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The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,

The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

Lycidas. Line 139.

So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,
And yet anon repairs his drooping head,
And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled ore
Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,

Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles,
Nods and Becks and wreathed Smiles.

Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come and trip it as ye go,

Line 168.

Line 188.

Line 193.

L'Allegro. Line 25.

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Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.

L'Allegro. Line 100.

Tower'd cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men.

Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize.

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,

Line 117.

Line 121.

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,1

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.

The gay motes that people the sunbeams.

And looks commercing with the skies,
Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

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,
Most musical, most melancholy!

Line 61.

1 Wisdom married to immortal verse. book vii.

WORDSWORTH: The Excursion,

I walk unseen

On the dry smooth-shaven green,
To behold the wandering moon
Riding near her highest noon,
Like one that had been led astray
Through the heav'n's wide pathless way;
And oft, as if her head she bow'd,
Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Il Penseroso. Line 65.

Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.

Far from all resort of mirth
Save the cricket on the hearth.

Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy

In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
Or the tale of Troy divine.

Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.

Line 79.

Line 81.

Line 97.

Line 105.

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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,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.

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
Was heard the world around.

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.
Apollo from his shrine

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.

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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.1
Sonnet to the Nightingale.

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!
For who loves that must first be wise and good.

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,
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?

In mirth that after no repenting draws.

To Mr. Lawrence.

Sonnet xxi. To Cyriac Skinner.

For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains,
And disapproves that care, though wise in show,
That with superfluous burden loads the day,
And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
Yet I argue not

Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer
Right onward.

Ibid.

Sonnet xxii. Ibid.

Of which all Europe rings from side to side.

But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd,
I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.

Ibid.

On his Deceased Wife.

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