What matter where, If I be still the same! And what I should be, all but less than he Whom thunder has made greater? Here, at least, We shall be free; th’Almighty hath not built Here for his envy, will not drive us hence : Here we may reign secure; and, in my choice, To reign is worth ambition tho' in hell: Better to reign in hell than serve in heav'n. But wherefore let we then our faithful friends, Th'associates and copartners of our loss, Lie thus astonish'd on th'oblivious pool, And call them not to share with us their part In this unhappy mansion; or once more With rallied arms to try what may be yet Regain'd in heav'n, or what more lost in hell? EVE TO ADAM. WITH thee conversing I forget all time; Sweet is the breath of morn, her rising sweet, Qu'importe le séjour si je reste le même; Mais ces braves amis, ces augustes victimes, A VIRGINIE. Le plaisir est par-tout où je vois Virginie; Tout est beau, tout est doux, tout est charmant pour moi, Tout vit, tout s'embellit quand je suis près de toi. Oh que j'aime avec toi le lever de l'aurore Et les premiers rayons dont le ciel se colore, With charms of earliest birds; pleasant the sun, gems of heav'n, her starry train. But, neither breath of morn, when she ascends With charms of earliest birds; nor rising sun On this delightful land; nor herb, fruit, flower, Glist'ring with dew; nor fragrance after showers; Nor grateful evening mild; nor silent night With this her solemn bird; nor walk by moon Or glitt'ring star-light, without thee is sweet. Le calme du matin, la fraîcheur des ruisseaux Mais le chant des oiseaux au lever de l'aurore, Et de l'astre des nuits la modeste nuance, Et de l'oiseau des nuits l'amour et la romance, Rien n'est beau, rien n'est doux, rien n'est charmant pour moi, Tout languit, tout est mort quand je suis loin de toi; Oui, ton absence fait le malheur de ma vie, La douleur est par-tout où n'est pas Virginie. BUTLER. HUDIBRAS. CANTO 2. THERE HERE was an ancient sage philosopher That had read Alexander Ross over, And swore the world, as he could prove, Was made of fighting and of love. Just so romances are; for what else Is in them all but love and battles. O' th' first of these w'have no great matter To treat of, but a world o' th' latter In which to do the injur'd right, We mean in what concerns just fight. Certes our authors are to blame, For, to make some well sounding name, A pattern fit for modern knights, To copy out in frays and fights, |