ODE 2.
To the New Year.
RIch statue double faced! With marble temples graced, To raise thy godhead higher; In flames where, altars shining. Before thy Priests divining, Do od'rous fumes expire.
Great Janus, I thy pleasure, With all the Thespian treasure, Do seriously pursue: To th' passed year returning, As though the Old adjourning; Yet bringing in the New.
Thy ancient Vigils yearly, I have observèd clearly; Thy Feasts yet smoking be! Since all thy store abroad is; Give something to my goddess, As hath been used by thee!
Give her th' Eoan Brightness! Winged with that subtle lightness That doth transpierce the air; The Roses of the Morning! The rising heaven adorning, To mesh with flames of hair;
Those ceaseless Sounds, above all, Made by those orbs that move all; And ever swelling there: Wrapped up in Numbers flowing, Them actually bestowing For jewels at her ear.
O rapture great and holy, Do thou transport me wholly So well her form to vary! That I aloft may bear her Where as I will insphere her In regions high and starry.
And in my choice Composures, The soft and easy Closures So amorously shall meet, That every lively Ceasure Shall tread a perfect measure, Set on so equal feet.
That spray to fame so fert'le, The lover-crowning myrtle, In wreaths of mixèd boughs; Within whose shades are dwelling Those beauties most excelling, Enthroned upon her brows.
Those parallels so even, Drawn on the face of heaven, That curious Art supposes; Direct those gems, whose clearness Far off amaze by nearness, Each globe such fire encloses.
Her bosom full of blisses, By Nature made for kisses; So pure and wondrous clear: Where as a thousand Graces Behold their lovely faces, As they are bathing there.
O thou self-little Blindness! The kindness of unkindness, Yet one of those Divine: Thy Brands to me were lever, Thy Fascia, and thy Quiver, And thou this Quill of mine.
This heart so freshly bleeding, Upon its own self feeding; Whose wounds still dropping be: O Love, thyself confounding, Her coldness so abounding, And yet such heat in me.
Yet, if I be inspirèd, I'll leave thee so admirèd To all that shall succeed; That were they more than many, 'Mongst all there is not any That Time so oft shall read.
Nor adamant ingravèd, That hath been choicely savèd, Idea's name outwears: So large a dower as this is; The greatest often misses, The diadem that bears.
ODE 3.
[To Cupid.]