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By these, to sing of cleanly wanton

ness; I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece

by piece, Of balm, of oil, of spice, and amber

grece. I sing of times trans-shifting; and I

write How roses first came red, and lilies

white. I write of groves, of twilights, and I

sing The court of Mab, and of the fairie

king. I write of Hell; I sing, and ever

shall, Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.


'Tis night, and the landscape is

lovely no more; I mourn, but, ye woodlands, I mourn

not for you; For morn is approaching, your

charms to restore, Perfumed with fresh fragrance, and

glittering with dew: Nor yet for the ravage of winter I

mourn; Kind Nature the embryo blossom will

save, But when shall spring visit the

mouldering urn! O when shall day dawn on the night of the grave!




O HOW canst thou renounce the

boundless store Of charms which Nature to her

votary yields ! The warbling woodland, the resound

ing shore, The pomp of groves, and garniture

of fields; All that the genial ray of morning


How young and fresh am I to-night, To see't kept day by so much light, And twelve of my sons stand in their

Maker's sight! Help, wise Prometheus, something

must be done, To show they are the creatures of

the sun.

That each to other

Is a brother, And Nature here no stepdame, but a mother.

Come forth, come forth, prove all

the numbers then, That make perfection up, and may

absolve you men. But show thy winding ways and arts, Thy risings, and thy timely starts Of stealing fire from ladies' eyes and

hearts. Those softer circles are the young

man's heaven, And there more orbs and planets are

than seven.

To know whose motion

Were a notion As worthy of youth's study, as devo

tion. Come forth, come forth! prove all

the time will gain, For Nature bids the best, and never bade in vain.



HENCE, loathed Melancholy,
Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight

born! In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks,

and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness 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. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, In heav'n y-clep'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth, With two sister Graces more, To ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as some sager sing) The frolic wind that breathes the

spring, Zephyr with Aurora playing, As he met her once a-Maying; There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Fill'il her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe, and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with

thee Jest, 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; Sport that wrinkled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Come, and trip it as ye go, On the light fantastic toe; And in thy right hand lead with thee The mountain nymph, sweet Lib

erty; And if I give thee honor due, Mirth, admit me of thy crew, To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; To hear the lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night From his watch-tower in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to come in spite of sorrow, And at my window bid good morrow, Through the sweetbrier, or the vine, Or the twisted eglantine: While the cock with lively din Scatters the rear of Darkness thin, And to the stack, or the barn-door, Stoutly struts his dames before: Oft listening how the hounds and

horn Cheerly rouse the slumbering morn, From the side of some hoar lill, Through the high wood echoing

shrill: Some time walking, not unseen, By hedge-row elms, on hillocks green, Right against the eastern gate, Where the great sun begins his state, Robed in flames, and amber light, The clouds in thousand liveries

dight; While the ploughman near at hand Whistles o'er the furrowed land, And the milkmaid singeth blithe, And the mower whets his scythe, And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale. Straight mine eye hath caught new

pleasures Whilst the landscape round it

measures : Russet lawns, and fallows gray, Where the nibbling tlocks do stray; Mountains, on whose barren breast The laboring clouds do often rest; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide;

Towers and battlements it sees
Bosomed high in tufted trees,
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
The cynosure of neighboring eyes;
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two area oaks,
Where Corvion anıl Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set
Of herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis

dresses; And then in haste her bow'r she

leaves, With Thestylis to bind the sheaves; Or, if the earlier season lead, To the tann'd haycock in the mead. Sometimes with secure lelight 'The upland hamlets will invite, When the merry bells ring round, And the jocund rebecs sound To many a youth, and many a maid, Dancing in the checker'l shade; And young and old come forth to

play On a sunshine holiday, Till the livelong daylight fail. Then to the spicy nut-brown ale, With stories told of many a feat, How fairy Mab the junkets eat; She was pincht and pull’d, she said, And he by friar's lanthorn led, Tells how the drudging Goblin sweat, To earn his cream-bowl duly set, When in one night, ere glimpse of

moin, His shadowy flail hath thresh'd the

com That ten day-laborers could not

end; Thien lies him down the lubbar fiend, And stretch'd out all the chimney's

length, Basks at the fire his hairy strength, And crop-full out of doors he flings, Ere the first cock his matin rings. Thus done the tales, to bed they

creep, By whispering winds soon lull'd

asleep. Tower'il cities please us then, And the busy hum of men, Where throngs of knights and barons

bold In weeds of peace high triumphs

hold, With store of ladies, whose bright

eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize

Of wit, or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all com

mend. There let Hymen oft appear. In saffron robe, with taper clear, And pomp, and feast, and revelry, With mask, and antique pageantry, Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakspeare, Fancy's

child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

And ever against eating cares, Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed, and giddy cun

ning, The melting voice through mazes

running, Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of liarmony; That Orpheus' self may heave his

head From golden slumber on a bed Of heapt Elysian flowers, and hear Such strains as would have won the


Of Pluto, to have quite set free
His half regain'd Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give, Mirth, with thee I mean to live.



Juliet. – Wilt thou be gone? It

is not yet near day, It was the nightingale, and not the

lark, That pierced the fearful hollow of

thine ear: Nightly she sings on yon pomegran

ate tree: Believe me, love, it was the nightin


Romeo. — It was the lark, the her

ald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what

envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yon

der east :

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