[from John Milton's L'Allegro, 1645]
There on Beds of Violets blew,
And fresh-blown Roses washt in dew . . .
To hear the Lark begin his flight,
And singing startle the dull night,
From his watch-towre in the skies,
Till the dappled dawn doth rise;
Then to come in spight of sorrow,
And at my window bid good morrow . . .
Mountains on whose barren brest
The labouring clouds do often rest;
Meadows trim with Daisies pide,
Shallow Brooks, and Rivers wide.
Towers, and Battlements it sees
Boosom'd high in tufted Trees,
Wher perhaps some beauty lies . . .
Such sights as youthfull Poets dream
On Summer eeves by haunted stream. . . .
These delights, if thou canst give,
Mirth with thee, I mean to live.