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Summer drouth, or singed air

Never scorch thy tresses fair,

Nor wet October's torrent flood 940

Thy molten crystal fill with mud;

May thy billows roll ashore

The beryl, and the golden ore;

May thy lofty head be crown'd

With many a tow'r and terras round, 945

And here and there thy banks upon

With groves of myrrhe, and cinnamon.

Come, Lady, while Heav'n lends us grace, Let us fly this cursed place,

Lest the sorcerer us entice 950

With some other new device.
Not a waste, or needless found,
Till we come to holier ground;
I shall be your faithful guide

Through this gloomy covert wide, 955

And no*t many furlongs thence
Is your Father's residence,
Where this night are met in state
Many a friend to gratulate

His wish'd presence, and beside 960

All the swains that near abide,
With jigs, and rural dance resort;
We shall catch them at their sport,
And our sudden coming there
Will double all their mirth and chear; 965


Come let us haste, the stars grow high,
But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.

The Scene changes, presenting Ludlow town and the President's cajlle; then come in country dancers, after them the attendent Spirit, with the two Brothers and the Lady.

Spir. Back, Shepherds, back, enough your play,
Till next fun-shine holiday;
Here be without duck or nod 970

Other trippings to be trod
Of lighter toes, and such court guise
As Mercury did first devise
With the mincing Dryades
On the lawns, and on the leas. 975

This second Song presents them to their Father and Mother.

Noble Lord, and Lady bright,

I have brought ye new delight,

Here behold so goodly grown

Three fair branches of your own;

Heav'n hath timely try'd their youth, 980

Their faith, their patience, and their truth,

And sent them here through hard assays With a crown of deathless praise,

To triumph in victorious dance O'er sensual folly, and intemperance. 985

The The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes. Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;

Spir. To the ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that lie
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I fuck the liquid air
All amidst the gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,
The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Thither all their bounties bring:
That there eternal Summer dwells,
And west-winds with musky-wing
About the cedarn alleys fling
Nard and Cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow
Waters the odorous banks, that blow
Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of hyacinth and roses,
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In flumber soft, and on the ground

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But far above in spangled sheen

Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc'd,

Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc'd, 1015

After her wand'ring labors long,

Till free consent the Gods among

Make her his eternal bride,

And from her fair unspotted side

Two blissful twins are to be born, 1020

Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.

But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin flow doth bend, 1025 And from thence can soar as soon To the corners of the moon.

Mortals that would follow me, . .

Love Virtue, she alone is free,
She can teach ye how to clime 1030

Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heav'n itself would stoop to her.

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L T C I D A s.

In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown d in his passage from Chefler on the Irifh seas, 1637, and by occasion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never fere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
Bitter constraint, and fad occasion dear,
Compels 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 sing for Lycidas? he knew 10
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhime.
He must not fiote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, 15

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse,
So may some gentle Muse

With lucky words favor my destin'd urn, 20

And as he passes turn,


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