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On whatso forehead she that myrtle laid,
In yet unpractis'd youth, and flow'ring age,
That sacred head was by her counsel sway’d:
Nor can he in the foaming chase engage,
Nor Practise yet the gainful merchants trade,
Nor seek of mighty war the iron rage,
Nor yet to love can yield his spirit pure;
But is her pupil, and must so endure.

But wisest kings, that with a sacred eye
Behold their subjects, and allot to each
Their gracious smiles, and equal majesty,
With condescension of their awful speech,
When they approve th' immortal poésy,
Protect the man, that can with wisdom teach
What virtue to true spirits doth unfold,
By great example of the times of old.

They fill him with deep cups of Bacchus old,
And bless him with the fat of venison;
The while some ancient tale is strictly told,
And reverend age doth give its benison
To what the stately tables do uphold:
Then music, that is sure a denizen
Of Phoebus' court, with some immortal air,
The light digestion doth for him prepare.

So then upon the stringed harp he sings
A song, that may delight Olympian Jove,
Of something, which he learnt beside the springs
Of Helicon, that with eternal love
He fills the feast, and to sweet madness brings
The breast of him, who from his throne above
Doth bow his ear to catch the sacred song,
And drinketh with delight the music strong.


The softer season now will soon be here,
To clothe the world in purple, and in green;
And Philomel, that rules the warbling year,
Her gentle descants will ensue, between
The flow'ring orange, and the myrtle green;
And Phoebus, who too much his course delays,
Enthron'd in joy, will lengthen out the days.

Then shall we lie amid the meads again,
And crown our locks with garlands of the spring,
And from our slender pipes breathe out a strain
Ofjoyous welcome, and sweet revelling,
To which the shepherds, and their nymphs will sing;
And ever, 'gainst the warm and summer hours,
The laughing Pan we will y-bind in flow’rs.

For now, the bitter cold of winter past, The lovely mavis singeth on the bough; And I, who thought the cruel time surpast All other ills, which I have felt till now, To Pan, and Flora will renew my vow; And eke to Phoebus, that with golden ray, O happy light! doth over-crown the day.

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So said the Shepherd to his younger peer,
The while to pasture for the night he drove
In meads, where his soft charge no winds may fear;
But The not, whose delight was all in love,
Found little in his counsel to approve;
But weaving a soft crown of myrtle green,
He bound in thought the forehead of his queen.


May, queen of blossoms,
And fulfilling flowers,
With what pretty music
Shall we charm the hours?
Wilt thou have pipe and reed,
Blown in the open mead
Or to the lute give heed
In the green bowers!

Thou hast no need of us,
Or pipe or wire,
That hast the golden bee
Ripen'd with fire;
And many thousand more
Songsters that thee adore,
Filling earth's grassy floor
With new desire.

Thou hast thy mighty herds,
Tame, and free livers;
Doubt not, thy music too,
In the deep rivers;
And the whole plumy flight,
Warbling the day and night;
Up at the gates of light,
See, the lark quivers!

When with the jacinth
Coy fountains are tressed;
And for the mournful bird
Green woods are dressed,
That did for Tereus pine;
Then shall our songs be thine,
To whom our hearts incline:

MAY, be thou blessed


The man that looks, sweet Sidney, in thy face,
Beholding there love's truest majesty,
And the soft image of departed grace,
Shall fill his mind with magnanimity:
There may he read unfeign'd humility,
And golden pity, born of heav'nly brood,
Unsullied thoughts of immortality,
And musing virtue, prodigal of blood:
Yes, in this map of what is fair and good,

This glorious index of a heav'nly book, Not seldom, as in youthful years he stood,

Divinest Spenser would admiring look; And, framing thence high wit and pure desire, Imagin'd deeds, that set the world on fire

How oft, O Moon, in thy most tragic face,
The travell'd map of mournful history,
Some record of long-perish’d woe I trace,
Fetch'd from old kings’ moth-eaten memory;
Which thou, perhaps, didst in its acting see,
The perturbation of its doleful birth,
Then crawling on to sad maturity,
And it's last sleep in the forgetful earth:
But if, in style proportion'd to its worth,
We raise it up, to shake the world again,
To madness we shall turn heart-easing mirth,
With horror laying waste the minds of men:
O, marble is the flesh, unmov'd can be,
When it beholds so fearful tragedy'

