From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.
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I ask’d thee oft what poets thou hast read,
–I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover’d be;Then sure thou’lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.
All things decay with time: The forest sees
That timber tall, which three-score lustres stoodThe proud dictator of the state-like wood,I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak,Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver’s stroke.
Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never
The watch once down, all motions then do cease;The man’s pulse stopt, all passions sleep in peace.
When I consider, dearest, thou dost stay
Like to these garden glories, which here beThe flowery-sweet resemblances of thee:With grief of heart, methinks, I thus do cry,Would thou hadst ne’er been born, or might’st not die!
For brave comportment, wit without offence,
Thou art that man of men, the man alone,Worthy the public admiration:Who with thine own eyes read’st what we do write,And giv’st our numbers euphony, and weight.Tell’st when a verse springs high, how understoodTo be, or not born of the Royal blood.What state above, what symmetry below,Lines have, or should have, thou the best canst…