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His rod reversed,
And backward mutters of dissevering power.
But now my task is smoothly done,
I can fly, or I can run.
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark.
The pilot of the Galilean lake.
So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
The gay motes that people the sun-beams.
And looks commercing with the skies,
Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly,
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes, as, warbled to the string,
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
And storied windows richly dight,
Casting a dim, religious light.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Quips, and cranks, and wanton wiles,
Sport that wrinkled Care derides,
On the light, fantastic toe.
And every shepherd tells his tale
Where perhaps some beauty lies,
Herbs, and other country messes,
Which the neat-handed Phyllis dresses.
Towered cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men.
Ladies, whose bright eyes
If Jonson's learned sock be on,
Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child,
Lap me in soft Lydian airs,
Married to immortal verse,
Such as the meeting soul may pierce
The hidden soul of harmony.
As ever in my great task-master's eye.
That old man eloquent.
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
Peace hath her victories
No less renowned than war.
They also serve who only stand and wait.
Yet I argue not
Against Heaven's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
But O, as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked; she fled; and day brought back my night.
The Reason of Church Government urged against Prelaty. Book 2.
A poet soaring in the high reason of his fancy, with his garland and singing robes about him.
By labor and intent study (which I take to be my portion in this life) joined with the strong propensity of nature, I might perhaps leave something so written to aftertimes, as they should not willingly let it die.
Beholding the bright countenance of truth in the quiet and still air of delightful studies.
Apology for Smectymnuss.
He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things, ought himself to be a true poem.