The Grasse-hopper: Ode

Oh thou that swing'st upon the waving haire
    Of some well-filled Oaten Beard,
Drunke ev'ry night with a Delicious teare
    Dropt thee from Heav'n, where now th'art reard.

The Joyes of Earth and Ayre are thine intire,
    That with thy feet and wings dost hop and flye ;
And when thy Poppy workes thou dost retire
    To thy Carv'd Acorn-bed to lye.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcomst then,
    Sportst in the guilt-plats of his Beames,
And all these merry dayes mak'st merry men,
    Thy selfe, and Melancholy streames.

But ah the Sickle !  Golden Eares are Cropt ;
    Ceres and Bacchus bid good-night ;
Sharpe frosty fingers all your Flowr's have topt,
    And what sithes spar'd, Winds shave off quite.

Poore verdant foole ! and now green Ice, thy Joys
    Large and as lasting, as thy Peirch of Grasse,
Bid us lay in 'gainst Winter, Raine, and poize
    Their flouds, with an o'erflowing glasse.

Thou best of Men and Friends !  we will create
    A Genuine Summer in each others breast ;
And spite of this cold Time and frosen Fate
    Thaw us a warme seate to our rest.

Our sacred harthes shall burne eternally
    As Vestall Flames, the North-wind, he
Shall strike his frost-stretch'd Winges, dissolve and flye
    This Ætna in Epitome.

Dropping December shall come weeping in,
    Bewayle th' usurping of his Raigne ;
But when in show'rs of old Greeke we beginne
    Shall crie, he hath his Crowne againe !

Night as cleare Hesper shall our Tapers whip
    From the light Casements, where we play,
And the darke Hagge from her black mantle strip,
    And sticke there everlasting Day.

Thus richer then untempted Kings are we,
    That asking nothing, nothing need :
Though Lord of all what Seas imbrace ; yet he
    That wants himselfe, is poore indeed.