worthy is, Of Galatea’s purple kiss; He does the savage hawthorn teach To bear the medlar and the pear; He bids the rustic plum to rear A noble trunk, and be a peach. Even Daphne’s coyness he does mock, And weds the cherry to her stock, Though she refused Apollo’s suit, Even she, that chaste and virgin tree, Now wonders at herself to see That she’s a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. XI. Methinks I see great Diocletian walk In the Salonian garden’s noble shade, Which by his own imperial hands was made: I see him smile, methinks, as he does talk With the ambassadors, who come in vain, To entice him to a throne again. “If I, my friends,” said he, “should to you show All the delights which in these gardens grow; ’Tis likelier much that you should with me stay, Than ’tis that you should carry me away; And trust me not, my friends, if every day I walk not here with more delight, Than ever, after the most happy fight, In triumph to the Capitol I rode, To thank the gods, and to be thought myself almost a god.” p. 119OF GREATNESS. p. 119 Since we cannot attain to greatness, says the Sieur de Montaigne, let us have our revenge by railing at it; this he spoke but in jest. I believe he desired it no more than I do, and had less reason, for he enjoyed so plentiful and honourable a fortune in a most excellent country, as allowed him all the real conveniences of it, separated and purged from the incommodities. If I were but in his condition, I should think it hard measure, without being convinced of any crime, to be sequestered from it and made one of the principal officers of state. But the reader may think that what I now say is of small authority, because I never was, nor ever shall be, put to the trial; I can therefore only make my protestation. Since If ever I more riches did desire Than cleanliness and quiet do require; If e’er ambition did my fancy cheat, With any wish so mean as to be great, Continue, Heaven, still from me to remove The humble blessings of that life I love. I know very many men will despise, and some pity me, for this humour, as a poor-spirited fellow; but I am content, and, like Horace, thank God for being so. Dii bene fecerunt inopis me, quodque pusilli finxerunt animi. I confess I love littleness almost in all things. A little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a very little feast; and if I were ever to fall in love again (which is a
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