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To measure life learn thou betimes, and know
Toward solid good what leads the nearest way ;
For other things mild Heaven a time ordains,

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And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And, when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.

J. Milton.

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The Tritons dancing in a ring,
Before his palace gates do make
The water with their echoes quake,
Like the great thunder sounding :
The sea-nymphs chaunt their accents shrill,
And the Syrens taught to kill

With their sweet voice,
Make every echoing rock reply,
Unto their gentle murmuring noise,
The praise of Neptune's empery.

7. Campion.

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XVIII.

CIL,

HYMN TO DIANA.

QUEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair
State in wonted manner keep;

Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright.

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Earth, let not thy envious shade

Dare itself to interpose ;
Cynthia's shining orb was made
Heaven to clear when day did close :

Bless us then with wishéd sight,
Goddess excellently bright.

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Lay thy bow of pearl apart

And thy crystal-shining quiver ;
Give unto the flying hart
Space to breathe, how short soever :

Thou that mak’st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

B. Jonson.

XIX.

CIII.

WISHES FOR THE SUPPOSED MISTRESS.

WHOE’ER she be,
That not impossible She
That shall command my heart and me;

Where'er she lie,
Lock'd up from mortal eye
In shady leaves of destiny:

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Till that ripe birth
Of studied Fate stand forth,
And teach her fair steps tread our earth ;

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Till that divine
Idea take a shrine
Of crystal flesh, through which to shine :

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-Meet you her, my Wishes,
Bespeak her to my blisses,
And be ye call’d, my absent kisses.
I wish her beauty
That owes not all its duty
To gaudy tire, or glist’ring shoe-tie :
Something more than
Taffata or tissue can,
Or rampant feather, or rich fan.

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A face that's best
By its own beauty drest,
And can alone command the rest :

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A face made up
Out of no other shop
Than what Nature's white hand sets ope.

Sydnaean showers
Of sweet discourse, whose powers
Can crown old Winter's head with flowers.

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Whate'er delight
Can make day's forehead bright
Or give down to the wings of night.

Soft silken hours,
Open suns, shady bowers ;
'Bove all, nothing within that lowers.

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Days, that need borrow
No part of their good morrow
From a fore-spent night of sorrow:

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Days, that in spite
Of darkness, by the light
Of a clear mind are day all night.

Life, that dares send
A challenge to his end,
And when it comes, say, “Welcome, friend.'

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Let her full glory,
My fancies, fly before ye ;
Be ye my fictions :—but her story.

R. Crashaw.

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