But the moment that he closes,
Every brother else reposes. 
If wine’s brought or victuals drest,
One enjoys them for the rest. 
  Pierce us all with wounding steel,
One for all of us will feel. 
  Though ten thousand cannons roar,
Add to them ten thousand more,
Yet but one of us is found
Who regards the dreadful sound. 
  Do what is not fit to tell,
There’s but one of us can smell.

FONTINELLA[1] TO FLORINDA

When on my bosom thy bright eyes,
  Florinda, dart their heavenly beams,
I feel not the least love surprise,
  Yet endless tears flow down in streams;
There’s nought so beautiful in thee,
  But you may find the same in me.

The lilies of thy skin compare;
  In me you see them full as white: 
The roses of your cheeks, I dare
  Affirm, can’t glow to more delight. 
Then, since I show as fine a face,
  Can you refuse a soft embrace?

Ah! lovely nymph, thou’rt in thy prime! 
  And so am I, while thou art here;
But soon will come the fatal time,
  When all we see shall disappear. 
’Tis mine to make a just reflection,
  And yours to follow my direction.

Then catch admirers while you may;
  Treat not your lovers with disdain;
For time with beauty flies away,
  And there is no return again. 
To you the sad account I bring,
  Life’s autumn has no second spring.

[Footnote 1:  A fountain.]

AN ECHO

Never sleeping, still awake,
Pleasing most when most I speak;
The delight of old and young,
Though I speak without a tongue. 
Nought but one thing can confound me,
Many voices joining round me;
Then I fret, and rave, and gabble,
Like the labourers of Babel. 
Now I am a dog, or cow,
I can bark, or I can low;
I can bleat, or I can sing,
Like the warblers of the spring. 
Let the lovesick bard complain,
And I mourn the cruel pain;
Let the happy swain rejoice,
And I join my helping voice: 
Both are welcome, grief or joy,
I with either sport and toy. 
Though a lady, I am stout,
Drums and trumpets bring me out: 
Then I clash, and roar, and rattle,
Join in all the din of battle. 
Jove, with all his loudest thunder,
When I’m vext, can’t keep me under;
Yet so tender is my ear,
That the lowest voice I fear;
Much I dread the courtier’s fate,
When his merit’s out of date,
For I hate a silent breath,
And a whisper is my death.

ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS;