His faith, perhaps, in some nice tenets might
Be wrong; his life, I'm sure, was in the right.
On the Death of Crashaw.

God the first garden made, and the first city Cain.*
The Garden. Essay v.

We spent them not in toys, in lusts, or wine;

But search of deep philosophy,

Wit, eloquence, and poetry ;

Arts which I loved, for they, my friend, were thine.
On the Death of Mr. William Harvey.

The thirsty earth soaks up the rain
And drinks and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.

* God made the country, and man made the town.

COWPER. The Task. Book i.

THE

EDMUND WALLER. 1605-1687.

HE soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,* Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,

As they draw near to their eternal home.

Verses upon his Divine Poesy.

Under the tropic is our language spoke,
And part of Flanders hath received our yoke.

Upon the Death of the Lord Protector.

A narrow compass! and yet there
Dwelt all that's good and all that's fair!
Give me but what this ribbon bound,
Take all the rest the sun goes round.

How small a part of time they share
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.

On a Girdle.

Go, lovely Rose.

That eagle's fate and mine are one,
Which, on the shaft that made him dic,
Espied a feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to soar so high.+

To a Lady singing a Song of his composing.

* Drawing near her death, she sent most pious thoughts as harbingers to heaven; and her soul saw a glimpse of happiness through the chinks of her sickness-broken body.

FULLER. Holy and Profane States. Book i. ch. ii.

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,

Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,

And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart.

BYRON. English Bards.

Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom;

For all we know

Of what the blessed do above

Is, that they sing and that they love.

While I listen to thy voice.

MARQUIS OF MONTROSE. 1612-1650.

E either fears his fate too much,

HE

Or his deserts are small,

Who dares not put it to the touch

To gain or lose it all.

Song, My Dear and only Love.

I'll make thee glorious by my pen,

And famous by my sword.

Ibid.

JOHN MILTON. 1608-1674.

PARADISE LOST.

F Man's first disobedience and the fruit

OF

Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste Brought death into the world and all our woe.

Booki. Line 1.

See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart
Which rank corruption destines for their heart.

T. MOORE. Corruption.

Or if Sion-hill

Delight thee more, and Siloa's brook, that flowed

Fast by the oracle of God.

Book i. Line 10.

Things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme.

What in me is dark

Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That, to the height of this great argument,
I may assert eternal Providence,

Book. Line 16.

And justify the ways of God to men.

Booki. Line 22.

As far as Angel's ken.

Book i. Line 59.

Yet from those flames

No light, but rather darkness visible.

Where peace

Booki. Line 62.

Booki. Line 65.

And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all.

What though the field be lost,

All is not lost; the unconquerable will,
And study of revenge, immortal hate,
And courage never to submit or yield.

To be weak is miserable

Doing or suffering.

And out of good still to find means of evil.

Book. Line 105.

Booki. Line 157.

Book. Line 165.

Farewell happy fields,

Where joy forever dwells! hail, horrors! hail.

Book i. Line 249.

A mind not to be changed by place or time.
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.

Booki. Line 253.

Here we may reign secure, and in my choice
To reign is worth ambition, though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.

Heard so oft

Booki. Line 261.

In worst extremes, and on the perilous edge
Of battle.

His spear, to equal which the tallest pine
Hewn on Norwegian hills, to be the mast
Of some great ammiral, were but a wand.

Book i. Line 275.

Book i. Line 292.

Thick as autumnal leaves that strow the brooks
In Vallombrosa, where the Etrurian shades
High over-arched imbower.

Book i. Line 303.

Darkens the streets, then wander forth the sons

Of Belial, flown with insolence and wine. Book i. Line 500.