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The cynosure of neighbouring eyes.
Hard by, a cottage chimney smokes
From betwixt two aged okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met
Are at their savory dinner set
Of hearbs and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;
And then in haste her bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the sheaves,
Or, if the earlier season lead,
To the tann'd haycock in the mead.
Som times with secure delight
The upland hamlets will invite,
When the merry bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound
To many a youth and many a maid
Dancing in the chequer'd shade!
And young and old com forth to play
On a sunshine holyday,

Till the livelong daylight fail;
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat:
How fairy Mab the junkets eat:
She was pincht and pull'd, she sed;
And he, by friars lanthorn led,
Tells how the drudging goblin swet
To ern his cream-bowle duly set,
When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
His shadowy flale hath thresh'd the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lies him down the lubbar fend,
And, stretch'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full out of dores he flings,
Ere the first cock his mattin rings.
Thus don the tales to bed they creep,
By whispering windes soon lull'd asleep.
Towred cities please us then,
And the busie humm of men,
Where throngs of knights and barons bold
In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
With store of ladies whose bright eies
Rain influence, and judge the prise

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As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sun beams, Or likest hovering dreams,

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus train.
But hail thou Goddes sage and holy!
Hail! divinest Melancholy!
Whose saintly visage is too bright
To hit the sense of human sight,
And therefore to our weaker view

Ore laid with black, staid Wisdoms hue-
Black, but such as in esteem
Prince Memnons sister might beseem,

Or that starr'd Ethiope queen that strove
To set her beauties praise above

The sea nymphs, and their powers offended;
Yet thou art higher far descended;

Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore,

His daughter she (in Saturn's raign
Such mixture was not held a stain);
Oft in glimmering bowres and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
While yet there was no fear of Jove.
Com, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, stedfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain
Flowing with majestick train,
And sable stole of Cipres lawn
Over thy decent shoulders drawn!
Com, but keep thy wonted state,
With eev'n step and musing gate
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes;
There held in holy passion still,
Forget thy self to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast
Thou fix them on the earth as fast;

And joyn with thee calm Peace and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hears the Muses in a ring

Ay round about Joves altar sing;
And adde to these retired Leasure,









That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But, first and chiefest, with thee bring
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation;
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will daign a song,
In her sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke
Gently o're th' accustom'd oke.

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Most musicall, most melancholy!
Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among

I woo to hear thy eeven-song;
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry, smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandring moon
Riding neer her highest noon,
Like one that had bin led astray
Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way,
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far off curfeu sound,
Over som wide-water'd shoar
Swinging slow with sullen roar;
Or, if the ayr will not permit,
Som still removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach Light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,

Save the cricket on the hearth,

Or the belman's drousie charm

To bless the dores from nightly harm;
Or let my lamp at midnight hour
Be seen in some high lonely towr,
Where I may oft out-watch the Bear
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear
The spirit of Plato to unfold
What worlds or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook,










And of those dæmons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or under ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet, or with element.
Som time let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall com sweeping by,
Presenting Thebs or Pelops line
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskind stage.
But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
Might raise Musæus from his bower,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as warbled to the string
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
Or call up him that left half told

The story of Cambuscan bold,
Of Camball and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the vertuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous hors of brass
On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if ought els great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys and of trophies hung,
Of forests and inchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appeer,

Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont

With the Attick boy to hunt,

But cherchef't in a comely cloud
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the russling leaves
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
Of pine and monumental oake,










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