IERE-while of Musick, and Ethereal mirth,Wherwith the stage of Ayr and Earth did ring,And joyous news of heav'nly Infants birth,My muse with Angels did divide to sing;But headlong joy is ever on the wing,In Wintry solstice like the shortn'd lightSoon swallow'd up in dark and long out-living night.IIFor now to sorrow must I tune my song,And set my Harpe to notes of saddest wo,Which on our dearest Lord did sease er'e long,Dangers, and snares, and wrongs, and worse then so, 10Which he for us did freely undergo.Most perfect Heroe, try'd in heaviest plightOf labours huge and hard, too hard for human wight.IIIHe sov'ran Priest stooping his regall headThat dropt with odorous oil down his fair eyes,Poor fleshly Tabernacle entered,His starry front low-rooft beneath the skies;O what a Mask was there, what a disguise!Yet more; the stroke of death he must abide, 20Then lies him meekly down fast by his Brethrens side.IVThese latter scenes confine my roving vers,To this Horizon is my Phoebus bound,His Godlike acts, and his temptations fierce,And former sufferings other where are found;Loud o're the rest Cremona's Trump doth sound;Me softer airs befit, and softer stringsOf Lute, or Viol still, more apt for mournful things.Note: 22 latter] latest 1673.VBefriend me night best Patroness of grief,Over the Pole thy thickest mantle throw, 30And work my flatterd fancy to belief,That Heav'n and Earth are colour'd with my wo;My sorrows are too dark for day to know:The leaves should all be black wheron I write,And letters where my tears have washt a wannish white.VISee see the Chariot, and those rushing wheels,That whirl'd the Prophet up at Chebar flood,My spirit som transporting Cherub feels,To bear me where the Towers of Salem stood,Once glorious Towers, now sunk in guiltles blood; 40There doth my soul in holy vision sitIn pensive trance, and anguish, and ecstatick fit.VIIMine eye hath found that sad Sepulchral rockThat was the Casket of Heav'ns richest store,And here though grief my feeble hands up-lock,Yet on the softned Quarry would I scoreMy plaining vers as lively as before;For sure so well instructed are my tears,They would fitly fall in order'd Characters.VIIII thence hurried on viewles wing, 50Take up a weeping on the Mountains wilde,The gentle neighbourhood of grove and springWould soon unboosom all their Echoes milde,And I (for grief is easily beguild)Might think th'infection of my sorrows bound,Had got a race of mourners on som pregnant cloud.Note: This subject the Author finding to be above the yeers he had,when he wrote it, and nothing satisfi'd with what was begun,left it unfinish'd.
FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,Whose speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,Which is no more then what is false and vain,And meerly mortal dross;So little is our loss,So little is thy gain.For when as each thing bad thou hast entomb'd,And last of all, thy greedy self consum'd, 10Then long Eternity shall greet our blissWith an individual kiss;And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,When every thing that is sincerely goodAnd perfectly divine,With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shineAbout the supreme ThroneOf him, t'whose happy-making sight alone,When once our heav'nly-guided soul shall clime,Then all this Earthy grosnes quit, 20Attir'd with Stars, we shall for ever sit,Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee O Time.Note: See the appendix for the manuscript version.
YE flaming Powers, and winged Warriours bright,That erst with Musick, and triumphant songFirst heard by happy watchful Shepherds ear,So sweetly sung your Joy the Clouds alongThrough the soft silence of the list'ning night;Now mourn, and if sad share with us to bearYour fiery essence can distill no tear,Burn in your sighs, and borrowSeas wept from our deep sorrow,He who with all Heav'ns heraldry whileare 10Enter'd the world, now bleeds to give us ease;Alas, how soon our sinSore doth beginHis Infancy to sease!O more exceeding love or law more just?Just law indeed, but more exceeding love!For we by rightfull doom remedilesWere lost in death, till he that dwelt aboveHigh thron'd in secret bliss, for us frail dustEmptied his glory, ev'n to nakednes; 20And that great Cov'nant which we still transgressIntirely satisfi'd,And the full wrath besideOf vengeful Justice bore for our excess,And seals obedience first with wounding smartThis day, but O ere longHuge pangs and strongWill pierce more neer his heart.
