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And in the violet imbroider'd vale

Where the love-lorn Nightingale

Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well: Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair

That likest thy Narcissus are?

O if thou have

Hid them in som flowry Cave,
Tell me but where,

Sweet Queen of Parley, Daughter of the

Sphere!

So may'st thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's

Harmonies!

ΤΟ

1634.

SABRINA

John Milton.

SABRINA fair,

From Comus

Listen where thou art sitting

Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave
In twisted braids of lilies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping

hair;

Listen for dear honour's sake,

Goddess of the silver lake,

Listen and save!

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Listen and appear to us,

In name of great Oceanus,

By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace,
And Tethys' grave majestic pace,

1634.

The Spirit's Epilogue

By hoary Nereus wrinkled look,
And the Carpathian wizard's hook,
By scaly Triton's winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus' spell,
By Leucothea's lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis' tinsel-slipper'd feet,
And the Songs of Sirens sweet,
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb,
And fair Ligea's golden comb,
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks,

By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosy head
From thy coral-pav'n bed,

And bridle in thy headlong wave,

Till thou our summons answered have.

Listen and save!

31

John Milton.

THE SPIRIT'S EPILOGUE

From Comus

To the Ocean now I fly,

And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid air
All amidst the Gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring,
The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Thither all their bounties bring.

That there eternal Summer dwells,
And west winds, with musky wing
About the cedarn alleys fling
Nard, and Cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow

Waters the odorous banks that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfl'd scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of Hyacinth, and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen;

But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc'd,

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20

Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc'd, 30

After her wandring labours long,

Till free consent the gods among

Make her his eternal Bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.

But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run

Love's Emblems

Quickly to the green earth's end,
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, 40
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the Moon.

Mortals that would follow me,
Love virtue, she alone is free,
She can teach ye how to climb
Higher then the spheary chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

1634. 1645.

John Milton.

LOVE'S EMBLEMS

From Valentinian

Now the lusty spring is seen;
Golden yellow, gaudy blue,
Daintily invite the view:
Everywhere on every green
Roses blushing as they blow,
And enticing men to pull,
Lilies whiter than the snow,
Woodbines of sweet honey full:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die."

Yet the lusty spring hath stay'd;
Blushing red and purest white
Daintily to love invite

Every woman, every maid:

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1647.

Cherries kissing as they grow,

And inviting men to taste,
Apples even ripe below,

Winding gently to the waist:
All love's emblems, and all cry,
"Ladies, if not pluck'd, we die."

20

John Fletcher.

THE GRASSHOPPER

O THOU that swing'st upon the waving hair
Of some well-filled oaten beard,
Drunk every night with a delicious tear
Dropt thee from heaven, where th' art
rear'd!

The joys of earth and air are thine entire,
That with thy feet and wings dost hop and fly;
And when thy poppy works, thou dost retire
To thy carved acorn-bed to lie.

Up with the day, the Sun thou welcom'st then,
Sport'st in the gilt-plaits of his beams,
And all these merry days mak'st merry men,
Thyself, and melancholy streams.

1649.

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12

Richard Lovelace.

CORINNA 'S GOING A-MAYING

GET up, get up for shame! The blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.

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