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BOOK OF POETRY.
EXTRACT FROM COMUS. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, My best guide now; methought it was the sound Of riot and ill-managed merriment, Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds, When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the Gods amiss. I should be loth To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence Of such late wassailers; yet oh, where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet In the blind mazes of this tangled wood ? My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge Under the spreading favour of these pines, Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phæbus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labour of my thought; 't is likeliest They had engaged their wandering steps too far, And envious darkness, ere they could return, Had stole them from me; else, o thievish night, Why wouldst thou, but for some felonious end, In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars,