His daughter she (in Saturns raign,
Such mixture was not held a ftain)
Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades
He met her, and in fecret fhades
Of woody Ida's inmoft grove,

While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come penfive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, ftedfaft, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestick train,
And fable ftole of Cypres Lawn,
O'er thy decent fhoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted ftate,
With eev'n ftep, and mufing gate,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt foul fitting in thine eyes:
There held in holy paffion ftill,
Forget thy felf to Marble, till
With a fad Leaden downward caft,

Thou fix them on the earth as faft.
And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Faft, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Mufes in a ring,

Ay round about Joves Altar fing.
And adde to thefe retired leafure,
That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure;
But firft, and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation,
And the mute Silence hift along,
'Lefs Philomel will daign a Song,
In her fweeteft, faddeft plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke,
Gently o're th' accuftom'd Oke;
Sweet Bird that hunn'ft the noife of folly,
Moft musical, most melancholy!

Thee Chauntrefs oft the Woods among,
Iwoo to hear thy eeven-Song;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-fhaven Green,
To behold the wandring Moon,
Riding neer her higheft noon,
Like one that had bin led aftray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathlefs way;
And oft, as if her head fhe bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a Plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfen found,
Over fome wide-water'd fhoar,
Swinging flow with fullén roar';
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Some ftill removed place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room.
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all refort of mirth,

Save the Cricket on the hearth,
Or the Belman's droufie charm,

To blefs the dores from nightly harm:
Or let my Lamp at midnight hour,
Be feen in fome high lonely Towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unfphear
The fpirit of Plato to unfold

What Worlds, or what vaft Regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forfook
Her manfion in this fleshly nook:
And of thofe Damons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whofe power hath a true consent
With Planet, or with Element.
Sometime let Gorgeous Tragedy
In Scepter'd Pall come sweeping by,
Prefenting Thebes, or Pelops line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.

Or what (though rare) of later age,
Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.
But, O fad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musaus from his bower,
Or bid the foul of Orpheus fing
Such notes as warbled to the ftring,
Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told
The ftory of Cambuscan bold,
Of Carba!!, and of Algarfife,

And who had Canaee to wife,

That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass,
And of the wondrous Horse of Brass,
On which the Tartar King did ride;
And if ought els, great Bards befide,
In fage and folemn tunes have fung,
Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;
Of Forefts, and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career,
Till civil-fuited Morn appear,

Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont
With the Attick Boy to hunt,

But Cherchef't in a comly Cloud,
While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
Or ufher'd with a fhower ftill,
When the guft hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rufsling Leaves,
With minute drops from off the Eaves.
And when the Sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me Goddess bring
To arched walks of twilight graves,
And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of Pine, or monumental Oake,

where the rude Ax with heaved ftroke,
Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt,

There in close covert by fome Brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from Day's garish eie,
While the Bee with Honied thie,
That at her flowry work doth fing,
And the Waters murmuring
With fuch confort as they keep,
Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep ; -
And let fome ftrange myfterious dream,
Wave at his Wings in Airy ftream,
Of lively portraiture difplay'd,
Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, fweet mufick breath
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by fome spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unfeen Genius of the Wood.
But let my due feet never fail,
To walk the ftudious Cloysters pale.
And love the high embowed Roof
With antick Pillars maffy proof,
And ftoried Windows richly dight,.
Cafting a dimm religious light.
There let the pealing Organ blow,',
To the full voic'd Quire below,
In Service high, and Anthems cleer,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear, ·
Diffolve me into extafies,

And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes,
And may at laft my weary age
Find out the peacefull hermitage,
The Hairy Gown and Moffy Cell,
Where I may fit and rightly spell,
Of every Star that Heav'n doth fhew,
And every Herb that fips the dew
Till old experience do attain
To fomething like Prophetic ftrain.
Thefe pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choofe to live,

NUS

LLU

A BALLAD upon a Wedding

By Sir John Suckling.

I Tell thee, Dick, where I have been

Where I the rareft Things have feen :

Oh Things without compare!

Such Sights again cannot be found
In any Place on English Ground,

Be it at Wake, or Fair

At Charing-Crofs, hard by the Way

Where we (thou know'ft), do fell our Hay,
There is a Houfe with Stairs

And there did I fee coming down
Such Folks as are not in our Town,
Vorty at leaft, in Pairs.
Amongst the reft, one Peft'lent fine,
(His Beard no bigger tho' than thine)
Walk'd on before the reft:

Our Landlord looks like nothing to him:
The King (God blefs him) 'twould undo him,
Should he go ftill fo dreft.

At Course a-Park, without all doubt,
He fhould have first been taken out

By all the Maids i'th' Town ;

Though lufty Roger there had been,
Or little George upon the Green,

Or Vincent of the Crown.
But wot you what? The Youth was going
To make an end of all his Wooing;

The Parfon for him staid:

Yet by his Leave, for all his hafte,

He did not fo much wifh all paft

(Perchance) as did the Maid,

The Maid----and thereby hangs a Tale---

Fer fuch a Maid no Whitfon-Ale

Could ever yet produce: