JOVE

First hear; you shall not play, The Fates would scold should you keep Holiday. Command thy Brawny fisted slaves to sweat At the Anvil, and to dust their Hammers beat, To stuff with Thunderbolts Jove's Armories, For Vices (mountainlike) in black heaps rise, My sinews crack to fell them:— Idiot pride Stalks upon stilts, — Ambition, by her side, Climbing to catch Stars, breaks her neck it'h fallen, The Gallant Roars, — Roarers drink oaths and gall, The Beggar curses, — Avarice eats gold Yet never is filled, — Learning's awrangling scold, War has a Fatal hand, — Peace, whorish Eyes, Shall not Jove, beat down such Impieties? Is't not high time, Is't not true Justice then (Vulcan) for thee, and thy tough Hammer-men To heat thy Anvil,—and blow fires to flames To burnethese Broods, who kill even with their Names? And what helps this, but Iron! Oh then, how high Shall this Great Troy, Text up the Memory Of you her Noble Praetor, and tall Those (Your worthy Brotherhood) through whose Care goes That rare, rich prize of Iron, to the whole Land, Iron! far more worth then Tagus golden Sand. Iron! best of Metals! Pride of Minerals! Heart of the Earth! Hand of the World, which falls Heavy when it strikes home: — By Irons strong Charms Riots lie bound: —War stops her rough Alarms Iron; Earthquakes strikes in Foes: — Knits friends in love, Iron's that main Hinge, on which the World does move: No Kingdoms Globe can turn, Even, Smooth and Round, But that his Axletree in Iron is found: For, Armies wanting Iron, are puffs of wind, And, but for Iron, who thrones of peace would mind? Were there no gold nor silver in the land: Yet Navigation (which on Iron does stand) Could fetch it in —Gold's Darling to the Sun, But Iron, his hardy Boy, by whom is done More than the Tother dare: The Merchant's Gates By Iron, bar out thievish assassinates: Iron is the Shopkeepers both Lock and Kay, What are your Course of Guard, when Iron's away? How would the Cornepricke up her golden Ears: But that Iron Plough shares, all the labour bears In Earth's strange Midwiffry? Brave Iron! what praise Deserves it? More 'tis beat, more it obeys; The more it suffers: More it smooths offence: In Drudgery, it shines with Patience. This Fellowship, was then with Judging Eyes United to the twelve great Companies: It being far more Worthy, than to Fill A File inferior; — You's the Sun's gilded Hill: On toot: Jove guards you on: Cyclopes a Ring Make with your Hammers, to whose Music Sing.