PENSEROSO; Of Camball, and of Algarfife, And who had Canace to wife, That own'd the virtuous ring and glafs, And of the wondrous horfe of brafs, On which the Tartar king did ride And if ought elfe great bards befide In Page and folemn tunes have Tung, Of turneys and of trophies hung, Of forefts and inchantments drear, Where more is meant than meets the ear. Thus night oft fee me in thy pale career, Till civil-fuited morn appear, Not trickt and hound as the was wont. With the Attic boy to hunt, But kercheft in a comely cloud, While rocking winds are piping loud, Or uther'd with a fhower When the guft hath blown his fill, Ending an the rufsling leaves, With minute drops from off the eaves. And when the fun begins to fling His flaring beams, me Goddefs bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And fhadows brown that Sylvan loves Of pine, or monumental oak, Where the rude ax with heaved ftroke Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in dote covert by fame brook, Where no profaner eye may look, Hide me from day's garith eye, While the bee with honied Chic, That at her flow'ry work doth fing, And the waters murmuring 453 115 120 125 134 135 141 With fl
RkJQdWJsaXNoZXIy OTcyMjk=