I can fly, or I can run, Quickly to the green earth's end, Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend; And from thence can soar as soon Mortals, that would follow me. 1023 SONNETS. I. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love; O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretel my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. II. On his being arrived at the age of 23. How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, Stoln on his wing my three and twentieth year! My hasting days fly on with full career, But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th. And inward ripeness doth much less appear, Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the Will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. |