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There with thee, new welcom Saint,
Like fortunes may her soul acquaint,
With thee there clad in radiant sheen,
No Marchioness, but now a Queen.

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On May morning.

Now the bright morning Star, Dayes 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 welcom thee, and wish thee long.

On Shakespear. 1630.

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.

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On Shakespear. Reprinted 1632 in the second folio Shakespeare: Title] An epitaph on the admirable dramaticke poet W. Shakespeare

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On the University Carrier who
sickn'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 els 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 yeers full,
Dodg'd with him, betwixt Cambridge and the Bull.
And surely, Death could never have prevail'd,
Had not his weekly cours of carriage fail'd ;
But lately finding him so long at home,
And thinking now his journeys end was come,
And that he had tane up his latest Inne,

In the kind office of a Chamberlin

Shew'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 sed,

Hobson has supt, and 's newly gon to bed.

Another on the same.

HERE 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 jogg on, and keep his trot,
Made of sphear-metal, never to decay

Untill 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 waight,
His principles being ceast, he ended strait.
Rest that gives all men life, gave him his death,
And too much breathing put him out of breath;

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Nor were it contradiction to affirm
Too long vacation hastned on his term.
Meerly to drive the time away he sickn'd,

Fainted, and died, nor would with Ale be quickn'd;
Nay, quoth he, on his swooning bed out-stretch'd,
If I may not carry, sure Ile ne're be fetch'd,

But vow though the cross Doctors all stood hearers,
For one Carrier put down to make six bearers.
Ease was his chief disease, and to judge right,
He di'd for heavines that his Cart went light,
His leasure told him that his time was com,
And lack of load, made his life burdensom,
That even to his last breath (ther be that say't)
As he were prest to death, he cry'd more waight;
But had his doings lasted as they were,

He had bin an immortall Carrier.
Obedient to the Moon he spent his date
In cours reciprocal, and had his fate
Linkt to the mutual flowing of the Seas,

Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase:
His Letters are deliver'd all and gon,

Onely remains this superscription.

L'Allegro.

HENCE loathed 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-crowned Bacchus bore;

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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 Wreathed 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 unreproved 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.

33 ye] you 1673

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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,

Go

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,

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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 in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps som beauty lies,
The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes.

Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes,
From betwixt two aged Okes,
Where Corydon and Thyrsis met,
Are at their savory dinner set

Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes,
Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses;

And then in haste her Bowre she leaves,
With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves;
Or if the earlier season lead

To the tann'd Haycock in the Mead,
Som times with secure delight
The up-land Hamlets will invite,
When the merry Bells ring round,
And the jocond rebecks sound

To many a youth, and many a maid,
Dancing in the Chequer'd shade;
And young and old com forth to play
On a Sunshine Holyday,

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