Alas! what boots it with incessant care
  To tend the homely, slighted, shepherd’s trade,
  And strictly meditate the thankless Muse? 
  Were it not better done, as others use,
  To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,
  Or with the tangles of Neaera’s hair? 
  Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise
  (That last infirmity of noble mind)
  To scorn delights and live laborious days;
  But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,
  And think to burst out into sudden blaze,
  Comes the blind Fury with the abhorred shears,[121]
  And slits the thin-spun life.  “But not the praise,”
  Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears: 
  “Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,
  Nor in the glistering foil
  Set off to the world, nor in broad rumour lies,
  But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyes
  And perfect witness of all-judging Jove;
  As he pronounces lastly on each deed,
  Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.”

THE PLEASURES OF MELANCHOLY.

[From Il Penseroso.]

  Sweet bird that shun’st the noise of folly,
  Most musical, most melancholy! 
  Thee, chauntress, oft the woods among
  I woo, to hear thy even-song;
  And, missing thee, I walk unseen
  On the dry smooth-shaven green,
  To behold the wandering moon,
  Riding near her highest noon,
  Like one that had been led astray
  Through the heaven’s wide pathless way,
  And oft, as if her head she bowed,
  Stooping through a fleecy cloud. 
  Oft, on a plat of rising ground,
  I hear the far-off curfew sound,
  Over some wide-watered shore,
  Swinging slow with sullen roar;
  Or, if the air will not permit,
  Some still removed place will fit,
  Where glowing embers through the room
  Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
  Far from all resort of mirth,
  Save the cricket on the hearth,
  Or the bellman’s drowsy charm[122]
  To bless the doors from nightly harm.... 
    But let my due feet never fail
  To walk the studious cloister’s pale,
  And love the high embowed roof. 
  With antique pillars massy-proof,
  And storied windows richly dight,
  Casting a dim religious light. 
  There let the pealing organ blow,
  To the full-voiced quire below,
  In service high and anthem clear,
  As may with sweetness, through mine ear,
  Dissolve me into ecstasies,
  And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. 
    And may at last my weary age
  Find out the peaceful hermitage,
  The hairy gown and mossy cell,
  Where I may sit and rightly spell
  Of every star that heaven doth shew,
  And every herb that sips the dew,
  Till old experience do attain
  To something like prophetic strain. 
    These pleasures, Melancholy, give;
  And I with thee will choose to live.