JOHN MILTON

To win her Grace, whom all commend.

There let Hymen oft appear

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.

Then to the well-trod stage anon,

If Jonsons learned Sock be on,

Or sweetest Shakespear fancies chiide,

Warble his native Wood-notes wilde,

And ever against eating Cares,

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,

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

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.

These delights, if thou canst give,

Mirth with thee, I mean to live.

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