The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/To the New Year
TO THE NEW YEAR.
Great Janus! (who dost sure my mistress viewWith all thine eyes, yet think'st them all too few)If thy fore-face do seeNo better things prepar'd for me,Than did thy face behind;If still her breast must shut against me be(For ’tis not Peace that temple's gate does bind);Oh, let my life, if thou so many deaths a-coming find, With thine old year its voyage take,Borne down that stream of Time which no return can make!
Alas! what need I thus to pray?Th' old avaricious year,Whether I would or no, will bearAt least a part of me away:His well-hors'd troops, the months, and days, and hours,Though never any-where they stay,Make in their passage all their prey;The months, days, hours, that march i' th' rear, can findNought of value left behind.All the good wine of life our drunken youth devours;Sourness and lees, which to the bottom sink,Remain for latter years to drink;Until, some one offended with the taste,The vessel breaks, and out the wretched relicks run at last.
If then, young Year! thou needst must come(For in Time's fruitful wombThe birth beyond its time can never tarry,Nor ever can miscarry);Choose thy attendants well; for ’tis not theeWe fear, but ’tis thy company:Let neither Loss of Friends, or Fame, or Liberty,Nor pining Sickness, nor tormenting Pain,Nor Sadness, nor uncleanly Poverty,Be seen among thy train: Nor let thy livery beEither black Sin, or gaudy Vanity:Nay, if thou lov'st me, gentle Year!Let not so much as Love be there;Vain fruitless Love, I mean; for, gentle Year!Although I fear,There's of this caution little need,Yet, gentle Year! take heedHow thou dost makeSuch a mistake:Such Love I mean, alone,As by thy cruel predecessors has been shown;For, though I have too much cause to doubt it,I fain would try for once if Life can live without it.
Into the future times why do we pry,And seek to antedate our misery?Like jealous men, why are we longing stillTo see the thing which only seeing makes an ill?’Tis well the face is veil'd; for 't were a sightThat would ev'n happiest men affright;And something still they'd spy that would destroyThe past and present joy.In whatsoever characterThe book of Fate is writ,’Tis well we understand not it;We should grow mad with little learning there:Upon the brink of every ill we did foresee,Undecently and foolishly We should stand shivering, and but slowly ventureThe fatal flood to enter.Since, willing or unwilling, we must do it,They feel least cold and pain who plunge at once into it.