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'ns joy,Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and Vers,Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employDead things with inbreath'd sense able to pierce,And to our high-rais'd phantasie present,That undisturbed Song of pure content,Ay sung before the saphire-colour'd throneTo him that sits theronWith Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,Where the bright Seraphim in burning row 10Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,And the Cherubick host in thousand quiresTouch their immortal Harps of golden wires,With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,Hymns devout and holy PsalmsSinging everlastingly;That we on Earth with undiscording voiceMay rightly answer that melodious noise;As once we did, till disproportion'd sinJarr'd against natures chime, and with harsh din 20The fair musick that all creatures madeTo their great Lord, whose love their motion sway'dIn perfect Diapason, whilst they stoodIn first obedience, and their state of good.O may we soon again renew that Song,And keep in tune with Heav'n, till God ere longTo his celestial consort us unite,To live with him, and sing in endles morn of light.Note: 6 content] Manuscript reads concent as does the SecondEdition; so that content is probably a misprint.
THIS rich Marble doth enterrThe honour'd Wife of Winchester,A Vicounts daughter, an Earls heir,Besides what her vertues fairAdded to her noble birth,More then she could own from Earth.Summers three times eight save oneShe had told, alas too soon,After so short time of breath,To house with darknes, and with death. 10Yet had the number of her daysBin as compleat as was her praise,Nature and fate had had no strifeIn giving limit to her life.Her high birth, and her graces sweet,Quickly found a lover meet;The Virgin quire for her requestThe God that sits at marriage feast;He at their invoking cameBut with a scarce-wel-lighted flame; 20And in his Garland as he stood,Ye might discern a Cipress bud.Once had the early Matrons runTo greet her of a lovely son,And now with second hope she goes,And calls Lucina to her throws;But whether by mischance or blameAtropos for Lucina came;And with remorsles cruelty,Spoil'd at once both fruit and tree: 30The haples Babe before his birthHad burial, yet not laid in earth,And the languisht Mothers WombWas not long a living Tomb.So have I seen som tender slipSav'd with care from Winters nip,The pride of her carnation train,Pluck't up by som unheedy swain,Who onely thought to crop the flowrNew shot up from vernall showr; 40But the fair blossom hangs the headSide-ways as on a dying bed,And those Pearls of dew she wears,Prove to be presaging tearsWhich the sad morn had let fallOn her hast'ning funerall.Gentle Lady may thy gravePeace and quiet ever have;After this thy travail soreSweet rest sease thee evermore, 50That to give the world encrease,Shortned hast thy own lives lease;Here besides the sorrowingThat thy noble House doth bring,Here be tears of perfect moanWeept for thee in Helicon,And som Flowers, and som Bays,For thy Hears to strew the ways,Sent thee from the banks of Came,Devoted to thy vertuous name; 60Whilst thou bright Saint high sit'st in glory,Next her much like to thee in story,That fair Syrian Shepherdess,Who after yeers of barrennes,The highly favour'd Joseph boreTo him that serv'd for her before,And at her next birth much like thee,Through pangs fled to felicity,Far within the boosom brightof blazing Majesty and Light, 70There with thee, new welcom Saint,Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,With thee there clad in radiant sheen,No Marchioness, but now a Queen.
Now the bright morning Star, Dayes harbinger,Comes dancing from the East, and leads with herThe Flowry May, who from her green lap throwsThe yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.Hail bounteous May that dost inspireMirth and youth, and warm desire,Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.Thus we salute thee with our early Song,And welcom thee, and wish thee long. 10
WHAT needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,The labour of an age in piled Stones,Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hidUnder a Star-ypointing Pyramid?Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?Thou in our wonder and astonishmentHast built thy self a live-long Monument.For whilst to th'shame of slow-endeavouring art,Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart 10Hath from the Leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.Notes: On Shakespear. Reprinted 1632 in the second folioShakespeare:Title] An epitaph on the admirable dramaticke poet W.Shakespeare1 needs] neede6 weak] dull8 live-long] lasting10 heart] part13 it] her
HERE lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt,And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,Or els the ways being foul, twenty to one,He's here stuck in a slough, and overthrown.'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known,Death was half glad when he had got him down;For he had any time this ten yeers full,Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.And surely, Death could never have prevail'd,Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd; 10But lately finding him so long at home,And thinking now his journeys end was come,And that he had tane up his latest Inne,In the kind office of a ChamberlinShew'd him his room where he must lodge that night,Pull'd off his Boots, and took away the light:If any ask for him, it shall be sed,Hobson has supt, and 's newly gon to bed.
