Play I co'd once; but (gentle friend) you see
My Harp hung up, here on the Willow tree.
Sing I co'd once; and bravely too enspire
(With luscious Numbers) my melodious Lyre.
Draw I co'd once (although not stocks or stones,
Amphion-like) men made of flesh and bones,
Whether I wo'd; but (ah!) I know not how,
I feele in me, this transmutation now.
Griefe, (my deare friend) has first my Harp unstrung;
Wither'd my hand, and palsie-struck my tongue.

Before this world's great frame, in which all things
Are now contained, found any being place,
Ere flitting Time could wag his eyas wings
About that mighty bound which doth embrace
The rolling spheres, and parts their hours by space,
That high eternal power, which now doth move
In all these things, moved in itself by love.

It loved itself, because itself was fair,
For fair is loved; and of itself begot
Like to itself his eldest son and heir,
Eternal, pure, and void of sinful blot,
The firstling of his joy, in whom no jot

A planet of descendance rent,
A scatter of an effluence;
Before the princes of content,
Angels of deliverance.

See, methought, the silent hills,
And the valleys, and the sea;
There is propent death of skills,
And invalid's puissancy.

What is that to fire nor earth,
Aire nor water owes its birth,
Yet to his unbounded force
Each of these submits its course,
Whose first liberty confind
With its selfe the free borne mind?
Shortest when the day is longest,
Weakest [when its beames are strongest;]
Which though blind pursues the light,
Though it want yet wounds with sight?
Who this knowst not, seek not out
To untye this Mystick doubt,
Nor esteeme thy selfe lesse wise
That from thee conceald it lies;
Others Knowledge may advance,
Skill lies here in ignorance.

The plainest lodge room in the land was over Simpkins' store,
Where Friendship Lodge had met each month for fifty years or more.
When o'er the earth the moon, full-orbed, had cast her brightest beams,
The brethren came from miles around on horseback and in teams.
And O! what hearty grasp of hand, what welcome met them there,
As mingling with the waiting groups they slowly mount the stair,
Exchanging fragmentary news or prophesies of crop,
Until they reach the Tyler's room and current topics drop,

Love to gyve law unto his subject hertes
Stode in the Iyes of Barsabe the bryht;
And in a look annone hymsellff convertes,
Cruelly plesant byfore kyng David syght;
First dasd his Iyes, and forder forth he stertes,
With venemd breth as sofftly as he myght
Towcht his sensis and overronnis his bonis
With creping fyre, sparplid for the nonis.

And when he saw that kendlid was the flame,
The moyst poyson in hiss hert he launcyd,
So that the sowle did tremble with the same;
And in this brawle as he stode and trauncyd,

The place is calm, dusty worries clear;
after rain, the mountain takes on luster.
Pool pavilion hides a quiet place;
lute and wine express our yearning feelings.
Verdant, these flourishing spring woods,
bringing rest to our weary wings.
On the rock are inscribed words:
moss eats at them, they are hard to read ( pien ).

P LA CE BO!
Who is there, who?
Di le xi!
Dame Margery.
Fa, re, my, my.
Wherefore and why, why?
For the soul of Philip Sparrow,
That was late slain at Carow,
Among the Nones Black.
For that sweet soules sake,
And for all sparrowes' souls
Set in our bede-rolls,
Pater noster qui,
With an Ave Mari ,
And with the corner of a Creed,
The more shall be your meed.

When I remember again
How my Philip was slain,
Never half the pain
Was between you twain,
Pyramus and Thisbe,

The plane leaves
fall black and wet
on the lawn;

the cloud sheaves
in heaven's fields set
droop and are drawn

in falling seeds of rain;
the seed of heaven
on my face

falling — I hear again
like echoes even
that softly pace

heaven's muffled floor,
the winds that tread
out all the grain

of tears, the store
harvested
in the sheaves of pain

caught up aloft:
the sheaves of dead
men that are slain

now winnowed soft
on the floor of heaven;
manna invisible

Pity us not
Because we tried to battle and to go
Like men upon the beckoning of Death,
Because through all your life you may not know
The pain we suffered with one dying breath.
The gnawing agony, the burning woe.

Pity us not
Because, torn from the might of blasting shell,
Our bodies never find a place of rest,
No stone where those we loved may come to tell
The sorrow that is weighted in their breast.

But pity us
Because the earth is lovely still and fair,
And there is still the spring of which to dream,