Page:Comus and other poems - Milton (1906).djvu/86

  When I consider how my light is spent,
 * E're half my days, in this dark world and wide,
 * And that one Talent which is death to hide,
 * Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present
 * My true account, least he returning chide,
 * Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd,
 * I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
 * Either man's work or his own gifts, who best
 * Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
 * And post o're Land and Ocean without rest:
 * They also serve who only stand and waite.

  Lawrence of vertuous Father vertuous Son,
 * Now that the Fields are dank, and ways are mire,
 * Where shall we sometimes meet, and by the fire
 * Help wast a sullen day; what may be won

From the hard Season gaining: time will run
 * On smoother, till Favonius re-inspire
 * The frozen earth; and cloth in fresh attire
 * The Lillie and Rose, that neither sow'd nor spun.

What neat repast shall feast us, light and choice,
 * Of Attick tast, with Wine, whence we may rise
 * To hear the Lute well toucht, or artfull voice

Warble immortal Notes and Tuskan Ayre?
 * He who of those delights can judge, And spare
 * To interpose them oft, is not unwise.

 Rh