That, to give the world increase, And some flowers, and some bays, Sent thee from the banks of Came, Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt'st in glory, Next her, much like to thee in story, Who, after years of barrenness, To him that serv'd for her before, པ་ 60 65 IX. SONG ON MAY MORNING. NOW the bright morning star, day's harbinger, ON SHAKSPEARE. 1630. WHAT needs my Shakspeare for his honour'd bones The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid Under a stary-pointing pyramid? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What needst thou such weak witness of thy name? Hast built thyself a livelong monument. For whilst, to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art, 10 10 Then thou, our fancy of itself bereaving, Dost make us marble with too much conceiving; And, so sepulcher'd, in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. 15 XI. ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER, Who sickened in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to HERE lies old Hobson; Death hath broke his girt, Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and The Bull. Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd ; 10 But lately finding him so long at home, And thinking now his journey's end was come, In the kind office of a chamberlin Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night, 15 If any ask for him, it shall be said, "Hobson has supt, and's newly gone to bed." XII. ANOTHER ON THE SAME. HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove While he might still jøg on and keep his trot, 5 Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers motion, yet (without a crime 'Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time; 10 Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, 15 Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd'; 20 25 As he were press'd to death, he cry'd, more weight; He had been an immortal carrier. In course reciprocal, and had his fate Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas, Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase : Only remains this superscription. XIII. L'ALLEGRO. HENCE, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights unholy! 30 Find out some uncouth cell, 5 Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous wings, And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-brow'd rocks, As ragged as thy locks, 10 In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thon Goddess fair and free, The frolic wind, that breathes the spring, There on beds of violets blue, The fresh-blown roses wash'd in dew, 15 20 |