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The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes.

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 fing about the golden tree:

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Along the crisped shades and bowers

Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,

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The Graces, and the rofy-bofom'd Hours,

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And drenches with Elyfian dew
(Lift 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

ΙΟΙΟ

Sadly

Sadly fits th' Affyrian queen;

But far above in spangled sheen

Celestial Cupid her fam'd fon advanc'd,

Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc'd,
After her wand'ring labors long,
Till free confent the Gods among
Make her his eternal bride,

And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; fo Jove hath fworn.
But now my task is smoothly done,

I can fly, or I can run

Quickly to the green earth's end,

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XVII.

LYCIDA S.

In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown'd in his paffage from Chefter on the Irish feas, 1637, and by occafion foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.

ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more

YET

Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sere,

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude

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Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 5
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your feafon 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 rhime.-
He must not flote upon his watry bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the string.
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

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And bid fair peace be to my fable shroud.
For we were nurst upon the self-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock by fountain, shade, and rill.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25
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 ftar that rofe, at evening, bright,
Tow'ard Heav'n's descent had flop'd his weft'ring
Mean while the rural ditties were not mute, (wheel.
Temper'd to th'oaten flute,

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Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad found would not be abfent long, 35 And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods, and defert caves With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn.

The willows and the hazel copfes green,

Shall now no more be seen,

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Fanning their joyous leaves to thy foft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,

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Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or froft to flow'rs, that their gay wardrobe wear, When firft the white-thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas; thy lofs to fhepherds ear.

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Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorfelefs deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas?

For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the fhaggy top of Mona high,

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Nor yet where Deva spreads her wifard ftream:55
Ay me! I fondly dream

Had ye been there, for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself for her inchanting son,
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 shore?
Alas! What boots it with inceffant care
To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade, 65
And ftrickly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair?

Fame is the spur that the clear spi'rit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious days;
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, 75
And flits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,
Phoebus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;

Fame

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