FLY envious Time, till thou run out thy race,
Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
Whose
speed is but the heavy Plummets pace;
And glut thy self with what thy womb devours,
Which is no more
then what is false and vain,
And meerly mortal dross;
So little is our loss,
So little is thy gain.
For when
as each thing bad thou hast entomb’d,
And last of all, thy greedy self consum’d,
Then long Eternity shall
greet our bliss
With an individual kiss;
And Joy shall overtake us as a flood,
When every thing that is sincerely
good
And perfectly divine,
With Truth, and Peace, and Love shall ever shine
About the supreme Throne
Of
him, t’whose happy-making sight alone,
When once our heav’nly-guided soul shall clime,
Then all this
Earthy grosnes quit,
Attir’d with Stars, we shall for ever sit,
Triumphing over Death, and Chance, and thee
O Time.
BLEST pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav’ns joy,
Sphear-born harmonious Sisters, Voice, and
Vers,
Wed your divine sounds, and mixt power employ
Dead things with inbreath’d sense able to pierce,
And
to our high-rais’d phantasie present,
That undisturbàd Song of pure content,
Ay sung before the saphire-
colour’d throne
To him that sits theron
With Saintly shout, and solemn Jubily,
Where the bright Seraphim
in burning row
Their loud up-lifted Angel trumpets blow,
And the Cherubick host in thousand quires
Touch
their immortal Harps of golden wires,
With those just Spirits that wear victorious Palms,
Hymns devout
and holy Psalms
Singing everlastingly;
That we on Earth with undiscording voice
May rightly answer that
melodious noise;
As once we did, till disproportion’d sin
Jarr’d against natures chime, and with harsh din
Broke
the fair musick that all creatures made
To their great Lord, whose love their motion sway’d
In perfect Diapason,
whilst they stood
In first obedience, and their state of good.
O may we soon again renew that Song,
And
keep in tune with Heav’n, till God ere long
To his celestial consort us unite,
To live with him, and sing in
endles morn of light.
HENCE loathàd Melancholy
Of Cerberus and blackest midnight born,
In Stygian Cave forlorn
’Mongst
horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy.
Find out som uncouth cell,
Where brooding darknes spreads
his jealous wings,
And the night-Raven sings;
There, under Ebon shades, and low-brow’d Rocks,
As ragged
as thy Locks,
In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell.
But com thou Goddes fair and free,
In Heav’n ycleap’d
Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-easing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus, at a birth
With two sister Graces more
To
Ivy-crownàd Bacchus bore;
Or whether (as som Sager sing)
The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring,
Zephir
with Aurora playing,
As he met her once a Maying,
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses
washt in dew,
Fill’d her with thee a daughter fair,
So bucksom, blith, and debonair.
Haste thee nymph,
and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles,
Nods, and Becks, and
Wreathàd Smiles,
Such as hang on Hebe’s cheek,
And love to live in dimple sleek;
Sport that wrincled Care
derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Com, and trip it as ye go
On the light fantastick toe,
And in
thy right hand lead with thee,
The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty;
And if I give thee honour due,
Mirth,
admit me of thy crue
To live with her, and live with thee,
In unreprovàd pleasures free;
To hear the Lark
begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn
doth rise;
Then to com in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow,
Through the Sweet-Briar,
or the Vine,
Or the twisted Eglantine.
While the Cock with lively din,
Scatters the rear of darknes thin,
And
to the stack, or the Barn dore,
Stoutly struts his Dames before,
Oft list’ning how the Hounds and horn
Chearly
rouse the slumbring morn,
From the side of som Hoar Hill,
Through the high wood echoing shrill.
Som
time walking not unseen
By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green,
Right against the Eastern gate,
Wher the
great Sun begins his state,
Rob’d in flames, and Amber light,
The clouds in thousand Liveries dight.
While
the Plowman neer at hand,
Whistles ore the Furrow’d Land,
And the Milkmaid singeth blithe,
And the Mower
whets his sithe,
And every Shepherd tells his tale
Under the Hawthorn in the dale.
Streit mine eye hath
caught new pleasures
Whilst the Lantskip round it measures,
Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray,
Where
the nibling flocks do stray,
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest:
Meadows
trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Boosom’d high
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