Your Country calls you from your lov’d Retreat, And sends to Senates, charg’d with Common Care, Which none more shuns; and none can better bear. Where cou’d they find another form’d so fit, To poise, with solid Sense, a spritely Wit! Were these both wanting, (as they both abound) Where cou’d so firm Integrity be found? Well-born and Wealthy; wanting no Support, You steer betwixt the Country and the Court: Nor gratifie whate’er the Great desire, Nor grudging give, what Publick Needs require. Part must be left, a Fund when Foes invade; And Part employ’d to roll the Watry Trade; Ev’n Canaans happy Land, when worn with Toil, Requir’d a Sabbath-Year, to mend the meagre Soil. Good senators, (and such are you so give, That Kings may be supply’d, the People thrive; And He, when Want requires, is truly Wise, Who slights not Foreign Aids nor over-buys; But, on our Native Strength, in time of need, relies. Munster was bought, we boast not the Success; Who fights for Gain, for greater, makes his Peace. Our Foes, compell’d by Need have Peace embrac’d: The Peace both Parties want, is like to last: Which, if secure, securely we may trade; Or, not secure, shou’d never have been made. Safe in our selves, while on our selves we stand, The Sea is ours, and that defends the Land. Be, then, the Naval Stores the Nations Care, New Ships to build, and batter’d to repair. Observe the War in ev’ry Annual Course; What has been done, was done with British Force. Namur Subdu’d, is England’s Palm alone; The Rest Besieged; but we Constrain’d the Town: We saw th’ Event that follow’d our Success; France, though pretending Arms, pursu’d the Peace: Oblig’d, by one sole Treaty, to restore What Twenty Years of War had won before. Enough for Europe has our Albion fought: Let us enjoy the Peace our Blood has bought. When once the Persian King was put to Flight, The weary Macedons refus’d to fight: Themselves their own Mortality confess’d; And left the son of Jove, to quarrel for the rest. Ev’n Victors are by Victories undone; Thus Hannibal, with Foreign Laurels won, To Carthage was recall’d, too late to keep his own. While sore of Battel, while our Wounds are green, Why shou’d we tempt the doubtful Dye agen? In Wars renew’d, uncertain of success, Sure of a Share, as Umpires of the Peace. A Patriot, both the King and Country serves; Prerogative, and Privilege preserves: Of Each, our Laws the certain Limit show; One must not ebb, not t’ other overflow: Betwixt the Prince and Parliament we stand; The Barriers of the State on either Hand: May neither overflow, for then they drown the Land. When both are full, they feed our bless’d Abode; Like those, that water’d once, the Paradise of God. Some Overpoise of Sway, by Turns they share; In Peace the People, and the Prince in War: Consuls of mod’rate Pow’r in Calms were made; When the Gauls came, one sole Dictator sway’d. Patriots, in Peace, assert the Peoples Right, With noble Stubbornness resisting Might: No Lawless Mandates from the Court receive, Nor lend by Force; but in a Body give. Such was your gen’rous Grandsire; free to grant In Parliaments, that weigh’d their Prince’s Want: But so tenacious of the Common Cause, As not to lend the King against his Laws. And, in a lothsom Dungeon doom’d to lie, In Bonds retain’d his Birthright Liberty, And shamed Oppression, till it set him free. O true Descendent of a Patriot Line, Who, while thou shar’st their Lustre, lend’st ‘em thine, Vouchsafe this Picture of thy Soul to see; Tis so far Good as it resembles thee: The Beauties to th’ Original I owe; Which, when I miss, my own Defects I show, Nor think the Kindred-Muses thy Disgrace; A poet is not born in ev’ry Race. Two of a House, few Ages can afford; One of perform, another to record. Praise-worthy Actions are by thee embrac’d; And ‘tis my Praise, to make thy Praises last. For ev’n when Death dissolves our Humane Frame, The Soul returns to Heav’n, from whence it came; Earth keeps the Body, Verse preserves the Fame.

When from the world, I shall be tane, And from earths necessary paine, Then let no blacks be worne for me, Not in a Ring my dear by thee. But this bright Diamond, let it be Worn in remembrance of me. And when it sparkles in your eye, Think ’tis my shadow passeth by. For why, more bright you shall me see, Then that or any Gem can bee. Dress not the house with sable weed, As if there was some dismal deed Acted to be when I am gone, There is no cause for me to mourn. And let no badge of Herald be The sign of my Antiquity. It was my glory I did spring From heavens eternall powerful King: To his bright Palace heir am I. It is his promise, hee’l not lye. By my dear Brother lay me, It was a promise made by thee, And now I must bid thee adieu, For I’me a parting now from you.