JOHN MILTON
Thus night oft see me in thy pale career, Till civil-suited Morn appeer, Not trickt and frounc't as she was wont, With the Attick Boy to hunt, But Cherchcf J t in a comly Cloud, While rocking Winds are Piping loud, Or usher'd with a shower still, When the gust hath blown his fill, Ending on the russlmg Leaves, With minute drops from off the Eaves. And when the Sun begins to fling His flaring beams, me Goddes bring To arched walks of twilight groves, And shadows brown that Sylvan loves, Of Pine, or monumental Oakc, Where the rude Ax; with heaved stroke, "Was never heard the Nymphs to daunt, Or fright them from their hallow'd haunt. There in close covert by som Brook, Where no profaiicr eye may look, Hide me from Day's garish eie, While the Bee with Honied thie, That at her flowry work doth sing, And the Waters murmuring With such consort as they keep, Entice the dewy-fcather'd Sleep; And let som strange mysterious dream, Wave at his Wings in Airy stream, Of lively portrature displayed, Softly on my eye-lids laid. And as I wake, sweet musick breath Above, about, or underneath,
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