17th Century Literature Final

Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne Upon her wings presents the god unshorne. See how Aurora throwes her faire Fresh-quilted colours through the aire: Get up, sweet-Slug-a-bed, and see The Dew-bespangling Herbe and Tree. Each Flower has wept, and bow'd toward the East, Above an houre since; yet you not drest, Nay! not so much as out of bed? When all the Birds have Mattens seyd, And sung their thankful Hymnes: 'tis sin, Nay, profanation to keep in, When as a thousand Virgins on this day, Spring, sooner than the Lark, to fetch in May. Rise; and put on your Foliage, and be seene To come forth, like the Spring-time, fresh and greene; And sweet as Flora. Take no care For Jewels for your Gowne, or Haire: Feare not; the leaves will strew Gemms in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the Day has kept, Against you come, some Orient Pearls unwept: Come, and receive them while the light Hangs on the Dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the Eastern hill Retires himselfe, or else stands still Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying: Few Beads are best, when once we goe a Maying. Come, my Corinna, come; and comming, marke How each field turns a street; each street a Parke Made green, and trimm'd with trees: see how Devotion gives each House a Bough, Or Branch: Each Porch, each doore, ere this, An Arke a Tabernacle is Made up of white-thorn neatly enterwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street, And open fields, and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obay The Proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying. There's not a budding Boy, or Girle, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deale of Youth, ere this, is come Back, and with White-thorn laden home. Some have dispatcht their Cakes and Creame, Before that we have left to dreame: And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted Troth, And chose their Priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kisse, both odde and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, Loves Firmament: Many a jest told of the Keyes betraying This night, and Locks pickt, yet w'are not a Maying. Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime; And take the harmlesse follie of the time. We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short; and our dayes run As fast away as do's the Sunne: And as a vapour, or a drop of raine Once lost, can ne'r be found againe: So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade; All love, all liking, all delight Lies drown'd with us in endlesse night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying; Come, my Corinna, come, let's goe a Maying.

"Corinna's Going A-Maying" Robert Herrick + Speaker tries to get lover Corinna to enjoy May Day spring morning with him + She's in bed and he's rushing her, everyone outside is flirting and celebrating, she is busy fixing herself up + They are in love, young, in their prime + Carpe diem theme, enjoy life before it passes you by

Hence vain deluding joyes, The brood of folly without father bred, How little you bested, Or fill the fixed mind with all your toyes; Dwell in som idle brain, [ 5 ] And fancies fond with gaudy shapes possess, As thick and numberless As the gay motes that people the Sun Beams, Or likest hovering dreams The fickle Pensioners of Morpheus train. [ 10 ] But hail thou Goddes, sage and holy, Hail divinest Melancholy, Whose Saintly visage is too bright To hit the Sense of human sight; And therfore to our weaker view, [ 15 ] Ore laid with black staid Wisdoms hue. Black, but such as in esteem, Prince Memnons sister might beseem, Or that Starr'd Ethiope Queen that strove To set her beauties praise above [ 20 ] The Sea Nymphs, and their powers offended. Yet thou art higher far descended, Thee bright- hair'd Vesta long of yore, To solitary Saturn bore; His daughter she (in Saturns raign, [ 25 ] Such mixture was not held a stain). Oft in glimmering Bowres, and glades He met her, and in secret shades Of woody Ida's inmost grove, While yet there was no fear of Jove. [ 30 ] Com pensive Nun, devout and pure, Sober, stedfast, and demure, All in a robe of darkest grain, Flowing with majestick train, And sable stole of Cipres Lawn, [ 35 ] Over thy decent shoulders drawn. Com, but keep thy wonted state, With eev'n step, and musing gate, And looks commercing with the skies, Thy rapt soul sitting in thine eyes: [ 40 ] There held in holy passion still, Forget thy self to Marble, till With a sad Leaden downward cast, Thou fix them on the earth as fast. And joyn with thee calm Peace, and Quiet, [ 45 ] Spare Fast, that oft with gods doth diet, And hears the Muses in a ring, Ay round about Joves Altar sing. And adde to these retired leasure, That in trim Gardens takes his pleasure; [ 50 ] But first, and chiefest, with thee bring, Him that yon soars on golden wing, Guiding the fiery-wheeled throne, The Cherub Contemplation, And the mute Silence hist along, [ 55 ] 'Less Philomel will daign a Song, In her sweetest, saddest plight, Smoothing the rugged brow of night, While Cynthia checks her Dragon yoke, Gently o're th' accustom'd Oke; [ 60 ] Sweet Bird that shunn'st the noise of folly, Most musicall, most melancholy! Thee Chauntress oft the Woods among, I woo to hear thy eeven-Song; And missing thee, I walk unseen [ 65 ] On the dry smooth-shaven Green, To behold the wandring Moon, Riding neer her highest noon, Like one that had bin led astray Through the Heav'ns wide pathles way; [ 70 ] And oft, as if her head she bow'd, Stooping through a fleecy cloud. Oft on a Plat of rising ground, I hear the far-off Curfeu sound, Over som wide-water'd shoar, [ 75 ] Swinging slow with sullen roar; Or if the Ayr will not permit, Som still removed place will fit, Where glowing Embers through the room Teach light to counterfeit a gloom, [ 80 ] Far from all resort of mirth, Save the Cricket on the hearth, Or the Belmans drousie charm, To bless the dores from nightly harm: Or let my Lamp at midnight hour, [ 85 ] Be seen in som high lonely Towr, Where I may oft out-watch the Bear, With thrice great Hermes, or unsphear The spirit of Plato to unfold What Worlds, or what vast Regions hold [ 90 ] The immortal mind that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook: And of those Dæmons that are found In fire, air, flood, or under ground, Whose power hath a true consent [ 95 ] With Planet, or with Element. Som time let Gorgeous Tragedy In Scepter'd Pall com sweeping by, Presenting Thebs, or Pelops line, Or the tale of Troy divine. [ 100 ] Or what (though rare) of later age, Ennobled hath the Buskind stage. But, O sad Virgin, that thy power Might raise Musæus from his bower, Or bid the soul of Orpheus sing [ 105 ] 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, [ 110 ] 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; [ 115 ] 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. [ 120 ] 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, [ 125 ] 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. [ 130 ] 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, [ 135 ] 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, [ 140 ] 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, [ 145 ] 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. [ 150 ] 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, [ 155 ] 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. [ 160 ] 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, [ 165 ] 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, [ 170 ] 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, [ 175 ] And I with thee will choose to live.

"Il Penseroso" Milton Could be the choices he makes over "L'Allegro" Likes tragedies, walking by himself, contemplation Wants to be prophetic, more Christian themes wants place that encourages art and music and learning Line 54 - Mocking gale singing and contemplating heaven Enjoys beauty of life and hopes it can direct him upwards Orpheus is more powerful and dark here

COME, sons of summer, by whose toil We are the lords of wine and oil : By whose tough labours, and rough hands, We rip up first, then reap our lands. Crowned with the ears of corn, now come, And to the pipe sing harvest home. Come forth, my lord, and see the cart Dressed up with all the country art : See here a maukin, there a sheet, As spotless pure as it is sweet : The horses, mares, and frisking fillies, Clad all in linen white as lilies. The harvest swains and wenches bound For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned. About the cart, hear how the rout Of rural younglings raise the shout ; Pressing before, some coming after, Those with a shout, and these with laughter. Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves, Some prank them up with oaken leaves : Some cross the fill-horse, some with great Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat : While other rustics, less attent To prayers than to merriment, Run after with their breeches rent. Well, on, brave boys, to your lord's hearth, Glitt'ring with fire, where, for your mirth, Ye shall see first the large and chief Foundation of your feast, fat beef : With upper stories, mutton, veal And bacon (which makes full the meal), With sev'ral dishes standing by, As here a custard, there a pie, And here all-tempting frumenty. And for to make the merry cheer, If smirking wine be wanting here, There's that which drowns all care, stout beer ; Which freely drink to your lord's health, Then to the plough, the commonwealth, Next to your flails, your fans, your fats, Then to the maids with wheaten hats ; To the rough sickle, and crook'd scythe, Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blithe. Feed, and grow fat ; and as ye eat Be mindful that the lab'ring neat, As you, may have their fill of meat. And know, besides, ye must revoke The patient ox unto the yoke, And all go back unto the plough And harrow, though they're hanged up now. And, you must know, your lord's word's true, Feed him ye must, whose food fills you ; And that this pleasure is like rain, Not sent ye for to drown your pain, But for to make it spring again.

"The Hock Cart, or Harvest Home" Robert Herrick + Celebrates rural English life, praises feudalist lords and working class + Pleasant pastoral imagery of hardworking but pleasure-loving farm life, village customs, ignores hardship or poverty at first + Last lines do mention "pain" of farming cycle, harvest fun may justify pains of farming + Hierarchically conscious, by invoking lord, outs himself as loyalist during Civil War period by portraying peasants reaping benefits of loyalty/duty to lord

When I consider how my light is spent, Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He returning chide; "Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need Either man's work or His own gifts. Who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best. His state Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait."

"When I Consider How My Light is Spent" Milton Similar to Herbert God is not reliant on his gifts volta - middle of line 8 "but Patience to prevent" - patience is impatient stepping into the line Upset he can't serve God, but trying to be okay with it You have to STAND and wait

SOUL O who shall, from this dungeon, raise A soul enslav'd so many ways? With bolts of bones, that fetter'd stands In feet, and manacled in hands; Here blinded with an eye, and there Deaf with the drumming of an ear; A soul hung up, as 'twere, in chains Of nerves, and arteries, and veins; Tortur'd, besides each other part, In a vain head, and double heart. BODY O who shall me deliver whole From bonds of this tyrannic soul? Which, stretch'd upright, impales me so That mine own precipice I go; And warms and moves this needless frame, (A fever could but do the same) And, wanting where its spite to try, Has made me live to let me die. A body that could never rest, Since this ill spirit it possest. SOUL What magic could me thus confine Within another's grief to pine? Where whatsoever it complain, I feel, that cannot feel, the pain; And all my care itself employs; That to preserve which me destroys; Constrain'd not only to endure Diseases, but, what's worse, the cure; And ready oft the port to gain, Am shipwreck'd into health again. BODY But physic yet could never reach The maladies thou me dost teach; Whom first the cramp of hope does tear, And then the palsy shakes of fear; The pestilence of love does heat, Or hatred's hidden ulcer eat; Joy's cheerful madness does perplex, Or sorrow's other madness vex; Which knowledge forces me to know, And memory will not forego. What but a soul could have the wit To build me up for sin so fit? So architects do square and hew Green trees that in the forest grew.

