If, Collatine, thine honour lay in me,
From me by strong affault it is bereft.
My honey loft, and I, a drone-like bee,
Have no perfection of my fummer left,·
But robb'd and ranfack'd by injurious theft:

In thy weak hive a wandering wafp hath crept,
And fuck'd the honey which thy chafte bee kept.

Yet am I guiltless of thy honour's wreck;
Yet for thy honour did I entertain him ;
Coming from thee, I could not put him back,
For it had been dishonour to difdain him:
Befides of wearinefs he did complain him,
And talk'd of virtue :-O unlook'd for evil,
When virtue is prophan'd in fuch a devil!

Why should the worm intrude the maiden bud?
Or hateful cuckows hatch in fparrows' nefts?
Or toads infect fair founts with venom mud?
Or tyrant folly lurk in gentle breasts?
Or kings be breakers of their own behests?
But no perfection is so abfolute,
That fome impurity doth not pollute.

The aged man that coffers up his gold,

Is plagu'd with cramps, and gouts, and painful fits, And scarce hath eyes his treasure to behold,

But like ftill-pining Tantalus he fits,

And useless barns the harvest of his wits;
Having no other pleasure of his gain,
But torment that it cannot cure his pain.

So then he hath it when he cannot use it,
And leaves it to be mafter'd by his young;
Who in their pride do presently abuse it :
Their father was too weak, and they too ftrong,
To hold their curfed-blessed fortune long.

The sweets we wish for turn to loathed fours,
Even in the moment that we call them ours.

Unruly blasts wait on the tender spring; Unwholesome weeds take root with precious flowers; The adder hiffes where the fweet birds fing;

What virtue breeds, iniquity devours:

We have no good that we can fay is ours,
But ill-annexed opportunity

Or kills his life, or elfe his quality.

O Opportunity! thy guilt is great :

'Tis thou that execut'ft the traitor's treason; Thou fet'ft the wolf where he the lamb may get; Whoever plots the fin, thou point'st the season; 'Tis thou that fpurn'ft at right, at law, at reafon ; And in thy fhady cell, where none may spy him, Sits Sin, to feize the fouls that wander by him.

Thou mak'ft the vestal violate her oath

Thou blow'ft the fire when temperance is thaw'd;
Thou smother'ft honefty, thou murder'ft troth;
Thou foul abettor! thou notorious bawd!

Thou plantest scandal, and displacest laud :
Thou ravisher, thou traitor, thou false thief,
Thy honey turns to gall, thy joy to grief!

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Thy fecret pleasure turns to open shame,
Thy private feasting to a publick fast;
Thy smoothing titles to a ragged name;
Thy fugar'd tongue to bitter wormwood taste:
Thy violent vanities can never last.

How comes it then, vile opportunity,

Being fo bad, fuch numbers feek for thee?

When wilt thou be the humble fuppliant's friend,
And bring him where his fuit may be obtained?
When wilt thou fort an hour great strifes to end?
Or free that foul which wretchedness hath chained?
Give phyfick to the fick, ease to the pained?

The poor, lame, blind, halt, creep, cry out for thee;
But they ne'er meet with opportunity.

The patient dies while the phyfician fleeps ;
The orphan pines while the oppreffor feeds
Justice is feasting while the widow weeps;
Advice is fporting while infection breeds;
Thou grant'ft no time for charitable deeds:

Wrath, envy, treafon, rape, and murder's rages,
Thy heinous hours wait on them as their pages.

When Truth and Virtue have to do with thee,
A thousand croffes keep them from thy aid;
They buy thy help: but Sin ne'er gives a fee,
He gratis comes; and thou art well appay'd
As well to hear as grant what he hath said.
My Collatine would elfe have come to me
When. Tarquin did, but he was stay'd by thee.
G

Guilty thou art of murder and of theft;
Guilty of perjury and fubornation;
Guilty of treason, forgery, and shift;
Guilty of inceft, that abomination :
An acceffary by thine inclination

To all fins paft, and all that are to come,
From the creation to the general doom.

Mishapen Time, copefmate of ugly night,
Swift subtle poft, carrier of grisly care;
Eater of youth, false slave to false delight,
Base watch of woes, fin's pack-horse, virtue's fnare; -
Thou nurfest all, and murderest all that are.
O hear me then, injurious, shifting time!
Be guilty of my death, fince of my crime.

Why hath thy fervant, Opportunity,
Betray'd the hours thou gav'st me to repose?
Cancel'd my fortunes, and enchained me
To endless date of never-ending woes?
Time's office is to fine the hate of foes;
To eat up error by opinion bred,
Not spend the dowry of a lawful bed.

Time's glory is to calm contending kings,
To unmask falfhood, and bring truth to light,
To stamp the feal of time in aged things,
To wake the morn, and sentinel the night,
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wrong the wronger till he render right;

To ruinate proud buildings with thy hours,

And smear with duft their glittering golden towers:

To fill with worm-holes ftately monuments,
To feed oblivion with decay of things,
To blot old books, and alter their contents,
To pluck the quills from ancient ravens' wings,
To dry the old oak's fap, and cherish fprings;
To spoil antiquities of hammer'd steel,

And turn the giddy round of fortune's wheel:

To fhew the beldame daughters of her daughter,
To make the child a man, the man a child,
To flay the tyger that doth live by slaughter,
To tame the unicorn and lion wild;
To mock the subtle, in themselves beguil'd;

To cheer the ploughman with increaseful crops,
And waste huge ftones with little water-drops.

Why work'st thou mifchief in thy pilgrimage,
Unless thou could'ft return to make amends?
One poor retiring minute in an age

Would purchase thee a thousand thousand friends,
Lending him wit, that to bad debtors lends:

O, this dread night, would'ft thou one hour come back,
I could prevent this ftorm, and fhun this wrack!

Thou ceaseless lackey to eternity,

With fome mifchance crofs Tarquin in his flight:
Devise extremes beyond extremity,

To make him curfe this curfed crimeful night :
Let ghaftly shadows his lewd eyes affright;
And the dire thought of his committed evil
Shape every bush a hideous shapeless devil.