Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy
  In Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by,
  Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line,
  Or the tale of Troy divine.
  Or what (though rare) of later age,
  Ennobled hath the Buskind stage.
  But, O sad Virgin, that thy power
  Might raise Musaeus from his bower,
  Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing
  Such notes as warbled to the string,
  Drew Iron tears down Pluto's cheek,
  And made Hell grant what Love did seek.
  Or call up him that left half told
  The story of Cambuscan bold,
  Of Camball, and of Algarsife,
  And who had Canace to wife,
  That own'd the vertuous Ring and Glass,
  And of the wondrous Hors of Brass,
  On which the Tartar King did ride;
  And if ought els, great Bards beside,
  In sage and solemn tunes have sung,
  Of Turneys and of Trophies hung;
  Of Forests, and inchantments drear,
  Where more is meant then meets the ear.
  Thus night oft see me in thy pale career,
  Till civil-suited Morn appeer,
  Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont,
  With the Attick Boy to hunt,
  But Cherchef't in a comly Cloud,
  While rocking Winds are Piping loud,
  Or usher'd with a shower still,
  When the gust hath blown his fill,
  Ending on the russling Leaves,
  With minute drops from off the Eaves.
  And when the Sun begins to fling
  His flaring beams, me Goddes bring
  To arched walks of twilight groves,
  And shadows brown that Sylvan loves
  Of Pine, or monumental Oake,
  Where the rude Ax with heaved stroke,
  Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt,
  Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt.
  There in close covert by som Brook,
  Where no profaner eye may look,
  Hide me from Day's garish eie,
  While the Bee with Honied thie,
  That at her flowry work doth sing,
  And the Waters murmuring
  With such consort as they keep,
  Entice the dewy-feather'd Sleep;
  And let som strange mysterious dream,
  Wave at his Wings in Airy stream,
  Of lively portrature display'd,
  Softly on my eye-lids laid.
  And as I wake, sweet musick breath
  Above, about, or underneath,
  Sent by som spirit to mortals good,
  Or th' unseen Genius of the Wood.
  But let my due feet never fail,
  To walk the studious Cloysters pale,
  And love the high embowed Roof,
  With antick Pillars massy proof,
  And storied Windows richly dight,
  Casting a dimm religious light.
  There let the pealing Organ blow,
  To the full voic'd Quire below,
  In Service high, and Anthems cleer,
  As may with sweetnes, through mine ear,
  Dissolve me into extasies,
  And bring all Heav'n before mine eyes.
  And may at last my weary age
  Find out the peacefull hermitage,
  The Hairy Gown and Mossy Cell,
  Where I may sit and rightly spell
  Of every Star that Heav'n doth shew,
  And every Herb that sips the dew;
  Till old experience do attain
  To somthing like Prophetic strain.
  These pleasures Melancholy give,
  And I with thee will choose to live.

               -THE END-
.