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O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds,
That Strain I beard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,

And listens to the Herald of the Sea
That came in Neptune's plea,

He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,
What hard mishap bath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his story,

And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from bis dungeon Stray'd,
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow,
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe.
Ab; Who bath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Last came, and last did go,

The Pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two massy Keyes be bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and Stern bespake,
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,

Anow of such as for their bellies sake,

Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?

Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then bow to scramble at the shearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.

Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to bold
A Sheep-book, or have learn'd ought els the least
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are Sped;
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched Straw,
The bungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread:
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy Streams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them bither cast
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand bues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw bither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf suck the bonied showres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies.
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine,
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat,
The glowing Violet.

The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine.

With cowslips wan that hang the pensive bed,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears:
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears,
To Strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies.
For so to interpose a little ease,

Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are burld,
Whether beyond the Stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's bold;
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth.
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth.
Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more,
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar,
So sinks the day-star in the Ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks bis beams, and with new spangled Ore,
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 waves
Where other groves, and other streams along,
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's be laves,
And bears the unexpressive nuptiall Song,
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love.

There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies
That sing, and singing in their glory move,
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more;
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th’Okes and rills,
While the still morn went out with Sandals gray,
He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills,
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay:
And now the Sun bad Stretch'd out all the bills,
And now was dropt into the Western bay;
At last be rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew:
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.

EHEU QUID VOLUI MISERO MIHI! FLORIBUS austrum

PERDITUS...

A

MASK

presented

at Ludlow Castle

1634.

The first Scene discovers a wilde Wood. The attendant Spirit
descends or enters.

Before the Starry threshold of Joves Court
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes
Of bright aëreal Spirits live insphear'd
In Regions milde of calm and serene Ayr,
Above the smoak and Stirr of this dim spot,
Which men call Earth, and with low-thoughted care
Confin'd, and pester'd in this pin-fold here,
Strive to keep up a frail, and Feaverish being
Unmindfull of the crown that Vertue gives
After this mortal change, to her true Servants
Amongst the enthron'd gods on Sainted seats.
Yet som there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that Golden Key
That ope's the Palace of Eternity:
To such my errand is, and but for such,
I would not soil these pure Ambrosial weeds,
With the rank vapours of this Sin-worn mould.
But to my task. Neptune besides the sway
Of every salt Flood, and each ebbing Stream,
Took in by lot 'twixt high, and neather Jove,

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