who had Canace to wife,

That own’d the virtuous ring and glass,

And of the wond’rous horse of brass,

On which the Tartar king did ride;

And if aught else, great bards beside,

In sage and solemn tunes have sung,

Of tourneys and of trophies hung,

Of forests, and enchantments drear,

Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,

Till civil-suited Morn appear,

Not trick’d and frounc’d as she was wont,

With the Attic boy to hunt,

But kerchief’d 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 rustling 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, or monumental oak,

Where the rude axe with heaved stroke,

Was never heard the nymphs to daunt,

Or fright them from their hallow’d haunt.

There in close covert by some brook,

Where no profaner eye may look,

Hide me from Day’s garish eye,

While the bee with honied thigh,

That at her flow’ry work doth sing,

And the waters murmuring

With such consort as they keep,

Entice the dewy-feather’d sleep;

And let some strange mysterious dream,

Wave at his wings, in airy stream

Of lively portraiture display’d,

Softly on my eye-lids laid.

And as I wake, sweet music breathe

Above, about, or underneath,

Sent by some spirit to mortals good,

Or th’ unseen Genius of the wood.

But let my due feet never fail

To walk the studious cloister’s pale,

And love the high embowed roof,

With antique pillars massy proof,

And storied windows richly dight,

Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full-voic’d quire below,

In service high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heav’n before mine eyes.

And may at last my weary age

Find out the peaceful hermitage,

The hairy gown and mossy cell,

Where I may sit and rightly spell

Of every star that Heav’n doth shew,

And every herb that sips the dew;

Till old experience do attain

To something like prophetic strain.

These pleasures, Melancholy, give,

And I with thee will choose to live.

Song on May Morning

Now the bright morning Star, Day’s harbinger,

Comes dancing from the East, and leads with her

The Flowry May, who from her green lap throws

The yellow Cowslip, and the pale Primrose.

Hail bounteous May that dost inspire

Mirth and youth, and warm desire,

Woods and Groves, are of thy dressing,

Hill and Dale, doth boast thy blessing.

Thus we salute thee with our early Song,

And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

On Shakespeare

What needs my Shakespear for his honour’d Bones,

The labour of an age in piled Stones,

Or that his hallow’d reliques should be hid

Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?

Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,

What need’st thou such weak witnes of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.

For whilst to th’ shame of slow-endeavouring art,

Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart

Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu’d Book,

Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,

Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,

Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;

And so Sepulcher’d in such pomp dost lie,

That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.

To the Nightingale

O nightingale that on yon blooming spray

Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still,

Thou with fresh hopes the Lover’s heart dost fill,

While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May.

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,

First heard before the shallow cuckoo’s bill,

Portend success in love. O if Jove’s will

Have linked that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate

Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh;

As thou from year to year hast sung too late

For my relief, yet had’st no reason why.

Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate,

Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

On His Being Arrived to the Age of Twenty-Three

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth,

Stolen on his wing my three and twentieth year!

My hasting days fly on with full career,

But my late spring no bud or blossom shew’th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,

That I to manhood am arrived so near,

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,

That some more timely-happy spirits indu’th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,

It shall be still in strictest measure even

To that same lot, however mean or high,

Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven,

All is, if I have grace to use it