Here, besides the sorrowing That thy noble house doth bring, And some flowers, and some bays, Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitst in glory, Next her much like to thee in story, That fair Syrian shepherdess, Who after years of barrenness, The highly favor'd Joseph bore To him that serv'd for her before, And at her next birth much like thee, Far within the bosom bright There with thee, new welcome Saint, 60 IX. SONG. ON MAY MORNING. NOW the bright morning star, day's harbinger; Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flow'ry 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. 10 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? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Thou in our wonder an astonishment Hast built thyself a live-long monument. 10 XI. ON THE UNIVERSITY CARRIER, Who sicken'd in the time of his vacancy, being forbid to go to London, by reason of the plague. HERE 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 slough, 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 Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull. And surely death could never have prevail'd, 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, Pull'd off his boots and took away the light: If any ask for him, it shall be said, XII. ANOTHER ON THE SAME. HERE lieth one, who did most truly prove While he might still jog on and keep his trot, Time numbers motion, (yet without a crime Too long vacation hasten'd on his term. 10 Merely to drive the time away he sicken'd, 20 Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quicken'd; That ev'n to his last breath (there be that say't) He had been an immortal carrier. Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase: Only remains this superscription. 30 XIII. L'ALLEGRO. HENCE loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, In Stygian cave forlorn |