Ad Grosphum. Lib. 2. Ode 16 Poem by John Ashmore

The Argvment.
No outward thing thee well can bring
Vnto a quiet minde.
Within it is, that brings this bliss:
There helpe we best may finde.

The Marchant toyl'd in the Egëan Sea,
When Phœbe's face is vail'd with a dark cloud,
And the known stars from sight are fled away,
For ease unto the gods doth cry aloud.
For Ease, the Thracians (terrible in warre)
For Ease, the Medes (with comely quivers bold)
O Grosphus, to the gods still suters are,
Bought with no gems, with purple, or with gold.
No treasure, neither Sergeant can arrest
The wretched hurly-burlies of the minde,
And cares with rest-less wings that beat the breast,
And in faire-fretted roofes still harbour finde.
He lives well with a little, that doth keep
His late Sires table furnisht with meane fare;
That is not robd of rest, nor scar'd from sleep
With hide-bound Avarice, or heart-scorching Care.
Why doe we, short-liv'd things, on tentars set
Our greedy thoughts with vaine desire of pelf?
In climats furthest off, What would we get?
Who, from his Countrey exil'd, flees from himselfe?
Care, vice-borne, climbs into the brass-stemd ships:
In warlike troupes her selfe she slily shrowds:
Swifter then Stags, swifter then windes she skips,
That do disperse, and drive away the clowds.
Be Ioviall while time serves (Time will not stay.)
Hate curiously t'enquire what will betide:
Sowr discontentments with sweet mirth allay.
Entirely good, nothing doth still abide.
Vntimely death did stout Achilles slay:
Old age Tithonus did Epitomize:
And my birth-star perhaps grants me a day
To date my life; which thine to thee denies.
Faire flocks of sheep, fat heards of cattell low
About thee, and thy lustfull Mare with pride
Neighs out, now for the Chariot fit: and thou
Wearst purple, twice in Tyrian liquors dy'd.
The Dest'nie, ne'r deceiv'd, on me bestowes
A little ground, and veine of Poësie
Which from the pleasant Greekish fountains flowes,
And th'un-taught Vulgar wils me to defie.