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May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir
To starve or wither
ODE TO ENDYMION PORTER.
Not all thy flushing suns are set,
Herrick, as yet ;
Frown and look sullen everywhere;
As dead within the West,
E’en all, almost !
And all the loom of life undone ;
Whereon my vine did crawl,
In death I thrive,
From out my nard and funeral fire,
Do marvell how I could die When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.
I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand,
Which makes me stand
I must confess, I could not be ;
Thanks to the generous Vine, Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.
WHAT LOVE IS.
Love is a circle, that doth restless move
UPON PREW HIS MAID.
In this little urn is laid
THE WHITE ISLAND.
In this world, the Isle of Dreams,
There, in calm and cooling sleep,
Pleasures such as shall pursue
Charm me asleep, and melt me so
With thy delicious numbers, That being ravish’d; hence I go
Away in easy slumbers.
Ease my sick head,
And make my bed,
From me this ill ;-
From a consuming fire, Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep,
That I, poor I,
Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers, Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains ;
With full delight,
Shapcot ! to thee the Fairy State
with discretion dedicate : Because thou prizest things that are Curious and unfamiliar, Take first the feast ; these dishes gone, We'll see the Fairy-court anon. A little mushroom-table spread, After short prayers, they set on bread, A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat, With some small glittring grit, to eat His choice bits with ; then in a trice They make a feast less great than nice. But all this while his eye is served, We must not think his ear was sterved ; But that there was in place to stir His spleen, the chirring grasshopper, The merry cricket, puling fly, The piping gnat for minstrelsy. And now, we must imagine first, The elves present, to quench his thirst, A pure seed-pearl of infant dew, Brought and besweeten’d in a blue And pregnant violet ; which done, His kitling eyes begin to run Quite through the table, where he spies The horns of papery butterflies, Of which he eats ; and tastes a little Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle ;
A little fuz-ball pudding stands
Live, live with me, and thou shalt see