And young and old come forth to play
On a sunshine holyday,

Till the livelong daylight fail:
100 Then to the spicy nut-brown ale,
With stories told of many a feat,
How Faery Mab the junkets eat.
She was pinched and pulled, she said;
And he, by Friar's lantern led,

105 Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail hath threshed the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
110 Then lies him down the lubber fiend,
And, stretched out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full out of doors he flings,
Ere the first cock his matin rings.
115 Thus done the tales, to bed they creep,
By whispering winds soon lulled asleep,
Towered cities please us then,

And the busy hum of men,

Where throngs of knights and barons bold, 120 In weeds of peace, high triumphs hold, With store of ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize Of wit or arms, while both contend To win her grace whom all commend. 125 There let Hymen oft appear

In saffron robe, with taper clear,
And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
With mask and antique pageantry;
Such sights as youthful poets dream
130 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.

135

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 140 Of linked sweetness long drawn out, With wanton heed and giddy cunning, The melting voice through mazes running, Untwisting all the chains that tie

The hidden soul of harmony;

145 That Orpheus' self may heave his head
From golden slumber on a bed

Of heaped Elysian flowers, and hear
Such strains as would have won the ear
Of Pluto to have quite set free

150 His half-regained Eurydice.

These delights if thou canst give,
Mirth, with thee I mean to live.

10

IL PENSEROSO

(1634)

Hence, vain deluding Joys,

The brood of Folly without father bred!
How little you bested,

Or fill the fixed mind with all your toys!

5 Dwell in some idle brain,

And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess,
As thick and numberless

As the gay motes that people the sun-beams,
Or likest hovering dreams,

The fickle pensioners of Morpheus' train.
But, hail! thou Goddess sage and holy,
Hail, divinest Melancholy!

Whose saintly visage is too bright

To hit the sense of human sight,

15 And therefore to our weaker view O'erlaid with black, staid Wisdom's hue; Black, but such as in esteem

Prince Memnon's sister might beseem, Or that starred Ethiop queen that strove 20 To set her beauty's praise above

The Sea-Nymphs, and their powers offended.
Yet thou art higher far descended:

Thee bright-haired Vesta long of yore
To solitary Saturn bore;

25 His daughter she; in Saturn's reign
Such mixture was not held a stain.
Oft in glimmering bowers and glades
He met her, and in secret shades
Of woody Ida's inmost grove,
30 Whilst yet there was no fear of Jove.
Come, pensive Nun, devout and pure,
Sober, steadfast, and demure,
All in a robe of darkest grain,
Flowing with majestic train,
35 And sable stole of cypress lawn

Over thy decent shoulders drawn.
Come; but keep thy wonted state,
With even step, and musing gait,
And looks commercing with the skies,
40 Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes:
There, held in holy passion still,
Forget thyself to marble, till

With a sad leaden downward cast

Thou fix them on the earth as fast.

45 And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring

Aye round about Jove's altar sing;
And add to these retired Leisure,

50 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure;
But, first and chiefest, with thee bring

Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The Cherub Contemplation; 55 And the mute Silence hist along, 'Less Philomel will deign a song, In her sweetest saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of Night, While Cynthia checks her dragon yoke 60 Gently o'er the accustomed oak.

Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy! Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among I woo, to hear thy even-song; 65 And, missing thee, 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

70 Through the heaven's wide pathless way, And oft, as if her head she bowed, Stooping through a fleecy cloud.

Oft, on a plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off curfew sound, 75 Over some wide-watered shore, Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or, if the air will not permit, Some still removed place will fit, Where glowing embers through the room 80 Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, Far from all resort of mirth,

85

Save the cricket on the hearth,
Or the bellman's drowsy charm

To bless the doors from nightly harm.
Or let my lamp, at midnight hour,
Be seen in some high lonely tower,
Where I may oft outwatch the Bear,
With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere

The spirit of Plato, to unfold

90 What worlds or what vast regions hold
The immortal mind that hath forsook
Her mansion in this fleshly nook;

And of those demons that are found
In fire, air, flood, or underground,
95 Whose power hath a true consent
With planet or with element.
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy
In sceptred pall come sweeping by,
Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line,
100 Or the tale of Troy divine,

Or what (though rare) of later age
Ennobled hath the buskined stage.

But, O sad Virgin! that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower; 105 Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing

Such notes as, warbled to the string,
Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
And made Hell grant what love did seek;
Or call up him that left half-told

110 The story of Cambuscan bold,

Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
And who had Canace to wife,

That owned the virtuous ring and glass,
And of the wondrous horse of brass
115 On which the Tartar king did ride;
And if aught else great bards beside
In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
Of turneys, and of trophies hung,
Of forests, and enchantments drear,
120 Where more is meant than meets the ear.

Thus, Night, oft see me in thy pale career,
Till civil-suited Morn appear,

Not tricked and frounced, as she was wont
With the Attic boy to hunt,

125 But kercheft in a comely cloud,