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= ROOT|Literature|english|1600-1699|milton-l-523.txt =

page 2 of 2



  And young and old com forth to play
  On a Sunshine Holyday,
  Till the live-long day-light fail,
  Then to the Spicy Nut-brown Ale,
  With stories told many a feat,
  How Faery Mab the junkets eat,
  She was pincht, and pull'd she sed,
  And he by Friars Lanthorn led
  Tells how the drudging Goblin swet,
  To ern his Cream-bowle duly set,
  When in one night, ere glimps of morn,
  His shadowy Flale hath thresh'd the Corn
  That ten day-labourers could not end,
  Then lies him down the Lubbar Fend.
  And stretch'd out all the Chimney's length,
  Basks at the fire his hairy strength;
  And Crop-full out of dores he flings,
  Ere the first Cock his Mattin rings.
  Thus don the Tales, to bed they creep,
  By whispering Windes soon lull'd asleep.
  Towred Cities please us then,
  And the busie humm of men,
  Where throngs of Knights and Barons bold,
  In weeds of Peace high triumphs hold,
  With store of Ladies, whose bright eies
  Rain influence, and judge the prise
  Of Wit, or Arms, while both contend
  To win her Grace, whom all commend.
  There let Hymen oft appear
  In Saffron robe, with Taper clear,
  And pomp, and feast, and revelry,
  With mask, and antique Pageantry,
  Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
  On Summer eeves by haunted stream.
  Then to the well-trod stage anon,
  If Jonsons learned Sock be on,
  Or sweetest Shakespear fancies childe,
  Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,
  And ever against eating Cares,
  Lap me in soft Lydian Aires,
  Married to immortal verse
  Such as the meeting soul may pierce
  In notes, with many a winding bout
  Of lincked sweetnes long drawn out,
  With wanton heed, and giddy cunning,
  The melting voice through mazes running;
  Untwisting all the chains that ty
  The hidden soul of harmony.
  That Orpheus self may heave his head
  From golden slumber on a bed
  Of heapt Elysian flowres, and hear
  Such streins as would have won the ear
  Of Pluto, to have quite set free
  His half regain'd Eurydice.
  These delights, if thou canst give,
  Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

             -THE END-
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THE END

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