Ad Aristium Fuscum. Lib. 1. Ode. 22. Poem by John Ashmore

The Argvment.
If thou, within, doe feele no sinne,
That tortureth thy minde,
Thou maist from thence a sure defence
Against all dangers finde.

An upright man, and honest liver
(O Fuscus) needs nor bowe, nor speares
Of the black Moore, nor yet the quiver
He full of poysoned arrowes weares;
Whether through Circes scalding Sands,
Or craggy Caucasus, he goe,
Or places where through many Lands
Hydaspes streams doe gently flowe.
For, in the Sabine wood while I
Of Lalage sung without dread,
And rom'd with care-less liberty,
A Wolf from me unarmed fled;
An hideous beast: whose like ith' groves
Of warlike Daunia doth not dwell;
Nor in Morisco's Desarts roves
The dry-nurse of the Lions fell.
Ith' dull fields set me, where no tree
Releeved is with gentle aire;
That ne'r from clouds, and mists is free,
But still doth angry tempests beare.
Vnder the glorious chaire me set,
Whence Phœbus mounting up on high,
The earth with burning rayes doth beat,
And dwellings unto men deny;
I Lalagen will love the whiles,
That sweetly speakes, and sweetly smiles.