HERE lieth one who did most truly prove,That he could never die while he could move,So hung his destiny never to rotWhile he might still jogg on, and keep his trot,Made of sphear-metal, never to decayUntill his revolution was at stay.Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:And like an Engin mov'd with wheel and waight,His principles being ceast, he ended strait. 10Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,And too much breathing put him out of breath;Nor were it contradiction to affirmToo long vacation hastned on his term.Meerly to drive the time away he sickn'd,Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn'd;Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,If I may not carry, sure Ile ne're be fetch'd,But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,For one Carrier put down to make six bearers. 20Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,He di'd for heavines that his Cart went light,His leasure told him that his time was com,And lack of load, made his life burdensomThat even to his last breath (ther be that say't)As he were prest to death, he cry'd more waight;But had his doings lasted as they were,He had bin an immortall Carrier.Obedient to the Moon he spent his dateIn cours reciprocal, and had his fate 30Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas,Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:His Letters are deliver'd all and gon,Onely remains this superscription.
HENCE loathed MelancholyOf Cerberus, and blackest midnight born,In Stygian Cave forlorn'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy,Find out som uncouth cell,Where brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings,And the night-Raven sings;There under Ebon shades and low-brow'd Rocks,As ragged as thy Locks,In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. 10But com thou Goddes fair and free,In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,And by men, heart-easing Mirth,Whom lovely Venus at a birthWith two sister Graces moreTo Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore;Or whether (as som Sager sing)The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,Zephir with Aurora playing,As he met her once a Maying, 20There on Beds of Violets blew,And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew,Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair,So bucksom, blith, and debonair.Haste thee nymph, and bring with theeJest and youthful Jollity,Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles,Such as hang on Hebe's cheek,And love to live in dimple sleek; 30Sport that wrincled Care derides,And Laughter holding both his sides.Com, and trip it as ye goOn the light fantastick toe,And in thy right hand lead with thee,The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;And if I give thee honour due,Mirth, admit me of thy crueTo live with her, and live with thee,In unreproved pleasures free; 40To hear the Lark begin his flight,And singing startle the dull night,From his watch-towre in the skies,Till the dappled dawn doth rise;Then to com in spight of sorrow,And at my window bid good morrow,Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine,Or the twisted Eglantine.While the Cock with lively din,Scatters the rear of darknes thin, 50And to the stack, or the Barn dore,Stoutly struts his Dames before,Oft list'ning how the Hounds and hornChearly rouse the slumbring morn,From the side of som Hoar Hill,Through the high wood echoing shrill.Som time walking not unseenBy Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,Right against the Eastern gate,Wher the great Sun begins his state, 60Rob'd in flames, and Amber light,The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.While the Plowman neer at hand,Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land,And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,And the Mower whets his sithe,And every Shepherd tells his taleUnder the Hawthorn in the dale.Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasuresWhilst the Lantskip round it measures, 70Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,Where the nibling flocks do stray,Mountains on whose barren brestThe labouring clouds do often rest:Meadows trim with Daisies pide,Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.Towers, and Battlements it seesBoosom'd high in tufted Trees,Wher perhaps som beauty lies,The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. 80Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,From betwixt two aged Okes,Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,Are at their savory dinner setOf Hearbs, and other Country Messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;Or if the earlier season leadTo the tann'd Haycock in the Mead, 90Som times with secure delightThe up-land Hamlets will invite,When the merry Bells ring round,And the jocond rebecks soundTo many a youth, and many a maid,Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;And young and old com forth to playOn a Sunshine Holyday,Till the live-long day-light fail,Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale, 100With stories told of many a feat,How Faery Mab the junkets eat,She was pincht, and pull'd she sed,And he by Friars Lanthorn ledTells how the drudging Goblin swet,To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,When in one night, ere glimps of morn,His shadowy Flale hath thresh'd the CornThat ten day-labourers could not end,Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend. 110And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,Basks at the fire his hairy strength;And Crop-full out of dores he flings,Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,By whispering Windes soon lull'd asleep.Towred Cities please us then,And the busie humm of men,Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold, 120With store of Ladies, whose bright eiesRain influence, and judge the priseOf Wit, or Arms, while both contendTo win her Grace, whom all commend.There let Hymen oft appearIn Saffron robe, with Taper clear,And pomp, and feast, and revelry,With mask, and antique Pageantry,Such sights as youthfull Poets dreamOn Summer eeves by haunted stream. 130Then to the well-trod stage anon,If Jonsons learned Sock be on,Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,And ever against eating Cares,Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,Married to immortal verseSuch as the meeting soul may pierceIn notes, with many a winding boutOf lincked sweetnes long drawn out, 140With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,The melting voice through mazes running;Untwisting all the chains that tyThe hidden soul of harmony.That Orpheus self may heave his headFrom golden slumber on a bedOf heapt Elysian flowres, and hearSuch streins as would have won the earOf Pluto, to have quite set freeHis half regain'd Eurydice. 150These delights, if thou canst give,Mirth with thee, I mean to live.Notes:33 Ye] You 1673104 And he by] And by the 1673
Hence vain deluding joyes,The brood of folly without father bred,How little you bested,Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes;Dwell in som idle brainAnd fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,As thick and numberlessAs the gay motes that people the Sun Beams,Or likest hovering dreamsThe fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train. 10But hail thou Goddess, sage and holy,Hail divinest MelancholyWhose Saintly visage is too brightTo hit the Sense of human sight;And therefore to our weaker view,Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue.Black, but such as in esteem,Prince Memnons sister might beseem,Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that stroveTo set her beauties praise above 20The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended.Yet thou art higher far descended,Thee bright-hair'd Vesta long of yore,To solitary Saturn bore;His daughter she (in Saturns raign,Such mixture was not held a stain)Oft in glimmering Bowres, and gladesHe met her, and in secret shadesOf woody Ida's inmost grove,While yet there was no fear of Jove. 30Com pensive Nun, devout and pure,Sober, stedfast, and demure,All in a robe of darkest grain,Flowing with majestick train,And sable stole of Cipres Lawn,Over thy decent shoulders drawn.Com, but keep thy wonted state,With eev'n step, and musing gate,And looks commercing with the skies,Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: 40There held in holy passion still,Forget thy self to Marble, tillWith a sad Leaden downward cast,Thou fix them on the earth as fast.And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,And hears the Muses in a ring,Ay round about Joves Altar sing.And adde to these retired Leasure,That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure; 50But first, and chiefest, with thee bring,Him that yon soars on golden wing,Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,The Cherub Contemplation,And the mute Silence hist along,'Less Philomel will daign a Song,In her sweetest, saddest plight,Smoothing the rugged brow of night,While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,Gently o're th'accustom'd Oke; 60Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of follyMost musical!, most melancholy!Thee Chauntress oft the Woods amongI woo to hear thy eeven-Song;And missing thee, I walk unseenOn the dry smooth-shaven Green,To behold the wandring Moon,Riding neer her highest noon,Like one that had bin led astrayThrough the Heav'ns wide pathles way; 70And oft, as if her head she bow'd,Stooping through a fleecy cloud.Oft on a Plat of rising ground,I hear the far-off Curfeu sound,Over som wide-water'd shoar,Swinging slow with sullen roar;Or if the Ayr will not permit,Som still removed place will fit,Where glowing Embers through the roomTeach light to counterfeit a gloom 80Far from all resort of mirth,Save the Cricket on the hearth,Or the Belmans drowsie charm,To bless the dores from nightly harm:Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,Be seen in som high lonely Towr,Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,With thrice great Hermes, or unsphearThe spirit of Plato to unfoldWhat Worlds, or what vast Regions hold 90The immortal mind that hath forsookHer mansion in this fleshly nook:And of those Daemons that are foundIn fire, air, flood, or under ground,Whose power hath a true consentWith planet or with Element.Som time let Gorgeous TragedyIn Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by,Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,Or the tale of Troy divine. 