There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 155
As if the waters hid them from the wind;
Which never wash'd but at a higher tide

166

The frizzled coats which do the mountains hide;
Where never gale was longer known to stay 159
Than from the smooth wave it had swept away
The new divorced leaves, that from each side
Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide.
At further end the creek a stately wood
Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood
Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff
Than that sky-scaling Peak of Teneriffe,
Upon whose tops the hernshaw bred her young,
And hoary moss upon their branches hung;
Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show,
Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow;
And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears,
None could allot them less than Nestor's years.
As under their command the thronged creek
Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek
Where he his little boat might safely hide,
Till it was fraught with what the world beside
Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight
Though in the time when Greece was at her height.
The ruddy horses of the rosy Morn
Out of the Eastern gates had newly borne
Their blushing mistress in her golden chair,

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180

Spreading new light throughout our hemisphere,
When fairest Cælia with a lovelier crew
Of damsels than brave Latmus ever knew
Came forth to meet the youngsters, who had here
Cut down an oak that long withouten peer
Bore his round head imperiously above
His other mates there, consecrate to Jove.
The wished time drew on: and Cælia now,
That had the fame for her white arched brow,
While all her lovely fellows busied were
In picking off the gems from Tellus' hair,
Made tow'rds the creek, where Philocel, unspied
Of maid or shepherd that their May-games plied,
Receiv'd his wish'd-for Cælia, and begun
To steer his boat contrary to the sun,
Who could have wish'd another in his place
To guide the car of light, or that his race
Were to have end (so he might bless his hap)
In Cælia's bosom, not in Thetis' lap.
The boat oft danc'd for joy of what it held:
The hoist-up sail not quick but gently swell'd,
And often shook, as fearing what might fall,
Ere she deliver'd what she went withal.
Winged Argestes, fair Aurora's son,
Licens'd that day to leave his dungeon,
Meekly attended and did never err,

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191

Sweet Electra, and the choice

Myrha, for the lute and voice. Next, Corinna, for her wit,

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200

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and
green,

And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown or hair:
Fear not; the leaves will strew
Gems 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 himself, or else stands still

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And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,

51

And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
Many a green-gown has been given;
Many a kiss, both odd and even:
Many a glance too has been sent

From out the eye, love's firmament;

Many a jest told of the keys betraying

This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not

a-Maying.

Come, let us go while we are in our prime;

And take the harmless folly of the time.

We shall grow old apace, and die
Before we know our liberty.
Our life is short, and our days run
As fast away as does the sun;
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne'er be found again,
So when or you or I are made
A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
All love, all liking, all delight

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Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. 70

TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell,

A little house, whose humble roof
Is weather-proof,

Under the spars of which I lie
Both soft and dry;

Where Thou, my chamber for to ward,

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep
Me while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door
Is worn by th' poor,

Who thither come and freely get
Good words or meat.

Like as my parlor so my hall
And kitchen's small;

A little buttery, and therein
A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread
Unchipped, unflead;

Some little sticks of thorn or briar
Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,
And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,
The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits that be
There plac'd by Thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess
Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth

With guiltless mirth,

And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land,

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear

Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine

Run cream, for wine.

All these, and better Thou dost send Me, to this end,

ΙΟ

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30.