From 'Arcades'
O'RE
the
smooth
enameld
green
Where
no
print
of
step
hath
been,
Follow
me
as
I
sing,
And
touch
the
warbled
string.
Under
the
shady
roof
Of
branching
Elm
Star-proof,
Follow
me,
I
will
bring
you
where
she
sits
Clad
in
splendor
as
befits
Her
deity.
Such
a
rural
Queen
All
Arcadia
hath
not
seen.
313.
From
'Comus'
i
THE
Star
that
bids
the
Shepherd
fold,
Now
the
top
of
Heav'n
doth
hold,
And
the
gilded
Car
of
Day,
His
glowing
Axle
doth
allay
In
the
steep
Atlantick
stream,
And
the
slope
Sun
his
upward
beam
Shoots
against
the
dusky
Pole,
Pacing
toward
the
other
gole
Of
his
Chamber
in
the
East.
Mean
while
welcom
Joy,
and
Feast,
Midnight
shout,
and
revelry,
Tipsie
dance,
and
Jollity.
Braid
your
Locks
with
rosie
Twine
Dropping
odours,
dropping
Wine.
Rigor
now
is
gon
to
bed,
And
Advice
with
scrupulous
head,
Strict
Age,
and
sowre
Severity,
With
their
grave
Saws
in
slumber
ly.
We
that
are
of
purer
fire
Imitate
the
Starry
Quire,
Who
in
their
nightly
watchfull
Sphears,
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
and
Shelves,
Trip
the
pert
Fairies
and
the
dapper
Elves;
By
dimpled
Brook,
and
Fountain
brim,
The
Wood-Nymphs
deckt
with
Daisies
trim,
Their
merry
wakes
and
pastimes
keep:
What
hath
night
to
do
with
sleep?
Night
hath
better
sweets
to
prove,
Venus
now
wakes,
and
wak'ns
Love....
Com,
knit
hands,
and
beat
the
ground,
In
a
light
fantastick
round.
John
Milton.
1608-1674
314.
From'
Comus'
ii.
Echo
SWEET
Echo,
sweetest
Nymph
that
liv'st
unseen
Within
thy
airy
shell
By
slow
Meander's
margent
green,
And
in
the
violet
imbroider'd
vale
Where
the
love-lorn
Nightingale
Nightly
to
thee
her
sad
Song
mourneth
well.
Canst
thou
not
tell
me
of
a
gentle
Pair
That
likest
thy
Narcissus
are?
O
if
thou
have
Hid
them
in
som
flowry
Cave,
Tell
me
but
where
Sweet
Queen
of
Parly,
Daughter
of
the
Sphear!
So
maist
thou
be
translated
to
the
skies,
And
give
resounding
grace
to
all
Heav'ns
Harmonies!
John
Milton.
1608-1674
315.
From'
Comus'
iii.
Sabrina
The
Spirit
sings:
SABRINA
fair
Listen
where
thou
art
sitting
Under
the
glassie,
cool,
translucent
wave,
In
twisted
braids
of
Lillies
knitting
The
loose
train
of
thy
amber-dropping
hair,
Listen
for
dear
honour's
sake,
Goddess
of
the
silver
lake,
Listen
and
save!
Listen
and
appear
to
us,
In
name
of
great
Oceanus,
By
the
earth-shaking
Neptune's
mace,
And
Tethys
grave
majestick
pace,
By
hoary
Nereus
wrincled
look,
And
the
Carpathian
wisards
hook,
By
scaly
Tritons
winding
shell,
And
old
sooth-saying
Glaucus
spell,
By
Leucothea's
lovely
hands,
And
her
son
that
rules
the
strands,
By
Thetis
tinsel-slipper'd
feet,
And
the
Songs
of
Sirens
sweet,
By
dead
Parthenope's
dear
tomb,
And
fair
Ligea's
golden
comb,
Wherwith
she
sits
on
diamond
rocks
Sleeking
her
soft
alluring
locks,
By
all
the
Nymphs
that
nightly
dance
Upon
thy
streams
with
wily
glance,
Rise,
rise,
and
heave
thy
rosie
head
From
thy
coral-pav'n
bed,
And
bridle
in
thy
headlong
wave,
Till
thou
our
summons
answered
have.
Listen
and
save!
