Hail bounteous May that dost inspire Hill and dale doth boast thy blessing. X. ON SHAKESPEAR. 1630. WHAT needs my Shakespear for his honour'd bones Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder and astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. XI. ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER, WHO SICKENED IN THE TIME OF HIS VACANCY, BEING FORBID TO GO TO LONDON, BY REASON OF THE PLAGUE. HERE lies old Hobson; Death hath broke his girt, Or else the ways being foul, twenty to one, And thinking now his journey's end was come, In the kind office of a chamberlain Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light: If any ask for him, it shall be said, Hobson has supt, and's newly gone to bed. VOL. II. 21 XII. ANOTHER ON THE SAME. HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove While he might still jog on and keep his trot, Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; "Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd, "If I mayn't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetch'd, "But vow," though the cross doctors all stood hearers, "For one carrier put down to make six bearers."Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right, He dy'd for heaviness that his cart went light: His leisure told him that his time was come, Obedient to the moon he spent his date XIII. L'ALLEGRO. HENCE loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy, Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come thou goddess fair and free, The frolic wind that breathes the spring. As he met her once a maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, Haste thee Nymph, and bring with thee Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And in thy righth and lead with thee, The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty; |