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And not on Rome alone this honour waits, one this honour waits.

The youngest in the morning are not sure, But on all civil and well-govern'd states.

That till the night their life they can seeure, Lysander pleading in his city's praise,

Their age stands more exposal to accidents From thence his strongest argument did raise,

Than ours, nor common care their fate prevents : That Sparta did with honour age support,

Death's force(with terrour)against Nature strives, Paying them just respect at stage, and court. Nor one of many to ripe age arrives. But at proud Athens youth did age out-face, From this ill fate the world's disorders rise, Nor at the plays would rise, or give them place.

For if all men were old they would be wise; When an Athenian stranger of great age

Years and experience our forefathers taught, Arriv'd at Sparta, climbing up the stage,

Them under laws, and into cities brought; To him the whole assembly rose, and ran

Why only should the fear of death belong To place and ease this old and reverend man,

To age, which is as cominon to the young? Who thus his thanks returns, “ Th’ Athenians Your hopeful brothers, and my son, to you know

(Scipio) and me, this maxim makes too true : What's to be done ; but what they know, not do." But vigorous youth may his gay thoughts erect Here our great senate's orders I may quote,

To many years, which age must not expect; The first in age is still the first in vote.

But when he sees his airy hopes deceiv'd; Nor honour, nor high birth, nor great command

With grief he says, “ Who this would have beIn competition with great years may stand.

liev'd ?” Why should our youth's short transient pleasures We happier are than they, who but desir'd dare

To possess that, which we long since acquir'd. With age's lasting honours to compare ?

What if our age to Nestor's could extend ? On the world's stage, when our applause grows

"Tis vain to think that lasting, which must end; high,

And when 'tis past, not any part remains For acting here life's tragic-comedy,

Thereof, but the reward whicb virtue gains. The lookers-on will say we act not well,

Days, months, and years, like running waters Unless the last the former scenes excel:

flow, But age is froward, uneasy, scrutinous,

Nor what is past, nor what's to come, we know; Hard to be pleas'd, and parsimonious;

Our date, how short soe'er, must us content. But all those errours from our manners rise,

When a good actor doth his part present, Not from our years; yet sorne morosities

In every act he our attention draws, We must expect, since jealousy belongs

That at the last he may find just applause; To age, of scorn, and tender sense of wrongs :

So (though but short) yet we must learn the art Yet those are mollify'd, or not discern'd,

Of virtue, on this stage to act our part; Where civil arts and manners have been learn'd:

| True wisdom must our actions so direct, So the Twins' humours, in our Terence, are

Not only the last plaudit to expect : plast, Unlike, this harsh and rude, that smooth and fair.

Yet grieve no more, though long that part should Our nature here is not unlike our wine,

Than husbandmen, because the spring is past. Some sorts, when old, continue brisk and fine ;

The spring, like youth, fresh blossoms doth proSo age's gravity may seem severe,

duce, But nothing barsh or bitter ought t'appear.

But autumn makes them ripe, and fit for use ; Of age's avarice I cannot see

So age a mature mellowness doth set What colour, ground, or reason there should be:

On the green promises of youthful heat. Is it not folly, when the way we ride

All things which Nature did ordain are good, Is short, for a long voyage to provide ?

And so must be receiv'd and understood. To avarice some title youth may own,

Age like ripe apples, on Earth's bosom drops, To reap in autumn what the spring had sown;

While force our youth, like fruits untimely, And with the providence of bees, or ants,

crops; Prevent with summer's plenty, winter's wants.

The sparkling flame of our warm blood expires,

As when buge streams are pour'd on raging fires; But age scarce sows, till Death stands by to reap, And to a stranger's hand transfers the heap;

But age unforc'd falls by her own consent, Afraid to be so once, she's always poor,

As coals to ashes, when the spirit's spent ; And to avoid a mischief makes it sure.

Therefore to death I with such joy resort, Such madness, as for fear of death to die,

As seamen from a tempest to their port.
Is, to be poor for fear of poverty.

Yet to that port ourselves we must not force,
Before our pilot, Nature, steers our course.

Let us the causes of our fear condemn,
THE FOURTH PART.

Then Death at his approach we shall contemn.

Though to our heat of youth our age seems cold, . Now against (that which terrifies onr age) Yet, when resolvid, it is more brave and bold. The last, and greatest grievance, we engage; Thus Solon to Pisistratus reply'd, To her, grim Death appears in all her shapes, Demanded, on what succour be rely'd, The hungry grave for her due tribute gapes. When with so few he boldly did engage; Fond, foolish man! with fear of death surpris'd, He said, he took his courage from his age. Which either should be wish'd for, or despis'd; Then death seems welcome, and our nature kind, This, if our souls with bodies death destroy ; When, leaving us a perfect sense and mind, Tbat, if our souls a secund life enjoy.

She (like a workman in his science skill'd) What else is to be feard, when we shall gain Pulls down with ease, what her own hand did Eternal life, or have no sense of pain ?

build.

That art which knew to join all parts in one, He th' immortality of souls proclaim'd,
Makes the least violent separation.

(Whom th' oracle of men the wisest nam'd.) Yet though our ligaments betimes grow weak, Why should we doubt of that, whereof our sense We must not force them till themselves they break. Finds demonstration from experience ? Pythagoras bids us in our station stand,

Our minds are here, and there, below, above; Till God, our general, shall us disband.

Nothing that's mortal can so swiftly move. Wise Solon dying, wish'd his friends might grieve, Our thoughts to future things their flight direct, That in their memories he still might live. And in an instant all that 's past collect. Yet wiser Ennius gave command to all

Reason, remembrance, wit, inventive art, His friends, not to bewail his funeral; .

No nature, but immortal, can impart Your tears for such a death in vain you spend, Man's soul in a perpetual motion flows, Which straight in immortality shall end.

And to no outward cause that motion owes ; In death if there be any sense of pain,

And therefore that no end can overtake, But a short space to age it will remain ;

Because our minds cannot themselves forsake. On which, without my fears, my wishes wait, And since the matter of our soul is pure But timorous youth on this should meditate: And simple, which no mixture ean endure Who for light pleasure this advice rejects, Of parts, which not among themselves agree; Finds little, when his thoughts he recollects. Therefore it never can divided be. Our death (though not its certain date) we know; And Nature shows (without philosophy) Nor whether it may be this night or no:

What cannot be divided, cannot die. How then can they contented live, who fear We ev'n in early infancy discern, A danger certain and none knows how near. Knowledge is born with babes before they leam; They err, who for the fear of death dispute, Ere they can speak, they find so many ways Our gallant actions this mistake confute.

To serve their turn, and see more arts than Thee Brutus, Rome's first martyr I must name,

days: The Curtii bravely div'd the gulph of flame; Before their thoughts they plainly can express, Attilius sacrific'd himself, to save

The words and things they know are numberlesi, That faith, which to his barbarous foes he gave; Which Nature only, and no art could find, With the two Scipio's did thy uncle fall,

But what she taught before, she call'd to mind. Rather than fly from conquering Hannibal ; These to his sons (as Xenophon records) The great Marcellus (who restored Rome) Of the great Cyrus were the dying words ; His greatest foes with honour did intomb. " Fear not when I depart (nor therefore mourn) Their lives how many of our legions threw

I shall be no where, or to nothing tum: Into the breach? whence no return they knew: That soul, which gave me life, was seen by none, Must then the wise, the old, the learned, fear Yet by the actions it design'd, was known; What not the rude, the young, th' unlearn'd for- And though its flight no mortal eye shall see, bear?

Yet know, for ever it the same shall be. Satiety from all things else doth come,

That soul, which can immortal glory give, Then life must to itself grow wearisome.

To her own virtues must for ever live. Those trifes wherein children take delight Can you believe, that man's all-knowing mind Grow nauseous to the young man's appetite; Can to a mortal body be confin'd? And from those gaieties our youth requires Though a foul foolish prison her immure To exercise their minds, our age retires.

On Earth, she (when escap'd) is wise and pure. And when the last delights of age shall die, Man's body, wher, dissolv'd, is but the same Life in itself will find satiety.