Sabrina
replies:
By
the
rushy-fringed
bank,
Where
grows
the
Willow
and
the
Osier
dank,
My
sliding
Chariot
stayes,
Thick
set
with
Agat,
and
the
azurn
sheen
Of
Turkis
blew,
and
Emrauld
green
That
in
the
channell
strayes,
Whilst
from
off
the
waters
fleet
Thus
I
set
my
printless
feet
O're
the
Cowslips
Velvet
head,
That
bends
not
as
I
tread,
Gentle
swain
at
thy
request
I
am
here.
John
Milton.
1608-1674
316.
From
'Comus'
iv
The
Spirit
epiloguizes:
TO
the
Ocean
now
I
fly,
And
those
happy
climes
that
ly
Where
day
never
shuts
his
eye,
Up
in
the
broad
fields
of
the
sky:
There
I
suck
the
liquid
ayr
All
amidst
the
Gardens
fair
Of
Hesperus,
and
his
daughters
three
That
sing
about
the
golden
tree:
Along
the
crisped
shades
and
bowres
Revels
the
spruce
and
jocond
Spring,
The
Graces,
and
the
rosie-boosom'd
Howres,
Thither
all
their
bounties
bring,
That
there
eternal
Summer
dwels,
And
West
winds,
with
musky
wing
About
the
cedar'n
alleys
fling
Nard,
and
Cassia's
balmy
smels.
Iris
there
with
humid
bow,
Waters
the
odorous
banks
that
blow
Flowers
of
more
mingled
hew
Than
her
purfl'd
scarf
can
shew,
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
In
slumber
soft,
and
on
the
ground
Sadly
sits
th'
Assyrian
Queen;
But
far
above
in
spangled
sheen
Celestial
Cupid
her
fam'd
son
advanc't,
Holds
his
dear
Psyche
sweet
intranc't
After
her
wandring
labours
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,
Youth
and
Joy;
so
Jove
hath
sworn.
But
now
my
task
is
smoothly
don,
I
can
fly,
or
I
can
run
Quickly
to
the
green
earths
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
vertue,
she
alone
is
free.
She
can
teach
ye
how
to
clime
Higher
then
the
Spheary
chime;
Or
if
Vertue
feeble
were,
Heav'n
it
self
would
stoop
to
her.
YET
once
more,
O
ye
Laurels,
and
once
more
Ye
Myrtles
brown,
with
Ivy
never-sear,
I
com
to
pluck
your
Berries
harsh
and
crude,
And
with
forc'd
fingers
rude,
Shatter
your
leaves
before
the
mellowing
year.
Bitter
constraint,
and
sad
occasion
dear,
Compels
me
to
disturb
your
season
due:
For
Lycidas
is
dead,
dead
ere
his
prime
Young
Lycidas,
and
hath
not
left
his
peer:
Who
would
not
sing
for
Lycidas?
he
knew
Himself
to
sing,
and
build
the
lofty
rhyme.
He
must
not
flote
upon
his
watry
bear
Unwept,
and
welter
to
the
parching
wind,
Without
the
meed
of
som
melodious
tear.
Begin,
then,
Sisters
of
the
sacred
well,
That
from
beneath
the
seat
of
Jove
doth
spring,
Begin,
and
somwhat
loudly
sweep
the
string.
Hence
with
denial
vain,
and
coy
excuse,
So
may
som
gentle
Muse
With
lucky
words
favour
my
destin'd
Urn,
And
as
he
passes
turn,
And
bid
fair
peace
be
to
my
sable
shrowd.
For
we
were
nurst
upon
the
self-same
hill,
Fed
the
same
flock,
by
fountain,
shade,
and
rill.
Together
both,
ere
the
high
Lawns
appear'd
Under
the
opening
eye-lids
of
the
morn,
We
drove
a
field,
and
both
together
heard
What
time
the
Gray-fly
winds
her
sultry
horn,
Batt'ning
our
flocks
with
the
fresh
dews
of
night,
Oft
till
the
Star
that
rose,
at
Ev'ning,
bright
Toward
Heav'ns
descent
had
slop'd
his
westering
wheel.
Mean
while
the
Rural
ditties
were
not
mute,
Temper'd
to
th'Oaten
Flute;
Rough
Satyrs
danc'd,
and
Fauns
with
clov'n
heel,
From
the
glad
sound
would
not
be
absent
long,
And
old
Damaetas
lov'd
to
hear
our
song.
But
O
the
heavy
change,
now
thou
art
gon,
Now
thou
art
gon,
and
never
must
return!
Thee
Shepherd,
thee
the
Woods,
and
desert
Caves,
With
wilde
Thyme
and
the
gadding
Vine
o'regrown,
And
all
their
echoes
mourn.
