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Where I may oft out-watch the Bear,
hath a true consent
In sage and solemn tunes have sung, Of turneys and of trophies hung, Of forests, and enchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appear, Not trickt and frounct as she was wont With the Attic boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the russling 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 groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude axe with heaved stroke Was never heard the nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt, There in close covert by some brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from Day's garish eye, While the bee with honied thigh, That at her flowery work doth sing, And the waters murmuring, With such consorts as they keeps Entice the dewy-feather'd sleep:
Ind let some strange mysterious dream Wave at his wings in aery stream Of lively portraiture display'd, softly on my eye-lids laid. And as I wake, sweet music breathe Above, about, or underneath, Sent by some spirit to mortals good, Or th' unseen Genius of the wood. But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloisters pale, And love the high embowed roof, With antic pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full voic'd quire below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into extasies, And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes. And may at last my weary age Find out the peaceful hermitage, The hairy gown and mossy cell, Where I may sit and rightly spell Of every star that Heav'n doth shew, And every herb that sips the dew; Till old Experience do attain To something like prophetic strain. These pleasures, Melancholy ! give, And I with thee will choose to live.
Part of the Entertainment presented to the Countess Dowager
of Derby, at Harefield, by some noble persons of her family, who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song.
Look Nymphs, and Shepherds look,
This, this is she
Sitting like a goddess bright,
Might she the wise Latona be,
Who had thought this clime had held
A deity so unparalleld? As they come forward the Genius of the wood appears,
and turning toward them, speaks. Gen. Stay, gentle Swains, for though in this dis
guise, I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes ; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse ; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskin'd Nymphs as great and good, I know this quest of yours, and free intent Was all in honour and devotion meant To the great mistress of yon princely shrine, Whom with low reverence I adore as mine, And with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity ; And lead ye where ye may more near behold What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold; Which I full oft amidst these shades alone Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon : For know by lot from Jove I am the power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower,