HENRY VAUGHAN (1622-1695) THE RETREAT 5 Happy those early days, when I Before I taught my tongue to wound 15 20 O how I long to travel back, But I by backward steps would move; 30 He did not stay nor go; Condemning thoughts, like sad eclipses, scowl Upon his soul, And clouds of crying witnesses without Pursued him with one shout; 20 Yet digged the mole, and lest his ways be found, Worked under ground, Where he did clutch his prey. But one did see That policy: Churches and altars fed him; perjuries Were gnats and flies; 25 It rained about him blood and tears, but he The weaker sort, slight, trivial wares enslave, 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 Bid her come forth, 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. |