He laid his harp upon a stone, And straight it began to play alone. 60 ‘O yonder sits my father, the king! And yonder sits my mother, the queen! ‘And yonder stands my brother Hugh, And by him my William sweet and true!’ But the last tune that the harp played then, 65 _Binnorie, O Binnorie_, Was, ‘Woe to my sister, false Helen!’ _By the bonny mill-dams o’ Binnorie._ _Anon._ LXXVIII _TO A VIRTUOUS YOUNG LADY._ Lady, that in the prime of earliest youth Wisely hast shunned the broad way and the green, And with those few art eminently seen, That labour up the hill of heavenly truth; The better part with Mary and with Ruth 5 Chosen thou hast; and they that overween, And at thy growing virtues fret their spleen, No anger find in thee, but pity’ and ruth. Thy care is fixed, and zealously attends To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light, 10 And hope that reaps not shame. Therefore be sure Thou, when the Bridegroom with his feastful friends Passes to bliss at the mid hour of night, Hast gained thy entrance, Virgin wise and pure. _John Milton._ LXXIX _EYES AND TEARS._ How wisely Nature did decree, With the same eyes to weep and see! That, having viewed the object vain, They might be ready to complain. And, since the self-deluding sight 5 In a false angle takes each height, These tears, which better measure all, Like watery lines and plummets fall. Two tears, which sorrow long did weigh Within the scales of either eye, 10 And then paid out in equal poise, Are the true price of all my joys. What in the world most fair appears, Yea, even laughter, turns to tears: And all the jewels which we prize, 15 Melt in these pendants of the eyes. I have through every garden been, Amongst the red, the white, the green; And yet from all those flowers I saw, No honey but these tears could draw. 20 So the all-seeing sun each day Distils the world with chymic ray; But finds the essence only showers, Which straight in pity back he pours. Yet happy they whom grief doth bless, 25 That weep the more, and see the less; And, to preserve their sight more true, Bathe still their eyes in their own dew. So Magdalen in tears more wise Dissolved those captivating eyes, 30 Whose liquid chains could flowing meet, To fetter her Redeemer’s feet. Nor full sails hasting laden home, Nor the chaste lady’s pregnant womb, Nor Cynthia teeming shows so fair 35 As two eyes, swoln with weeping, are.