John Milton: From Lycidas

YET once more, O ye laurels, and once more, 

Ye myrtles brown, with ivy never sere, 

I come to pluck your berries harsh and crude, 

And with forced fingers rude 

Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year. 

Bitter constraint and sad occasion dear 

Compels me to disturb your season due; 

For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime, 

Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer. 

Who would not sing for Lycidas? he knew 

Himself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme. 

He must not float upon his watery bier 

Unwept, and welter to the parching wind, 

Without the meed of some melodious tear. 

Begin, then, Sisters of the sacred well 

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring; 

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string. 

Hence with denial vain and coy excuse: 

So may some gentle Muse 

With lucky words favour my destined urn, 

And as he passes turn, 

And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud! 

For we were nursed upon the self-same hill, 

Fed the same flock, by fountain, shade, and rill; ...