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Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
To strew the laureat herse where Lycid lies.
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Where, other groves and other streams along,
Weep no more, woful Shepherds, weep no more, 165 For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Junk though he be beneath the wat❜ry floor;
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new spangled ore 170 Flames in the forehead of the morning sky:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the
160. "The fable of Bellerus old," &c. the Bellerian promontory, or Land's end in Cornwall, near which is Mount St. Michael, a fortress on a rock, named from a supposed vision or apparition of St. Michael.
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals grey; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay: And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 190 And now was dropt into the western bay : At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.
On the new Forcers of Conscience under the
BECAUSE you have thrown off your prelate lord,
From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorr'd; Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword
To force our consciences that Christ set free, And ride us with a classic hierarchy Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rotherford? Men, whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent Would have been held in high esteem with Paul, 10 Must now be nam'd and printed heretics By shallow Edwards and Scotch what d'ye call: But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing worse than those of Trent, That so the Parliament 15
May, with their wholesome and preventive shears,
THE FIFTH ODE OF HORACE, Lib. I. Quis multa gracilis te puer in rosa....rendered almost word for word without rhyme, according to the Latin measure, as near as the language will permit.
WHAT slender youth, bedew'd with liquid odours,
Plain in thy neatness? O how oft shall he
My dank and dropping weeds
To the stern God of sea.
Who now enjoys thee credulous, all gold,
Hopes thee, of flattering gales
To whom thou untry'd seem'st fair. Me, in my vow'd
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray
First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill,
Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; 10
Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate,
DONNA leggiadra, il cui bel nome honora
Che mover possa duro alpestre legno,
Gratia sola di su gli vaglia, inauti