Sonnet XXIII. To Miss E. S.
Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown, That the brook's verge is green; - and bid thee hear, In yon irriguous vale, the Blackbird clear, At measur'd intervals, with mellow tone, Choiring [1]the hours of prime? and call thine ear To the gay viol dinning in the dale, With tabor loud, and bag-pipe's rustic drone To merry Shearer's dance; - or jest retail From festal board, from choral roofs the song; And speak of Masque, or Pageant, to beguile The caustic memory of a cruel wrong? - Thy lips acknowledge this a generous wile, And bid me still the effort kind prolong; But ah! they wear a cold and joyless smile. 1: "While Day arises, that sweet hour of prime." MILTON'S PAR. LOST.
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"Do I not tell thee surly Winter's flown,..."
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