And sable stole of cypress lawn,
Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come, but keep thy wonted state,
With even step and masing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till
With a sad leaden downward cast,
Thou fix them on the earth as fast.
And join with thee caim Peace, and Quiet,
Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet,
And hear the Muses in a ring
Aye round about Jove's altar sing;
And add to these retired Leisure,
That in trim gardens takes his pleasure; .
But first and chiefest with thee bring,
Him that yon soars on golden wing,
Guiding the fi'ry-wheeled throne,
The cherub Contemplation:
And the mute Silence hist along,
'Less Philomel will deign a song,
In his sweetest, saddest plight,
Smoothing the rugged brow of Night,
While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke,
Gently o'er th' accustom❜d'oak:
Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly,
Most musical, most melancholy !
Thee, chantress, oft the woods among,
I woo to hear thy ev'ning song:
And missing thee, I walk unseen
On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wand'ring Moon,
Riding near her highest noon, -
Like one that had been led astray.
Through the Heav'n's wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.
Oft on a plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Cutiew sound,
Over some wide water'd shore,
Swinging slow with sullen roar.
Or if the air will not permit,
Some still, removed place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm,
To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or le my lan p at vidnight hour,
Be seen on some high lonely tow 'r
Where I may oft cut watch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere
The spirit of Plato, to unfold
What worlds, or what vast regions hold
Th'immortal mind, that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook;
And of those demons that are found
In fire, air flood, or unde ground,
Whose power hath a true consent
With planet or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In scepter'd pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine,
Or what (though rare) of later age,
Enobled hath the buskin'd stage.
But, O sad virgin! that thy pow'r
Might raise Museus from his bow'r, .
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Heil grant what Love did seek;
Or call up him that left half cold
The story of Cambu can bold,
Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
An who had Canace to wife,
That own'd the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wond'rous hors eof brass,
On which the Tartar king did ride:
And it aught else, great bards beside,
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of tourneys and of trophies hung;
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Thus Night oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,
Not trick'd and flounc'd as she was wont
With the attic boy to hunt,
But kerchief'd in a comely cloud,
While rocking winds are piping loud,
Or usher'd with a shower still,
When the gust hath blown his fill,
Ending on the rustling leaves,
With minute drops from off the eaves.
And when the sun begins to fling
His flaring beams, me, Goddess, bring
To arched walks of twilight groves,
And shadows brown, that Sylvan loves
Of pine or monumental oak,
Where the rude ax with heaved stroke,
Was never heard, the Nymphs to daunt,
Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
There in close covert by some brook,
Where no profaner eye may look,
Hide me from day's garish eye,
While the bee with honey'd thigh,
That at her flow'ry work doth sing,
And the waters murmuring,
With such concert as they keep,
Entice the dewy feather'd Sleep:
And let some strange mysterious dream
Wave at his wings in airy stream
Of lively portraiture display'd,
Softly on my eye lids laid:
And as I wake sweet music breathe
Above, about, or underneath,
Sent by some spirit to mortals good,
Or th' unseen Genius of the wood.
But let my due feet never fail
To walk the studious cloister's pale,
And love the high imbowed roof,
With antique pillars massy proof,
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim religious light.
There let the pealing organ blow,
To the full voiced choir below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear
Dissolve me into extacies,
And bring all heav'n before mine eyes,
And may at last my weary age
Find out the peaceful hermitage,
The hairy gown and mossy cell,
Where I may sit and rightly spell,
Of ev'ry star that heav'n doth show,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew:
Till old Experience do attain
Te something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live.
ALL the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits, and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. First the infant,
Muling and puking in the nurse's arms;
And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel,
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woful ballad.
Made to his mistress' eye-brow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Ev'n in the cannon's mouth.
And then the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lin❜d, With eyes severe, and beard of formal cut, Full of wise laws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age Into the lean and slipper'd pantaloon ; With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well sav❜d, a world too wide For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice, Turning again toward the childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends his strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans every thing. SHAKSPEARET
THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD IN LONDON.
DUKE AND DUCHESS OF YORK.
DUCH. My Lord, you told me you would tell
When weeping made you break the story off,
Of our two cousins coming into London.
YORK. Where did Fleave?
DUCH. At that sad stop, my Lord,
Where rude misgovern'd hands from window.tops,
Threw dust and rubbish on King Kichard's head.
YORK. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Boling-
broke,
Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed,
Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,
With slow, but stately pace, kept on his course;
While all tongues cry'd, God save thee, Bolingbroke!
You would have thought the very windows spake,
So many greedy looks of young and old
Through casements darted their desiring eyes
A a ?
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