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BOYLE, Earl of ORRERY (1621-1679); ROGER
BROWNE (1605-1682); Sir THOMAS
BUTLER (1612-1680); SAMUEL
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-labour? 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.'
O, NIGHTINGALE! that, on yon bloomy spray,
Foretell my hopeless doom, in some grove nigh As thou, from year to year, hast sung too late For my relief; yet hadst no reason Why? Whether the Muse, or Love, call thee his mate: Both them I serve; and of their train am I!
DAGER to that good Earl, once President
Killed, with report, that old man eloquent.
YET once more, O, ye laurels; and once more
I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude!
Shatter your leaves, before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear
For LYCIDAS is dead! dead ere his prime! (Young LYCIDAS!) and hath not left his peer! Who would not sing for LvCIDAS! 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 destined urn!
And bid, 'Fair peace be to my sable shroud!')
For we were nursed upon the selfsame hill;