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Lycidas.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occafion foretells the ruine of our corrupted Clergie then in their height.

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once

more

Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter leaves before the mellowing year.

your

Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compells me to disturb your season 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 fom 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.

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Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,
So may fome gentle Muse

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

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And bid fair peace be to my fable shrowd.
For we were nurft upon the self-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, 30
Toward Heav'ns defcent had flop'd his weftering
wheel.

Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute,
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute;

Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns 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 green,

Shall now no more be seen,

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

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

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs to Shepherds ear.

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Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep, Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, ly, Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva spreads her wifard stream :
Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye bin there-for what could that have don?
What could the Mufe her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Muse her self for her inchanting fon
Whom Univerfal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary vifage down the ftream was fent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian fhore.

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Alafs! What boots it with unceffant care
To end the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And strictly 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 70
(That last infirmity of Noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears,
And flits the thin fpun life. But not the praise,
Phœbus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil

Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 80

But lives and fpreds aloft by those pure eyes,
And perfet witnes of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.

O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood: But now my Oat proceeds,

And liftens to the Herald of the Sea

That came in Neptune's plea,

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He afk'd the Waves, and afk'd the Fellon Winds,
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle fwain?
And question'd every gust 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 blast was from his dungeon ftray'd,
The Air was calm, and on the level brine,
Sleek Panope with all her fifters play'd.
It was that fatal and perfidious Bark
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark,
That funk fo low that facred head of thine.

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Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing flow, His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet fedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that fanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?

Laft came, and laft did go,

The Pilot of the Galilean lake,

Two maffy Keyes he bore of metals twain,
(The Golden opes, the Iron fhuts amain)
He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern befpake,

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How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain,
Anow of fuch as for their bellies fake,
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold?
Of other care they little reck'ning make,
Then how to scramble at the fhearers feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest;
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how
to hold

A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are

fped;

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And when they lift, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their fcrannel Pipes of wretched ftraw,
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed,
But fwoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread :
Befides what the grim Woolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing fed,
But that two-handed engine at the door,
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past,
That shrunk thy ftreams; Return Sicilian Muse,
And call the Vales, and bid them hither caft
Their Bells, and Flourets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use,
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes,
That on the green terf fuck the honied fhowres,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres.
Bring the rathe Primrose that forfaken dies.

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