Chapter 45
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I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the rib of Death.
LYCIDAS.
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He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
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Without the meed of some melodious tear.
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Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise (That last infirmity of n.o.ble minds) 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.
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Built in the eclipse and rigged with curses dark.
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The pilot of the Galilean lake.
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So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed, And yet anon repairs his drooping head, And tricks his beams, with new spangled ore Flames in the forehead of the morning sky.
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To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
L'ALLEGRO.
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Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles, Nods and becks, and wreathed smiles.
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Come, and trip it as you go, On the light, fantastic toe.
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And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
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Where perhaps some beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighboring eyes.
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Towered cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.
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Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.
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Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse, Such as the meeting soul may pierce In notes, with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
IL PENSEROSO.
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And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.
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Sweet bird, that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!
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