XIV.

IL PENSEROSO *.

ENCE vain deluding joys,

H. The brood of folly without father bred,

How little you befted,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys? Dwell in fome idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy fhapes poffefs, As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the fun-beams,
Or likeft hovering dreams

The fickle penfioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddefs, fage and holy,
Hail divineft Melancholy,

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Il Penferofo is the thoughtful melancholy man; and this poem both in its model and principal circumftances, is taken from a fong in praise of melancholy in Beaumont and Fletcher's comedy call'd The Nice Valour, or Paffionate Madman. The reader will not be displeased to see it here, as it is well worth tranfcribing.

Hence all you vain delights,

As fhort as are the nights

Wherein you spend your folly;

There's nought in this life sweet,

If man were wife to fee't,

But only Melancholy,

Oh sweetest Melancholy.

Welcome folded arms, and fix'd eyes,
A figh that piercing mortifies,

A look that's faften'd to the ground,
A tongue chain'd up without a found.
Fountain-heads, and pathlefs groves,
Places which pale paffion loves;
Moon-light walks, when at the fowls
Are warmly hous'd, fave bats and owls;
At midnight bell, a parting groan,
These are the founds we feed upon;

Then ftretch our bones in a still gloomy valley,
Nothing's fo dainty fweet, as lovely Melancholy,

Whofe faintly visage is too bright

To hit the fenfe of human fight,
And therefore to our weaker view

O'er-laid with black, ftaid wisdom's hue;
Black, but fuch as in efteem

Prince Memnon's fifter might befeem,
Or that starr'd Ethiop queen that ftrove

To fet her beauties praise above

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The Sea-Nymphs, and their pow'rs offended:
Yet thou art higher far defcended,

And join with thee calm Peace, and Quiet,

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Spare Faft, that oft with Gods doth diet,

And hears the Mufes in a ring
Ay round about Jove's altar fing:
And add to these retired Leifure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But firft and chiefeft, with thee bring,
Him that yon foars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The Cherub Contemplation;
And the mute filence hift along,
"Lefs Philomel will deign a fong,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accuftom'd oak;

Sweet bird that fhunn'ft the noise of folly,
Moft mufical, most melancholy !

Thee chauntrefs oft the woods among
I woo to hear thy even-fong;
And miffing thee, I walk unfeen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring moon,
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led aftray

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Through the Heav'n's wide pathlefs way.

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And oft, as if her head she bow'd,

Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft on a plat of rifing ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu found,
Over fome wide water'd fhore,
Swinging flow with fullen roar;
Or if the air will not permit,
Some ftill removed place will fit,

Where glowing embers through the room.
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,

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