Who only thought to crop the flower
New shot up from vernal shower;

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But the fair bloffom hangs the head closed

Whilft thou, bright Saint, high fitst in glory,

Next her much like to thee in story,

That fair Syrian shepherdess,

Who after years of barrenness,

The highly-favor'd Jofeph bore
To him that ferv'd for her before,

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And at her next birth, much like thee,

Like fortunes may her foul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

IX.

SONG. ON MAY MORNING.

Now

OW the bright morning star, day's harbinger,
Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her

The flowery May, who from her green lap throws
The yellow cowflip, and the pale primrose.

Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire
Mirth and youth and warm_defire;
Woods and groves are of thy drefling,
Hill and dale doth boast thy bleffing.
Thus we falute thee with our early fong, d
And welcome thee, and wish thee long.

X.

ON SHAKESPEAR. 1630.

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WHAT needs my Shakespear for his honor'd

bones

The labor of an age in piled stones,

Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid,

Under a star-ypointing pyramid ?

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Dear son of memory, great heir of fame,
What need'ft thou such weak witness of thy name?

Thou in our wonder and astonishment

Haft built thyself a live-long monument.

For whilft to the shame of flow-endevoring art

Thy easy numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalued book

Those Delphic, lines with deep impreffion took,
Then thou our fancy of itself bereaving,

Doft make us marble with too much conceiving;
And so sepulcher'd in fuch pomp dost lie,
That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.

ΧΙ.

On the UNIVERSITY CARRIER;

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Who ficken'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to Londen, by reason of the plague.

HERE

ERE lies old Hobson; Death hath broke his girt, And here, alas, hath laid him in the dirt, Or else, the ways being foul, twenty to one, He's here stuck in a flough, and overthrown. 'Twas such a shifter, that if truth were known Death was half glad when he had got him down; For he had any time this ten years full

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Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And furely death could never have prevailed,
Had not his weekly course of carriage fail'd;
But lately finding him for long at home,
And thinking now his journey's end was come,
And that he had ta'en up his latest inn,

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In the kind office of a chambertin

Show'd him his room where he must lodge that night, Pull'd off his boots, and took away the light:

If any ask for him, it shall be faid,
Hobfon has fupt, and 's newly gone to bed.

H

XII.

Another on the fame.

ERE lieth one, who did most truly prove That he could never die while he could move; So hung his destiny, never to rot

While he might still jog on and keep his trot,
Made of sphere-metal, never to decay
Until his revolution was at stay.
Time, numbers motion, yet (without a crime
*Gainst old truth) motion number'd out his time:
And, like an engin mov'd with wheel and weight,
His principles being ceas'd, he ended strait.
Rest, that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;
Nor were it contradiction to affirm

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Too long vacation haften'd on his term.
Merely to drive the time away he ficken'd,
Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I mayn't carry, fure I'll ne'er be fetch'd,
But vow, though the cross doctors all stood hearers,

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For one carrier put down to make fix bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He dy'd for heaviness that his cart went light:
His leifure told him that his time was coine,
And lack of load made his life burdensome,
That ev'n to his last breath (there be that say't) 25
As he were press'd to death, he cry'd, More weight!
But had his doings lasted as they were,
He had been an immortal carrier.
Obedient to the moon he spent his date
In course reciprocal, and had his fate

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M +

30% Link'd

Link'd to the mutual flowing of the seas,
Yet (ftrange to think) his wain was his increase:
His letters are deliver'd all and gone,
Only remains this superscription.

XIII.

L'ALLEGRO.

ENCE, loathed Melancholy,

Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born,

In Stygian cave forlorn

'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and fights unholy, Find out fome uncouth cell,

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Where brooding darkness spreads his jealous wings,

And the night-raven fings;

There under ebon fhades, and low-brow'd rocks,
As ragged as thy locks,

In dark Cimmerian defert ever dwell.
But come, thou Goddess fair and free,
In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne,
And by men, heart-eafing Mirth,
Whom lovely Venus at a birth
With two filter Graces more
To ivy-crowned Bachus bore;
Or whether (as some sages fing)
The frolic wind that breathes the spring,

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