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by John Milton |

From Arcades

 O'RE the smooth enameld green 
 Where no print of step hath been, 
 Follow me as I sing, 
 And touch the warbled string. 
Under the shady roof 
Of branching Elm Star-proof, 
 Follow me, 
I will bring you where she sits 
Clad in splendor as befits 
 Her deity. 
Such a rural Queen 
All Arcadia hath not seen. 

313. From 'Comus' 
i 

THE Star that bids the Shepherd fold, 
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold, 
And the gilded Car of Day, 
His glowing Axle doth allay 
In the steep Atlantick stream, 
And the slope Sun his upward beam 
Shoots against the dusky Pole, 
Pacing toward the other gole 
Of his Chamber in the East. 
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast, 
Midnight shout, and revelry, 
Tipsie dance, and Jollity. 
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine 
Dropping odours, dropping Wine. 
Rigor now is gon to bed, 
And Advice with scrupulous head, 
Strict Age, and sowre Severity, 
With their grave Saws in slumber ly. 
We that are of purer fire 
Imitate the Starry Quire, 
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears, 
Lead in swift round the Months and Years. 
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove 
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move, 
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves, 
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves; 
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim, 
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daisies trim, 
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep: 
What hath night to do with sleep? 
Night hath better sweets to prove, 
Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love.... 
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground, 
In a light fantastick round. 

John Milton. 1608-1674 

314. From' Comus' 
ii. Echo 

SWEET Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv'st unseen 
 Within thy airy shell 
 By slow Meander's margent green, 
 And in the violet imbroider'd vale 
 Where the love-lorn Nightingale 
 Nightly to thee her sad Song mourneth well. 
 Canst thou not tell me of a gentle Pair 
 That likest thy Narcissus are? 
 O if thou have 
 Hid them in som flowry Cave, 
 Tell me but where 
 Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear! 
 So maist thou be translated to the skies, 
And give resounding grace to all Heav'ns Harmonies! 

John Milton. 1608-1674 

315. From' Comus' 
iii. Sabrina 

The Spirit sings: SABRINA fair 
 Listen where thou art sitting 
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave, 
 In twisted braids of Lillies knitting 
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair, 
 Listen for dear honour's sake, 
 Goddess of the silver lake, 
 Listen and save! 

Listen and appear to us, 
In name of great Oceanus, 
By the earth-shaking Neptune's mace, 
And Tethys grave majestick pace, 
By hoary Nereus wrincled look, 
And the Carpathian wisards hook, 
By scaly Tritons winding shell, 
And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell, 
By Leucothea's lovely hands, 
And her son that rules the strands, 
By Thetis tinsel-slipper'd feet, 
And the Songs of Sirens sweet, 
By dead Parthenope's dear tomb, 
And fair Ligea's golden comb, 
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks 
Sleeking her soft alluring locks, 
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance 
Upon thy streams with wily glance, 
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head 
From thy coral-pav'n bed, 
And bridle in thy headlong wave, 
Till thou our summons answered have. 
 Listen and save! 

Sabrina replies: By the rushy-fringed bank, 
Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank, 
 My sliding Chariot stayes, 
Thick set with Agat, and the azurn sheen 
Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green 
 That in the channell strayes, 
Whilst from off the waters fleet 
Thus I set my printless feet 
O're the Cowslips Velvet head, 
 That bends not as I tread, 
Gentle swain at thy request 
 I am here. 

John Milton. 1608-1674 

316. From 'Comus' 
iv 

The Spirit epiloguizes: TO the Ocean now I fly, 
And those happy climes that ly 
Where day never shuts his eye, 
Up in the broad fields of the sky: 
There I suck the liquid ayr 
All amidst the Gardens fair 
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three 
That sing about the golden tree: 
Along the crisped shades and bowres 
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring, 
The Graces, and the rosie-boosom'd Howres, 
Thither all their bounties bring, 
That there eternal Summer dwels, 
And West winds, with musky wing 
About the cedar'n alleys fling 
Nard, and Cassia's balmy smels. 
Iris there with humid bow, 
Waters the odorous banks that blow 
Flowers of more mingled hew 
Than her purfl'd scarf can shew, 
And drenches with Elysian dew 
(List mortals, if your ears be true) 
Beds of Hyacinth, and roses 
Where young Adonis oft reposes, 
Waxing well of his deep wound 
In slumber soft, and on the ground 
Sadly sits th' Assyrian Queen; 
But far above in spangled sheen 
Celestial Cupid her fam'd son advanc't, 
Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc't 
After her wandring labours long, 
Till free consent the gods among 
Make her his eternal Bride, 
And from her fair unspotted side 
Two blissful twins are to be born, 
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn. 
 But now my task is smoothly don, 
I can fly, or I can run 
Quickly to the green earths end, 
Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend, 
And from thence can soar as soon 
To the corners of the Moon. 
 Mortals that would follow me, 
Love vertue, she alone is free. 
She can teach ye how to clime 
Higher then the Spheary chime; 
Or if Vertue feeble were, 
Heav'n it self would stoop to her. 

