How Soon Hath Time, The Subtle Thief

Nor From Hell One Step No More Than From Himself Can Fly By Change Of Place.

Morn, Wak'd By The Circling Hours, With Rosy Hand Unbarr'd The Gates Of Light.

Straight Mine Eye Hath Caught New Pleasures Whilst The Landscape Round It Measures, Russet Lawns And Fallows Grey, Where The Nibbling Flocks Do Stray, Mountains On Whose Barren Breast The Labouring Clouds Do Often Rest; Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks, And Rivers Wide.

Such Sober Certainty Of Waking Bliss.

To Many A Youth And Many A Maid, Dancing In The Chequer'd Shade.