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No cure to care, farewell all joy,
poor soul, and die !
That thou may'st mount the sky:
That Pluto he might go
For this will cure thy woe!
CARE’S CURE, OR A FIG FOR CARE.
[From “ Panedone, or Health from Helicon,"1021.]
Happy is that state of his,
Should I ought dejected be,
Or repine such should inherit
Should I weep, when I do try
Should I spend the morn in tears,
Should I sigh, because I see
Or so many schisms and sects,
the fire of zeal Both in church and common-weal?
No, there's nought on earth I fear That may
force from me one tear. Loss of honours, freedom, health, Or that mortal idol, wealth ; With these, babes may grieved be, But they have no pow'r on me. Less my substance, less the share In my fear and in my care.
Thus to love, and thus to live, Thus to take, and thus to give, Thus to laugh, and thus to sing, Thus to mount on pleasure's wing, Thus to sport, and thus to speed, Thus to flourish, nourish, feed, Thus to spend, and thus to spare, Is to bid a fig for care.
Seems to have been born about 1590, at Tavistock, in Devon.
shire, educated at Oxford, and afterwards at the Middle Temple, where he published, in 1013, the first part of his “ Britannia's Pastorals." In 1614 was published his “Shepherd's Pipe," and, two years after, the second part of the Pastorals. In 1624 he returned to Exeter college, and became tutor to Robert Dormer, afterwards earl of Carnarvon. He then went into the family of the earl of Pembroke, and is supposed to have died in 1645. An elegant edition of his works, which were become extremely scarce, was published in 1772, in three small volumes, by
Mr. Davies. We are obliged to Brown for having preserved, in his Shep
herd's Pipe, a curious poem by Occleve. Mr. Warton supposes his works to “have been well known to Milton."
[In Britannia's Pastorals.]
SHALL I tell you whom I love?
Hearken then a while to me:
As I now shall versifie,
Nature did her so much right,
As she scorns the help of art; In as many virtues dight
As e'er yet embrac'd a heart; So much good, so truly tried, Some for less were deified.
Wit she hath, without desire
To make known how much she hath : And her anger flames no higher
Than may fitly sweeten wrath;
Reason masters every sense,
Aud her virtues grace her birth ;
Modest in her most of mirth;
Such she is; and if you know
Such a one as I have sung,
That she be but somewhile young;