ENGLISH and LATIN, &c.
Compos'd at several times.
Cingite, ne vati noceat mala lingua futuro.
In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend unfortunately drown'd in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occafion foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.
ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-fear,
I come to pluck your Berries harsh and
crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your 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 rhyme,
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the sacred well,
That from beneath the Seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat louder sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
For we were nurst upon the self-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 Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright,
Toward Heav'n's defcent had flop'd his westering wheel:
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute,
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel,
From the glad found would not be absent long,
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 desart Caves With wild Thyme and the gadding Vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes mourn.
The Willows, and the Hazel Copfes green,
Shall now no more be seen,
Fanning their joyous Leaves to their soft layes,
As killing as the Canker to the Rofe,
Or Taint-worm to the weaning Herds that graze,
Or Froft to Flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the White-Thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy Loss to Shepherds ear.
Where were ye Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?
For neither were you 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:
Ah me, I fondly dream!
Had ye been there--for what could that have done?
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her felf, for her inchanting fon
Whom Universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was fent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore.
Alas! what boots it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And ftrictly 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 spirit doth raise
(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 fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred shears,
And flits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,
Phœbus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
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