I grieve to think, so often as I muse,
Musing on sweet and bitter argument,
How many souls posterity doth lose,
In that they leave behind no monument:
Souls, that have fed upon divinest thought,
Yet lacking utt'rance of their music's store,
To us, that breathe hereafter, are as nought,
Or question'd but as names, that dwelt before:
Were it sad chance, that them of fame berest,
Love, grief, or sickness, or resentful woe,
Or abstinence of virtue made a theft
Of that, which virtue to itself doth owe ;
The cause unknown, their worth unwritten too,
Let the world weep, for they are pity's due"

The nightingale is mute, and so art thou,
Whose voice is sweeter than the nightingale:
While ev'ry idle scholar makes a vow,
Above thy worth and glory to prevail:
Yet shall not envy to that level bring
The true precedence, which is born in thee;
Thou art no less the prophet of the Spring,
Though in the woods thy voice now silent be:
For silence may impair, but cannot kill
The music, that is native to thy soul;
Northy sweet mind, in this thy froward will,
Upon thy purest honour have controul :
But, since thou will not to our wishes sing,
This truth I speak, thou art of poets king.

The largest reign of silence yet hath sway
In beauty, which is music to the soul;
The lily hath no voice, yet shames the day;
Nay, the sweet air is liken'd in controul :
The silver Moon, more paler than desire,
That with unvoiced wheel doth climb on high,
In meditation's ear is as a quire,
That leads th' o'er-visioned Night along the sky:
All silence in it's pleasure hath a voice,
If balanc'd in the fine esteem of thought;

Then let dumb nature in that plea rejoice, But be not thou to that dominion brought:

For speech in thee, some men's disparagement,

Thy purer gifts with glory shall augment.

In Parian marble of divinest price,
In fairest gems, in silver and in gold,
In flow'ry sweets, that have been steeped thrice
In Phoebus' beams, and now his image hold,
In fountains, and in woods, in beauteous meads,
In palaces of pomp, and love withal,
In scooped chariots, and in fiery steeds,
I am, indeed, most rich and prodigal:
The Sun cannot behold a greater lord,
Nor doth the eye of Jove survey a man,
Whose fortune can such boundless wealth afford,
E'er since the artificial world began:
Thy face, which faults Olympus, is to me
This orbed World, and Nature's treasury!


Daughter of Jove, encircled by the Hours,
The warbling Spring comes dancing from the gate
Of Heaven, and, ripe in majesty and state,
Pours from her golden ever the purpling flowers
On mead, on mountain, on the hallow'd marge
Of sacred rivers; and the Mermaid chants
The seas into a calm ; and the wood-haunts
Of coy Diana echo all at large
With the smooth songs of Philomel: awake,
Daughter of Heaven, and blameless memory;
Put on thy flowery sandals, and uptake
Thy golden rod, beloved of the Sky
And with a tongue, like vernal thunder, make
Virtue the heir of immortality:

in the WiNTER.
O melancholy bird, a winter's day,
Thou standest by the margin of the pool;
And, taught by God, dost thy whole being school
To patience, which all evil can allay:
God has appointed thee the fish thy prey;
And giv'n thyself a lesson to the fool
Unthrifty, to submit to moral rule,
And his unthinking course by thee to weigh.
There need not schools, nor the professor's chair,
Though these be good, true wisdom to impart:
He, who has not enough for these to spare,
Of time, or gold, may yet amend his heart,
And teach his soul by brooks and rivers fair:
Nature is always wise in every part.


