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Sadly fits th' Affyrian queen;

But far above in fpangled fheen

Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc'd,
Holds his dear Pfyche sweet intranc'd,
After her wand'ring labors long,
Till free consent the Gods among
Make her his eternal bride,

And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; fo Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly 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 soon

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 sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,

Heav'n itself would ftoop to her.




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

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more


Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,

And with forc'd fingers rude

Shatter leaves before the mellowing year.


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 somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and

So may fome gentle Muse

coy excufe,

With lucky words favor my deftin'd urn,
And as he passes turn,







And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a field, and both together heard
What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the flar that rose, at evening, bright, 30
Tow'ard Heav'n's descent had flop'd his west'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 desert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, 40 And all their echoes mourn.

The willows, and the hazel copses green,

Shall now no more be feen,

Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.

As killing as the canker to the rose,

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

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.



Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,

Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,


Nor yet where Deva spreads 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 Muse herself for her inchanting son,
Whom univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the ftream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?


Alas! What boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade,


And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?

Were it not better done as others use,

To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spi'rit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind)

To scorn delights, and live laborious days;
But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And flits the thin spun life. But not the praise,
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 th' world, nor in broad rumor lies,

But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.


O fountain Arethuse, 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 sea

That came in Neptune's plea;

He afk'd the waves, and ask'd the fellon winds, What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? And question'd every guft of rugged wings,


That blows from off each beaked promontory;

They knew not of his story,


And fage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon ftray'd,
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses 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



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