John Conington

Arise from my bones, my unknown avenger.

A wet summer and a fine winter should be the farmer's prayer.

None knows the reason why this curse Was sent on him, this love of making verse.

What's kept at home you cancel by a stroke: What's sent abroad you never can revoke.

The gods implore To crush the proud and elevate the poor.

Mere grace is not enough: a play should thrill The hearer's soul, and move it at its will.

Who hopes by strange variety to please, Puts dolphins among forests, boars in seas.

For easier 'tis to learn and recollect What moves derision than what claims respect.

Virtue's a mere name, Or 'tis high venture that achieves high aim.

Let hopes and sorrows, fears and angers be, And think each day that dawns the last you'll see; For so the hour that greets you unforeseen Will bring with it enjoyment twice as keen.

O Fortune, cruellest of heavenly powers, Why make such game of this poor life of ours?

Then take, good sir, your pleasure while you may; With life so short 'twere wrong to lose a day.

He who maligns an absent friend's fair fame, Who says no word for him when others blame, Who courts a reckless laugh by random hits, Just for the sake of ranking among wits, Who feigns what he ne'er saw, a secret blabs, Beware him, Roman! …

Let Rome be glorious on the earth, The centre of Italian worth.

Fierce boils in every vein Indignant shame and passion blind, The tempest of the lover's mind, The soldier's high disdain.

Why reel I thus, confused and blind? What madness mars my sober mind?

In vain she strives with dying hands To wrench away the blade: Fixed in her ribs the weapon stands, Closed by the wound it made. Bloodless and faint, she gasps for breath; Her heavy eyes sink down in death;

O impotence of man's frail mind To fate and to the future blind, Presumptuous and o'erweening still When Fortune follows at its will!

Each has his destined time: a span Is all the heritage of man: 'Tis virtue's part by deeds of praise To lengthen fame through after days.

'Tis thus that men to heaven aspire: Go on and raise your glories higher.

Blest pair! if aught my verse avail, No day shall make your memory fail From off the heart of time.

Thus, severed by the ruthless plough, Dim fades a purple flower: Their weary necks so poppies bow, O'erladen by the shower.

Me, guilty me, make me your aim, O Rutules! mine is all the blame; He did no wrong, nor e'er could do; That sky, those stars attest 'tis true; Love for his friend too freely shown, This was his crime, and this alone.

Ah! would but Jupiter restore The strength I had in days of yore!