Ode to Sir William Sidney, on his Birthday

Now that the hearth is crown'd with smiling fire,
And some do drink, and some do dance,
Some ring,
Some sing,
And all do strive to advance
The gladness higher;

Wherefore should I
Stand silent by,
Who not the least,
Both love the cause, and authors of the feast?

Give me my cup, but from the Thespian well,
That I may tell to Sidney what
This day
Doth say,
And he may think on that
Which I do tell;

When all the noise
Of these forced joys,
Are fled and gone,
And he with his best Genius left alone.

This day says, then, the number of glad years
Are justly summ'd, that make you man;
Your vow
Must now
Strive all right ways it can,
T' outstrip your peers:

Since he doth lack
Of going back
Little, whose will
Doth urge him to run wrong, or to stand still.

Nor can a little of the common store
Of nobles' virtue, shew in you;
Your blood
So good
And great, must seek for new,
And study more:

Nor weary, rest
On what's deceas't.
For they, that swell
With dust of ancestors, in graves but dwell.

'Twill be exacted of your name, whose son,
Whose nephew, whose grandchild you are;
And men
Will then
Say you have follow'd far,
When well begun:

Which must be now,
They teach you how.
And he that stays
To live until to-morrow', hath lost two days.

So may you live in honour, as in name,
If with this truth you be inspired;
So may
This day
Be more, and long desired;
And with the flame

Of love be bright,
As with the light
Of bonfires! then
The birth-day shines, when logs not burn, but men.