When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world an
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A Book was writ of late call'd Tetrachordon; And wov'n close, both matter, form and stile;
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All night the dreadless Angel, unpursued,
Through Heaven's wide champain held his way; till Morn,
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Among the holy Mountains high Is his foundation fast,
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Answer me when I call God of my righteousness;
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As one who in his journey bates at noon,
Though bent on speed; so here the Arch-Angel paused
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Avenge, O Lord, thy slaughter'd saints, whose bones Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountains cold,
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Be not thou silent now at length O God hold not thy peace,
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Because you have thrown of your Prelate Lord, And with stiff vows renounc'd his Liturgy,
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Bless'd is the man who hath not walk'd astray In counsel of the wicked, and ith'way
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Blest pair of Sirens, pledges of Heav'n's joy, Sphere-born harmonious Sisters, Voice and Verse,
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Captain or Colonel, or Knight in Arms, Whose chance on these defenceless dores may sease,
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Cromwell, our chief of men, who through a cloud Not of war only, but detractions rude,
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Cyriac, this three years' day these eyes, though clear To outward view of blemish or of spot,
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Cyriac, whose grandsire on the royal bench Of British Themis, with no mean applause
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Daughter to that good Earl, once President Of Englands Counsel, and her Treasury,
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Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
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Diodati, e te'l diro con maraviglia, Quel ritroso io ch'amor spreggiar solea
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Donna leggiadra il cui bel nome honora L'herbosa val di Rheno, e il nobil varco,
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Fairfax, whose Name in Arms through Europe rings, And fills all Mouths with Envy or with Praise,
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Fly envious Time, till thou run out thy race, Call on the lazy leaden-stepping hours,
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Giovane piano, e semplicetto amante Poi che fuggir me stesso in dubbio sono,
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God in the *great *assembly stands *Bagnadath-el Of Kings and lo
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Hail native Language, that by sinews weak Didst move my first endeavouring tongue to speak,
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Hail, holy Light, offspring of Heaven firstborn,
Or of the Eternal coeternal beam
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Harry whose tuneful and well measur'd Song First taught our English Musick how to span
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Hence, loathed Melancholy, Of Cerberus and blackest Midnight born
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Hence, vain deluding Joys, The brood of Folly without father bred!
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Here lies old Hobson, Death hath broke his girt, And here alas, hath laid him in the dirt,
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Here lieth one who did most truly prove, That he could never die while he could move,
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