Lipsÿ Laus, & Vota Vitæ Beatæ Poem by John Ashmore

Lipsÿ Laus, & Vota Vitæ Beatæ



Hee's like the gods, and higher then
The rest-less Race of mortall Men,
That wisheth not, or (in despaire)
The doubtfull Day of Death doth feare.
In whom Ambition doth not raigne,
That is not vext with hope of Gaine,
That trembles not at Threats of Kings,
Nor Darts that angry Iove down flings:
But, firmely seated in one Place,
Vulgar Delights doth scorne, as base:
That of his Life one Tenor keeps;
Secure that wakes, secure that sleeps.
If I might live at mine owne pleasure,
I would no Office seek, nor Treasure;
Nor captive Troups should me attend,
As to my Charret I ascend,
Drawne by white Steeds, with Shouts and Cries;
A Spectacle to gazing Eyes.
In Places I remote would be:
Gardens and Fields should solace me:
There, at the bubbling waters noyse,
I with the Muses would reioyce.
So, when my Lachesis hath spun
The thread of Life, she well drew on;
Not unto any man a Foe,
I full of Years from hence would goe,
And Date my dayes in quiet state,
As my good Langius did of late.

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