Showed him his room where he mus lodge that night, Pulled off his boots, and took away the light. If any ask for him, it shall be said, 66 Hobson has supped, and 's newly gone to bed." ANOTHER ON THE SAME HERE lieth one who did most truly prove While he might still jog on and keep his trot; Until his revolution was at stay. Time numbers Motion, yet (without a crime Too long vacation hastened on his term. 66 Fainted, and died, nor would with ale be quickened. Nay," quoth he, on his swooning bed outstretched, "If I may n't carry, sure I'll ne'er be fetched, But vow, though the cross Doctors all stood hearers, Yet (strange to think) his wain was his increase. AN EPITAPH ON THE MARCHIONESS THIS rich marble doth inter The honoured wife of Winchester, Added to her noble birth, More than she could own from earth. To house with darkness and with death! Been as complete as was her praise, Her high birth and her graces sweet But with a scarce well-lighted flame; And with remorseless cruelty And the languished mother's womb So have I seen some tender slip, Here, besides the sorrowing That thy noble House doth bring, And some flowers and some bays For thy hearse, to strew the ways, Sent thee from the banks of Came, Devoted to thy virtuous name; Whilst thou, bright Saint, high sitt'st in glory, Next her, much like to thee in story, Who, after years of barrenness, The highly-favoured Joseph bore Far within the bosom bright With thee there clad in radiant sheen, ON HIS BEING ARRIVED TO THE (1631) 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 so, As ever in my great Task-master's eye. 1 POEMS WRITTEN AT HORTON H 1632-1638 L'ALLEGRO (1633) ENCE, loathèd Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born, 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shrieks, and sights Find out some uncouth cell, Where brooding Darkness spreads his jealous And the night-raven sings; There under ebon shades, and low-browed rocks, As ragged as thy locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. But come, thou Goddess fair and free, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, To ivy-crownèd Bacchus bore; The frolic Wind that breathes the spring, As he met her once a-Maying, There on beds of violets blue, And fresh-blown roses washed in dew, Filled her with thee, a daughter fair, So buxom, blithe and debonair. Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Jest and youthful Jollity, 31 |