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The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
Lycidas. Line 139.
Line 31. The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.
Line 36. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
Line 67. Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.
Line 75. Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
Line 85. To many a youth and many a maid Dancing in the chequer'd shade.
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. L'Allegro. Line 100,
Line 121. Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
Line 129. And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
Line 135. Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
Line 143. The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
Il Penseroso. Line 8. And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.
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, Most musical, most melancholy !
1 Wisdom married to immortal verse. book vii.
WORDSWORTH: The Excursion,
I walk unseen
N Penseroso. Line 65.
Line 79. Far from all resort of mirth Save the cricket on the hearth.
Line 81. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
Line 97. Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.
Line 105. Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.
Line 109. Where more is meant than meets the ear.
Line 120. When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.
Line 128. Hide me from day's garish eye.
Line 141. And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
Line 159. Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
Line 173. Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
Arcades. Line 68. Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof.
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.
At a Vacation Exercise. Line 31. No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around.
Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 53. Time will run back and fetch the age of gold. Line 135. Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. Line 172.
The oracles are dumb,
No voice or hideous hum
Apollo from his shrine
Can no more divine,
Line 184. Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim.
Line 197, 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, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. Ibid. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.
Sonnet to the Nightingale. i 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
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 ! For who loves that must first be wise and good. lid.
Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than war. To the Lord General Cromwell. Ev’n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
On the late Massacre in Piedmont. Thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.
On his Blindness. What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste ?
To Mr. Lawrence. In mirth that after no repenting draws.
Sonnet xxi. To Cyriac Skinner.
Yet I argue not
Sonnet xxi. lbid. Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
Ibid. But oh! as to embrace me she inclin’d, I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.
On his Deceased Wife.