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Best Famous Partridge Poems

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Written by Anne Kingsmill Finch | Create an image from this poem

A Nocturnal Reverie

In such a night, when every louder wind
Is to its distant cavern safe confined;
And only gentle Zephyr fans his wings,
And lonely Philomel, still waking, sings;
Or from some tree, famed for the owl's delight,
She, hollowing clear, directs the wand'rer right:
In such a night, when passing clouds give place,
Or thinly veil the heav'ns' mysterious face;
When in some river, overhung with green,
The waving moon and trembling leaves are seen;
When freshened grass now bears itself upright,
And makes cool banks to pleasing rest invite,
Whence springs the woodbind, and the bramble-rose,
And where the sleepy cowslip sheltered grows;
Whilst now a paler hue the foxglove takes,
Yet checkers still with red the dusky brakes
When scattered glow-worms, but in twilight fine,
Shew trivial beauties watch their hour to shine;
Whilst Salisb'ry stands the test of every light,
In perfect charms, and perfect virtue bright:
When odors, which declined repelling day,
Through temp'rate air uninterrupted stray;
When darkened groves their softest shadows wear,
And falling waters we distinctly hear;
When through the gloom more venerable shows
Some ancient fabric, awful in repose,
While sunburnt hills their swarthy looks conceal,
And swelling haycocks thicken up the vale:
When the loosed horse now, as his pasture leads,
Comes slowly grazing through th' adjoining meads,
Whose stealing pace, and lengthened shade we fear,
Till torn-up forage in his teeth we hear:
When nibbling sheep at large pursue their food,
And unmolested kine rechew the cud;
When curlews cry beneath the village walls,
And to her straggling brood the partridge calls;
Their shortlived jubilee the creatures keep,
Which but endures, whilst tyrant man does sleep;
When a sedate content the spirit feels,
And no fierce light disturbs, whilst it reveals;
But silent musings urge the mind to seek
Something, too high for syllables to speak;
Till the free soul to a composedness charmed,
Finding the elements of rage disarmed,
O'er all below a solemn quiet grown,
Joys in th' inferior world, and thinks it like her own:
In such a night let me abroad remain,
Till morning breaks, and all's confused again;
Our cares, our toils, our clamors are renewed,
Or pleasures, seldom reached, again pursued.

Written by Ogden Nash | Create an image from this poem

Just Keep Quiet and Nobody Will Notice

 There is one thing that ought to be taught in all the colleges,
Which is that people ought to be taught not to go around always making apologies.
I don't mean the kind of apologies people make when they run over you or borrow five dollars or step on your feet, Because I think that is sort of sweet; No, I object to one kind of apology alone, Which is when people spend their time and yours apologizing for everything they own.
You go to their house for a meal, And they apologize because the anchovies aren't caviar or the partridge is veal; They apologize privately for the crudeness of the other guests, And they apologize publicly for their wife's housekeeping or their husband's jests; If they give you a book by Dickens they apologize because it isn't by Scott, And if they take you to the theater, they apologize for the acting and the dialogue and the plot; They contain more milk of human kindness than the most capacious diary can, But if you are from out of town they apologize for everything local and if you are a foreigner they apologize for everything American.
I dread these apologizers even as I am depicting them, I shudder as I think of the hours that must be spend in contradicting them, Because you are very rude if you let them emerge from an argument victorious, And when they say something of theirs is awful, it is your duty to convince them politely that it is magnificent and glorious, And what particularly bores me with them, Is that half the time you have to politely contradict them when you rudely agree with them, So I think there is one rule every host and hostess ought to keep with the comb and nail file and bicarbonate and aromatic spirits on a handy shelf, Which is don't spoil the denouement by telling the guests everything is terrible, but let them have the thrill of finding it out for themselves.
Written by Elinor Wylie | Create an image from this poem

