With antic pillars massy proof, And bring all heaven before mine eyes. These pleasures, Melancholy, give, SONNETS. I. TO THE NIGHTINGALE. O NIGHTINGALE, that on yon bloomy spray Warblest at eve, when all the woods are still; Thou with fresh hope the lover's heart dost fill, While the jolly Hours lead on propitious May. Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day, First heard before the shallow cuckoo's bill, Portend success in love. O, if Jove's will Have link'd that amorous power to thy soft lay, Now timely sing, ere the rude bird of hate Foretell my hopeless doom in some grove nigh; As thou from year to year hast sung too late For my relief, yet hadst no reason why: Whether the Muse or Love call thee his mate, Both them I serve, and of their train am I. II. ON HIS BEING ARRIVED AT THE AGE OF How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, And inward ripeness doth much less appear, That some more timely-happy spirits endu❜th. Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow, It shall be still in strictest measure even To that same lot, however mean or high, Toward which Time leads me, and the will of Heaven; All is, if I have grace to use it so, As ever in my great Task-Master's eye. III. WHEN THE ASSAULT WAS INTENDED TO THE CITY. CAPTAIN, or colonel, or knight in arms, Whose chance on these defenceless doors may seize, If deed of honour did thee ever please, He can requite thee; for he knows the charms To save the Athenian walls from ruin bare. IV. TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY. LADY, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunn'd the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen That labour up the hill of heavenly truth; The better part with Mary and with Ruth Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity and ruth. Thy care is fix'd, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure, Thou, when the bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, Hast gain'd thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. V. TO THE LADY MARGARET LEY. DAUGHTER to that good earl, once president At Chæronea, fatal to liberty, Kill'd with report that old man eloquent. Though later born than to have known the days Wherein your father flourish'd, yet by you, Madam, methinks I see him living yet; So well your words his noble virtues praise, That all both judge you to relate them true, And to possess them, honour'd Margaret VI. ON THE DETRACTION WHICH FOLLOWED UPON MY WRITING CERTAIN TREATISES. A BOOK was writ of late, call'd "Tetrachordon," And woven close, both matter, form, and style; The subject new: it walk'd the town awhile, Numbering good intellects; now seldom pored on. Cries the stall-reader, Bless us! what a word on Stand spelling false, while one might walk to End Green. Why is it harder, sirs, than Colkitto, or Macdonnel, or Galasp? Those rugged names to our like mouths grow sleek, That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp. Thy age, like ours, O soul of Sir John Cheek, Hated not learning worse than toad or asp, When thou taught'st Cambridge, and King Edward, Greek. VII. ON THE SAME. I DID but prompt the age to quit their clogs |