Who think them brave; And poor, despised Truth sat counting by Tell her that's young, Their victory. 45 And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung In deserts, where no men abide, Thou must have uncommended died. Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired; Suffer herself to be desired, Then die! that she The common fate of all things rare How small a part of time they share ANDREW MARVELL (1621–1678) ΙΟ 15 20 AN HORATIAN ODE UPON CROMWELL'S RETURN FROM IRELAND The forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing: 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 And oil the unused armor's rust, Removing from the wall The corselet of the hall. O fountains! when in you shall I 15 Within, Love's foes, his greatest foes, Myself, eased of unpeaceful thoughts, abide: espy? Now since these dead bones have already outlasted the living ones of Methusaleh, and, in a yard under ground and their walls of clay, outworn all the strong and specious buildings above it; and quietly rested under. the drums and tramplings of three conquests: what prince can promise such diuturnity unto his relics, or might not gladly say, Sic ego componi versus in ossa velim? [10 Time, which antiquates antiquities, and hath an art to make dust of all things, hath yet spared these minor monuments. In vain we hope to be known by open and visible conservatories, when to be unknown was the means of their continuation, and obscurity their protection. If they died by violent hands, and were thrust into their urns, these bones become considerable, and some old [20 philosophers would honor them, whose souls they conceived most pure, which were thus snatched from their bodies, and to retain a stronger propension unto them; whereas they weariedly left a languishing corpse, and with faint desires of |