And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now, therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now, let us sport us while we may;
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapt power!
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife,
Through the iron gates of life!
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run."

Mr. Aitken's valuable edition of Marvell's poems and satires can now be
had of all booksellers for two shillings,[47:1] and with these volumes
in his possession the judicious reader will be able to supply his own
reflections whilst life beneath the sun is still his. Poetry is a
personal matter. The very canons of criticism are themselves literature.
If we like the _Ars Poetica_, it is because we enjoy reading Horace.


FOOTNOTES:

[20:1] For an account of Flecknoe, see Southey's _Omniana_, i. 105. Lamb