[hear, | With beasts, and must return from wbence i Now you, my friends, my sense of death shall . came; Which I can well describe, for he stands near. But whence into our bodies reason flows, Your father, Lælius, and your's, Scipio,

None sees it, when it comes, or where it goes. My friends, and men of honour, I did know; Nothing resembles death so much as sleep, As certainly as we must die, they live

Yet then our minds themselves from slumbers kerp That life which justly may that name receive: When from their fleshly bondage they are free, Till from these prisons of our flesh releas'd, Then what divine and future things they see! Our souls with heavy burthens lie oppress'd; Which makes it most apparent whence they are, Which part of man from Heaven falling down, And what they shall hereafter be, declare." Earth, in her low abyss, doth hide and drown, This noble speech the dying Cyrus made, A place so dark to the celestial light,

Me, Scipio, shall no argnment persuade, And pure eternal fire 's quite opposite.

Thy grandsire, and his brother, to whom Fame The gods through human bodies did disperse Gave, from two conquer'd parts o'th' world, that An heavenly soul, to guide this universe,

- naine, That man, when he of heavenly bodies saw Nor thy great grandsire, nor thy father Paul, The order, might from thence a pattern draw; Who fell at Cannæ against Hannibal; Nor this to me did my own dictates show, Nor I (for 'tis permitted to the ag'd But to the old philosophers I owe.

To boast their actions) had so oft engag'd I heard Pythagoras, and those who came

In battles, and in pleadings, had we thought, With him, and from our country took their name; That only Fame our virtuous actions bought; Who never doubted but the beams divine,

'Twere better in soft pleasure and repose Deriv'd from gods in mortal breasts did shine. Ingloriously our peaceful eyes to close: Nor from my knowledge did the ancients hide Some high assurance hath possest my mind, What Socrates declar'd the hour he dy'd; After my death an happier life to find.

Unless our souls from the immortals came, Not only those I nam'd I there shall greet,
What end have we to seek immortal fame? But my own gallant, virtuous Cato meet.
All virtuous spirits some such hope attends, Nor did I weep, when I to ashes turn'd
Therefore the wise his days with pleasure ends. His belov'd body, who should mine have bu n'da
The foolish and short-sighted die with fear, I in my thoughts beheld his soul ascend,
That they go no-where, or they know not Where his fixt hopes our interview attend :
where.

Then cease to wonder that I feel no grief
The wise and virtuous soul, with clearer eyes, Prom age, which is of my delights the chief.
Before she parts, some happy port descries. My hopes, if this assurance hath deceiv'd,
My friends, your fathers I shall surely see (That I man's soul immortal bave believ'd)
Nor only those I lor'd, or who lov'd me;

And if I err, no power shall dispossess But such as before ours did end their days My thoughts of that expected happiness : Of whom we hear, and read, and write their Though some minute philosophers pretend, praise.

That with our days our pains and pleasures endi This I believe: for were I on my way,

If it be so, I hold the safer side,
None should persuade me to return, or stay: For none of them my errour shall deride;
Should some god tell me, that I should be born, And if hereafter no rewards appear,
And cry again, his offer I would scorn;

Yet virtue hath itself rewarded here.
Asham'd, when I have ended well my race, If those, who this opinion have despis'd,
To be led back to my first starting-place. And their whole life to pleasure sacrific'd,
And since with life we are more griev'd than joy'd, Should feel their errour, they, when undeceiv'd,
We should be either satisfy'd or cloy'd:

Too late will wish, that me they had believ'd, Yet will I not my length of days deplore,

If souls no immortality obtain,
As many wise and learn'd have done before; 'Tis fit our bodies should be out of pain,
Nor can I think such life in vain is lent,

The same uneasiness which every thing
Which for our country and our friends is spent. Gives to our nature, life must also bring.
Hence from an inn, not from my home I pass, | Good acts, if long, seem tedious; so is age,
Since Nature meant us here no dwelling-place. | Acting too long upon this Earth, her stage,
Happy when I, from this turmoil set free, Thus much for age, to which when you arrive,
That peaceful and divine assembly see : That joy to you, which it gives me, 'twill given

THE

POEMS

JOHN MILTON.

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