We, that are of purer fire, Imitate the starry quire ; Who, in their nightly watchful spheres, Lead in swift round the months and years. The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, Now to the moon in wavering morrice move ; And, on the tawny sands...
Comus: A Mask - Page 10
by John Milton - 1858 - 90 pages
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