O help! O help! I fee it faint:
And die as calmly as a Saint.

See how it weeps. The Tears do come
Sad, flowly dropping like a Gumme,
So weeps the wounded Balfome: fo
The holy Frankincense doth flow.
The brotherlefs Heliades

Melt in fuch Amber Tears as these.
I in a golden vial will

Keep these two crystal Tears; and fill
It till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's Shrine.

Now my fweet Fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the Swans and Turtles go:
In fair Elyzium to endure,

With milk-white Lambs, and Ermins pure,
O do not run too faft: for I

Will but befpeak thy Grave, and die,
Firft my unhappy Statue shall
Be cut in Marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too: but there
Th' Engraver fure his Art may spare;
For I fo truely thee bemoan,

That I fhall weep though I be Stone:
Until my Tears, ftill dropping, wear
My breaft, themselves engraving there.
There at my feet fhalt thou be laid,
Of pureft Alabafter made:

For I would have thine Image be
White as I can, though not as Thee

YOUNG

Co

LOVE.

By Andrew Marvell, Efq

I.

Ome little Infant, Love me now,
While thine unfuspected years

Clear thine aged Father's brow
From cold Jealousie and Fears.

II.

Pretty furely 'twere to fee

By young Love old Time beguil'd; While our Sportings are as free

As the Nurses with the Child.

Common Beauties stay fifteen ;
Such as yours fhould swifter move;
Whofe fair Bloffoms are too green
Yet for Luft, but not for Love.

IV.

Love as much the fnowy Lamb,
Or the wanton Kid, does prize,
As the lufty Bull or Ram,

For his morning Sacrifice.

V.

Now then love me: time may take
Thee before thy time away,
Of this Need we'll Virtue make,
And learn Love before we may.
V I.

So we win of doubtful Fate;
And, if good fhe to us meant,
We that Good fhall antedate,
Or, if ill, that Ill prevent..
VII..
Thus as Kingdoms, fruftrating
Other Titles to their Crown,
In the cradle crown their King,.
So all Foreign Claims to drown

VIII.

So, to make all Rivals vain,

Now I crown thee with my I.ove:
Crown me with thy Love again,
And we both fhall Monarchs prove.

L Y C
YCI D

I D A S.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his Paffage from Chetter on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.

By Mr. Milton.

YET once more, ved once

ET once more, O'ye Laurels, and once more

1- come to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,
Bitter conftraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your feafon due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas ? he knew ~
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the ftring,
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,

So may fome gentle Muse

With lucky words favour my deftin'd Urn
And as he paffes turn,-

And bid fair peace be to my fable shrowd.
For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock, by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the Gray-fly winds her fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rofe, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns descent had flop'd hiswesteringwheel.
Mear while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th' Oaten Flute,

Rough, Satyrs danc'd, and Fans with clov'n heel,
From the glad found would not be abfent long,
And old Damatas lov'd to hear our fong,

But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and defert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazle Copfes greens 7:2
Shall now no more be feen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy foft layes
As killing as the Canker to the Rofe,

Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Froft to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When firft the White thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to Shepherds ear.

Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deeg
Clos'd o're the head of your lov❜d Lycidas è
For neither were ye playing on the steep, :
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly,
Not on the haggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wifard ftream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye bin there---for what could that have done
What could the Mufe her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe her felf, for her inchanting son

Whom Univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the stream was fent,
Down the fwift Hebrus to the Lethian fhore.
Alas! What boots it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And ftri&tly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better don as others use,
To fport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neara's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That laft infirmity of Noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
Har) But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,

Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears,
And flits the thin-fpun Life. But not the praise,
Phabus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal foil,
Nor in the gliftering foil

Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and fpreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfect witness of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

Offo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethufe, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,

And liftens to the Herald of the Sea-
That came in Neptune's plea,

He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle fwain?
And queftion'd every guft of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his story;

And fage Hippotades their answer brings,

That not a blaft was from his dungeon ftray'd,