Book iv
. Line 426._
O dark, dark, dark, amid the blaze of noon, Irrecoverably dark, total eclipse Without all hope of day!
_Samson Agonistes. Line 80._
The sun to me is dark And silent as the moon, When she deserts the night Hid in her vacant interlunar cave.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 86._
Ran on embattled armies clad in iron, And, weaponless himself, Made arms ridiculous.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 129._
Just are the ways of God, And justifiable to men; Unless there be who think not God at all.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 293._
What boots it at one gate to make defence, And at another to let in the foe?
_Samson Agonistes. Line 560._
But who is this, what thing of sea or land,-- Female of sex it seems,-- That so bedeck'd, ornate, and gay, Comes this way sailing Like a stately ship Of Tarsus, bound for th' isles Of Javan or Gadire, With all her bravery on, and tackle trim, Sails fill'd, and streamers waving, Courted by all the winds that hold them play, An amber scent of odorous perfume Her harbinger?
_Samson Agonistes. Line 710._
Yet beauty, though injurious, hath strange power, After offence returning, to regain Love once possess'd.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 1003._
He 's gone, and who knows how he may report Thy words by adding fuel to the flame?
_Samson Agonistes. Line 1350._
For evil news rides post, while good news baits.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 1538._
And as an ev'ning dragon came, Assailant on the perched roosts And nests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 1692._
Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,--nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.
_Samson Agonistes. Line 1721._
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot Which men call earth.
_Comus. Line 5._
That golden key That opes the palace of eternity.
_Comus. Line 13._
The nodding horror of whose shady brows Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger.
_Comus. Line 38._
I will tell you now What never yet was heard in tale or song, From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.
_Comus. Line 43._
Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
_Comus. Line 46._
These my sky-robes spun out of Iris' woof.
_Comus. Line 83._
The star that bids the shepherd fold.
_Comus. Line 93._
Midnight shout and revelry, Tipsy dance and jollity.
_Comus. Line 103._
Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
_Comus. Line 138._
When the gray-hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain.
_Comus. Line 188._
A thousand fantasies Begin to throng into my memory, Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, And airy tongues that syllable men's names On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.
_Comus. Line 205._
O welcome, pure-ey'd Faith, white-handed Hope, Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings!
_Comus. Line 213._
Was I deceiv'd, or did a sable cloud Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
_Comus. Line 221._
Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment?
_Comus. Line 244._
How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smil'd!
_Comus. Line 249._
Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.
_Comus. Line 256._
Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
_Comus. Line 263._
I took it for a faery vision Of some gay creatures of the element, That in the colours of the rainbow live, And play i' th' plighted clouds.
_Comus. Line 298._
It were a journey like the path to heaven, To help you find them.
_Comus. Line 303._
With thy long levell'd rule of streaming light.
_Comus. Line 340._
Virtue could see to do what virtue would By her own radiant light, though sun and moon Were in the flat sea sunk. And Wisdom's self Oft seeks to sweet retired solitude, Where with her best nurse Contemplation She plumes her feathers and lets grow her wings, That in the various bustle of resort Were all-to ruffled, and sometimes impair'd. He that has light within his own clear breast May sit i' th' centre and enjoy bright day; But he that hides a dark soul and foul thoughts Benighted walks under the midday sun.
_Comus. Line 373._
The unsunn'd heaps Of miser's treasure.
_Comus. Line 398._
'T is chastity, my brother, chastity: She that has that is clad in complete steel.
_Comus. Line 420._
Some say no evil thing that walks by night, In fog or fire, by lake or moorish fen, Blue meagre hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost That breaks his magic chains at curfew time, No goblin, or swart fairy of the mine, Hath hurtful power o'er true virginity.
_Comus. Line 432._
So dear to heav'n is saintly chastity, That when a soul is found sincerely so, A thousand liveried angels lackey her, Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt, And in clear dream and solemn vision Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear, Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants Begin to cast a beam on th' outward shape.
_Comus. Line 453._
How charming is divine philosophy! Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose, But musical as is Apollo's lute,[245-1] And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets Where no crude surfeit reigns.
_Comus. Line 476._
And sweeten'd every musk-rose of the dale.
_Comus. Line 496._
Fill'd the air with barbarous dissonance.
_Comus. Line 550._
I was all ear, And took in strains that might create a soul Under the ribs of death.
_Comus. Line 560._
That power Which erring men call Chance.
_Comus. Line 587._
If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.
_Comus. Line 597._
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it, But in another country, as he said, Bore a bright golden flow'r, but not in this soil; Unknown, and like esteem'd, and the dull swain Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon.
_Comus. Line 631._
Enter'd the very lime-twigs of his spells, And yet came off.
_Comus. Line 646._
This cordial julep here, That flames and dances in his crystal bounds.
_Comus. Line 672._
Budge doctors of the Stoic fur.
_Comus. Line 707._
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.
_Comus. Line 727._
It is for homely features to keep home,-- They had their name thence; coarse complexions And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply The sampler and to tease the huswife's wool. What need a vermeil-tinctur'd lip for that, Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the morn?
_Comus. Line 748._
Swinish gluttony Ne'er looks to heav'n amidst his gorgeous feast, But with besotted base ingratitude Crams, and blasphemes his feeder.
_Comus. Line 776._
Enjoy your dear wit and gay rhetoric, That hath so well been taught her dazzling fence.
_Comus. Line 790._
His rod revers'd, And backward mutters of dissevering power.
_Comus. Line 816._
Sabrina fair, Listen where thou art sitting Under the glassy, cool, translucent wave, In twisted braids of lilies knitting The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair.
_Comus. Line 859._
But now my task is smoothly done, I can fly, or I can run.
_Comus. Line 1012._
Or if Virtue feeble were, Heav'n itself would stoop to her.
_Comus. Line 1022._
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
_Lycidas. Line 3._
He knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.
_Lycidas. Line 10._
Without the meed of some melodious tear.
_Lycidas. Line 14._
Under the opening eyelids of the morn.
_Lycidas. Line 26._
But oh the heavy change, now thou art gone, Now thou art gone and never must return!
_Lycidas. Line 37._
The gadding vine.
_Lycidas. Line 40._
And strictly meditate the thankless Muse.
_Lycidas. Line 66._
To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair.
_Lycidas. Line 68._
Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise[247-1] (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.
_Lycidas. Line 70._
Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil.
_Lycidas. Line 78._
It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th' eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark.
_Lycidas. Line 100._
The pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore, of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain).
_Lycidas. Line 109._
But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.
_Lycidas. Line 130._
Throw hither all your quaint enamell'd 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, 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.
_Lycidas. Line 168._
He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.
_Lycidas. Line 188._
To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.
_Lycidas. 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.
_L'Allegro. Line 31._
The mountain nymph, sweet Liberty.
_L'Allegro. Line 36._
And every shepherd tells his tale Under the hawthorn in the dale.
_L'Allegro. 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.
_L'Allegro. Line 75._
Herbs, and other country messes, Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
_L'Allegro. Line 85._
To many a youth and many a maid Dancing in the chequer'd shade.
_L'Allegro. Line 95._
Then to the spicy nut-brown ale.
_L'Allegro. Line 100._
Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.
_L'Allegro. Line 117._
Ladies, whose bright eyes Rain influence, and judge the prize.
_L'Allegro. Line 121._
Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eyes 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.
_L'Allegro. Line 129._
And ever against eating cares Lap me in soft Lydian airs, Married to immortal verse,[249-1] Such as the meeting soul may pierce, In notes with many a winding bout Of linked sweetness long drawn out.
_L'Allegro. Line 135._
Untwisting all the chains that tie The hidden soul of harmony.
_L'Allegro. Line 143._
The gay motes that people the sunbeams.
_Il Penseroso. Line 8._
And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes.
_Il Penseroso. Line 39._
Forget thyself to marble.
_Il Penseroso. Line 42._
And join with thee calm Peace and Quiet, Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet.
_Il Penseroso. Line 45._
And add to these retired Leisure, That in trim gardens takes his pleasure.
_Il Penseroso. Line 49._
Sweet bird, that shun'st the noise of folly, Most musical, most melancholy!
_Il Penseroso. Line 61._
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.
_Il Penseroso. Line 79._
Far from all resort of mirth Save the cricket on the hearth.
_Il Penseroso. Line 81._
Sometime let gorgeous Tragedy In sceptred pall come sweeping by, Presenting Thebes, or Pelops' line, Or the tale of Troy divine.
_Il Penseroso. Line 97._
Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing Such notes as, warbled to the string, Drew iron tears down Pluto's cheek.
_Il Penseroso. Line 105._
Or call up him that left half told The story of Cambuscan bold.
_Il Penseroso. Line 109._
Where more is meant than meets the ear.
_Il Penseroso. Line 120._
When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the rustling leaves With minute drops from off the eaves.
_Il Penseroso. Line 128._
Hide me from day's garish eye.
_Il Penseroso. Line 141._
And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light.
_Il Penseroso. Line 159._
Till old experience do attain To something like prophetic strain.
_Il Penseroso. Line 173._
Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie.
_Arcades. Line 68._
Under the shady roof Of branching elm star-proof.
_Arcades. Line 88._
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.
_Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 135._
Swinges the scaly horror of his folded tail.
_Hymn on Christ's Nativity. 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.
_Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 173._
From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.
_Hymn on Christ's Nativity. Line 184._
Peor and Baälim Forsake their temples dim.
_Hymn on Christ's Nativity. 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 sepúlchred in such pomp dost lie, That kings for such a tomb would wish to die.
_Epitaph on Shakespeare._
Thy liquid notes that close the eye of day.[251-1]
_Sonnet to the Nightingale._
As ever in my great Taskmaster's eye.
_On his being arrived to the Age of Twenty-three._
The great Emathian conqueror bid spare The house of Pindarus, when temple and tower Went to the ground.
_When the Assault was intended to the City._
That old man eloquent.
_To the Lady Margaret Ley._
That would have made Quintilian stare and gasp.
_On the Detraction which followed upon my writing certain Treatises._
License they mean when they cry, Liberty! For who loves that must first be wise and good.
_On the Detraction which followed upon my writing certain Treatises._
Peace hath her victories No less renown'd than war.
_To the Lord General Cromwell._
Ev'n them who kept thy truth so pure of old, When all our fathers worshipp'd stocks and stones.
_On the late Massacre in Piedmont._
Thousands at his bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.
_On his Blindness._
What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice, Of Attic taste?
_To Mr. Lawrence._
In mirth that after no repenting draws.
_Sonnet xxi. To Cyriac Skinner._
For other things mild Heav'n a time ordains, And disapproves that care, though wise in show, That with superfluous burden loads the day, And when God sends a cheerful hour, refrains.
_Sonnet xxi. To Cyriac Skinner._
Yet I argue not Against Heav'n's hand or will, nor bate a jot Of heart or hope; but still bear up and steer Right onward.
_Sonnet xxii. To Cyriac Skinner._
Of which all Europe rings from side to side.
_Sonnet xxii. To Cyriac Skinner._
But oh! as to embrace me she inclin'd, I wak'd, she fled, and day brought back my night.
_On his Deceased Wife._
Have hung My dank and dropping weeds To the stern god of sea.
_Translation of Horace.