XIV: Ode: To Sir William Sydney, On His Birth-day

Now that the harth is crown'd with smiling fire,
 And some do drink, and some do dance,
 Some ring,
 Some sing,
 And all do strive t'advance
The gladnesse 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 Sydney, what
  This day
  Doth say,
 And he may think on that
Which I do tell:
 When all the noyse
 Of these forc'd joyes,
  Are fled and gone,
  And he, with his best Genius left alone.
This day says, then, the number of glad yeares
 Are justly summ'd, that make you man;
  Your vow
  Must now
 Strive all right ways it can,
T'out-strip your peeres:
 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 vertue, shew in you;
  Your blood
  So good
 And great, must seek for new,
And study more:
 Nor weary, rest
 On what's deceast.
  For they, that swell
  With dust of ancestors, in graves but dwell.
'Twill be exacted of your name, whose sonne,
 Whose nephew, whose grand-child you are;
  And men
  Will, then,
 Say you have follow'd farre,
When well begun:
 Which must be now,
 They teach you, how.
  And he that stayes
  To liue untill to morrow 'hath lost two dayes.
So may you live in honor, as in name,
 If with this truth you be inspir'd;
  So may
  This day
 Be more, and long desir'd:
And with the flame
 Of love bee bright,
 As with the light
  Of bone-fires. Then
  The Birth-day shines, when logs not burne, but men.