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The dances ended, the Spirit epiloguizes.
Spir. To the ocean now I fly,
All amidst the gardens fair
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, 995
The Graces, and the rosy-bofom'd Hours,
Thither all their bounties bring:
That there eternal Summer dwells,
And west-winds with musky-wing
About the cedarn alleys fling 1000
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, 1005
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 1010
In flumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly Sadly sits th' Assyrian queen;
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,
Higher than the sphery chime;
In this monody the author bewails a learned friend, unfortunately drown d in his passage from Chester on the Irifli seas, 1637, and by occafwn foretels the ruin of our corrupted clergy, then in their highth.
YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more
Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well, 15
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,
With lucky words favor my destin'd urn, 20
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud.
Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd 25
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with cloven heel From the glad sound would not be absent long, 35 And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song.
But O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
The willows and the hazel copses green,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
K k Where Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 51
For neither were ye playing on the steep,
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream :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 universal nature did lament,
When by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His goary visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian Qiore?
Alas! What boots it with incessant care To tend the homely flighted shepherd's trade, 65 And strickly 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 spirit doth raise 70 (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; But the fair guerdon when we hope to find, And think to burst out into sudden blaze, Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, 75 And flits the thin-spun life. But not the praise, Phœbus reply'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;