Lodged with me useless, though my soul more

bent

5 To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His

10

state

Is kingly thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait."

SONNET

TO CYRIACK SKINNER

(First printed in Phillips' Life of Milton, 1694. Written cir. 1655)

10

Cyriack, this three years' day these eyes, though

clear,

To outward view, of blemish or of spot,
Bereft of light, their seeing have forgot;
Nor to their idle orbs doth sight appear
5 Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year,
Or man, or woman. Yet I argue not

Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope, but still bear up and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou
ask?

The conscience, friend, to have lost them overplied

In Liberty's defence, my noble task,

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's
vain mask,

Content, though blind, had I no better guide,

Andrew Marvell

1621-1678

THE GARDEN

(Written cir. 1650, published first in first collected edition of Marvell's Poems, 1681)

How vainly men themselves amaze,
To win the palm, the oak, or bays,
And their incessant labours see
Crowned from some single herb, or tree,
5 Whose short and narrow-verged shade
Does prudently their toils upbraid,
While all the flowers and trees do close,
To weave the garlands of repose!

Fair Quiet, have I found thee here,
10 And Innocence, thy sister dear?
Mistaken long, I sought you then
In busy companies of men.

Your sacred plants, if here below,
Only among the plants will grow;
15 Society is all but rude

To this delicious solitude.

No white nor red was ever seen
So amorous as this lovely green.
Fond lovers, cruel as their flame,
20 Cut in these trees their mistress' name,
Little, alas! they know or heed,

How far these beauties her exceed!
Fair trees! where'er your barks I wound,
No name shall but your own be found.

25 When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race; Apollo hunted Daphne so,

30 Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed.

What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; 35 The luscious clusters of a vine

Upon my mouth do crush their wine;
The nectarine, and curious peach,
Into my hands themselves do reach;
Stumbling on melons, as I pass,

40 Ensnared with flowers, I fall on grass.

Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
Withdraws into its happiness;-

The mind, that ocean where each kind
Does straight its own resemblance find;
45 Yet it creates, transcending these,
Far other worlds, and other seas,
Annihilating all that's made
To a green thought in a green shade.

Here at the fountain's sliding foot, 50 Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside,

My soul into the boughs does glide: There, like a bird, it sits and sings, Then whets and claps its silver wings, 55 And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plume the various light,

Such was that happy garden-state,

While man there walked without a mate:
After a place so pure and sweet,

60 What other help could yet be meet!
But 'twas beyond a mortal's share
To wander solitary there:
Two paradises are in one,

To live in paradise alone.

65 How well the skilful gardener drew
Of flowers, and herbs, this dial new,
Where, from above, the milder sun
Does through a fragrant zodiac run,
And, as it works, the industrious bee
70 Computes its time as well as we!

How could such sweet and wholesome hours
Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers?

PART THIRD

DRYDEN TO THOMSON

Cir. 1660-Cir. 1730

John Dryden

1631-1700

MAC-FLECKNOE; OR, A SATIRE ON THE TRUE BLUE PROTESTANT POET, T. S.

(1682)

ALL human things are subject to decay, And, when fate summons, monarchs must obey. This Flecknoe found, who, like Augustus, young Was called to empire, and had governed long; 5 In prose and verse was owned, without dispute, Through all the realms of Nonsense, absolute. This aged prince, now flourishing in peace, And blest with issue of a large increase, Worn out with business, did at length debate 10 To settle the succession of the state;

And, pondering which of all his sons was fit To reign, and wage immortal war with wit, Cried, ""Tis resolved! for Nature pleads, that he Should only rule, who most resembles me. 15 Shadwell alone my perfect image bears, Mature in dulness from his tender years; Shadwell alone, of all my sons, is he,