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A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Only with speeches fair Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
She woo's the gentle air
To hide her guilty front with innocent Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
The saintly vail of maiden white to
throw, Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Confounded, that her Makers eyes Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
Should look so neer upon her foul deAll these in me no means can move
formities. To come to thee, and be thy love.
But he her fears to cease,
She crown'd with olive green, came softly These are but vain; that's only good
sliding Which God hath blest, and sent for food. Down through the turning sphear
His ready harbinger, But could youth last and love still breed, With turtle wing the amorous clouds Had joys no date nor age no need;
dividing, Then those delights my mind might move And waving wide her mirtle wand, To live with thee, and be thy love. She strikes a universall peace through sea
and land. Pisc. Well sung, good woman; I thank you. I'll give you another dish No war, or battails sound of fish one of these days, and then beg Was heard the world around, another song of you. Come, scholar, let The idle spear and shield were high up Maudlin alone; do not you offer to spoil hung; her voice. Look, yonder comes mine The hooked chariot stood hostess, to call us to supper. How now? Unstain'd with hostile blood, Is my brother Peter come?
The trumpet spake not to the armed Host. Yes, and a friend with him, throng, they are both glad to hear that you are And kings sate still with awfull eye, in these parts, and long to see you, and As if they surely knew their sovran Lord long to be at supper, for they be very was by. hungry.
But peacefull was the night
Wherein the Prince of light
His raign of peace upon the earth began : HYMN ON THE MORNING OF The windes with wonder whist, CHRIST'S NATIVITY
Smoothly the waters kist,
Whispering new joyes to the milde It was the winter wilde,
Ocean, While the Heav'n-born-childe,
Who now hath quite forgot to rave, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger While birds of calm sit brooding on the lies;
charmèd wave. Nature in aw to him Had doff't her gawdy trim,
The Stars with deep amaze With her great Master so to sympathize: Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, It was no season then for her
Bending one way their pretious influence, To wanton with the sun her lusty para- And will not take their flight mour.
For all the morning light,
And Heav'n as at som festivall,
A voice of weeping heard, and loud Will open wide the gates of her high palace
From haunted spring, and dale
Edg'd with poplar pale, But wisest Fate sayes no,
The parting Genius is with sighing sent, This must not yet be so,
With flowre-inwov’n tresses torn The Babe lies yet in smiling infancy, The nimphs in twilight shade of tangled That on the bitter cross
thickets mourn. Must redeem our loss;
So both himself and us to glorifie: In consecrated earth, Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep,
And on the holy hearth, The wakefull trump of doom must thunder The Lars, and Lemures moan with midthrough the deep,
In urns, and altars round, With such a horrid clang
A drear, and dying sound As on mount Sinai rang
Affrights the flamins at their service While the red fire, and smouldring clouds quaint; out brake:
And the chill marble seems to sweat, The agèd Earth agast
While each peculiar power forgoes his With terrour of that blast,
wonted seat. Shall from the surface to the center shake;
Peor, and Baalim, When at the worlds last session,
Forsake their temples dim, The dreadfull Judge in middle air shall With that twise-batter'd god of Palesspread his throne.
And moonèd Ashtaroth, And then at last our bliss
Heav'ns queen and mother both, Full and perfect is,
Now sits not girt with tapers holy shine, But now begins; for from this happy The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, day
In vain the Tyrian maids their wounded Th’old Dragon under ground
Hath left in shadows dred
His burning idol all of blackest hue; Swindges the scaly horrour of his foulded In vain with cymbals ring tail.
They call the grisly king,
In dismall dance about the furnace blue; The Oracles are dumm,
The brutish gods of Nile as fast, No voice or hideous humm
Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving
Nor is Osiris seen Apollo from his shrine
In Memphian grove, or green, Can no more divine,
Trampling the unshowr'd grasse with With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos lowings loud : leaving
Nor can he be at rest No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Within his sacred chest, Inspire's the pale-ey'd priest from the Naught but profoundest Hell can be his prophetic cell.
In vain with timbrel'd anthems dark The lonely mountains o're,
The sable-stolèd sorcerers bear his worshipt And the resounding shore,