L'Allegro
Hence,
loathed
Melancholy,
Of
Cerberus
and
blackest
Midnight
born
In
Stygian
cave
forlorn
'Mongst
horrid
shapes,
and
shrieks,
and
sights
unholy!
Find
out
some
uncouth
cell,
Where
brooding
Darkness
spreads
his
jealous
wings,
And
the
night-raven
sings;
There,
under
ebon
shades
and
low-browed
rocks,
As
ragged
as
thy
locks,
In
dark
Cimmerian
desert
ever
dwell.
But
come,
thou
Goddess
fair
and
free,
In
heaven
yclept
Euphrosyne,
And
by
men
heart-easing
Mirth;
Whom
lovely
Venus,
at
a
birth,
With
two
sister
Graces
more,
To
ivy-crowned
Bacchus
bore:
Or
whether
(as
some
sager
sing)
The
frolic
wind
that
breathes
the
spring,
Zephyr,
with
Aurora
pIaying,
As
he
met
her
once
a-Maying,
There,
on
beds
of
violets
blue,
And
fresh-blown
roses
washed
in
dew,
Filled
her
with
thee,
a
daughter
fair,
So
buxom,
blithe,
and
debonair.
Haste
thee,
Nymph,
and
bring
with
thee
Jest,
and
youthful
Jollity,
Quips
and
cranks
and
wanton
wiles,
Nods
and
becks
and
wreathed
smiles
Such
as
hang
on
Hebe's
cheek,
And
love
to
live
in
dimple
sleek;
Sport
that
wrinkled
Care
derides,
And
Laughter
holding
both
his
sides.
Come,
and
trip
it,
as
you
go,
On
the
light
fantastic
toe;
And
in
thy
right
hand
lead
with
thee
The
mountain-nymph,
sweet
Liberty;
And,
if
I
give
thee
honour
due,
Mirth,
admit
me
of
thy
crew,
To
live
with
her,
and
live
with
thee,
In
unreproved
pleasures
free:
To
hear
the
lark
begin
his
flight,
And,
singing,
startle
the
dull
night,
From
his
watch-tower
in
the
skies,
Till
the
dappled
dawn
doth
rise;
Then
to
come,
in
spite
of
sorrow,
And
at
my
window
bid
good-morrow,
Through
the
sweet-briar
or
the
vine,
Or
the
twisted
eglantine;
While
the
cock,
with
lively
din,
Scatters
the
rear
of
darkness
thin,
And
to
the
stack,
or
the
barn-door,
Stoutly
struts
his
dames
before:
Oft
listening
how
the
hounds
and
horn
Cheerly
rouse
the
slumbering
morn,
From
the
side
of
some
hoar
hill,
Through
the
high
wood
echoing
shrill:
Sometime
walking,
not
unseen,
By
hedgerow
elms,
on
hillocks
green,
Right
against
the
eastern
gate
Where
the
great
Sun
begins
his
state,
Robed
in
flames
and
amber
light,
The
clouds
in
thousand
liveries
dight;
While
the
ploughman,
near
at
hand,
Whistles
o'er
the
furrowed
land,
And
the
milkmaid
singeth
blithe,
And
the
mower
whets
his
scythe,
And
every
shepherd
tells
his
tale
Under
the
hawthorn
in
the
dale.
Straight
mine
eye
hath
caught
new
pleasures,
Whilst
the
landskip
round
it
measures:
Russet
lawns,
and
fallows
grey,
Where
the
nibbling
flocks
do
stray;
Mountains
on
whose
barren
breast
The
labouring
clouds
do
often
rest;
Meadows
trim,
with
daisies
pied;
Shallow
brooks,
and
rivers
wide;
Towers
and
battlements
it
sees
Bosomed
high
in
tufted
trees,
Where
perhaps
some
beauty
lies,
The
cynosure
of
neighbouring
eyes.
Hard
by
a
cottage
chimney
smokes
From
betwixt
two
aged
oaks,
Where
Corydon
and
Thyrsis
met
Are
at
their
savoury
dinner
set
Of
herbs
and
other
country
messes,
Which
the
neat-handed
Phyllis
dresses;
And
then
in
haste
her
bower
she
leaves,
With
Thestylis
to
bind
the
sheaves;
Or,
if
the
earlier
season
lead,
To
the
tanned
haycock
in
the
mead.
Sometimes,
with
secure
delight,
The
upland
hamlets
will
invite,
When
the
merry
bells
ring
round,
And
the
jocund
rebecks
sound
To
many
a
youth
and
many
a
maid
Dancing
in
the
chequered
shade,
And
young
and
old
come
forth
to
play
On
a
sunshine
holiday,
Till
the
livelong
daylight
fail:
Then
to
the
spicy
nut-brown
ale,
With
stories
told
of
many
a
feat,
How
Faery
Mab
the
junkets
eat.
She
was
pinched
and
pulled,
she
said;
And
he,
by
Friar's
lantern
led,
Tells
how
the
drudging
goblin
sweat
To
earn
his
cream-bowl
duly
set,
When
in
one
night,
ere
glimpse
of
morn,
His
shadowy
flail
hath
threshed
the
corn
That
ten
day-labourers
could
not
end;
Then
lies
him
down,
the
lubber
fiend,
And,
stretched
out
all
the
chimney's
length,
Basks
at
the
fire
his
hairy
strength,
And
crop-full
out
of
doors
he
flings,
Ere
the
first
cock
his
matin
rings.
Thus
done
the
tales,
to
bed
they
creep,
By
whispering
winds
soon
lulled
asleep.
Towered
cities
please
us
then,
And
the
busy
hum
of
men,
Where
throngs
of
knights
and
barons
bold,
In
weeds
of
peace,
high
triumphs
hold
With
store
of
ladies,
whose
bright
eyes
Rain
influence,
and
judge
the
prize
Of
wit
or
arms,
while
both
contend
To
win
her
grace
whom
all
commend.
There
let
Hymen
oft
appear
In
saffron
robe,
with
taper
clear,
And
pomp,
and
feast,
and
revelry,
With
mask
and
antique
pageantry;
Such
sights
as
youthful
poets
dream
On
summer
eves
by
haunted
stream.
Then
to
the
well-trod
stage
anon,
If
Jonson's
learned
sock
be
on,
Or
sweetest
Shakespeare,
Fancy's
child,
Warble
his
native
wood-notes
wild.
And
ever,
against
eating
cares,
Lap
me
in
soft
Lydian
airs,
Married
to
immortal
verse,
Such
as
the
meeting
soul
may
pierce,
In
notes
with
many
a
winding
bout
Of
linked
sweetness
long
drawn
out
With
wanton
heed
and
giddy
cunning,
The
melting
voice
through
mazes
running,
Untwisting
all
the
chains
that
tie
The
hidden
soul
of
harmony;
That
Orpheus'
self
may
heave
his
head
From
golden
slumber
on
a
bed
Of
heaped
Elysian
flowers,
and
hear
Such
strains
as
would
have
won
the
ear
Of
Pluto
to
have
quite
set
free
His
half-regained
Eurydice.
These
delights
if
thou
canst
give,
Mirth,
with
thee
I
mean
to
live.
