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When Eev'ning gray doth rise, I fetch my round
Over the mount, and all this hallow'd ground,
And early ere the odorous breath of morn
Awakes the slumbring leaves, or tasseld born
Shakes the high thicket, baste I all about,
Number my ranks, and visit every Sprout
With puissant words, and murmurs made to bless,
But els in deep of night when drowsines
Hath lockt up mortal sense, then listen I
To the celestial Sirens barmony,
That sit upon the nine enfolded Sphears,
And sing to those that bold 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,
And the low world in measur'd motion draw
After the beavenly tune, which none can bear
Of buman mould with grosse unpurged ear;
And yet such musick worthiest were to blaze
The peerles beight of her immortal praise,
Whose lustre leads us, and for her most fit,
If my inferior band or voice could hit
Inimitable sounds, yet as we go,
What ere the skill of lesser gods can show,
I will assay, her worth to celebrate,
And so attend ye toward her glittering State;
Where ye may all that are of noble stemm
Approach, and kiss her sacred vestures hemm.

2. Song

O're the smooth enameld green
Where no print of Step bath been,
Follow me as I sing,

And touch the warbled String.
Under the shady roof

Of branching Elm Star-proof,
Follow me,

I will bring you where she sits
Clad in splendour as befits
Her deity.
Such a rural Queen

All Arcadia bath not seen.

3. Song
Nymphs and Shepherds dance no more
By sandy Ladons Lillied banks.
On old Lycæus or Cyllene boar,
Trip no more in twilight ranks,
Though Erymanth your loss deplore,
A better soyl shall give ye thanks.
From the Stony Manalus,
Bring your Flocks, and live with us,
Here ye shall bave 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 Queen

All Arcadia hath not seen.




In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunatly
drown'd in his Passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637.
And by occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted
Clergy then in their height.

Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and bath not left his peer:
Who would not sing for Lycidas? be knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of som melodious tear.
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may som gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn

And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace

be to my

sable shroud.

For we were nurst upon the self-same bill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together beard
What time the Gray-fly winds ber sultry born,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns descent bad slop'd his westering wheel.
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n beel,
From the glad sound would not be absent long,
And old Damætas lov'd to bear our song.
But O the beavy change, now thou art gon,
Now thou art gon, and never must return!
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves,
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown,
And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green,
Sball now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rose,

Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When first the White thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep Clos'd o're the bead of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,

Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard Stream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye bin there for what could that have don?
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son
Whom Universal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.
Alas! What boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade,
And Strictly meditate the thankles Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To Sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Nexra's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abborred shears,
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove;
As be pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

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