Ad Torquatuin. Li. 4. Od. 7 Poem by John Ashmore

The Argvment.
Goods got with care, we should not spare,
But spend them merily:
It then best fits, while time permits;
Which soon us hence will carry.

The snowes are fled, the fields are clad with grasse,
And leaves trees prank:
Times change, and floods decreasing pass
Not their know'n bank.
The Graces, with the Nymphs nak't on the strand,
The Measures sweetly dance, hand ioynd in hand.
The Yeare and Night, that cancels the fair day,
Shewes we must die:
Cold by the Spring, the Spring is driven away
By Summer nie:
Summer to Autumne yeelds, that pours forth graine:
Then barren Winter takes his roome againe.
Yet the swift Moones their losses soon repaire:
But, when we shall
Come where good Anchus and Æneas are,
To dust we fall.
How know'st thou, whether the great gods will give
Thee one day longer in the world to live?
Thy friendly gifts the clutches scape alone
Of thy glad heire.
When thou iust Minos doome hast undergone
(Layd on the beere)
Nor thy high birth (Torquatus) nor thy wit,
Nor piety thee thence will ever quit.
Diana, Patroness of chastitie,
Could not recall
Hyppolitus, that in dark vaults did lie
Of Pluto's hall:
Nor Theseus the infernall chains could rend,
That captive held Pyrithous, his friend.