ODE ON SOLITUDE

By Alexander Pope

APPY the man whose wish and

care

A few paternal acres bound, Content to breathe his native air In his own ground:

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,

Whose flocks supply him with attire ; Whose trees in summer yield him shade, In winter fire:

Blest, who can unconcern'dly find

Hours, days, and years slide soft away;
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day:

Sound sleep by night, study and ease,
Together mixt, sweet recreation;
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unseen, unknown;
Thus, unlamented, let me die,
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lie.

HYMN TO CYNTHIA

By Ben Jonson

UEEN and Huntress, chaste and fair,

Now the sun is laid to sleep,
Seated in thy silver chair,

State in wonted manner keep:
Hesperus entreats thy light,
Goddess excellently bright!

Earth, let not thy envious shade
Dare itself to interpose;

Cynthia's shining orb was made

Heaven to clear when day did close;
Bless us then with wished sight,
Goddess excellently bright!

Lay thy bow of pearl apart

And thy crystal-shining quiver;

Give unto the flying hart

Space to breathe, how short soever;
Thou that mak'st a day of night,
Goddess excellently bright!

RETIREMENT

By Thomas Warton

INSCRIPTION IN A HERMITAGE

ENEATH this stony roof reclined,

I soothe to peace my pensive mind;

And while, to shade my lowly

cave,

Embowering elms their umbrage

wave;

And while the maple dish is mine
The beechen cup, unstained with wine
I scorn the gay licentious crowd,
Nor heed the toys that deck the proud.

Within my limits, lone and still,
The blackbird pipes in artless trill;
Fast by my couch, congenial guest,
The wren has wove her mossy nest;
From busy scenes and brighter skies,
To lurk with innocence, she flies,
Here hopes in safe repose to dwell,
Nor aught suspects the sylvan cell.

At morn I take my customed round,
To mark how buds yon shrubby mound,
And every opening primrose count,
That trimly paints my blooming mount;

Or o'er the sculptures, quaint and rude,
That grace my gloomy solitude,
I teach in winding wreaths to stray
Fantastic ivy's gadding spray.

At eve, within yon studious nook,
I ope my brass-embossed book,
Portrayed with many a holy deed

Of martyrs, crowned with heavenly meed;
Then, as my taper waxes dim,

Chant, ere I sleep, my measured hymn,
And at the close, the gleams behold
Of parting wings, be-dropt with gold.

While such pure joys my bliss create,
Who but would smile at guilty state?
Who but would wish his holy lot
In calm oblivion's humble grot?
Who but would cast his pomp away,
To take my staff, and amice gray;
And to the world's tumultuous stage
Prefer the blameless hermitage?

PACK CLOUDS AWAY

By Thomas Heywood

ACK clouds away, and welcome day,

With night we banish sor

row;

Sweet air, blow soft; mount,

lark, aloft,

To give my love good-morrow.

Wings from the wind to please her mind,
Notes from the lark I'll borrow:
Bird, prune thy wing; nightingale, sing,
To give my love good-morrow.

To give my love good-morrow,
Notes from them all I'll borrow.

Wake from thy nest, robin redbreast,
Sing, birds, in every furrow;
And from each hill let music shrill

Give my fair love good-morrow.
Blackbird and thrush in every bush,

Stare, linnet, and cock-sparrow, You petty elves, amongst yourselves, Sing my fair love good-morrow. To give my love good-morrow, Sing, birds, in every furrow.