Wild Peaches


When the world turns completely upside down 
You say we'll emigrate to the Eastern Shore 
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore; 
We'll live among wild peach trees, miles from town, 
You'll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown 
Homespun, dyed butternut's dark gold colour.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor, We'll swim in milk and honey till we drown.
The winter will be short, the summer long, The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot, Tasting of cider and of scuppernong; All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.
2 The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold; The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass, Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover; A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year; The spring begins before the winter's over.
By February you may find the skins Of garter snakes and water moccasins Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.
3 When April pours the colours of a shell Upon the hills, when every little creek Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell, When strawberries go begging, and the sleek Blue plums lie open to the blackbird's beak, We shall live well -- we shall live very well.
The months between the cherries and the peaches Are brimming cornucopias which spill Fruits red and purple, sombre-bloomed and black; Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches We'll trample bright persimmons, while you kill Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvasback.
4 Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones There's something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate, Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There's something in my very blood that owns Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate, A thread of water, churned to milky spate Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.
I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray, Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meagre sheaves; That spring, briefer than apple-blossom's breath, Summer, so much too beautiful to stay, Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves, And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.
Written by Jonathan Swift | Create an image from this poem

Elegy Upon Tiger

 Her dead lady's joy and comfort,
Who departed this life
The last day of March, 1727:
To the great joy of Bryan
That his antagonist is gone.
And is poor Tiger laid at last so low? O day of sorrow! -Day of dismal woe! Bloodhounds, or spaniels, lap-dogs, 'tis all one, When Death once whistles -snap! -away they're gone.
See how she lies, and hangs her lifeless ears, Bathed in her mournful lady's tears! Dumb is her throat, and wagless is her tail, Doomed to the grave, to Death's eternal jail! In a few days this lovely creature must First turn to clay, and then be changed to dust.
That mouth which used its lady's mouth to lick Must yield its jaw-bones to the worms to pick.
That mouth which used the partridge-wing to eat Must give its palate to the worms to eat.
Methinks I see her now in Charon's boat Bark at the Stygian fish which round it float; While Cerberus, alarmed to hear the sound, Makes Hell's wide concave bellow all around.
She sees him not, but hears him through the dark, And valiantly returns him bark for bark.
But now she trembles -though a ghost, she dreads To see a dog with three large yawning heads.
Spare her, you hell-hounds, case your frightful paws, And let poor Tiger 'scape your furious jaws.
Let her go safe to the Elysian plains, Where Hylax barks among the Mantuan swains; There let her frisk about her new-found love: She loved a dog when she was here above.
The Epitaph Here lies beneath this marble An animal could bark, or warble: Sometimes a *****, sometimes a bird, Could eat a tart, or eat a t -.
Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

Ode To Maize

 America, from a grain
of maize you grew
to crown
with spacious lands
the ocean foam.
A grain of maize was your geography.
From the grain a green lance rose, was covered with gold, to grace the heights of Peru with its yellow tassels.
But, poet, let history rest in its shroud; praise with your lyre the grain in its granaries: sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.
First, a fine beard fluttered in the field above the tender teeth of the young ear.
Then the husks parted and fruitfulness burst its veils of pale papyrus that grains of laughter might fall upon the earth.
To the stone, in your journey, you returned.
Not to the terrible stone, the bloody triangle of Mexican death, but to the grinding stone, sacred stone of your kitchens.
There, milk and matter, strength-giving, nutritious cornmeal pulp, you were worked and patted by the wondrous hands of dark-skinned women.
Wherever you fall, maize, whether into the splendid pot of partridge, or among country beans, you light up the meal and lend it your virginal flavor.
Oh, to bite into the steaming ear beside the sea of distant song and deepest waltz.
To boil you as your aroma spreads through blue sierras.
But is there no end to your treasure? In chalky, barren lands bordered by the sea, along the rocky Chilean coast, at times only your radiance reaches the empty table of the miner.
Your light, your cornmeal, your hope pervades America's solitudes, and to hunger your lances are enemy legions.
Within your husks, like gentle kernels, our sober provincial children's hearts were nurtured, until life began to shuck us from the ear.