The
Willows,
and
the
Hazle
Copses
green,
Shall
now
no
more
be
seen,
Fanning
their
joyous
Leaves
to
thy
soft
layes.
As
killing
as
the
Canker
to
the
Rose,
Or
Taint-worm
to
the
weanling
Herds
that
graze,
Or
Frost
to
Flowers,
that
their
gay
wardrop
wear,
When
first
the
White
thorn
blows;
Such,
Lycidas,
thy
loss
to
Shepherds
ear.
Where
were
ye
Nymphs
when
the
remorseless
deep
Clos'd
o're
the
head
of
your
lov'd
Lycidas?
For
neither
were
ye
playing
on
the
steep,
Where
your
old
Bards,
the
famous
Druids
ly,
Nor
on
the
shaggy
top
of
Mona
high,
Nor
yet
where
Deva
spreads
her
wisard
stream:
Ay
me,
I
fondly
dream!
Had
ye
bin
there--for
what
could
that
have
don?
What
could
the
Muse
her
self
that
Orpheus
bore,
The
Muse
her
self,
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
shore.
Alas!
what
boots
it
with
uncessant
care
To
tend
the
homely
slighted
Shepherds
trade,
And
strictly
meditate
the
thankles
Muse,
Were
it
not
better
don
as
others
use,
To
sport
with
Amaryllis
in
the
shade,
Or
with
the
tangles
of
Neaera's
hair?
Fame
is
the
spur
that
the
clear
spirit
doth
raise
(That
last
infirmity
of
Noble
mind)
To
scorn
delights,
and
live
laborious
dayes;
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,
And
slits
the
thin
spun
life.
But
not
the
praise,
Phoebus
repli'd,
and
touch'd
my
trembling
ears;
Fame
is
no
plant
that
grows
on
mortal
soil,
Nor
in
the
glistering
foil
Set
off
to
th'world,
nor
in
broad
rumour
lies,
But
lives
and
spreds
aloft
by
those
pure
eyes,
And
perfet
witnes
of
all
judging
Jove;
As
he
pronounces
lastly
on
each
deed,
Of
so
much
fame
in
Heav'n
expect
thy
meed.
O
fountain
Arethuse,
and
thou
honour'd
floud,
Smooth-sliding
Mincius,
crown'd
with
vocall
reeds,
That
strain
I
heard
was
of
a
higher
mood:
But
now
my
Oate
proceeds,
And
listens
to
the
Herald
of
the
Sea
That
came
in
Neptune's
plea,
He
ask'd
the
Waves,
and
ask'd
the
Fellon
winds,
What
hard
mishap
hath
doom'd
this
gentle
swain?
And
question'd
every
gust
of
rugged
wings
That
blows
from
off
each
beaked
Promontory,
They
knew
not
of
his
story,
And
sage
Hippotades
their
answer
brings,
That
not
a
blast
was
from
his
dungeon
stray'd,
The
Ayr
was
calm,
and
on
the
level
brine,
Sleek
Panope
with
all
her
sisters
play'd.
It
was
that
fatall
and
perfidious
Bark
Built
in
th'eclipse,
and
rigg'd
with
curses
dark,
That
sunk
so
low
that
sacred
head
of
thine.
Next
Camus,
reverend
Sire,
went
footing
slow,
His
Mantle
hairy,
and
his
Bonnet
sedge,
Inwrought
with
figures
dim,
and
on
the
edge
Like
to
that
sanguine
flower
inscrib'd
with
woe.
Ah;
Who
hath
reft
(quoth
he)
my
dearest
pledge?
Last
came,
and
last
did
go,
The
Pilot
of
the
Galilean
lake,
Two
massy
Keyes
he
bore
of
metals
twain,
(The
Golden
opes,
the
Iron
shuts
amain)
He
shook
his
Miter'd
locks,
and
stern
bespake,
How
well
could
I
have
spar'd
for
thee,
young
swain,
Anow
of
such
as
for
their
bellies
sake,
Creep
and
intrude,
and
climb
into
the
fold?
Of
other
care
they
little
reck'ning
make,
Then
how
to
scramble
at
the
shearers
feast,
And
shove
away
the
worthy
bidden
guest.
Blind
mouthes!
that
scarce
themselves
know
how
to
hold
A
Sheep-hook,
or
have
learn'd
ought
els
the
least
That
to
the
faithfull
Herdmans
art
belongs!
