The Complete Works of George Herbert; And the Satires and Psalms of Bishop Hall - Softcover

This historic book may have numerous typos and missing text. Purchasers can usually download a free scanned copy of the original book (without typos) from the publisher. Not indexed. Not illustrated. 1855 edition. Excerpt: ... Needs me then hope, or doth me need mis-dread: Hope for that honour, dread that wrongful spite: Spite of the party, honour of the deed, Which wont alone on lofty objects light. That envy should accost my muse and me, For this so rude and recklesse poesy. Would she but shade her tender browes with bay, That now lye bare in carelesse wilful rage, And trance herself in that sweet extacy, That rouzeth drooping thoughts of bashful age. (Tho' now those bays and that aspired thought, In carelesse rage she sets at worse than nought.) Or would we loose her plumy pineon, Manicled long with bonds of modest feare, Soone might she have those kestrels proud outgone, Whose nighty wings are dew'd with wetter aire, And hopen now to shoulder from above The eagle from the stairs of friendly Jove. Or list she rather in late triumph reare Eternal trophies to some conquerour, Whose dead deserts slept in his sepulcher, And never saw, nor life, nor light before: To lead sad Pluto captive with my song, To grace the triumphs he obscur'd so long. Or scoure the rusted swords of elvish knights, Bathed in pagan blood, or sheath them new In misty moral types; or tell their fights, Who mighty giants, or who monsters slew: And by some strange inchanted speare and shield, Vanquish'd their foe, and won the doubtful field. May-be she might in stately stanzas frame Stories of ladies, and advent'rous knights, To raise her silent and inglorious name Unto a reachlesse pitch of praises bight, And somewhat say, as more unworthy done, Worthy of brasse, and hoary marble stone. Then might vain envy waste her duller wing, To trace the airy steps she spiteing sees, And vainly faint in hopelesse following The clouded paths her native drosse denies. But now such lowly satires here I...