Written by Anne Sexton | Create an image from this poem


 Inside many of us
is a small old man
who wants to get out.
No bigger than a two-year-old whom you'd call lamb chop yet this one is old and malformed.
His head is okay but the rest of him wasn't Sanforized? He is a monster of despair.
He is all decay.
He speaks up as tiny as an earphone with Truman's asexual voice: I am your dwarf.
I am the enemy within.
I am the boss of your dreams.
I am not the law in your mind, the grandfather of watchfulness.
I am the law of your members, the kindred of blackness and impulse.
Your hand shakes.
It is not palsy or booze.
It is your Doppelganger trying to get out.
Beware .
Beware .
There once was a miller with a daughter as lovely as a grape.
He told the king that she could spin gold out of common straw.
The king summoned the girl and locked her in a room full of straw and told her to spin it into gold or she would die like a criminal.
Poor grape with no one to pick.
Luscious and round and sleek.
Poor thing.
To die and never see Brooklyn.
She wept, of course, huge aquamarine tears.
The door opened and in popped a dwarf.
He was as ugly as a wart.
Little thing, what are you? she cried.
With his tiny no-sex voice he replied: I am a dwarf.
I have been exhibited on Bond Street and no child will ever call me Papa.
I have no private life.
If I'm in my cups the whole town knows by breakfast and no child will ever call me Papa I am eighteen inches high.
I am no bigger than a partridge.
I am your evil eye and no child will ever call me Papa.
Stop this Papa foolishness, she cried.
Can you perhaps spin straw into gold? Yes indeed, he said, that I can do.
He spun the straw into gold and she gave him her necklace as a small reward.
When the king saw what she had done he put her in a bigger room of straw and threatened death once more.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
Again he spun the straw into gold.
She gave him her ring as a small reward.
The king put her in an even bigger room but this time he promised to marry her if she succeeded.
Again she cried.
Again the dwarf came.
But she had nothing to give him.
Without a reward the dwarf would not spin.
He was on the scent of something bigger.
He was a regular bird dog.
Give me your first-born and I will spin.
She thought: Piffle! He is a silly little man.
And so she agreed.
So he did the trick.
Gold as good as Fort Knox.
The king married her and within a year a son was born.
He was like most new babies, as ugly as an artichoke but the queen thought him in pearl.
She gave him her dumb lactation, delicate, trembling, hidden, warm, etc.
And then the dwarf appeared to claim his prize.
Indeed! I have become a papa! cried the little man.
She offered him all the kingdom but he wanted only this - a living thing to call his own.
And being mortal who can blame him? The queen cried two pails of sea water.
She was as persistent as a Jehovah's Witness.
And the dwarf took pity.
He said: I will give you three days to guess my name and if you cannot do it I will collect your child.
The queen sent messengers throughout the land to find names of the most unusual sort.
When he appeared the next day she asked: Melchior? Balthazar? But each time the dwarf replied: No! No! That's not my name.
The next day she asked: Spindleshanks? Spiderlegs? But it was still no-no.
On the third day the messenger came back with a strange story.
He told her: As I came around the corner of the wood where the fox says good night to the hare I saw a little house with a fire burning in front of it.
Around that fire a ridiculous little man was leaping on one leg and singing: Today I bake.
Tomorrow I brew my beer.
The next day the queen's only child will be mine.
Not even the census taker knows that Rumpelstiltskin is my name .
The queen was delighted.
She had the name! Her breath blew bubbles.
When the dwarf returned she called out: Is your name by any chance Rumpelstiltskin? He cried: The devil told you that! He stamped his right foot into the ground and sank in up to his waist.
Then he tore himself in two.
Somewhat like a split broiler.
He laid his two sides down on the floor, one part soft as a woman, one part a barbed hook, one part papa, one part Doppelganger.
Written by Laurie Lee | Create an image from this poem