O thou, brave ruin of the passed time,
When glorious spirits shone in burning arms,
And the brave trumpet, with its sweet alarms,

Call'd honour! at the matin hour sublime,

And the grey ev'ning; thou hast had thy prime, And thy full vigour, and the eating harms

Of age have robb'd thee of thy warlike chara, And plac'd thee here, an image in my rhyme; The owl now haunts thee, and, oblivion's plast The creeping ivy, has o'er-veil'd thy towers; And Rother, looking up with eye askant, Recalling to his mind thy brighter hours, Laments the time, when, sair and elegant, Beauty first laugh’d from out thy joyous bowers'


First, in the chapel of the Paphian queen, Wrought on the wall, there may by you be seen A sight indeed full piteous to behold, The broken sleep; and the sighs deadly cold; The sacred tears; the wailings, a whole quire; The fiery strokes of the unrein'd desire: All, that love's servants in this world endure; And all the oaths their covenants assure; Pleasure; and hope; desire; fool-hardiness; Beauty; and youth ; and purchas'd wantonnes; Gold; charms; and force; and lies; and flattery: And waste expense; bus'ness; and jealousy, Upon whose head a golden sun-flower band, And the false cuckoo sate upon her hand; Feasts; instruments; and carols; and ripe dances; Lust; and array; and all the circumstances Of Love; that I may reckon, and reckon ca Till the mid-summer, and yet ne'er have done; All these were painted the fresh wall upon, And more than I can tell to any one; For Mount Cithaeron was depicted there, Where Venus hath her princely dwelling fair. All the world glow’d with the delightful place, The fount, eye, soul of passion and of grace; There was the garden, and the lustiness: Be sure they not forgot the porter, ldieness; Nor fair Narcissus, that from love is gone; Nor yet the folly of King Solomon; Nor strength of Hercules, that tore hell up; Nor Circe, nor Medea's charmed cup; Nor Turnus, and his hard and fiery rage; Nor golden Croesus in the Persian cage: By which it may be seen, that neither gold, Nor stronger wisdom, nor the courage bold. Nor strength, nor art, nor beauty's powerful face, Can hold with Venus any equal pace: What party in her realm have they, who rules The rolling world, and makes all people fools; Such as these were, who in her snare were caught, And often cried, “Alas!” and all for nought: And these examples may suffice; although Ten thousands more may date from her their woe.

The froth-born Goddess, ravishing to see,
Was naked, fleeting in the ample sea ;
And, downwards from the waist, was hid from sight
By the green waves, as any crystal bright:
A citole in her right hand softly held;
And on her head, a type of summer swell'd
And blush'd like fire, aad like all Eden smell'd,

A garland of the rose; and a white pair
Of doves above her flicker'd in the air:
And her son, Cupid, stood before her feet;
Two wings upon his shoulders, fair and fleet,
And blind as night, as he is often seen:
A bow he bare, and arrows bright and keen.

And now to tell you, on the westward side,
What colours the great painters did provide,
What portraiture upon the wall was spread,
Within the temple of grim Mars the red;
All painted was the wall, in dismal grace,
Like to the inward of the grisly place,
Call'd the great temple of the God in Thrace.

Where Mars his sovereign mansion still doth hold,

In frosty regions and eternal cold.

A forest on the wall was there exprest In which there never wons nor man nor beast, With knotty, knarry, barren trees, right old, And sharp with stubs, and hideous to behold, Where, like the thunder, ran a rumble through, As though a storm would break down ev'ry bough, And downward, (and a savage hill o'erbent.) There stood the fane of Mars armipotent; Wrought all of burned steel; the entrance keen Was long, and strait, and ghastly to be seen; • And thereout came a rage, and air, God knows, The gates from their great hinges heav'd and rose: The northern light in at the door there shone; For window on the massy wall was none, Through which men might the open light discern: * The door was all of adamant eterne, And clenched overthwart, and end-ways long, With iron tough, and, for to make it strong,

Every great pillar of this house of war Was tun-great, of bright iron blazing far.

