O help! O help! I fee it faint:
And die as calmly as a Saint.

See how it weeps. The Tears do come
Sad, flowly dropping like a Gumme.
So weeps the wounded Balfome: fo
The holy Frankincense doth flow.
The brotherless Heliades

Melt in fuch Amber Tears as these.
I in a golden Vial will

Keep these two crystal Tears; and fill
It till it do o'erflow with mine;
Then place it in Diana's Shrine.

Now my fweet Fawn is vanish'd to
Whither the Swans and Turtles go:
In fair Elyzium to endure,
With milk-white Lambs, and Ermins
O do not run too faft: for I
Will but befpeak thy Grave, and die.
Firft my unhappy Statue shall
Be cut in Marble; and withal,
Let it be weeping too: but there
Th' Engraver fure his Art may spare;
For I fo truely thee bemoan,

pure.

That I fhall weep though I be Stone:
Until my Tears, ftill dropping, wear
My breaft, themselves engraving there,
There at my feet fhalt thou be laid,
Of pureft Alabaster made:

For I would have thine Image be
White as I can, though not as Thee.

YOUNG

LOVE.

By Andrew Marvell, Efq;

I.

Ome little Infant, Love me now,
While thine unfufpected years

Clear thine aged Father's brow
From cold Jealoufie and Fears.

II.

Pretty furely 'twere to fee

By young Love old Time beguil'd: While our Sportings are as free

As the Nurfes with the Child.

III.

Common Beauties ftay fifteen;
Such as yours fhould fwifter move;
Whofe fair Bloffoms are too green
Yet for Luft, but not for Love.

IV.

Love as much the fnowy Lamb,
Or the wanton Kid, does prize,
As the lufty Bull or Ram,

For his morning Sacrifice.

V.

Now then love me: time may take
Thee before thy time away,
Of this Need we'll Virtue make,
And learn Love before we may.
V 1.

So we win of doubtful Fate;
And, if good the to us meant,
We that Good fhall antedate,
Or, if ill, that Ill prevent.
VII.

Thus as Kingdoms, fruftrating,
Other Titles to their Crown,
In the cradle crown their King,
So all Foreign Claims to drown;

VIII.

So, to make all Rivals vain,

Now I crown thee with my I.ove:
Crown me with thy Love again,
And we both fhall Monarchs prove.

LY

CIDA

S.

In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drowned in his Paffage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occasion foretels the ruine of our corrupted Clergy then in their height.

Y

By Mr. Milton.

ET once more, Oye Laurels, and once more
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-fear,

I come to pluck your Berries harth and crude,
And with forc'd fingers rude,

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year,
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compels me to disturb your feason due:
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer:
Who would not fing for Lycidas he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fome melodious tear.

Begin then, Sifters of the facred well,
That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring,
Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the string,
Hence with denial vain, and coy excufe,

So may fome gentle Mufe

With lucky words favour my deftin'd Urn,
And as he paffes turn,

And bid fair peace be to my fable fhrowd.
For we were nurft upon the felf-fame hill,
Fed the fame flock, by fountain, fhade, 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 fultry horn,
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the Star that rofe, at Ev'ning, bright
Toward Heav'ns descent had flop'd hiswefteringwheel.
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 found would not be absent long,
And old Damætas lov'd to hear our fong.

But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, Now thou art gon, and never must return! Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and defert Caves, With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn.

The Willows, and the Hazle Copfes green,

Shall now no more be seen,

Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy foft layes.
As killing as the Canker to the Rofe,

Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze,
Or Froft to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear,
When firft the White thorn blows;

Such, Lycidas, thy lofs 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 fhaggy top of Mona high,

Nor yet where Deva fpreads her wifard ftream:
Ay me, I fondly dream!

Had ye bin there---for what could that have don
What could the Mufe her felf that Orpheus bore,
The Mufe her felf, for her inchanting fon

Whom Univerfal nature did lament,

When by the rout that made the hideous roar, His goary vifage down the ftream was fent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lethian fhore.

Alas! What boots it with unceffant care
To tend the homely flighted Shepherds trade,
And ftrictly meditate the thankless Muse,
Were it not better don as others ufe,
To sport with Amaryllis in the fhade,
Or with the tangles of Neara's hair?
Fame is the fpur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That laft infirmity of Noble mind)

To fcorn delights, and live laborious dayes;
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into fudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with th' abhorred fhears,
And flits the thin-fpun Life. But not the praise,
Thabus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears;
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal. foil,
Nor in the gliftering foil

Set off to th' world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and fpreds aloft by thofe pure eyes,
And perfect witnefs of all judging Jove;
As he pronounces laftly on each deed,

Of fo much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed.
O Fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud,
Smooth-fliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds,
That ftrain I heard was of a higher mood:
But now my Oate proceeds,

And liftens 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 fwain?
And question'd every guft of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked Promontory,
They knew not of his story;

And fage Hippotades their anfwer brings,

That not a blast was from his dungeon ftray'd,