Song OF THE SHEPHERDS, IN PRAISE OF PAN. SING his praises that doth keep Our flocks from harm, Pan, the father of our sheep; And arm in arm Tread we softly in a round, While the hollow neighbouring ground Fills the music with her sound. Pan, oh, great god Pan, to thee Thus do we sing: Thou that keepst us chaste and free, Ever be thy honour spoke, From that place the morn is broke, To that place day doth unyoke! FLETCHER. The Triumph of Charis. SEE the chariot at hand here of Love, Each that draws is a swan or a dove, As she goes, all hearts do duty Unto her beauty; And enamoured, do wish, so they might But enjoy such a sight, That they still were to run by her side, Through swords, through seas, whither she would ride, Do but look on her eyes, they do light As Love's star when it riseth! Than words that soothe her: And from her arched brows, such a grace Sheds itself through the face, As alone there triumphs to the life All the gain, all the good of the elements' strife. Have you seen but a bright lily grow, Before rude hands have touched it? Have you marked but the fall of the snow, Have you felt the wool of the beaver? Or swan's down ever? Or have smelt o' the bud of the briar? Or the nard in the fire? Or have tasted the bag of the bee? O so white! O so soft! O so sweet is she! To my Mother. BEN JONSON. AND canst thou, MOTHER, for a moment think Or shun thee, tottering on the grave's cold brink. KIRKE WHITE. Ode on Solitude. WRITTEN WHEN HE WAS TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. HAPPY the man whose wish and care A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground: Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, Whose flocks supply him with attire, Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire. Blest who can unconcernedly find Hours, days, and years slide soft away, In health of body, peace of mind, Quiet by day. Sound sleep by night; study and ease, Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; Steal from the world, and not a stone Tell where I lie. POPE. Sonnet. TO CYRIAC SKINNER. CYRIAC, this three years day these eyes, though clear, Bereft of light their seeing have forgot, Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask? The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overplied In liberty's defence, my noble task, Of which all Europe talks from side to side. This thought might lead me through the world's vain masque, Content though blind, had I no better guide. Fancy. EVER let the Fancy roam, At a touch sweet Pleasure melteth, MILTON. |