YET once more, O ye Laurels, and once more 
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear, 
I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, 
And with forc'd fingers rude, 
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear, 
Compels me to disturb your season due: 
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime 
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer: 
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 
He must not flote upon his watry bear 
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 
Without the meed of som melodious tear. 
 Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well, 
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring, 
Begin, and somwhat loudly sweep the string. 
Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse, 
So may som gentle Muse 
With lucky words favour my destin'd Urn, 
And as he passes turn, 
And bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd. 
For we were nurst upon the self-same hill, 
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill. 
 Together both, ere the high Lawns appear'd 
Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, 
We drove a field, and both together heard 
What time the Gray-fly winds her sultry horn, 
Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, 
Oft till the Star that rose, at Ev'ning, bright 
Toward Heav'ns descent had slop'd his westering wheel. 
Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, 
Temper'd to th'Oaten Flute; 
Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, 
From the glad sound would not be absent long, 
And old Damaetas lov'd to hear our song. 
 But O the heavy change, now thou art gon, 
Now thou art gon, and never must return! 
Thee Shepherd, thee the Woods, and desert Caves, 
With wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, 
And all their echoes mourn. 
The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, 
Shall now no more be seen, 
Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft layes. 
As killing as the Canker to the Rose, 
Or Taint-worm to the weanling Herds that graze, 
Or Frost to Flowers, that their gay wardrop wear, 
When first the White thorn blows; 
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to Shepherds ear. 
 Where were ye Nymphs when the remorseless deep 
Clos'd o're the head of your lov'd Lycidas? 
For neither were ye playing on the steep, 
Where your old Bards, the famous Druids ly, 
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, 
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream: 
Ay me, I fondly dream! 
Had ye bin there--for what could that have don? 
What could the Muse her self that Orpheus bore, 
The Muse her self, for her inchanting son 
Whom Universal nature did lament, 
When by the rout that made the hideous roar, 
His goary visage down the stream was sent, 
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore. 
 Alas! what boots it with uncessant care 
To tend the homely slighted Shepherds trade, 
And strictly meditate the thankles Muse, 
Were it not better don as others use, 
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, 
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair? 
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise 
(That last infirmity of Noble mind) 
To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; 
But the fair Guerdon when we hope to find, 
And think to burst out into sudden blaze, 
Comes the blind Fury with th'abhorred shears, 
And slits the thin spun life. But not the praise, 
Phoebus repli'd, and touch'd my trembling ears; 
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, 
Nor in the glistering foil 
Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 
But lives and spreds aloft by those pure eyes, 
And perfet witnes of all judging Jove; 
As he pronounces lastly on each deed, 
Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed. 
 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd floud, 
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocall reeds, 
That strain I heard was of a higher mood: 
But now my Oate proceeds, 
And listens to the Herald of the Sea 
That came in Neptune's plea, 
He ask'd the Waves, and ask'd the Fellon winds, 
What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain? 
And question'd every gust of rugged wings 
That blows from off each beaked Promontory, 
They knew not of his story, 
And sage Hippotades their answer brings, 
That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd, 
The Ayr was calm, and on the level brine, 
Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. 
It was that fatall and perfidious Bark 
Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, 
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. 
 Next Camus, reverend Sire, went footing slow, 
His Mantle hairy, and his Bonnet sedge, 
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 
Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. 
Ah; Who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge? 
Last came, and last did go, 
The Pilot of the Galilean lake, 
Two massy Keyes he bore of metals twain, 
(The Golden opes, the Iron shuts amain) 
He shook his Miter'd locks, and stern bespake, 
How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, 
Anow of such as for their bellies sake, 
Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? 
Of other care they little reck'ning make, 
Then how to scramble at the shearers feast, 
And shove away the worthy bidden guest. 
Blind mouthes! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
A Sheep-hook, or have learn'd ought els the least 
That to the faithfull Herdmans art belongs! 
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; 
And when they list, their lean and flashy songs 
Grate on their scrannel Pipes of wretched straw, 
The hungry Sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But swoln with wind, and the rank mist they draw, 
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread: 
Besides what the grim Woolf with privy paw 
Daily devours apace, and nothing sed, 
But that two-handed engine at the door, 
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. 
 Return Alpheus, the dread voice is past, 
That shrunk thy streams; Return Sicilian Muse, 
And call the Vales, and bid them hither cast 
Their Bels, and Flourets of a thousand hues. 
Ye valleys low where the milde whispers use, 
Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, 
On whose fresh lap the swart Star sparely looks, 
Throw hither all your quaint enameld eyes, 
That on the green terf suck the honied showres, 
And purple all the ground with vernal flowres. 
Bring the rathe Primrose that forsaken dies. 
The tufted Crow-toe, and pale Gessamine, 
The white Pink, and the Pansie freakt with jeat, 
The glowing Violet. 
The Musk-rose, and the well attir'd Woodbine. 
With Cowslips wan that hang the pensive hed, 
And every flower that sad embroidery wears: 
Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed, 
And Daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 
To strew the Laureat Herse where Lycid lies. 
For so to interpose a little ease, 
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. 
Ay me! Whilst thee the shores, and sounding Seas 
Wash far away, where ere thy bones are hurld, 
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, 
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide 
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world; 
Or whether thou to our moist vows deny'd, 
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, 
Where the great vision of the guarded Mount 
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold; 
Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth. 
And, O ye Dolphins, waft the haples youth. 
 Weep no more, woful Shepherds weep no more, 
For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead, 
Sunk though he be beneath the watry floar, 
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: 
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high, 
Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves 
Where other groves, and other streams along, 
With Nectar pure his oozy Lock's he laves, 
And hears the unexpressive nuptiall Song, 
In the blest Kingdoms meek of joy and love. 
There entertain him all the Saints above, 
In solemn troops, and sweet Societies 
That sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. 
Now Lycidas the Shepherds weep no more; 
Hence forth thou art the Genius of the shore, 
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good 
To all that wander in that perilous flood. 
 Thus sang the uncouth Swain to th'Okes and rills, 
While the still morn went out with Sandals gray, 
He touch'd the tender stops of various Quills, 
With eager thought warbling his Dorick lay: 
And now the Sun had stretch'd out all the hills, 
And now was dropt into the Western bay; 
At last he rose, and twitch'd his Mantle blew: 
To morrow to fresh Woods, and Pastures new.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 12

