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The ode just quoted has, within the compass of six lines, half as many combinations :
Behold a ghastly band, Each a torch in his hand : These are Grecian ghosts that in battle were slain, And unburied remain Inglorious on the plain : Give the vengeance due.
In Love's Labour's Lost there is a stanza formed by a curious combination of verses, some of them of a measure very uncommon, being trochaics of five feet, the last curtailed.
Clear wells spring not, sweet birds sing not,
Green plants bring not forth their dye ; Herds stand wejping, flocks all sleeping, Nymphs black peep;; g fearfully. All our pleasur known to us poor swains, All our merry meetings on the plains, All our evening sport from us is fled ; All our love is lost, for love is dead.
Farewell, sweet lovj, ihy like ne'er was,
For a sweet content, the cause of all my woe ; Poor Coridon must live alone, Other help for him I see that there is none.
A very extraordinary combination of English verse is a song by Campion, who will be quoted at length hereafter. Campion was eminent as a musician as well as a poet, which may account for so singular a specimen of metre.
What if a day, or a month, or a vear, Crown thy delights with a thousand wish'd contentings ;
Cannot a chance of a night or an hour, Cross thy delights with a thousand sad tormenting ?