SONG: TO CELIA

Come, my Celia, let us prove,

While we can, the sports of love.
Time will not be ours for ever;
He, at length, our good will sever;
Spend not then his gifts in vain.
Suns that set may rise again;
But if once we lose this light,
'Tis with us perpetual night.
Why should we defer our joys?
Fame and rumor are but toys.
Cannot we delude the eyes

Of a few poor household spies?
Or his easier ears beguile,
Thus removed by our wile?
'Tis no sin love's fruits to steal;
But the sweet theft to reveal,
To be taken, to be seen,

These have crimes accounted been.

TO HEAVEN

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To whom all scenes of Europe homage

owe.

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He was not of an age, but for all time! And all the Muses still were in their prime, When, like Apollo, he came forth to warm Our ears, or like a Mercury to charm! Nature herself was proud of his designs And joyed to wear the dressing of his lines!

Which were so richly spun, and woven so fit.

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As. since, she will vouchsafe no other wit.
The merry Greek, tart Aristophanes,
Neat Terence, witty Plautus, now not
please;

But antiquated and deserted lie,
As they were not of Nature's family.
Yet must I not give Nature all; thy art, 55
My gentle Shakspere, must enjoy a part.
For though the poet's matter nature be,
His art doth give the fashion; and, that he
Who casts to write a living line, must
sweat,

(Such as thine are) and strike the second heat

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Upon the Muses' anvil; turn the same (And himself with it) that he thinks to frame,

Or, for the laurel, he may gain a scorn; For a good poet's made, as well as born. And such wert thou! Look how the father's face 65

Lives in his issue, even so the race

Of Shakspere's mind and manners brightly shines

In his well turnèd, and true filèd lines;
In each of which he seems to shake a lance,
As brandished at the eyes of ignorance. 70
Sweet Swan of Avon! what a sight it were
To see thee in our waters yet appear,
And make those flights upon the banks of
Thames,