100Or what (though rare) of later age,Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.But, O sad Virgin, that thy powerMight raise Musaeus from his bower,Or bid the soul of Orpheus singSuch notes as warbled to the string,Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,And made Hell grant what Love did seek.Or call up him that left half toldThe story of Cambuscan bold, 110Of Camball, and of Algarsife,And who had Canace to wife,That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass,And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,On which the Tartar King did ride;And if ought els, great Bards beside,In sage and solemn tunes have sung,Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;Of Forests, and inchantments drear,Where more is meant then meets the ear. 120Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,Till civil-suited Morn appeer,Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont,With the Attick Boy to hunt,But Cherchef't in a comly Cloud,While rocking Winds are Piping loud,Or usher'd with a shower still,When the gust hath blown his fill,Ending on the russling Leaves,With minute drops from off the Eaves. 130And when the Sun begins to flingHis flaring beams, me Goddes bringTo arched walks of twilight groves,And shadows brown that Sylvan lovesOf Pine, or monumental Oake,Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.There in close covert by som Brook,Where no profaner eye may look, 140Hide me from Day's garish eie,While the Bee with Honied thie,That at her flowry work doth sing,And the Waters murmuringWith such consort as they keep,Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;And let som strange mysterious dream,Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,Of lively portrature display'd,Softly on my eye-lids laid. 150And as I wake, sweet musick breathAbove, about, or underneath,Sent by som spirit to mortals good,Or th'unseen Genius of the Wood.But let my due feet never fail,To walk the studious Cloysters pale,And love the high embowed RoofWith antick Pillars massy proof,And storied Windows richly dight,Casting a dimm religious light. 160There let the pealing Organ blow,To the full voic'd Quire below,In Service high, and Anthems cleer,As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,Dissolve me into extasies,And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.And may at last my weary ageFind out the peacefull hermitage,The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,Where I may sit and rightly spell 170Of every Star that Heav'n doth shew,And every Herb that sips the dew;Till old experience do attainTo somthing like prophetic strain.These pleasures Melancholy give,And I with thee will choose to live.
IO Nightingale, that on yon bloomy SprayWarbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill,While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's billPortend success in love; O if Jove's willHave linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of HateForetell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny: 10As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too lateFor my relief; yet hadst no reason why,Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,Both them I serve, and of their train am I.IIDonna leggiadra il cui bel nome honoraL'herbosa val di Rheno, e il nobil varco,Ben e colui d'ogni valore scarcoQual tuo spirto gentil non innamora,Che dolcemente mostra si di fuoraDe suoi atti soavi giamai parco,E i don', che son d'amor saette ed arco,La onde l' alta tua virtu s'infiora.Quando tu vaga parli, O lieta cantiChe mover possa duro alpestre legno, 10Guardi ciascun a gli occhi ed a gli orecchiL'entrata, chi di te si truova indegno;Gratia sola di su gli vaglia, inantiChe'l disio amoroso al cuor s'invecchi.IIIQual in colle aspro, al imbrunir di seraL'avezza giovinetta pastorellaVa bagnando l'herbetta strana e bellaChe mal si spande a disusata speraFuor di sua natia alma primavera,Cosi Amor meco insu la lingua snellaDesta il fior novo di strania favella,Mentre io di te, vezzosamente altera,Canto, dal mio buon popol non intesoE'l bel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno 10Amor lo volse, ed io a l'altrui pesoSeppi ch' Amor