L.A. Seneca the philosopher, his booke of consolation to Marcia. Translated into an English poem
About this Item
- Title
- L.A. Seneca the philosopher, his booke of consolation to Marcia. Translated into an English poem
- Author
- Seneca, Lucius Annaeus, ca. 4 B.C.-65 A.D.
- Publication
- London :: Printed by E[lizabeth] P[urslowe] for Henry Seile, and are to be sold at the Tygres head in St. Pauls Church-yard,
- 1635.
- Rights/Permissions
-
This keyboarded and encoded edition of the work described above is co-owned by the institutions providing financial support to the Early English Books Online Text Creation Partnership. Searching, reading, printing, or downloading EEBO-TCP texts is reserved for the authorized users of these project partner institutions. Permission must be granted for subsequent distribution, in print or electronically, of this text, in whole or in part. Please contact project staff at eebotcp-info@umich.edu for further information or permissions.
- Subject terms
- Consolation -- Early works to 1800.
- Cite this Item
-
"L.A. Seneca the philosopher, his booke of consolation to Marcia. Translated into an English poem." In the digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/B15755.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections. Accessed May 17, 2024.
Pages
Page 16
Even all those troopes that wrangle at the barre,
That fill the Theaters, that prostrate are
In Temples, death at sundry times doth strike,
The honour'd and despis'd she maketh like.
Apollo's Oracle thou must fulfill,
Know thine owne selfe it is the chiefest skill.
What's man? a vessell broken with a knock,
Notable to endure a common shock:
By nature weake, on others aide depending,
And in his chiefest strength himselfe defending
Against a Savage Beast, becomes her prey,
His body is compos'd of mire and clay,
Though nere so neat, and comely to behold,
Impatient of toyle, of heat, or cold,
Whom very ease and rest consumes, and whom
The sustenance he takes doth overcome,
Dying as well with surfeit as with want,
Whose soule suspitious of her guard can scant
Be woo'd to stay, but oft leapes out for feare,
When as a suddaine noyse doth strike the eare.
Why doe we wonder at the death of one?
When as the same can be escapt by none:
There needs no great adoe, the smell, the taste,
Watching, and wearinesse, mans life doth waste;
Humours and meates that doe maintaine his breath,
Become at length the causes of his death,
Where ere he goes, his weaknesse he may find,
In change of Aire, of Water, and of Wind
Not us'd unto, in every thing appeares
The frailty of his life begun in teares.
And yet what Tumults doth this vile wretch move?
What thoughts he harbours in him, farre above
Page 17
His seely reach, and how doth he devise
To Childrens Children perpetuities:
And while hee's busi'd in his vaine pretence,
Death unexpected comes and takes him hence,
And that which we call age, is at the most
The course of some few yeeres, that swiftly post.