What
recks
it
them?
What
need
they?
They
are
sped;
And
when
they
list,
their
lean
and
flashy
songs
Grate
on
their
scrannel
Pipes
of
wretched
straw,
The
hungry
Sheep
look
up,
and
are
not
fed,
But
swoln
with
wind,
and
the
rank
mist
they
draw,
Rot
inwardly,
and
foul
contagion
spread:
Besides
what
the
grim
Woolf
with
privy
paw
Daily
devours
apace,
and
nothing
sed,
But
that
two-handed
engine
at
the
door,
Stands
ready
to
smite
once,
and
smite
no
more.
Return
Alpheus,
the
dread
voice
is
past,
That
shrunk
thy
streams;
Return
Sicilian
Muse,
And
call
the
Vales,
and
bid
them
hither
cast
Their
Bels,
and
Flourets
of
a
thousand
hues.
Ye
valleys
low
where
the
milde
whispers
use,
Of
shades
and
wanton
winds,
and
gushing
brooks,
On
whose
fresh
lap
the
swart
Star
sparely
looks,
Throw
hither
all
your
quaint
enameld
eyes,
That
on
the
green
terf
suck
the
honied
showres,
And
purple
all
the
ground
with
vernal
flowres.
Bring
the
rathe
Primrose
that
forsaken
dies.
The
tufted
Crow-toe,
and
pale
Gessamine,
The
white
Pink,
and
the
Pansie
freakt
with
jeat,
The
glowing
Violet.
The
Musk-rose,
and
the
well
attir'd
Woodbine.
With
Cowslips
wan
that
hang
the
pensive
hed,
And
every
flower
that
sad
embroidery
wears:
Bid
Amaranthus
all
his
beauty
shed,
And
Daffadillies
fill
their
cups
with
tears,
To
strew
the
Laureat
Herse
where
Lycid
lies.
For
so
to
interpose
a
little
ease,
Let
our
frail
thoughts
dally
with
false
surmise.
Ay
me!
Whilst
thee
the
shores,
and
sounding
Seas
Wash
far
away,
where
ere
thy
bones
are
hurld,
Whether
beyond
the
stormy
Hebrides,
Where
thou
perhaps
under
the
whelming
tide
Visit'st
the
bottom
of
the
monstrous
world;
Or
whether
thou
to
our
moist
vows
deny'd,
Sleep'st
by
the
fable
of
Bellerus
old,
Where
the
great
vision
of
the
guarded
Mount
Looks
toward
Namancos
and
Bayona's
hold;
Look
homeward
Angel
now,
and
melt
with
ruth.
And,
O
ye
Dolphins,
waft
the
haples
youth.
Weep
no
more,
woful
Shepherds
weep
no
more,
For
Lycidas
your
sorrow
is
not
dead,
Sunk
though
he
be
beneath
the
watry
floar,
So
sinks
the
day-star
in
the
Ocean
bed,
And
yet
anon
repairs
his
drooping
head,
And
tricks
his
beams,
and
with
new
spangled
Ore,
Flames
in
the
forehead
of
the
morning
sky:
So
Lycidas
sunk
low,
but
mounted
high,
Through
the
dear
might
of
him
that
walk'd
the
waves
Where
other
groves,
and
other
streams
along,
With
Nectar
pure
his
oozy
Lock's
he
laves,
And
hears
the
unexpressive
nuptiall
Song,
In
the
blest
Kingdoms
meek
of
joy
and
love.
There
entertain
him
all
the
Saints
above,
In
solemn
troops,
and
sweet
Societies
That
sing,
and
singing
in
their
glory
move,
And
wipe
the
tears
for
ever
from
his
eyes.
Now
Lycidas
the
Shepherds
weep
no
more;
Hence
forth
thou
art
the
Genius
of
the
shore,
In
thy
large
recompense,
and
shalt
be
good
To
all
that
wander
in
that
perilous
flood.
Thus
sang
the
uncouth
Swain
to
th'Okes
and
rills,
While
the
still
morn
went
out
with
Sandals
gray,
He
touch'd
the
tender
stops
of
various
Quills,
With
eager
thought
warbling
his
Dorick
lay:
And
now
the
Sun
had
stretch'd
out
all
the
hills,
And
now
was
dropt
into
the
Western
bay;
At
last
he
rose,
and
twitch'd
his
Mantle
blew:
To
morrow
to
fresh
Woods,
and
Pastures
new.
