Page:Comus and other poems - Milton (1906).djvu/81

 

O Nightingale, that on yon bloomy Spray
 * Warbl'st at eeve, when all the Woods are still,
 * Thou with fresh hope the Lovers heart dost fill.
 * While the jolly hours lead on propitious May,

Thy liquid notes that close the eye of Day,
 * First heard before the shallow Cuccoo's bill
 * Portend success in love; O if Jove's will
 * Have linkt that amorous power to thy soft lay,

Now timely sing, ere the rude Bird of Hate
 * Foretell my hopeles doom in som Grove ny:
 * As thou from yeer to yeer hast sung too late

For my relief; yet hadst no reason why,
 * Whether the Muse, or Love call thee his mate,
 * Both them I serve, and of their train am I.

  How soon hath Time the suttle theef of youth,
 * Stoln on his wing my three and twentith yeer!
 * My hasting dayes flie on with full career,
 * But my late spring no bud or blossom shew'th.

Perhaps my semblance might deceive the truth,
 * That I to manhood am arriv'd so near,
 * And inward ripenes doth much less appear,
 * That som more timely-happy spirits indu'th.

Yet be it less or more, or soon or slow,
 * It shall be still in strictest measure eev'n,
 * To that same lot. however mean, or high,

Toward which Time leads me. and the will of Heav'n;
 * All is. if I have grace to use it so,
 * As ever in my great task Masters eye.

 Rh