Comus continued.] So dear to heaven is saintly chastity, That, when a soul is found sincerely so, How charming is divine philosophy! Line 453. Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose; But musical as is Apollo's lute,1 And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets, Where no crude surfeit reigns. Line 476. Fill'd the air with barbarous dissonance. Line 550. I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of death. Line 560. If this fail, Line 597. The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, Bore a bright golden flower, but not in this soil: Line 631. Enter'd the very lime-twigs of his spells, And yet came off. 1 As sweet and musical Line 646. As bright Apollo's lute. Love's Labour's Lost. Act iv. Sc. 3. [Comus continued. And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons. Line 727. It is for homely features to keep home, Line 748. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Swinish gluttony Line 752. Ne'er looks to heaven amidst his gorgeous feast, But with besotted base ingratitude Crams, and blasphemes his feeder. Line 777 Enjoy your dear wit, and gay rhetoric, That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence. Line 790. His rod revers'd, Line 816. And backward mutters of dissevering power. Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair. LYCIDAS. I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. He knew Line 3. Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Line 68. Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise1 (That last infirmity of noble mind) To scorn delights, and live laborious days; Line 70. 1 Erant quibus appetentior famæ videretur, quando etiam sapientibus cupido gloriæ novissima exuitur. Tacitus, Histor. iv. 6. [Lycidas continued. Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Line 78. Built in the eclipse and rigg'd with curses dark. Line 100. The pilot of the Galilean lake. Line 109. Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd eyes, The white pink, and the pansy freak'd with jet, The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd wood-bine, With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears. Line 139. So sinks the day-star in the ocean-bed, Line 168. To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. Line 193. ARCADES. Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof. Line 88. |