cosa mai volse indarno.Deh! foss' il mio cuor lento e'l duro senoA chi pianta dal ciel si buon terreno.Canzone.Ridonsi donne e giovani amorosiM' occostandosi attorno, e perche scrivi,Perche tu scrivi in lingua ignota e stranaVerseggiando d'amor, e come t'osi?Dinne, se la tua speme sia mai vanaE de pensieri lo miglior t' arrivi;Cosi mi van burlando, altri riviAltri lidi t' aspettan, & altre ondeNelle cui verdi spondeSpuntati ad hor, ad hor a la tua chioma 10L'immortal guiderdon d 'eterne frondiPerche alle spalle tue soverchia soma?Canzon dirotti, e tu per me rispondiDice mia Donna, e'l suo dir, e il mio cuoreQuesta e lingua di cui si vanta Amore.IVDiodati, e te'l diro con maraviglia,Quel ritroso io ch'amor spreggiar soleaE de suoi lacci spesso mi rideaGia caddi, ov'huom dabben talhor s'impiglia.Ne treccie d'oro, ne guancia vermigliaM' abbaglian si, ma sotto nova ideaPellegrina bellezza che'l cuor bea,Portamenti alti honesti, e nelle cigliaQuel sereno fulgor d' amabil nero,Parole adorne di lingua piu d'una, 10E'l cantar che di mezzo l'hemisperoTraviar ben puo la faticosa Luna,E degil occhi suoi auventa si gran fuocoChe l 'incerar gli oreechi mi fia poco.VPer certo i bei vostr'occhi Donna miaEsser non puo che non fian lo mio soleSi mi percuoton forte, come ci suolePer l'arene di Libia chi s'invia,Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria)Da quel lato si spinge ove mi duole,Che forsi amanti nelle lor paroleChiaman sospir; io non so che si sia:Parte rinchiusa, e turbida si celaScosso mi il petto, e poi n'uscendo poco 10Quivi d' attorno o s'agghiaccia, o s'ingiela;Ma quanto a gli occhi giunge a trovar locoTutte le notti a me suol far piovoseFinche mia Alba rivien colma di rose.VIGiovane piano, e semplicetto amantePoi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,Madonna a voi del mio cuor l'humil donoFaro divoto; io certo a prove tanteL'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante,De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono;Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,S 'arma di se, e d' intero diamante,Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro,Di timori, e speranze al popol use 10Quanto d'ingegno, e d' alto valor vago,E di cetra sonora, e delle muse:Sol troverete in tal parte men duroOve amor mise l 'insanabil ago.VIIHow soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer!My hasting dayes flie on with full career,But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th,Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,And inward ripenes doth much less appear,That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow.It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n, 10To that same lot, however mean, or high,Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;All is, if I have grace to use it so,As ever in my great task Masters eye.
VIIICaptain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms,Whose chance on these defenceless dores may sease,If ever deed of honour did thee please,Guard them, and him within protect from harms,He can requite thee, for he knows the charmsThat call Fame on such gentle acts as these,And he can spred thy Name o're Lands and Seas,What ever clime the Suns bright circle warms.Lift not thy spear against the Muses Bowre,The great Emathian Conqueror bid spare 10The house of Pindarus, when Temple and TowreWent to the ground: And the repeated airOf sad Electra's Poet had the powerTo save th' Athenian Walls from ruine bare.Notes:Camb. autograph supplies title, When the assault was intendedto the city.3 If deed of honour did thee ever please, 1673.IXLady that in the prime of earliest youth,Wisely hath shun'd the broad way and the green,And with those few art eminently seen,That labour up the Hill of heav'nly Truth,The better part with Mary and with Ruth,Chosen thou hast, and they that overween,And at thy growing vertues fret their spleen,No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth.Thy care is fixt and zealously attendsTo fill thy odorous Lamp with deeds of light,And Hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sureThou, when the Bridegroom with his feastfull friendsPasses to bliss at the mid hour of night,Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure.Note: 5 with Ruth] the Ruth 1645.XDaughter to that good Earl, once PresidentOf Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,Who liv'd in both, unstain'd with gold or fee,And left them both, more in himself content,Till the sad breaking of that ParlamentBroke him, as that dishonest victoryAt Chaeronea, fatal to libertyKil'd with report that Old man eloquent,Though later born, then to have known the dayesWherin your Father flourisht, yet by you 10Madam, me thinks I see him living yet;So well your words his noble vertues praise,That all both judge you to relate them true,And to possess them, Honour'd Margaret.Note: Camb. autograph supplies title, To the Lady MargaretLey.
