Fame mourns in that she lost, the ground of her reports, Each living wight laments his lack, and all in sundry sorts. He was--woe worth that word-to each well thinking mind, A spotless friend, a matchless man, whose virtue ever shined,, Declaring in his thoughts, his life, and that he writ, Highest conceits, longest foresights, and deepest works of wit. He only like himself, was second unto none, Where death-though life-we rue, and wrong, and all in vain do moan, 12 16 Their loss, not him wail they, that fill the world with cries, Death slew not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies. Now sink of sorrow I, who live, the more the wrong, Who wishing Death, whom death denies, whose thread is all too long, Who tied to wretched life, who look for no relief. Must spend my ever-dying days in never-ending grief. Heart's ease and only I, like parallels run on, never meet in one, 24 Yet for not wronging him, my thoughts, my sorrows' cell, Shall not run out, though leak they will, for liking him so well. Farewell to you my hopes, my wonted waking dreams, Farewell sometime enjoyed joy eclipsed are thy beams, Farewell self-pleasing thoughts, which quietness brings forth, And farewell friendship's sacred league uniting minds of worth. And farewell merry heart, the gift of guiltless minds, And all sports, which for live's restore, variety assigns, Let all that sweet is, void? in me no mirth may dwell, 28 32 Philip the cause of all this woe, my life 's content, farewell. 36 Now rime, the source of rage, which art no kin to skill, And endless grief which deads my life, yet knows not now to kill, Go seek that hapless tomb, which if ye hap to find, Salute the stones, that keep the lines, that held so good a mind. 1593. Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke. 40 LYCIDAS YET Once more, O ye Laurels, and once more I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 10 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 bid fair peace be to my sable shrowd! 20 Under the opening eye-lids of the morn, Mean while the Rural ditties were not mute, 30 Rough Satyrs danc'd, and Fauns with clov'n heel, From the glad sound would not be absent long, And old Damotas 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 wilde Thyme and the gadding Vine o'regrown, And all their echoes mourn. The Willows, and the Hazle Copses green, Fanning their joyous Leaves to thy soft lays. 40 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 Shepherds 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, 50 Where your old Bards, the famous Druids lie, Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high, Nor yet where Deva spreads her wisard stream. Ay me, I fondly dream! 60 Had ye bin there-for what could that have done? (That last infirmity of Noble mind) 70 To scorn delights, and live laborious dayes; Set off to th'world, nor in broad rumour lies, 8 As he pronounces lastly on each deed, |