The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet, The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine, Lycidas. Line 139. So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles, Sport, that wrinkled Care derides, Line 168. Line 188. Line 193. L'Allegro. Line 25. Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. L'Allegro. Line 100. Tower'd cities please us then, Ladies, whose bright eyes Such sights as youthful poets dream If Jonson's learned sock be on, Line 117. Line 121. Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Line 129. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, Of linked sweetness long drawn out. Line 135. Untwisting all the chains that tie The gay motes that people the sunbeams. And looks commercing with the skies, Line 143. Il Penseroso. Line 8. Line 39. Forget thyself to marble. Line 42. And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet. Line 45. And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure. Line 49. Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly, Line 61. 1 Wisdom married to immortal verse. book vii. WORDSWORTH: The Excursion, I walk unseen On the dry smooth-shaven green, Il Penseroso. Line 65. Where glowing embers through the room Far from all resort of mirth Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Line 79. Line 81. Line 97. Line 105. To something like prophetic strain. Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie. Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof. Line 173. Arcades. Line 68. Line 88. O fairest flower! no sooner blown but blasted, Ode on the Death of a fair Infant, dying of a Cough. Such as may make thee search the coffers round. No war or battle's sound At a Vacation Exercise. Line 31. Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 53. Time will run back and fetch the age of gold. Line 135. Line 172. Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. The oracles are dumb, No voice or hideous hum Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. Can no more divine, With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance or breathed spell Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell. What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in piled stones? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name? Epitaph on Shakespeare. And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, Ibid. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.1 1 See Chaucer, page 6. As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye. On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three. The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground. When the Assault was intended to the City. That old man eloquent. To the Lady Margaret Ley. That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. On the Detraction which followed upon my writing certain Treatises. License they mean when they cry, Liberty! Peace hath her victories Ibid. No less renown'd than war. To the Lord General Cromwell. Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, On the late Massacre in Piedmont. Thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; On his Blindness. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, In mirth that after no repenting draws. To Mr. Lawrence. Sonnet xxi. To Cyriac Skinner. For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Ibid. Sonnet xxii. Ibid. Of which all Europe rings from side to side. But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, Ibid. On his Deceased Wife. |