 XII. On the same.

I did but prompt the age to quit their cloggs
By the known rules of antient libertie,
When strait a barbarous noise environs me
Of Owles and Cuckoes, Asses, Apes and Doggs.
As when those Hinds that were transform'd to Froggs
Raild at Latona's twin-born progenie
Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee.
But this is got by casting Pearl to Hoggs;
That bawle for freedom in their senceless mood,
And still revolt when truth would set them free. 
Licence they mean when they cry libertie;
For who loves that, must first be wise and good;
But from that mark how far they roave we see
For all this wast of wealth, and loss of blood.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 13

 XIII

To Mr. H. Lawes, on his Aires.

Harry whose tuneful and well measur'd Song
First taught our English Musick how to span
Words with just note and accent, not to scan
With Midas Ears, committing short and long;
Thy worth and skill exempts thee from the throng,
With praise enough for Envy to look wan;
To after age thou shalt be writ the man,
That with smooth aire couldst humor best our tongue
Thou honour'st Verse, and Verse must send her wing
To honour thee, the Priest of Phoebus Quire 
That tun'st their happiest lines in Hymn or Story
Dante shall give Fame leave to set thee higher
Then his Casella, whom he woo'd to sing
Met in the milder shades of Purgatory.

Note: 9 send] lend Cambridge Autograph MS.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 06

 VI

Giovane piano, e semplicetto amante
Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,
Madonna a voi del mio cuor l'humil dono
Faro divoto; io certo a prove tante
L'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante,
De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono;
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono,
S 'arma di se, e d' intero diamante,
Tanto del forse, e d' invidia sicuro,
Di timori, e speranze al popol use 
Quanto d'ingegno, e d' alto valor vago,
E di cetra sonora, e delle muse:
Sol troverete in tal parte men duro
Ove amor mise l 'insanabil ago.


by John Milton |

Lycidas

 In this Monody the author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately
drowned in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637;
and, by occasion, foretells the ruin of our corrupted Clergy, 
then in their height.


YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more,
Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude,
And with forced fingers rude
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
Compels me to disturb your season due;
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.
Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not float upon his watery bier
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
 Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well
That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring;
Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.
Hence with denial vain and coy excuse:
So may some gentle Muse
With lucky words favour my destined urn,
And as he passes turn,
And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud!
 For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,
Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill;
Together both, ere the high lawns appeared
Under the opening eyelids of the Morn,
We drove a-field, and both together heard
What time the grey-fly winds her sultry horn,
Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,
Oft till the star that rose at evening bright
Toward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.
Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute;
Tempered to the oaten flute,
Rough Satyrs danced, and Fauns with cloven heel
From the glad sound would not be absent long;
And old Damoetas loved to hear our song.
 But, oh! the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone and never must return!
Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves,
With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,
And all their echoes, mourn.
The willows, and the hazel copses green,
Shall now no more be seen
Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.
As killing as the canker to the rose,
Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,
Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,
When first the white-thorn blows;
Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.
 Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep
Closed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?
For neither were ye playing on the steep
Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie,
Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,
Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream.
Ay me! I fondly dream
RHad ye been there,S . . . for what could that have done?
What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore,
The Muse herself, for her enchanting son,
Whom universal nature did lament,
When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,
His gory visage down the stream was sent,
Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?
 Alas! what boots it with uncessant care
To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd's trade,
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse?
Were it not better done, as others use,
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
(That last infirmity of noble mind)
To scorn delights and live laborious days;
But, the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,
And slits the thin-spun life. RBut not the praise,"
Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears:
RFame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
Nor in the glistering foil
Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed."
 O fountain Arethuse, and thou honoured flood,
Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,
That strain I heard was of a higher mood.
But now my oat proceeds,
And listens to the Herald of the Sea,
That came in Neptune's plea.
He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,
What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?
And questioned every gust of rugged wings
That blows from off each beaked promontory.
They knew not of his story;
And sage Hippotades their answer brings,
That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed:
The air was calm, and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played.
It was that fatal and perfidious bark,
Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,
That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.
 Next, Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,
His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,
Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge
Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.
Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, Rmy dearest pledge?"
Last came, and last did go,
The Pilot of the Galilean Lake;
Two massy keys he bore of metals twain.
(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:--
RHow well could I have spared for thee, young swain,
Enow of such as, for their bellies' sake,
Creep, and intrude, and climb into the fold!
Of other care they little reckoning make
Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,
And shove away the worthy bidden guest.
Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold 
 A sheep-hook, or have learnt aught else the least
That to the faithful herdman's art belongs!
What recks it them? What need they? They are sped:
And, when they list, their lean and flashy songs
Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;
The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, 
But, swoln with wind and the rank mist they draw,
Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;
Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw
Daily devours apace, and nothing said.
But that two-handed engine at the door
Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more."
 Return, Alpheus; the dread voice is past
That shrunk thy streams; return Sicilian Muse,
And call the vales, and bid them hither cast
Their bells and flowerets of a thousand hues.
Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use
Of shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,
On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks,
Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,
That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,
And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.
Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,
The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,
The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears;
Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed,
And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, 
To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies.
For so, to interpose a little ease,
Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise,
Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seas
Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurled;
Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,
Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide
Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;
Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied,
Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,
Where the great Vision of the guarded mount
Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold.
Look homeward, Angel, now, and melt with ruth:
And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth.
 Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more,
For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead,
Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.
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:
So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,
Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves, 
Where, other groves and other streams along, 
With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,
And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,
In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.
There entertain him all the Saints above,
In solemn troops, and sweet societies,
That Sing, and singing in their glory move, 
And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes.
Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;
Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore,
In thy large recompense, and shalt be good
To all that wander in that perilous flood.
 Thus sang the uncouth swain to the oaks and rills,
While the still morn went out with sandals grey:
He touched the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay:
And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,
And now was dropt into the western bay.
At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:
Tomorrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 17

 XVII


Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son,
Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
Help wast a sullen day; what may be Won
From the hard Season gaining: time will run
On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire
The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise 
To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice
Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?
He who of those delights can judge, and spare
To interpose them oft, is not unwise.


by John Milton |

To Mr. Cyriack Skinner Upon His Blindness

 Cyriack, this three years day these eys, though clear
To outward view, of blemish or of spot;
Bereft of light thir seeing have forgot,
Nor to thir idle orbs doth sight appear
Of Sun or Moon or Starre throughout the year,
Or man or woman. Yet I argue not
Against heavns hand or will, nor bate a jot
Of heart or hope; but still bear vp and steer
Right onward. What supports me, dost thou ask?
The conscience, Friend, to have lost them overply'd 
In libertyes defence, my noble task,
Of which all Europe talks from side to side.
This thought might lead me through the world's vain mask
Content though blind, had I no better guide.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 07

 VII

How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer!
My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th,
Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.
Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow.
It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n, 
To that same lot, however mean, or high,
Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heav'n;
All is, if I have grace to use it so,
As ever in my great task Masters eye.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 23

 XXIII

Methought I saw my late espoused saint
Brought to me, like Alcestis, from the grave,
Whom Jove's great son to her glad husband gave,
Rescued from death by force, though pale and faint.
Mine, as whom washed from spot of child-bed taint
Purification in the Old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heav'n without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was veiled, yet to my fancied sight
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shined
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O, as to embrace me she inclined,
I waked, she fled, and day brought back my night.


by John Milton |

Sonnet 16

 XVI

When I consider how my light is spent,
E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts, who best 
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite.