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Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus, (Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

The Lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heaved on the surges of swollen rhapsodies,
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies; here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone;
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airs
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares,
Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In Music's ravish'd soul he dares not tell,
But whisper to the world: thus do they vary
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their Master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears
By a strong ecstasy) through all the spheres

Of Music's heaven; and seat it there on high

In th' empyrean of pure harmony.

At length (after so long, so loud a strife

Of all the strings, still breathing the best life

Of blest variety, attending on

His fingers' fairest revolution,

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)

A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this, And she (although her breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat), Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.

Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul !) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities

Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies.
She dies and leaves her life the Victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have

(That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!

:0:

To the Morning :

SATISFACTION FOR SLEEP.

What succour can I hope the Muse will send Whose drowsiness hath wrong'd the Muses' friend? What hope, Aurora, to propitiate thee,

Unless the Muse sing my apology?

O in that morning of my shame! when I

Lay folded up in sleep's captivity,

How at the sight didst thou draw back thine eyes

Into thy modest veil! how didst thou rise

Twice dyed in thine own blushes, and didst run
To draw the curtains, and awake the sun!
Who, rousing his illustrious tresses, came,
And seeing the loath'd object, hid for shame
His head in thy fair bosom, and still hides
Me from his patronage; I pray, he chides;

And pointing to dull Morpheus, bids me take

My own Apollo, try if I can make

His Lethe be my Helicon and see

If Morpheus have a Muse to wait on me.
Hence 'tis, my humble fancy finds no wings,
No nimble rapture starts to Heaven, and brings
Enthusiastic flames, such as can give

Marrow to my plump genius, make it live
Drest in the glorious madness of a Muse,
Whose feet can walk the Milky-way, and choose
Her starry throne; whose holy heats can warm
The grave, and hold up an exalted arm
To lift me from my lazy urn, to climb
Upon the stooping shoulders of old Time,
And trace Eternity-But all is dead,
All these delicious hopes are buried
In the deep wrinkles of his angry brow,

Where Mercy cannot find them: but O thou
Bright lady of the Morn! pity doth lie
So warm in thy soft breast, it cannot die.
Have mercy then, and when he next shall rise,
O meet the angry God, invade his eyes,
And stroke his radiant cheeks; one timely kiss
Will kill his anger, and revive my bliss.
So to the treasure of thy pearly dew

Thrice will I pay three tears, to show how true
My grief is; so my wakeful lay shall knock
At th' oriental gates, and duly mock

The early larks' shrill orizons, to be

An anthem at the Day's nativity.

And the same rosy-finger'd hand of thine,

That shuts Night's dying eyes, shall open mine.
But thou, faint God of Sleep, forget that I
Was ever known to be thy votary.

No more my pillow shall thine altar be,
Nor will I offer any more to thee
Myself a melting sacrifice; I'm born

Again a fresh child of the buxom Morn,

Heir of the sun's first beams; 'why threat'st thou so! Why dost thou shake thy leaden sceptre? Go,

Bestow thy poppy upon wakeful Woe,

Sickness, and Sorrow, whose pale lids ne'er know
Thy downy finger; dwell upon their eyes,
Shut in their tears: shut out their miseries.

On a Foul Morning, being then to take a Journey.

Where art thou, Sol, while thus the blindfold Day
Staggers out of the East, loses her way,

Stumbling on Night? Rouse thee, illustrious youth,
And let no dull mists choke thy Light's fair growth.
Point here thy beams; O, glance on yonder flocks,
And make their fleeces golden as thy locks!
Unfold thy fair front, and there shall appear

Full glory flaming in her own free sphere.
Gladness shall clothe the Earth, we will instile
The face of things an universal smile :

Say to the sullen Morn thou com'st to court her,
And wilt demand proud Zephyrus to sport her
With wanton gales; his balmy breath shall lick
The tender drops which tremble on her cheek;
Which rarified, and in a gentle rain

On those delicious banks distill'd again,
Shall rise in a sweet Harvest, which discloses
Two ever-blushing bed[s] of new-born roses.
He'll fan her bright locks, teaching them to flow,
And frisk in curl'd meanders: he will throw
A fragrant breath suck'd from the spicy nest
O' th' precious phoenix, warm upon her breast.
He with a dainty and soft hand will trim

And brush her azure mantle, which shall swim
In silken volumes; wheresoe'er she'll tread
Bright clouds like golden fleeces shall be spread.

Rise then (fair blue-eyed maid !) rise and discover
Thy silver brow, and meet thy golden lover.
See how he runs, with what a hasty flight,
Into thy bosom, bath'd with liquid light.

Fly, fly profane fogs, far hence fly away,
Taint not the pure streams of the springing Day,
With your dull influence; it is for you
To sit and scowl upon Night's heavy brow,

Not on the fresh cheeks of the virgin Morn,

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