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Nard and Caffia's balmy fmells.

Iris there with humid bow

Waters the odorous banks, that blow

Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can fhew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(Lift mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of hyacinth and roses,
Where young Adonis oft repofes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In flumber foft, and on the ground
Sadly fits th' Affyrian queen;
But far above in fpangled theen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd fon advanc'd,
Holds his dear Pfyche fweet intranc'd,
After her wand'ring labors long,
Till free confent the Gods among
Make her his eternal bride,
And from her fair unspotted fide
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; fo Jove hath fworn.
But now my task is fmoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

Where the bow'd welkin flow doth bend,
And from thence can foar as foon
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals that would follow me,
Love Virtue, fhe alone is free,
She can teach ye how to clime
Higher than the fphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would stoop to her.










In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown'din his paffage from Chester on the Irish feas, 1637. and by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.


ET once more, Oye Laurels, and once more Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never fere, 1 come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude

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Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

So may fome gentle Mufe

With lucky words favor

And as he paffes turn,


deftin'd urn,


And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, fhade, and rill.


Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25 Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, We drove a field, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her fultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the ftar that rofe, at evening, bright, 30 Tow'ard Heaven's descent had flop'd his weft'ring Mean while the rural ditties were not mute, [wheel. Temper'd to th' oaten flute,

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad found would not be abfent long, 35 And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and defert caves
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rofe,

Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or froft to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.



Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfeless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas ? 51 For neither were ye playing on the fteep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wisard stream: 55 Ay me! I fondly dream

Had ye been there, for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Mufe herself for her inchanting fon,


Whom univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the stream was sent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore?

Alas! What boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted fhepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done as others use,
To fport with Amaryllis in the fhade,
Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?



Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burft out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears, 75
And flits the thin fpun life. But not the praife,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the glift'ring foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by thofe pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.


O fountain Arethufe, and thou honor'd flood,85 Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my oat proceeds,

And liftens to the herald of the fea

That came in Neptune's plea;


He afk'd the waves, and afk'd the fellon winds,
What hard mishap bath doom'd this gentle swain?
And question'd every guft of rugged winds
That blows from off each beaked promontory;
They knew not of his ftory,




And fage Hippotades their anfwer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark


Built in th' eclipfe, and rigg'd with curfes dark, That funk fo low that facred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend fire, went footing flow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet fedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105
Like to that fanguin flow'r infcrib'd with woe.
Ah! Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?
Laft came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy keys he bore of metals twain, (The golden opes, the iron fhuts amain)

He fhook his miter'd locks, and ftern befpake,

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How well could I have fpar'd for thee, young fwain,
Enow of fuch as for their bellies fake

Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold? 115
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Than how to fcramble at the fhearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest; [hold
Blind mouths! that fcarce themfelves know how to
A fheep-hook, or have learn'd ought elfe the leaft
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are fped
And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their fcrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry fheep look up, and are not fed, 125
But fwoll'n with wind, and the rank mift they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion fpread :
Befides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing faid,
But that two-handed engin at the door

Stands ready to fmite once, and smite no more.



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