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Mortals that would follow me, Love virtue, fhe alone is free," She can teach you how to clime Higher than the fphery chime; Or if virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
Compofed at feveral Times.
BY JOHN MILTON.
Cingite, ne vati noceat mala lingua futuro.
Virgil. Eclog. 7.
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 foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.
ET once more, O ye laurels, and once more
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Unwept, and welter to the pàrching wind,
may fome gentle Mufe
With lucky words favour my deftin'd urn,
And as he paffes turn,
And bid fair peace
be to my
For we were nurs'd upon the felf fame hill,
Fed the fame flock, by fountain, fhade, 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 fultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the ftar that rofe, at evening, bright, Toward heav'n's defcent had flop'd his weftering wheel: Mean while the rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel,
the heavy change, now thou art gone,
The willows, and the hazel copfes green,
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft layes,
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weaning herds that graze,
Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to fhepherds ear.
Where were ye nymphs, when the remorfelefs deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were you playing on the steep,
Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wisard stream:
Had ye been there
-for what could that have done? What could the mufe herfelf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe herfelf, for her inchanting fon
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,