ge
With common food. Nor doth he use to drink
When thirsty on some river's muddy brink.
A purer, vital heat shot from the sun
Doth nourish him, and airy sweets that come
From Tethys lap he tasteth at his need;
On such abstracted diet doth he feed.
A secret light there streams from both his eyes,
A fiery hue about his cheeks doth rise.
His crest grows up into a glorious star
Giv'n t' adorn his head, and shines so far,
That piercing through the bosom of the night
It rends the darkness with a gladsome light.
His thighs like Tyrian scarlet, and his wings
--More swift than winds are--have sky-colour'd rings
Flow'ry and rich: and round about enroll'd
Their utmost borders glister all with gold.
He's not conceiv'd, nor springs he from the Earth,
But is himself the parent, and the birth.
None him begets; his fruitful death reprieves
Old age, and by his funerals he lives.
For when the tedious Summer's gone about
A thousand times: so many Winters out,
So many Springs: and May doth still restore
Those leaves, which Autumn had blown off before;
Then press'd with years his vigour doth decline,
Foil'd with the number; as a stately pine
Tir'd out with storms bends from the top and height
Of Caucasus, and falls with its own weight,
Whose part is torn with daily blasts, with rain
Part is consum'd, and part with age again;
So now his eyes grown dusky, fail to see
Far off, and drops of colder rheums there be
Fall'n slow and dreggy from them; such in sight
The cloudy moon is, having spent her light.
And now his wings, which used to contend
With tempests, scarce from the low earth ascend.
He knows his time is out! and doth provide
New principles of life; herbs he brings dried
From the hot hills, and with rich spices frames
A pile, shall burn, and hatch him with its flames.
On this the weakling sits; salutes the sun
With pleasant noise, and prays and begs for some
Of his own fire, that quickly may restore
The youth and vigour, which he had before.
Whom, soon as Ph[oe]bus spies, stopping his reins,
He makes a stand and thus allays his pains.
O thou that buriest old age in thy grave,
And art by seeming funerals to have
A new return of life, whose custom 'tis
To rise by ruin, and by death to miss
Ev'n death itself, a new beginning