Day of These Days

 Such a morning it is when love
leans through geranium windows
and calls with a cockerel's tongue.
When red-haired girls scamper like roses over the rain-green grass; and the sun drips honey.
When hedgerows grow venerable, berries dry black as blood, and holes suck in their bees.
Such a morning it is when mice run whispering from the church, dragging dropped ears of harvest.
When the partridge draws back his spring and shoots like a buzzing arrow over grained and mahogany fields.
When no table is bare, and no beast dry, and the tramp feeds on ribs of rabbit.
Written by Rudyard Kipling | Create an image from this poem

The Light That Failed

 So we settled it all when the storm was done
As comfy as comfy could be;
And I was to wait in the barn, my dears,
Because I was only three.
And Teddy would run to the rainbow's foot Because he was five and a man-- And that's how it all began, my dears, And that's how it all began! Then we brought the lances down--then the trumpets blew-- When we went to Kandahar, ridin' two an' two.
Ridin'--ridin'--ridin' two an' two! Ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-ra-a! All the way to Kandahar, Ridin' two an' two.
The wolf-cub at even lay hid in the corn, When the smoke of the cooking hung grey.
He knew where the doe made a couch for her fawn, And he looked to his strength for his prey.
But the moon swept the smoke-wreaths away; And he turned from his meal in the villager's close, And he bayed to the moon as she rose.
"I have a thousand men," said he, "To wait upon my will; And towers nine upon the Tyne, And three upon the Till.
" "And what care I for your men? " said she, "Or towers from Tyne to Till? Sith you must go with me," said she, "To wait upon my will.
And you may lead a thousand men Nor ever draw the rein, But before you lead the Fairy Queen 'Twill burst your heart in twain.
" He has slipped his foot from the stirrup-bar, The bridle from his hand, And he is bound by hand and foot To the Queen of Fairy Land.
"If I have taken the common clay And wrought it cunningly In the shape of a God that was digged a clod, The greater honour to me.
" "If thou hast taken the common clay, And thy hands be not free From the taint of the soil, thou hast made thy spoil The greater shame to thee.
" The lark will make her hymn to God, The partridge call her brood, While I forget the heath I trod, The fields wherein I stood.
'Tis dule to know not night from morn, But greater dule to know I can but hear the hunter's horn That once I used to blow.
There were three friends that buried the fourth, The mould in his mouth and the dust in his eyes, And they .
went south and east and north-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies.
There were three friends that spoke of the dead-- The strong man fights but the sick man dies-- "And would he were here with us now," they said, "The Sun in our face and the wind in our eyes.
" Yet at the last ere our spearmen had found him, Yet at the last, ere a sword-thrust could save, Yet at the last, with his masters around him, He spoke of the Faith as a master to slave.
Yet at the last though the Kafirs had maimed him, Broken by bondage and wrecked by the reiver, Yet at the last, tho' the darkness had claimed him, He colled on Allah and died a Believer!
Written by Alexander Pope | Create an image from this poem

The Rape of the Lock: Canto 5

 She said: the pitying audience melt in tears, 
But Fate and Jove had stopp'd the Baron's ears.
In vain Thalestris with reproach assails, For who can move when fair Belinda fails? Not half so fix'd the Trojan could remain, While Anna begg'd and Dido rag'd in vain.
Then grave Clarissa graceful wav'd her fan; Silence ensu'd, and thus the nymph began.
"Say, why are beauties prais'd and honour'd most, The wise man's passion, and the vain man's toast? Why deck'd with all that land and sea afford, Why angels call'd, and angel-like ador'd? Why round our coaches crowd the white-glov'd beaux, Why bows the side-box from its inmost rows? How vain are all these glories, all our pains, Unless good sense preserve what beauty gains: That men may say, when we the front-box grace: 'Behold the first in virtue, as in face!' Oh! if to dance all night, and dress all day, Charm'd the smallpox, or chas'd old age away; Who would not scorn what housewife's cares produce, Or who would learn one earthly thing of use? To patch, nay ogle, might become a saint, Nor could it sure be such a sin to paint.
But since, alas! frail beauty must decay, Curl'd or uncurl'd, since locks will turn to grey, Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade, And she who scorns a man, must die a maid; What then remains but well our pow'r to use, And keep good humour still whate'er we lose? And trust me, dear! good humour can prevail, When airs, and flights, and screams, and scolding fail.
Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; Charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.
" So spoke the dame, but no applause ensu'd; Belinda frown'd, Thalestris call'd her prude.
"To arms, to arms!" the fierce virago cries, And swift as lightning to the combat flies.
All side in parties, and begin th' attack; Fans clap, silks rustle, and tough whalebones crack; Heroes' and heroines' shouts confus'dly rise, And bass, and treble voices strike the skies.
No common weapons in their hands are found, Like gods they fight, nor dread a mortal wound.
So when bold Homer makes the gods engage, And heav'nly breasts with human passions rage; 'Gainst Pallas, Mars; Latona, Hermes arms; And all Olympus rings with loud alarms.
Jove's thunder roars, heav'n trembles all around; Blue Neptune storms, the bellowing deeps resound; Earth shakes her nodding tow'rs, the ground gives way; And the pale ghosts start at the flash of day! Triumphant Umbriel on a sconce's height Clapp'd his glad wings, and sate to view the fight: Propp'd on their bodkin spears, the sprites survey The growing combat, or assist the fray.
While through the press enrag'd Thalestris flies, And scatters death around from both her eyes, A beau and witling perish'd in the throng, One died in metaphor, and one in song.
"O cruel nymph! a living death I bear," Cried Dapperwit, and sunk beside his chair.
A mournful glance Sir Fopling upwards cast, "Those eyes are made so killing"--was his last.
Thus on Mæeander's flow'ry margin lies Th' expiring swan, and as he sings he dies.
When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down, Chloe stepp'd in, and kill'd him with a frown; She smil'd to see the doughty hero slain, But at her smile, the beau reviv'd again.
Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air, Weighs the men's wits against the lady's hair; The doubtful beam long nods from side to side; At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.
See, fierce Belinda on the baron flies, With more than usual lightning in her eyes, Nor fear'd the chief th' unequal fight to try, Who sought no more than on his foe to die.
But this bold lord with manly strength endu'd, She with one finger and a thumb subdu'd: Just where the breath of life his nostrils drew, A charge of snuff the wily virgin threw; The Gnomes direct, to ev'ry atom just, The pungent grains of titillating dust.
Sudden, with starting tears each eye o'erflows, And the high dome re-echoes to his nose.
"Now meet thy fate", incens'd Belinda cried, And drew a deadly bodkin from her side.
(The same, his ancient personage to deck, Her great great grandsire wore about his neck In three seal-rings; which after, melted down, Form'd a vast buckle for his widow's gown: Her infant grandame's whistle next it grew, The bells she jingled, and the whistle blew; Then in a bodkin grac'd her mother's hairs, Which long she wore, and now Belinda wears.
) "Boast not my fall," he cried, "insulting foe! Thou by some other shalt be laid as low.
Nor think, to die dejects my lofty mind; All that I dread is leaving you benind! Rather than so, ah let me still survive, And burn in Cupid's flames--but burn alive.
" "Restore the lock!" she cries; and all around "Restore the lock!" the vaulted roofs rebound.
Not fierce Othello in so loud a strain Roar'd for the handkerchief that caus'd his pain.
But see how oft ambitious aims are cross'd, The chiefs contend 'till all the prize is lost! The lock, obtain'd with guilt, and kept with pain, In ev'ry place is sought, but sought in vain: With such a prize no mortal must be blest, So Heav'n decrees! with Heav'n who can contest? Some thought it mounted to the lunar sphere, Since all things lost on earth are treasur'd there.
There hero's wits are kept in pond'rous vases, And beaux' in snuff boxes and tweezercases.
There broken vows and deathbed alms are found, And lovers' hearts with ends of riband bound; The courtier's promises, and sick man's prayers, The smiles of harlots, and the tears of heirs, Cages for gnats, and chains to yoke a flea, Dried butterflies, and tomes of casuistry.
But trust the Muse--she saw it upward rise, Though mark'd by none but quick, poetic eyes: (So Rome's great founder to the heav'ns withdrew, To Proculus alone confess'd in view) A sudden star, it shot through liquid air, And drew behind a radiant trail of hair.
Not Berenice's locks first rose so bright, The heav'ns bespangling with dishevell'd light.
The Sylphs behold it kindling as it flies, And pleas'd pursue its progress through the skies.
This the beau monde shall from the Mall survey, And hail with music its propitious ray.
This the blest lover shall for Venus take, And send up vows from Rosamonda's lake.
This Partridge soon shall view in cloudless skies, When next he looks through Galileo's eyes; And hence th' egregious wizard shall foredoom The fate of Louis, and the fall of Rome.
Then cease, bright nymph! to mourn thy ravish'd hair, Which adds new glory to the shining sphere! Not all the tresses that fair head can boast Shall draw such envy as the lock you lost.
For, after all the murders of your eye, When, after millions slain, yourself shall die: When those fair suns shall set, as set they must, And all those tresses shall be laid in dust, This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame And 'midst the stars inscribe Belinda's name.
Written by Ben Jonson | Create an image from this poem

