WHEN ICICLES HANG BY THE WALL From L. L. L. WHEN icicles hang by the wall, And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And milk comes frozen home in pail, To-who!-a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. When all aloud the wind doth blow, And coughing drowns the parson's saw, To-who-a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot. 1598. William Shakespeare. 9 18 THE SIRENS' SONG STEER, hither steer your wingèd pines, Here lie Love's undiscover'd mines, Perfumes far sweeter than the best Nor any to oppose you save our lips; But come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. For swelling waves our panting breasts, For stars gaze on our eyes. The compass Love shall hourly sing, We will not miss To tell each point he nameth with a kiss. -Then come on shore, Where no joy dies till Love hath gotten more. 1614. 1772. William Browne, of Tavistock. 20 INVOCATION PHOEBUS, arise! And paint the sable skies With azure, white, and red; Rouse Memnon's mother from her Tithon's bed, Give life to this dark world which lieth dead; In larger locks than thou wast wont before, With diadem of pearl thy temples fair: Chase hence the ugly night, ΙΟ Which serves but to make dear thy glorious light. This is that happy morn, That day, long wished day Of all my life so dark (If cruel stars have not my ruin sworn And fates not hope betray), Which only white deserves A diamond for ever should it mark: This is the morn should bring unto this grove 20 Echo But show thy blushing beams, And thou two sweeter eyes Shalt see than those which by Peneus' streams Nay, suns, which shine as clear As thou when two thou did to Rome appear. If that ye, winds, would hear A voice surpassing far Amphion's lyre, Let zephyr only breathe And with her tresses play, Kissing sometimes these purple ports of death. And Phoebus in his chair Ensaffroning sea and air 30 40 Beyond the hills to shun his flaming wheels: And everything, save Her, who all should grace. Within thy airy shell By slow Meander's margent green, 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, Harmonies! 1634. SABRINA John Milton. SABRINA fair, From Comus Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave hair; Listen for dear honour's sake, Goddess of the silver lake, Listen and save! 8 Listen and appear to us, In name of great Oceanus, By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, |