it is,
     And ’tis a pain that pain to miss;
     But, of all pains, the greatest pain
     It is to love, but love in vain. 
     Virtue now, nor noble blood,
     Nor wit by love is understood;
     Gold alone does passion move,
     Gold monopolizes love;
     A curse on her, and on the man
     Who this traffic first began! 
     A curse on him who found the ore! 
     A curse on him who digged the store! 
     A curse on him who did refine it! 
     A curse on him who first did coin it! 
     A curse, all curses else above,
     On him who used it first in love! 
     Gold begets in brethren hate;
     Gold in families debate;
     Gold does friendship separate;
     Gold does civil wars create. 
     These the smallest harms of it! 
     Gold, alas! does love beget.

Cowley’s Translation.

         &nb
sp;TheGrasshopper

     Happy Insect! what can be
     In happiness compared to thee? 
     Fed with nourishment divine,
     The dewy Morning’s gentle wine! 
     Nature waits upon thee still,
     And thy verdant cup does fill;
     ’Tis filled wherever thou dost tread,
     Nature’s self’s thy Ganymede. 
     Thou dost drink, and dance, and sing;
     Happier than the happiest king! 
     All the fields which thou dost see,
     All the plants, belong to thee;
     All that summer hours produce,
     Fertile made with early juice. 
     Man for thee does sow and plow;
     Farmer he, and landlord thou! 
     Thou dost innocently joy;
     Nor does thy luxury destroy;
     The shepherd gladly heareth thee,
     More harmonious than he. 
     Thee country hinds with gladness hear,
     Prophet of the ripened year! 
     Thee Phoebus loves, and does inspire;
     Phoebus is himself thy sire. 
     To thee, of all things upon Earth,
     Life’s no longer than thy mirth. 
     Happy insect, happy thou! 
     Dost neither age nor winter know;
     But, when thou’st drunk, and danced, and sung
     Thy fill, the flowery leaves among,
     (Voluptuous, and wise withal,
     Epicurean animal!)
     Sated with thy summer feast,
     Thou retir’st to endless rest.

Cowley’s Translation,

          Theswallow

     Foolish prater, what dost thou
     So early at my window do,
     With thy tuneless serenade? 
     Well ’t had been had Tereus made
     Thee as dumb as Philomel;
     There his knife had done but well. 
     In thy undiscovered nest
     Thou dost all the winter rest,
     And dreamest o’er thy summer joys,
     Free from the stormy season’s noise: 
     Free from th’ ill thou’st done to me;
     Who disturbs or seeks out thee? 
     Hadst thou all the charming notes
     Of the wood’s poetic throats,