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Without the meed of some melodious tear.

Lycidas. Line 14. Under the opening eyelids of the morn.

Line 26. But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return !

Line 37. The gadding vine.

Line 40 And strictly meditate the thankless Muse. Line 66. To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair.

Line 68. 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 th' abhorred shears And slits the thin-spun life.

Line 70 Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil. Line 78. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark. Line 100. The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). Line 109. But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more. Line 130. Throw hither all your quaint enamelld eyes That on the green turf suck the honied showers, And purple all the ground with vernal flowers, Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies, The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,

1 Erant quibus appetentior famæ videretur, quando etiam sapientibus cupido gloriæ novissima exuitur (Some might consider him as too fond of fame, for the desire of glory clings even to the best of men longer than any other passion) (said of Helvidius Priscus). - Tacitus: Historia, iv. 6.

The white pink, and the pansy freakt with jet,
The glowing violet,
The musk-rose, and the well-attir'd woodbine,
With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,
And every flower that sad embroidery wears.

Lycidas. Line 139
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. Line 168.
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills,
With eager thought warbling his Doric lay. Line 188.
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new. Line 193.
Haste thee, Nymph, and bring with thee
Jest and youthful Jollity,
Quips and Cranks and wanton Wiles,
Nods and Becks and wreathed Smiles. L'Allegro. Line 25.
Sport, that wrinkled Care derides,
And Laughter holding both his sides.
Come and trip it as ye go,
On the light fantastic toe.

Line 31. The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.

Line 36. And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.

Line 67. Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks and rivers wide; Towers and battlements it sees Bosom’d high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some beauty lies, The cynosure of neighboring eyes.

Line 75. Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.

Line 85. To many a youth and many a maid Dancing in the chequer'd shade.

Line 95.

Line 121.

Then to the spicy nut-brown ale. L'Allegro. Line 100,
Tower'd cities please us then,
And the busy hum of men.

Line 117.
Ladies, whose bright eyes
Rain influence, and judge the prize.
Such sights as youthful poets dream
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.

Line 129. 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 Of linked sweetness long drawn out.

Line 135. Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.

Line 143. The gay motes that people the sunbeams.

11 Penseroso. Line 8. And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.

Line 39. Forget thyself to marble.

Line 42. And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.

Line 45. And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.

Line 49. Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy !

Line 61.

1 Wisdom married to immortal verse. – WORDSWORTH: The Excursion, book vii.

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 Through the heav'n's wide pathless way; And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Il Penseroso. Line 65. Where glowing embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom.

Line 79. Far from all resort of mirth Save the cricket on the hearth.

Line 81. Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.

Line 97. Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.

Line 105. Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.

Line 109. Where more is meant than meets the ear. Line 120. When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.

Line 128. Hide me from day's garish eye.

Line 141. And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.

Line 159. Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.

Line 173. Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.

Arcades. Line 68. Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof.

Line 88

POS

O fairest flower! no sooner blown but blasted,
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly.

Ode on the Death of a fair Infant, dying of a Cough. Such as may make thee search the coffers round.

At a Vacation Exercise. Line 31. No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around.

Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 53. Time will run back and fetch the age of gold. Line 135. Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail. Line 172

The oracles are dumb,

No voice or hideous hum
Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving.

Apollo from his shrine

Can no more divine,
With hollow shriek the steep of Delphos leaving.
No nightly trance or breathed spell
Inspires the pale-eyed priest from the prophetic cell.

Line 173.
From haunted spring and dale
Edg'd with poplar pale
The parting genius is with sighing sent. Line 184,
Peor and Baälim
Forsake their temples dim.

Line 197, What needs my Shakespeare for his honour'd bones, The labour of an age in piled stones ? Or that his hallow'd relics should be hid Under a star-y-pointing pyramid ? Dear son of memory, great heir of fame, What need'st thou such weak witness of thy name?

Epitaph on Shakespeare. And so sepulchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die. Ibid. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.1

Sonnet to the Nightingale

1 See Chaucer, page 6.

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