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Not always fall of leaf, nor ever spring,

Not endless night, nor yet eternal day: The saddest birds a season find to sing,

The roughest storm a calm may soon allay. Thus, with succeeding turns, God tempereth all, That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.

A chance may win that by mischance was lost,

That net that holds no great, takes little fish : In some things all, in all things none are cross'd:

Few all they need, but none have all they wish. Unmingled joys here to no man befall; Who least, hath some: who most, hath never all.


A VALE there is, enwrapt with dreadful shades, Which thick of mournful pines shrowds from the

sun, Where hanging cliffs yield short and dumpish

glades, And snowy

floods with broken streams do run.

Where eye-room is from rock to cloudy sky,

From thence to dales which stormy ruins shrowd,

Then, to the crushed water's frothy fry,
Which tumbleth from the tops where snow is


Where ears of other sound can have no choice,

But various blustering of the stubborn wind, In trees, and caves, in straits, with diverse noise, Which now doth hiss, now howl, now roar by


Where waters wrestle with encountering stones, That break their stream, and turn them into

foam, The hollow clouds, full-fraught, with thundering

groans, With hideous thumps discharge their pregnant


And, in the horror of this fearful quire,

Consists the musick of this doleful place: All pleasant birds their tunes from thence retire,

Where none but heavy groans have any grace.

Resort there is of none but pilgrim wights,

That pass with trembling foot and panting heart, With terror cast in cold and shuddering frights,

And all the place to terror framed by art.

Yet nature's work it is, of art untouch'd;

So strait indeed, so vast unto the eye,
With such disorder'd order strangely couch'd,

And so with pleasing horror low and high,

That who it views, must needs remain aghast

Much at the work; more at the maker's might; And muse how nature such a plot could cast,

Where nothing seemed wrong, yet nothing right.

A place for mated minds, an only bower,

Where every thing doth sooth a dumpish mood : Earth is forlorn : the cloudy sky doth lower : The wind here weeps, here sighs, here cries


The struggling flood between the marble groans ;

Then, roaring, beats upon the craggy sides; A little off, amidst the pebble stones,

With bubbling streams a purling noise it glides.

The pines, thick set, high grown, and ever green,

Still clothe the place with shade and mourning

veil ;

Here, gaping cliffs, there moss-grown plain is seen : Here hope doth spring, and there again doth


Huge, massive stones, that hang by tickle stay,

Still threaten foul, and seem to hang in fear : Some wither'd trees, asham'd of their decay,

Beset with green, and forced gray coats to


Here, chrystal springs, crept out of secret vein, Straight find some envious hole that hides their

grain; Here scared tufts lament the wants of

grace, There thunder-wrack gives terror to the place.

All pangs and heavy passions here may find

A thousand motives suiting to their griefs ; To feed the sorrows of their troubled mind,

And chace away dame pleasures vain reliefs.

To plaining thoughts the vale a rest may be,

To which from worldly toys they may retire, Where sorrow springs from water, stone, and tree, Where every thing with mourners doth con


Sit here my soul ! mourn streams of tears afloat,

Here all thy sinful foils alone recount;
Of solemn tunes make thou the dolefulst note,

That to thy ditties dolor may amount.

When echo doth repeat thy painful cries,

Think that the very stones thy sins bewray; And now accuse thee with their sad replies

As heaven and earth shall in the latter day.

Let former faults be fuel of the fire,

For Grief in limbeck of thy soul to still, Thy pensive thoughts and dumps of thy desire,

And vapour tears up to thy eyes at will.

Let tears be tunes and pains to plaints be prest,

And let this be the burthen to thy song, Come deep remorse! possess my

sinful breast, Delights adieu! I harbour'd you too long!

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