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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 eyelids 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 quire below,
In service high, and anthems clear,
As may with sweetness, through mine ear
Dissolve me into ecstacies,
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 shew,
And ev'ry herb that sips the dew;
Till old Experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.
These pleasures, Melancholy, give,
And I with thee will choose to live. M11.TON.

CHAP. XVIII.
MORNING HYMN.

These are thy glorious works, Parent of good;
Almighty thine this universal frame,
Thus wondrous fairl thyself how wondrous then!.
Unspeakable! who sitt'st above these Heav'ns,
To us invisible, or dimly seen -
In these thy lowliest works: yet these declare
Thy goodness beyond thought, and pow'r divine.
Speak ye, who best can tell, ye sons of light,
Angels; for ye behold him, and with songs
And coral symphonies, day without night,
Circle his throne rejoicing; ye in Heav'n,
On earth join all ye creatures to extol
Him first, him last, him midst, and without end.
Fairest of stars, last in the train of night,
If better thou belong not to the dawn,
Sure pledge of day, that crown'st the smiling morn
With thy bright circlet, praise him in thy sphere,
While day arises, that sweet hour of prime.
Thou Sun, of this great world both eye and soul,
Acknowledge him thy greater; sound his praise
In thy eternal course, both when thou climb'st,
And when high noon hast gain'd, and when thou fall'st.
Moon, that now meet'st the orient Sun, now fly'st
With the fix'd stars, fix'd in their orb that flies;
And ye five other wand'ring fires, that move -
In mystic dance, not without song, resound
His praise, who out of darkness call’d up light.
Air, and ye elements, the eldest birth
Of Nature's womb, that in quatermion run
Perpetual circle, multiform, and mix,
And nourish all things; let your ceaseless change
Vary to our great Maker still new praise.
Ye mists, and exhalations, that now rise
From hill or streaming lake, dusky or gray,
Till the Sun paint your fleecy skirts with gold,
In honour to the world's great Author rise;

Whether to deck with clouds th' uncolour'd sky,
Or wet the thirsty earth with falling show'rs,
Rising, or falling, still advance his praise.
His praise, ye winds, that from four quarters blow,
Breathe soft or loud; and wave your tops, ye pines, ,
With ev'ry plant, in sign of worship wave.
Fountains, and ye that warble, as ye flow,
Melodious murmurs, warbling tune his praise.
Join voices all ye living souls; ye birds,
That singing up to Heaven-gate ascend,
Bear on your wings, and in your notes his praise,
Ye that in waters glide, and ye that walk
The earth, and stately tread, or lowly creep;
Witness if I be silent, morn or ev'n,
To hill or valley, fountain or fresh shade,
Made vocal by my song, and taught his praise.
Hail, universal Lord! be bounteous still
To give us only good: and if the night
Have gather'd aught of evil, or conceal’d,
Disperse it, as now light dispels the dark. MILTON.

***********

CHAP. XIX. .
THE PROGRESS OF LIFE.

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely play'rs:
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 schoolboy, with his satchel, o
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' eyebrow. 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 saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
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 childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness, and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans ev'ry thing.

SHAKSPEARE CHAP. XX. THE ENTRY OF BOLINGBROKE AND RICHARD INTO LONDON.

DUKE AND Duchess of York.

Duch. My lord, you told me you would tell the rest, When weeping made you break the story off, Of our two cousins coming into London. York. Where did I leave? Duch. At that sad stop, my lord, - Where rude, misgovern'd hands, from window-tops, Threw dust and rubbish on king Richard's head. York. Then, as I said, the duke, great Bolingbroke, 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 cried, 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 Upon his visage: and that all the walls With painted imag'ry had said at once .s.. .

Jesu preserve thee! welcome Bolingbroke
While he, from one side to the other turning,
Bare headed, lower than his proud steed's neck,
Bespoke them thus: I thank you, countrymen;
And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.
Duch. Alas! poor Richard, where rides he the while
York. As in a theatre, the eyes of men,
After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage,
Are idly bent on him that enters next,
Thinking his prattle to be tedious:
Ev’n so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes
Did scowl on Richard: no man cried, God save him?
No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home:
But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;
Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off
(His face still combating with tears and smiles,
The badges of his grief and patience,)
That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd
The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,
And barbarism itself have pitied him.
But Heaven hath a hand in these events,
To whose high will we bound our calm contents.
SHAKSPEARE.

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—Reason thus with life:
If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing
That none but fools would reck: a breath thou art,
Servile to all the skyey influences,
That do this habitation, where thou keep'st,
Hourly afflict; merely thou art death's fool;
For him thou labour'st by thy flight to shun,
And yet runn'st tow'rd him still. Thou art not noble;
For all th’ accommodations that thou bear'st
Are nurs'd by baseness : thou'rt by no means valiant;
For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork
Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep.

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