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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
To the corners of the moon.

Mortals, that would follow me.
Love Virtue; she alone is free:
She can teach ye how to clime
Higher than the sphery chime;
Or if Virtue feeble were,
Heaven itself would stoop to her.

1023

SONNETS

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.

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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.
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near;

And inward ripeness doth much less appear,
That some more timely-happy spirits endu❜th.

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.

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