There saw I first the dark imagining
Of felony, and all the conpassing;
The cruel ire, as red as burning coal;
The pick-purse; and pale fear, with ghastly soul;
The smiler, with the knife under the cloke;
The stables burning with the pitchy smoke;
The treason of the murdering of the bed ;
The open war, whose wounds for ever bled;
Contest with bloody knife, and menace keen,
And full of scritching cries the doleful scene;
The slayer of himself then saw I there,
His own heart-blood had bathed all his hair;
The nail, too, driven in the skull at night;
The cold death with the gaping mouth upright;
Amidst of all the temple sate Mischance,
With great discomfort, and pale countenance;
And saw I Madness, laughing in his ire :
Armed Complaint ; Outcry; and fierce Desire
Of fiery outrage; in the bushes put,
I saw the corpse of him whose throat was cut;
And flow'd the crimson blood on slaughter's bed,
A thousand slain, and not of sickness dead;
The tyrant with his prey from subject rest;
The town destroy'd, and not a rafter left;
The burnt ships dancing on the waves I saw ;
The hunter strangled in the wild bear's paw;
The child, eat by the fretting sow in cradle;
The cook, too, scalded, maugre his long ladle;
And every mortal act in every part;
The carter, over-ridden with his cart,
Under the wheel full low he lay adown,



Leading the way, young damsels danced along, Bearing the burden of a shepherd song; Each having a white wicker over brimm'd With April's tender younglings: next, well trimm’d, A crowd of shepherds with as sunburnt looks As may be read of in Arcadian books; Such as sat listening round Apollo's pipe, When the great deity, for earth too ripe, Let his divinity o'erflowing die In music, through the vales of Thessaly: Some idly trail'd their sheep-hooks on the ground, And some kept up a shrilly-mellow sound With ebon-tipped flutes: close after these, Now coming from beneath the forest-trees, A venerable priest full soberly, Begirt with ministering looks: always his eye Stedsast upon the matted turf he kept, And after him his sacred vestments swept. From his righthand there swung a vase, milk-white, Of mingled wine, out-sparkling generous light; And in his left he held a basket full Of all sweet herbs that searching eye could cull: Wild thyme, and valley-lilies whiter still Than Leda's love, and cresses from the rill. His aged head, crowned with beechen wreath, Seem'd like a poll of ivy in the teeth Of winter hoar. Then came another crowd Of shepherds, lifting in due time aloud Their share of the ditty. After them appear'd, Up-follow'd by a multitude that rear'd Their voices to the clouds, a fair-wrought car, Easily rolling so as scarce to mar The freedom of three steeds of dapple brown: Who stood therein did seem of great renown Among the throng. His youth was fully blown, Shewing like Ganymede to manhood grown; And, for those simple times, his garments were A chieftain king's: beneath his breast, halfbare, Was hung a silver bugle, and between His nervy knees there lay a boar-spear keen. A smile was on his countenance; he seem’d, To common lookers-on, like one who dream'd Of idleness in groves Elysian: But there were some who feelingly could scan A lurking trouble in his nether-lip, And see that oftentimes the reins would slip Through his forgotten hands: then would they sigh, And think of yellow leaves, of owlet's cry, Of logs piled solemnly.—Ah, well-a-day, Why should our young Endymion pine away!

Soon the assembly in a circle rang'd, Stood silent round the shrine: eachlock wasto To sudden veneration: women meek Beckon'd their sons to silence; while each ot Of virgin-bloom paled gently for slighties. Endymion too, without a forest peer, Stood, wan and pale, and with an unawedsoe, Among his brothers of the mountain-chase. In midst of all, the venerable priest Ey'd them with joy from greatest to the leist, And, after lifting up his aged hands, Thus spake he: —“Men of Latmos! shot


Whose care it is to guard a thousand flocks: Whether descended from beneath the rocks That overtop your mountains; whether come From vallies where the pipe is never dumb: . Or from your swelling downs, where sweetition Blue hare-bells lightly, and where pricklysm Buds lavish gold; or ye, whose precious chao Nibble their fill at ocean's very marge, Whose mellow reeds are touch'd withsoundsson By the dim echoes of old Triton's horn: Mothers and wives! who day by day presar The scrip, with needments, for the mountaio And all ye gentle girls who foster up Udderless lambs, and in a little cup Will put choice honey for a favoured youth. Yea, every one attend for in good truth Our vows are wanting to our great god Pan. Are not our lowing heifers sleeker than . . Night-swollen mushrooms? Arenolourwiko" Speckled with countless sleeces? Hist not risis Green'd over April's lap? No howling” Sickens our fearful ewes; and we have had Great bounty from Endymion our lord. . The earth is glad: the merry lark has pour'd His early song against yon breezy sky, ** That spreads so clear o'er our solemnity.

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