Andrew Marvell "A Dialogue Between the Soul and Body" + Marvell was an anti-monarchy politician + Soul and Body argue about who has it worse, they are at war with another (reflecting English Civil War) + Soul: emotions, morality, spark of life (conscience), thoughts + Both unhappy, pain caused by both, no real resolution they are bound together till death

THE forward youth that would appear Must now forsake his Muses dear, Nor in the shadows sing His numbers languishing. 'Tis time to leave the books in dust, 5 And oil the unused armour's rust, Removing from the wall The corslet of the hall. So restless Cromwell could not cease In the inglorious arts of peace, 10 But through adventurous war Urgèd his active star: And like the three-fork'd lightning, first Breaking the clouds where it was nurst, Did thorough his own side 15 His fiery way divide: For 'tis all one to courage high, The emulous, or enemy; And with such, to enclose Is more than to oppose. 20 Then burning through the air he went And palaces and temples rent; And Cæsar's head at last Did through his laurels blast. 'Tis madness to resist or blame 25 The face of angry Heaven's flame; And if we would speak true, Much to the man is due, Who, from his private gardens, where He lived reservèd and austere 30 (As if his highest plot To plant the bergamot), Could by industrious valour climb To ruin the great work of time, And cast the Kingdoms old 35 Into another mould; Though Justice against Fate complain, And plead the ancient rights in vain— But those do hold or break As men are strong or weak— 40 Nature, that hateth emptiness, Allows of penetration less, And therefore must make room Where greater spirits come. What field of all the civil war 45 Where his were not the deepest scar? And Hampton shows what part He had of wiser art; Where, twining subtle fears with hope, He wove a net of such a scope 50 That Charles himself might chase To Caresbrooke's narrow case; That thence the Royal actor borne The tragic scaffold might adorn: While round the armèd bands 55 Did clap their bloody hands. He nothing common did or mean Upon that memorable scene, But with his keener eye The axe's edge did try; 60 Nor call'd the gods, with vulgar spite, To vindicate his helpless right; But bow'd his comely head Down, as upon a bed. This was that memorable hour 65 Which first assured the forcèd power: So when they did design The Capitol's first line, A Bleeding Head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; 70 And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate! And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do 75 That does both act and know. They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confest How good he is, how just And fit for highest trust. 80 Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the republic's hand— How fit he is to sway That can so well obey! He to the Commons' feet presents 85 A Kingdom for his first year's rents, And, what he may, forbears His fame, to make it theirs: And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt. 90 So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky, She, having kill'd, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch; Where, when he first does lure, 95 The falconer has her sure. What may not then our Isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear, If thus he crowns each year? 100 As Cæsar he, ere long, to Gaul, To Italy an Hannibal, And to all States not free Shall climacteric be. The Pict no shelter now shall find 105 Within his particolour'd mind, But, from this valour, sad Shrink underneath the plaid; Happy, if in the tufted brake The English hunter him mistake, 110 Nor lay his hounds in near The Caledonian deer. But thou, the war's and fortune's son, March indefatigably on; And for the last effect, 115 Still keep the sword erect: Besides the force it has to fright The spirits of the shady night, The same arts that did gain A power, must it maintain.

Andrew Marvell "An Horatian Ode" Couplets in tetrameter and trimeter >> doesn't flow well War & action rewarded Cromwell did not accept his lot, uses people, and then he destroys them Charles & Cromwell cannot occupy the same space Being kind is a role played. Not inherent. We can emulate Cromwell in some ways.

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use, Did after him the world seduce, And from the fields the flowers and plants allure, Where nature was most plain and pure. He first enclosed within the gardens square A dead and standing pool of air, And a more luscious earth for them did knead, Which stupified them while it fed. The pink grew then as double as his mind; The nutriment did change the kind. With strange perfumes he did the roses taint, And flowers themselves were taught to paint. The tulip, white, did for complexion seek, And learned to interline its cheek: Its onion root they then so high did hold, That one was for a meadow sold. Another world was searched, through oceans new, To find the Marvel of Peru. And yet these rarities might be allowed To man, that sovereign thing and proud, Had he not dealt between the bark and tree, Forbidden mixtures there to see. No plant now knew the stock from which it came; He grafts upon the wild the tame: That th' uncertain and adulterate fruit Might put the palate in dispute. His green seraglio has its eunuchs too, Lest any tyrant him outdo. And in the cherry he does nature vex, To procreate without a sex. 'Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot, While the sweet fields do lie forgot: Where willing nature does to all dispense A wild and fragrant innocence: And fauns and fairies do the meadows till, More by their presence than their skill. Their statues, polished by some ancient hand, May to adorn the gardens stand: But howsoe'er the figures do excel, The gods themselves with us do dwell.

Andrew Marvell "The Mower Against Gardens" + Marvell explores the relationship between human beings and nature interacting + Man manipulates nature, treats vegetation as "concubines" and using them + Lots of perversion, grafting plants / trees unnatural + Gardens: artificial construct + Sexual, lascivious language about gardening, references Adam and Eve eating forbidden fruit + Nature: innocent, essentially good and can be preserved on its own + Criticizes elite (who enjoyed gardens), self-indulgent, unnecessary, Mower wants to plant utilitarian plants, not just because they're pretty, prefers nature in pure state

The wanton troopers riding by Have shot my fawn, and it will die. Ungentle men! they cannot thrive To kill thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any harm, alas, nor could Thy death yet do them any good. I'm sure I never wish'd them ill, Nor do I for all this, nor will; But if my simple pray'rs may yet Prevail with Heaven to forget Thy murder, I will join my tears Rather than fail. But oh, my fears! It cannot die so. Heaven's King Keeps register of everything, And nothing may we use in vain. Ev'n beasts must be with justice slain, Else men are made their deodands; Though they should wash their guilty hands In this warm life-blood, which doth part From thine, and wound me to the heart, Yet could they not be clean, their stain Is dyed in such a purple grain. There is not such another in The world to offer for their sin. Unconstant Sylvio, when yet I had not found him counterfeit One morning (I remember well) Tied in this silver chain and bell, Gave it to me; nay, and I know What he said then; I'm sure I do. Said he, "Look how your huntsman here Hath taught a fawn to hunt his dear." But Sylvio soon had me beguil'd, This waxed tame, while he grew wild; And quite regardless of my smart, Left me his fawn, but took his heart. Thenceforth I set myself to play My solitary time away, With this, and very well content Could so mine idle life have spent; For it was full of sport, and light Of foot and heart, and did invite Me to its game; it seem'd to bless Itself in me. How could I less Than love it? Oh, I cannot be Unkind t' a beast that loveth me. Had it liv'd long, I do not know Whether it too might have done so As Sylvio did; his gifts might be Perhaps as false or more than he. But I am sure, for aught that I Could in so short a time espy, Thy love was far more better then The love of false and cruel men. With sweetest milk and sugar first I it at mine own fingers nurst; And as it grew, so every day It wax'd more white and sweet than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blush'd to see its foot more soft And white, shall I say than my hand? Nay, any lady's of the land. It is a wond'rous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me the race; And when 't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay, For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod, as on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the beds of lilies I Have sought it oft, where it should lie; Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For, in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed Until its lips ev'n seemed to bleed, And then to me 'twould boldly trip And print those roses on my lip. But all its chief delight was still On roses thus itself to fill, And its pure virgin limbs to fold In whitest sheets of lilies cold. Had it liv'd long it would have been Lilies without, roses within. O help, O help! I see it faint, And die as calmly as a saint. See how it weeps! The tears do come, Sad, slowly dropping like a gum. So weeps the wounded balsam, so The holy frankincense doth flow; The brotherless Heliades Melt in such amber tears as these. I in a golden vial will Keep these two crystal tears, and fill It till it do o'erflow with mine, Then place it in Diana's shrine. Now my sweet fawn is vanish'd to Whither the swans and turtles go, In fair Elysium to endure With milk-white lambs and ermines pure. O do not run too fast, for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die. First my unhappy statue shall Be cut in marble, and withal Let it be weeping too; but there Th' engraver sure his art may spare, For I so truly thee bemoan That I shall weep though I be stone; Until my tears, still dropping, wear My breast, themselves engraving there. There at my feet shalt thou be laid, Of purest alabaster made; For I would have thine image be White as I can, though not as thee.

Andrew Marvell "The Nymph Complaining," + Speaker of this pastoral poem is a childlike nymph lamenting the murder of her pet fawn + Lighthearted pastoral fantasy, with themes of betrayal, death and lost love + Nymph loved Sylvio, who gave her fawn as symbol of "hunt" for affections and left her, angry at Sylvio but transfers love to fawn + Hunters trap, deceive, betray and kill fawn, Sylvio did the same to her love + Color white = purity of fawn, nymph offers vial of fawn's tears to Diana, Goddess of Hunt and protector of women + Fawn's death = end of English Church, Charles I, "wanton troopers" = Oliver Cromwell, fawn = calm and innocent as Charles I facing executioner

When for the thorns with which I long, too long, With many a piercing wound, My Saviour's head have crowned, I seek with garlands to redress that wrong: Through every garden, every mead, I gather flowers (my fruits are only flowers), Dismantling all the fragrant towers That once adorned my shepherdess's head. And now when I have summed up all my store, Thinking (so I myself deceive) So rich a chaplet thence to weave As never yet the King of Glory wore: Alas, I find the serpent old That, twining in his speckled breast, About the flowers disguised does fold, With wreaths of fame and interest. Ah, foolish man, that wouldst debase with them, And mortal glory, Heaven's diadem! But Thou who only couldst the serpent tame, Either his slippery knots at once untie; And disentangle all his winding snare; Or shatter too with him my curious frame, And let these wither, so that he may die, Though set with skill and chosen out with care: That they, while Thou on both their spoils dost tread, May crown thy feet, that could not crown thy head.

Andrew Marvell "The Coronet" + Speaker is a shepherd who hopes to atone for the Crucifixion and "crown" Jesus with a poem + Realize poetic attempt at atonement is only an attempt to better his own image + Not simple pastoral plainspoken poet, realizes this is not humble, complex verses, "artful", as he weaves he realizes what he is doing is self-aggrandizing and artificial + Not weaving literal garland, the poem is the crown, efforts ruined by own sinfulness, poetry itself = pride + Asks Christ to come cleanse him

Essay

ESSAY: Thomas Healy, "Marvell and Pastoral" [Blackboard]

I This is the Month, and this the happy morn Wherein the Son of Heav'ns eternal King, Of wedded Maid, and Virgin Mother born, Our great redemption from above did bring; For so the holy sages once did sing, [ 5 ] That he our deadly forfeit should release, And with his Father work us a perpetual peace. II That glorious Form, that Light unsufferable, And that far-beaming blaze of Majesty, Wherwith he wont at Heav'ns high Councel-Table, [ 10 ] To sit the midst of Trinal Unity, He laid aside; and here with us to be, Forsook the Courts of everlasting Day, And chose with us a darksom House of mortal Clay. III Say Heav'nly Muse, shall not thy sacred vein [ 15 ] Afford a present to the Infant God? Hast thou no vers, no hymn, or solemn strein, To welcom him to this his new abode, Now while the Heav'n by the Suns team untrod, Hath took no print of the approching light, [ 20 ] And all the spangled host keep watch in squadrons bright? IV See how from far upon the Eastern rode The Star-led Wisards haste with odours sweet: O run, prevent them with thy humble ode, And lay it lowly at his blessed feet; [ 25 ] Have thou the honour first, thy Lord to greet, And joyn thy voice unto the Angel Quire, From out his secret Altar toucht with hallow'd fire. The Hymn I It was the Winter wilde, While the Heav'n-born-childe, [ 30 ] All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies; Nature in aw to him Had doff't her gawdy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize: It was no season then for her [ 35 ] To wanton with the Sun her lusty Paramour. II Onely with speeches fair She woo's the gentle Air To hide her guilty front with innocent Snow, And on her naked shame, [ 40 ] Pollute with sinfull blame, The Saintly Vail of Maiden white to throw, Confounded, that her Makers eyes Should look so neer upon her foul deformities. III But he her fears to cease, [ 45 ] Sent down the meek-eyd Peace, She crown'd with Olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphear, His ready Harbinger, With Turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing, [ 50 ] And waving wide her mirtle wand, She strikes a universall Peace through Sea and Land. IV No War, or Battails sound Was heard the World around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; [ 55 ] The hooked Chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood, The Trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And Kings sate still with awfull eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. [ 60 ] V But peacefull was the night Wherin the Prince of light His raign of peace upon the earth began: The Windes, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kist, [ 65 ] Whispering new joyes to the milde Ocean, Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While Birds of Calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. VI The Stars with deep amaze Stand fixt in stedfast gaze, [ 70 ] Bending one way their pretious influence, And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering Orbs did glow, [ 75 ] Untill their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. VII And though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The Sun himself with-held his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, [ 80 ] As his inferiour flame, The new-enlightn'd world no more should need; He saw a greater Sun appear Then his bright Throne, or burning Axletree could bear. VIII The Shepherds on the Lawn, [ 85 ] Or ere the point of dawn, Sate simply chatting in a rustick row; Full little thought they than, That the mighty Pan Was kindly com to live with them below; [ 90 ] Perhaps their loves, or els their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busie keep. IX When such musick sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortall finger strook, [ 95 ] Divinely-warbled voice Answering the stringed noise, As all their souls in blisfull rapture took: The Air such pleasure loth to lose, With thousand echo's still prolongs each heav'nly close. [ 100 ] X Nature that heard such sound Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the Airy region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was don, [ 105 ] And that her raign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all Heav'n and Earth in happier union. XI At last surrounds their sight A Globe of circular light, [ 110 ] That with long beams the shame-fac't night array'd, The helmed Cherubim And sworded Seraphim Are seen in glittering ranks with wings displaid, Harping in loud and solemn quire, [ 115 ] With unexpressive notes to Heav'ns new-born Heir. XII Such Musick (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator Great [ 120 ] His constellations set, And the well-balanc't world on hinges hung, And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltring waves their oozy channel keep. XIII Ring out ye Crystall sphears, [ 125 ] Once bless our human ears, (If ye have power to touch our senses so) And let your silver chime Move in melodious time; And let the Base of Heav'ns deep Organ blow, [ 130 ] And with your ninefold harmony Make up full consort to th' Angelike symphony. XIV For if such holy Song Enwrap our fancy long, Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold, [ 135 ] And speckl'd vanity Will sicken soon and die, And leprous sin will melt from earthly mould, And Hell itself will pass away, And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day. [ 140 ] XV Yea Truth, and Justice then Will down return to men, Th' enameld Arras of the Rainbow wearing, And Mercy set between, Thron'd in Celestiall sheen, [ 145 ] With radiant feet the tissued clouds down stearing, And Heav'n as at som festivall, Will open wide the Gates of her high Palace Hall. XVI But wisest Fate sayes no, This must not yet be so, [ 150 ] The Babe lies yet in smiling Infancy, That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorifie: Yet first to those ychain'd in sleep, [ 155 ] The wakefull trump of doom must thunder through the deep, XVII With such a horrid clang As on mount Sinai rang While the red fire, and smouldring clouds out brake: The aged Earth agast [ 160 ] With terrour of that blast, Shall from the surface to the center shake, When at the worlds last session, The dreadfull Judge in middle Air shall spread his throne. XVIII And then at last our bliss [ 165 ] Full and perfect is, But now begins; for from this happy day Th' old Dragon under ground, In straiter limits bound, Not half so far casts his usurped sway, [ 170 ] And wrath to see his Kingdom fail, Swindges the scaly Horrour of his foulded tail. XIX The Oracles are dumm, No voice or hideous humm Runs through the arched roof in words deceiving. [ 175 ] Apollo from his shrine Can no more divine, With hollow shreik the steep of Delphos leaving. No nightly trance, or breathed spell, Inspire's the pale-ey'd Priest from the prophetic cell. [ 180 ] XX The lonely mountains o're, And the resounding shore, A voice of weeping heard, and loud lament; From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale, [ 185 ] The parting Genius is with sighing sent, With flowre-inwov'n tresses torn The Nimphs in twilight shade of tangled thickets mourn. XXI In consecrated Earth, And on the holy Hearth, [ 190 ] The Lars, and Lemures moan with midnight plaint, In Urns, and Altars round, A drear, and dying sound Affrights the Flamins at their service quaint; And the chill Marble seems to sweat, [ 195 ] While each peculiar power forgoes his wonted seat. XXII Peor, and Baalim, Forsake their Temples dim, With that twise-batter'd god of Palestine, And mooned Ashtaroth, [ 200 ] Heav'ns Queen and Mother both, Now sits not girt with Tapers holy shine, The Libyc Hammon shrinks his horn, In vain the Tyrian Maids their wounded Thamuz mourn. XXIII And sullen Moloch fled, [ 205 ] Hath left in shadows dred. His burning Idol all of blackest hue, In vain with Cymbals ring, They call the grisly king, In dismall dance about the furnace blue; [ 210 ] The brutish gods of Nile as fast, Isis and Orus, and the Dog Anubis hast. XXIV Nor is Osiris seen In Memphian Grove, or Green, Trampling the unshowr'd Grasse with lowings loud: [ 215 ] Nor can he be at rest Within his sacred chest, Naught but profoundest Hell can be his shroud: In vain with Timbrel'd Anthems dark The sable-stoled Sorcerers bear his worshipt Ark. [ 220 ] XXV He feels from Juda's land The dredded Infants hand, The rayes of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn; Nor all the gods beside, Longer dare abide, [ 225 ] Nor Typhon huge ending in snaky twine: Our Babe, to shew his Godhead true, Can in his swadling bands controul the damned crew. XXVI So when the Sun in bed, Curtain'd with cloudy red, [ 230 ] Pillows his chin upon an Orient wave. The flocking shadows pale Troop to th' infernall jail, Each fetter'd Ghost slips to his severall grave, And the yellow-skirted Fayes [ 235 ] Fly after the Night-steeds, leaving their Moon-lov'd maze. XXVII But see the Virgin blest, Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious Song should here have ending, Heav'ns youngest-teemed Star [ 240 ] Hath fixt her polisht Car, Her sleeping Lord with Handmaid Lamp attending. And all about the Courtly Stable, Bright-harnest Angels sit in order serviceable.

John Milton "On the Morning of Christ's Nativity" First 4 stanzas are gift Eternal now >> but things make this impossible Has alexandrines - line of iambic hexameter nature - tainted and embarrassed that Christ is coming down Cross must happen to go back to Eden More regret when gods of classics must leave their temples Lots of mentions of sounds pagans - misunderstandings of the true God

BECAUSE you have thrown off your Prelate Lord, And with stiff vows renounced his Liturgy, To seize the widowed ***** Plurality, From them whose sin ye envied, not abhorred, Dare ye for this adjure the civil sword 5 To force our consciences that Christ set free, And ride us with a Classic Hierarchy, Taught ye by mere A. S. and Rutherford? Men whose life, learning, faith, and pure intent, Would have been held in high esteem with Paul 10 Must now be named and printed heretics By shallow Edwards and Scotch What-d'ye-call! But we do hope to find out all your tricks, Your plots and packing, worse than those of Trent, That so the Parliament 15 May with their wholesome and preventive shears Clip your phylacteries, though baulk your ears, And succour our just fears, When they shall read this clearly in your charge: New Presbyter is but old Priest writ large. 20

John Milton "On the New Forcers of Conscience," **Need more background on this one Sonetto cauduto - tailed sonnet 14 lines with 2 tails of 3 lines each Targets Presbyterians, protests bishops and church structure. Milton believes in individual church autonomy Episopalian - support of Church of England Catholics and Jews are self-righteous Could be replacing old tyranny with a new one Replacing old tyranny with new one - Presbyterians are just as tyrannical as the Catholic hierarchy they replace Milton is for Christ over Rutherford

I think not on the state, nor am concerned Which way soever that great helm is turned, But as that son whose father's danger nigh Did force his native dumbness, and untie His fettered organs: so here is a cause That will excuse the breach of nature's laws. Silence were now a sin: nay passion now Wise men themselves for merit would allow. What noble eye could see, (and careless pass) The dying lion kicked by every ass? Hath Charles so broke God's laws, he must not have A quiet crown, nor yet a quiet grave? Tombs have been sanctuaries; thieves lie here Secure from all their penalty and fear. Great Charles his double misery was this, Unfaithful friends, ignoble enemies; Had any heathen been this prince's foe, He would have wept to see him injured so. His title was his crime, they'd reason good To quarrel at the right they had withstood. He broke God's laws, and therefor he must die, And what shall then become of thee and I? Slander must follow treason; but yet stay, Take not our reason with our king away. Though you have seized upon all our defense, Yet do not sequester our common sense. But I admire not at this new supply: No bounds will hold those who at scepters fly. Christ will be King, but I ne'er understood, His subjects built his kingdom up with blood (Except their own) or that he would dispense With his commands, though for his own defense. Oh! to what height of horror are they come Who dare pull down a crown, tear up a tomb![

Katherine Philips "Upon the Double Murder of King Charles" Royalist - supports King Christ's coming was not sufficient reason to kill king Problem is she is woman talking about politics Has moral obligation over political obligation Charles's murder paralleled to Christ Only Christ's death can build a kingdom, no others' deaths

Had we but world enough and time, This coyness, lady, were no crime. We would sit down, and think which way To walk, and pass our long love's day. Thou by the Indian Ganges' side Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide Of Humber would complain. I would Love you ten years before the flood, And you should, if you please, refuse Till the conversion of the Jews. My vegetable love should grow Vaster than empires and more slow; An hundred years should go to praise Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; Two hundred to adore each breast, But thirty thousand to the rest; An age at least to every part, And the last age should show your heart. For, lady, you deserve this state, Nor would I love at lower rate. But at my back I always hear Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near; And yonder all before us lie Deserts of vast eternity. Thy beauty shall no more be found; Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound My echoing song; then worms shall try That long-preserved virginity, And your quaint honour turn to dust, And into ashes all my lust; The grave's a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace. Now therefore, while the youthful hue Sits on thy skin like morning dew, And while thy willing soul transpires At every pore with instant fires, Now let us sport us while we may, And now, like amorous birds of prey, Rather at once our time devour Than languish in his slow-chapped power. Let us roll all our strength and all Our sweetness up into one ball, And tear our pleasures with rough strife Through the iron gates of life: Thus, though we cannot make our sun Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress" + Anonymous man to anonymous woman + If the couple had more time, her coyness wouldn't be a problem, but they are mortals and will die, speaker outlines his compliments for her various body parts + Life is short, death is forever, worms will take her virginity if she doesn't have sex with him before they die, his desire will burn up + Propositions her again, but admits having sex won't stop world or time

How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labours see Crown'd from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow verged shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all flow'rs and all trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men; Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow. Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So am'rous as this lovely green. Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name; Little, alas, they know or heed How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheres'e'er your barks I wound, No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat. The gods, that mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race: Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow; And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wond'rous life in this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Ensnar'd with flow'rs, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness; The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find, Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide; There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets, and combs its silver wings; And, till prepar'd for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walk'd without a mate; After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in paradise alone. How well the skillful gard'ner drew Of flow'rs and herbs this dial new, Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And as it works, th' industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckon'd but with herbs and flow'rs!

Marvell, "The Garden," + Discussion of public virtue (palm: military, oak: civic, bay/laurel: poetry), but wreath limited because they are just trimmings + Praises solitude of garden, innocent and holy, disregards society, prefers green of garden to white/red = romance + Believes in signatura rerum: signature of all things, God imprinted each entity with proper name, thus no need to carve a lover's name into bark, comparisons to Eden +Praises natural cornucopia, but also trips over plants in garden, retreats to imagination, imagines soul detaching from body and remaining amongst tree limbs + On Earth; can transcend some physical limitations, but cannot detach from physical world, garden is private little universe

Hence loathed Melancholy Of Cerberus, and blackest midnight born, In Stygian Cave forlorn 'Mongst horrid shapes, and shreiks, and sights unholy, Find out som uncouth cell, [ 5 ] Wher brooding darknes spreads his jealous wings, And the night-Raven sings; There under Ebon shades, and low-brow'd Rocks, As ragged as thy Locks, In dark Cimmerian desert ever dwell. [ 10 ] But com thou Goddes fair and free, In Heav'n ycleap'd Euphrosyne, And by men, heart-easing Mirth, Whom lovely Venus at a birth With two sister Graces more [ 15 ] To Ivy-crowned Bacchus bore; Or whether (as som Sager sing) The frolick Wind that breathes the Spring, Zephir with Aurora playing, As he met her once a Maying, [ 20 ] There on Beds of Violets blew, And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew, Fill'd her with thee a daughter fair, So bucksom, blith, and debonair. Haste thee nymph, and bring with thee [ 25 ] Jest and youthful Jollity, Quips and Cranks, and wanton Wiles, Nods, and Becks, and Wreathed Smiles, Such as hang on Hebe's cheek, And love to live in dimple sleek; [ 30 ] Sport that wrincled Care derides, And Laughter holding both his sides. Com, and trip it as ye go On the light fantastick toe, And in thy right hand lead with thee, [ 35 ] The Mountain Nymph, sweet Liberty; And if I give thee honour due, Mirth, admit me of thy crue To live with her, and live with thee, In unreproved pleasures free; [ 40 ] To hear the Lark begin his flight, And singing startle the dull night, From his watch-towre in the skies, Till the dappled dawn doth rise; Then to com in spight of sorrow, [ 45 ] And at my window bid good morrow, Through the Sweet-Briar, or the Vine, Or the twisted Eglantine. While the Cock with lively din, Scatters the rear of darknes thin, [ 50 ] And to the stack, or the Barn dore, Stoutly struts his Dames before, Oft list'ning how the Hounds and horn, Chearly rouse the slumbring morn, From the side of som Hoar Hill, [ 55 ] Through the high wood echoing shrill. Som time walking not unseen By Hedge-row Elms, on Hillocks green, Right against the Eastern gate, Wher the great Sun begins his state, [ 60 ] Rob'd in flames, and Amber light, The clouds in thousand Liveries dight. While the Plowman neer at hand, Whistles ore the Furrow'd Land, And the Milkmaid singeth blithe, [ 65 ] And the Mower whets his sithe, And every Shepherd tells his tale Under the Hawthorn in the dale.* Streit mine eye hath caught new pleasures Whilst the Lantskip round it measures, [ 70 ] Russet Lawns, and Fallows Gray, Where the nibling flocks do stray, Mountains on whose barren brest The labouring clouds do often rest: Meadows trim with Daisies pide, [ 75 ] Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide. Towers, and Battlements it sees Boosom'd high in tufted Trees, Wher perhaps som beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. [ 80 ] Hard by, a Cottage chimney smokes, From betwixt two aged Okes, Where Corydon and Thyrsis met, Are at their savory dinner set Of Hearbs, and other Country Messes, [ 85 ] Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses; And then in haste her Bowre she leaves, With Thestylis to bind the Sheaves; Or if the earlier season lead To the tann'd Haycock in the Mead, [ 90 ] Som times with secure delight The up-land Hamlets will invite, When the merry Bells ring round, And the jocond rebecks sound To many a youth, and many a maid, [ 95 ] Dancing in the Chequer'd shade; 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, [ 100 ] With stories told of 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 [ 105 ] 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. [ 110 ] 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, [ 115 ] 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, [ 120 ] 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 [ 125 ] 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. [ 130 ] 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, [ 135 ] 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, [ 140 ] 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 [ 145 ] 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. [ 150 ] These delights, if thou canst give, Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

Milton "L'Allegro," innocent pleasures, not much depth paratactic - built of small subordinate clauses in a list - things are not interdependent Orpheus - relaxing, listening to music words are pure but we give them negative connotations last couplet has conditi0nal "if"

Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once more Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear Compels me to disturb your season due; For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. He must not float upon his wat'ry bier Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, Without the meed of some melodious tear. Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. Hence with denial vain and coy excuse! So may some gentle muse With lucky words favour my destin'd urn, And as he passes turn And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! For we were nurs'd upon the self-same hill, Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; Together both, ere the high lawns appear'd Under the opening eyelids of the morn, We drove afield, and both together heard What time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn, Batt'ning our flocks with the fresh dews of night, Oft till the star that rose at ev'ning bright Toward heav'n's descent had slop'd his westering wheel. Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute, Temper'd to th'oaten flute; Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long; And old Damætas lov'd to hear our song. But O the heavy change now thou art gone, Now thou art gone, and never must return! Thee, Shepherd, thee the woods and desert caves, With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown, And all their echoes mourn. The willows and the hazel copses green Shall now no more be seen Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays. As killing as the canker to the rose, Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze, Or frost to flowers that their gay wardrobe wear When first the white thorn blows: Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear. Where were ye, Nymphs, when the remorseless deep Clos'd o'er the head of your lov'd Lycidas? For neither were ye playing on the steep Where your old bards, the famous Druids, lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream. Ay me! I fondly dream Had ye bin there'—for what could that have done? What could the Muse herself that Orpheus bore, The Muse herself, for her enchanting son, Whom universal nature did lament, When by the rout that made the hideous roar His gory visage down the stream was sent, Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore? Alas! what boots it with incessant care To tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade, And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? Were it not better done, as others use, To sport with Amaryllis in the shade, Or with the tangles of Neæra's hair? 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. "But not the praise," Phoebus replied, and touch'd my trembling ears; "Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil, Nor in the glistering foil Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes And perfect witness of all-judging Jove; As he pronounces lastly on each deed, Of so much fame in Heav'n expect thy meed." O fountain Arethuse, and thou honour'd flood, Smooth-sliding Mincius, crown'd with vocal reeds, That strain I heard was of a higher mood. But now my oat proceeds, And listens to the Herald of the Sea, That came in Neptune's plea. He ask'd the waves, and ask'd the felon winds, "What hard mishap hath doom'd this gentle swain?" And question'd every gust of rugged wings That blows from off each beaked promontory. They knew not of his story; And sage Hippotades their answer brings, That not a blast was from his dungeon stray'd; The air was calm, and on the level brine Sleek Panope with all her sisters play'd. It was that fatal and perfidious bark, Built in th'eclipse, and rigg'd with curses dark, That sunk so low that sacred head of thine. Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow, His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge, Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge Like to that sanguine flower inscrib'd with woe. "Ah! who hath reft," quoth he, "my dearest pledge?" Last came, and last did go, The Pilot of the Galilean lake; Two massy keys he bore of metals twain (The golden opes, the iron shuts amain). He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake: "How well could I have spar'd for thee, young swain, Enow of such as for their bellies' sake Creep and intrude, and climb into the fold? Of other care they little reck'ning make Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast And shove away the worthy bidden guest. Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to hold A sheep-hook, or have learn'd aught else the least That to the faithful herdman's art belongs! What recks it them? What need they? They are sped; And when they list their lean and flashy songs Grate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw, The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed, But, swoll'n with wind and the rank mist they draw, Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread; Besides what the grim wolf with privy paw Daily devours apace, and nothing said, But that two-handed engine at the door Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more". Return, Alpheus: the dread voice is past That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian Muse, And call the vales and bid them hither cast Their bells and flow'rets of a thousand hues. Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers use Of shades and wanton winds, and gushing brooks, On whose fresh lap the swart star sparely looks, Throw hither all your quaint enamel'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 freak'd 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; Bid amaranthus all his beauty shed, And daffadillies fill their cups with tears, To strew the laureate hearse where Lycid lies. For so to interpose a little ease, Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise. Ay me! Whilst thee the shores and sounding seas Wash far away, where'er thy bones are hurl'd; Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides, Where thou perhaps under the whelming tide Visit'st the bottom of the monstrous world, Or whether thou, to our moist vows denied, Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old, Where the great vision of the guarded mount Looks toward Namancos and Bayona's hold: Look homeward Angel now, and melt with ruth; And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth. Weep no more, woeful shepherds, weep no more, For Lycidas, your sorrow, is not dead, Sunk though he be beneath the wat'ry floor; 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: So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high Through the dear might of him that walk'd the waves; Where, other groves and other streams along, With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves, And hears the unexpressive nuptial song, In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love. There entertain him all the Saints above, In solemn troops, and sweet societies, That sing, and singing in their glory move, And wipe the tears for ever from his eyes. Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more: Henceforth thou art the Genius of the shore, In thy large recompense, and shalt be good To all that wander in that perilous flood. Thus sang the uncouth swain to th'oaks and rills, While the still morn went out with sandals gray; He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay; And now the sun had stretch'd out all the hills, And now was dropp'd into the western bay; At last he rose, and twitch'd his mantle blue: To-morrow to fresh woods, and pastures new.

Milton "Lycidas" purest short poem ever written Prophetic about clergy's power weakening Berries plucked before they are ripe, like Lycidas Repetition - grief building up, things being used before their time Orpheus - his poetry had immediate effect on nature Ending - introduces 3rd person Christian and pastoral Debauch cavalier poets Only need heavenly fame

On the proposalls of certaine ministers at the Committee for Propagation of the Gospell Cromwell, our cheif of men, who through a cloud Not of warr onely, but detractions rude, Guided by faith & matchless Fortitude To peace & truth thy glorious way hast plough'd, And on the neck of crowned Fortune proud Hast reard Gods Trophies, & his work pursu'd, While Darwen stream with blood of Scotts imbru'd, And Dunbarr feild resounds thy praises loud, And Worsters laureat wreath; yet much remaines To conquer still; peace hath her victories No less renownd then warr, new foes aries Threatning to bind our soules with secular chaines: Helpe us to save free Conscience from the paw Of hireling wolves whose Gospell is their maw

Milton "To the Lord General Cromwell, May 1652," 1 sentence sonnet only sonnet that ends in epigrammatic couple - it is takeaway Division b/n war and peace in octave and sestet Emphasizes Cromwell's faith, unlike Marvell Cromwell is chief & force of nature again Appeals to Cromwell to oppose proposals by Independents to set up national church with a paid clergy and some limits to toleration Cromwell - support some religious toleration and loosely defined national church

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today Tomorrow will be dying. The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting. That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former. Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may forever tarry.

Robert Herrick, "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time" + Eroticism, beauty, love, + Virgins should get married young, while they are still fertile and attractive + Rosebuds = courtship opportunities, won't be around forever, gather them and get married before old age + Carpe Diem