A Part of an Ode

　　IT is not growing like a tree

　　In bulk doth make man better be;

　　Or standing long an oak three hundred year

　　To fall a log at last dry bald and sere：

　　A lily of a day

　　Is fairer far in May

　　Although it fall and die that night;

　　It was the plant and flower of light.

　　In small proportions we just beauties see;

　　And in short measures life may perfect be.

　　Call noble Lucius then for wine

　　And let thy looks with gladness shine：

　　Accept this garland plant it on thy head

　　And think—nay know—thy Morison 's not dead.

　　He leap'd the present age

　　Possest with holy rage

　　To see that bright eternal Day

　　Of which we Priests and Poets say

　　Such truths as we expect for happy men;

　　And there he lives with memory—and Ben

　　Jonson： who sung this of him ere he went

　　Himself to rest

　　Or tast a part of that full joy he meant

　　To have exprest

　　In this bright Asterism

　　Where it were friendship's schism—

　　Were not his Lucius long with us to tarry—

　　To separate these twy

　　Lights the Dioscuri

　　And keep the one half from his Harry.

　　But fate doth so alternate the design

　　Whilst that in Heav'n this light on earth must shine.

　　And shine as you exalted are!

　　Two names of friendship but one star：

　　Of hearts the union： and those not by chance

　　Made or indenture or leased out to advance

　　The profits for a time.

　　No pleasures vain did chime

　　Of rimes or riots at your feasts

　　Orgies of drink or feign'd protests;

　　But simple love of greatness and of good

　　That knits brave minds and manners more than blood.

　　This made you first to know the Why

　　You liked then after to apply

　　That liking and approach so one the t'other

　　Till either grew a portion of the other：

　　Each stylèd by his end

　　The copy of his friend.

　　You lived to be the great surnames

　　And titles by which all made claims

　　Unto the Virtue—nothing perfect done

　　But as a CARY or a MORISON.

　　And such the force the fair example had

　　As they that saw

　　The good and durst not practise it were glad

　　That such a law

　　Was left yet to mankind

　　Where they might read and find

　　FRIENDSHIP indeed was written not in words

　　And with the heart not pen

　　Of two so early men

　　Whose lines her rules were and records：

　　Who ere the first down bloomèd on the chin

　　Had sow'd these fruits and got the harvest in.