To Penshurst



Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told ;
Or stair, or courts ;  but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the while.

Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water ;  therein thou art fair.

Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport :
Thy mount, to which thy Dryads do resort,That taller tree, which of a nut was set,
At his great birth, where all the Muses met.

There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names
Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames ;
And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke
The lighter fauns, to reach thy lady's oak.

Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never fails to serve thee season'd deer,Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed ;
The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed.

Each bank doth yield thee conies ; and the tops
Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydneys copp's,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled pheasant, with the speckled side :
The painted partridge lies in ev'ry field,
And for thy mess is willing to be kill'd.
Fat aged carps that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loth the second draught or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray.

Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land,
Before the fisher, or into his hand,
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The blushing apricot, and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.

And though thy walls be of the country stone,
They're rear'd with no man's ruin, no man's groan ;
There's none, that dwell about them, wish them down ;
But all come in, the farmer and the clown ;
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
The better cheeses, bring them ; or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands ; and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves in plum, or pear.

But what can this (more than express their love)
Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such ?  whose liberal board doth flow
With all that hospitality doth know !Where the same beer and bread, and self-same wine,
That is his lordship's, shall be also mine.

And I not fain to sit (as some this day,
At great men's tables) and yet dine away.

Here no man tells my cups ;  nor standing by,
A waiter, doth my gluttony envý :
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat,
He knows, below, he shall find plenty of meat ;For fire, or lights, or livery ;  all is there ;
As if thou then wert mine, or I reign'd here :
There's nothing I can wish, for which I stay.

That found King JAMES, when hunting late, this way,
With his brave son, the prince ; they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires
Of thy Penates had been set on flame,
To entertain them ; or the country came,Didst thou then make 'em ! and what praise was heap'd 
On thy good lady, then !  who therein reap'd
The just reward of her high huswifry ;
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was far ; and not a room, but drest,
As if it had expected such a guest !
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.

Thy lady's noble, fruitful, chaste withal.
They are, and have been taught religion ; thence
Their gentler spirits have suck'd innocence.

Each morn, and even, they are taught to pray,
With the whole household, and may, every day,
Read in their virtuous parents' noble parts,
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.

Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see


Of touch, or marble ;  nor canst boast a row
Of polish'd pillars, or a roof of gold :
Thou hast no lantern whereof tales are told ;
Or stair, or courts ;  but stand'st an ancient pile,
And these grudg'd at, art reverenced the while.

Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water ;  therein thou art fair.

Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport :
Thy mount, to which thy Dryads do resort,