Part of an entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager ofDarby at Harefield, by som Noble persons of her Family, whoappear on the Scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seatof State with this Song.I. SONG.LOOK Nymphs, and Shepherds look,What sudden blaze of majestyIs that which we from hence descryToo divine to be mistook:This this is sheTo whom our vows and wishes bend,Heer our solemn search hath end.Fame that her high worth to raise,Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,We may justly now accuse 10Of detraction from her praise,Less then half we find exprest,Envy bid conceal the rest.Mark what radiant state she spreds,In circle round her shining throne,Shooting her beams like silver threds,This this is she alone,Sitting like a Goddes bright,In the center of her light.Might she the wise Latona be, 20Or the towred Cybele,Mother of a hunderd gods;Juno dare's not give her odds;Who had thought this clime had heldA deity so unparalel'd?As they com forward, the genius of the Wood appears, andturning toward them, speaks.GEN. Stay gentle Swains, for though in this disguise,I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes,Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprungOf that renowned flood, so often sung,Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluse, 30Stole under Seas to meet his Arethuse;And ye the breathing Roses of the Wood,Fair silver-buskind Nymphs as great and good,I know this quest of yours, and free intentWas all in honour and devotion mentTo the great Mistres of yon princely shrine,Whom with low reverence I adore as mine,And with all helpful service will complyTo further this nights glad solemnity;And lead ye where ye may more neer behold 40What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold;Which I full oft amidst these shades aloneHave sate to wonder at, and gaze upon:For know by lot from Jove I am the powrOf this fair wood, and live in Oak'n bowr,To nurse the Saplings tall, and curl the groveWith Ringlets quaint, and wanton windings wove.And all my Plants I save from nightly ill,Of noisom winds, and blasting vapours chill.And from the Boughs brush off the evil dew, 50And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blew,Or what the cross dire-looking Planet smites,Or hurtfull Worm with canker'd venom bites.When Eev'ning gray doth rise, I fetch my roundOver the mount, and all this hallow'd ground,And early ere the odorous breath of mornAwakes the slumbring leaves, or tasseld hornShakes the high thicket, haste I all about,Number my ranks, and visit every sproutWith puissant words, and murmurs made to bless, 60But els in deep of night when drowsinesHath lockt up mortal sense, then listen ITo the celestial Sirens harmony,That sit upon the nine enfolded Sphears,And sing to those that hold the vital shears,And turn the Adamantine spindle round,On which the fate of gods and men is wound.Such sweet compulsion doth in musick ly,To lull the daughters of Necessity,And keep unsteddy Nature to her law, 70And the low world in measur'd motion drawAfter the heavenly tune, which none can hearOf human mould with grosse unpurged ear;And yet such musick worthiest were to blazeThe peerles height of her immortal praise,Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,If my inferior hand or voice could hitInimitable sounds, yet as we go,What ere the skill of lesser gods can show,I will assay, her worth to celebrate, 80And so attend ye toward her glittering state;Where ye may all that are of noble stemmApproach, and kiss her sacred vestures hemm.
2. SONG.O're the smooth enameld greenWhere no print of step hath been,Follow me as I sing,And touch the warbled string.Under the shady roofOf branching Elm Star-proof,Follow me, 90I will bring you where she sitsClad in splendor as befitsHer deity.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.
3. SONG.Nymphs and Shepherds dance no moreBy sandy Ladons Lillied banks.On old Lycaeus or Cyllene hoar,Trip no more in twilight ranks,Though Erynanth your loss deplore, 100A better soyl shall give ye thanks.From the stony Maenalus,Bring your Flocks, and live with us,Here ye shall have greater grace,To serve the Lady of this place.Though Syrinx your Pans Mistres were,Yet Syrinx well might wait on her.Such a rural QueenAll Arcadia hath not seen.Note: 22 hunderd] Milton's own spelling here is hundred. But inthe Errata to Paradise Lost (i. 760) he corrects hundred to hunderd.
Transcriber's note: Facsimile of Title page of Lycidas follows: