Ungentle men! they cannot thrive who killed thee. Thou ne'er didst alive Them any harm: alas! nor could Thy death yet do them any good. . . . . . With sweetest milk and sugar, first I it at my own fingers nurs'd; And as it grew, so every day It wax'd more sweet and white than they. It had so sweet a breath! And oft I blushed to see its foot so soft, And white (shall I say than my hand?) Nay, any lady's of the land. It is a wondrous thing how fleet 'Twas on those little silver feet; With what a pretty skipping grace It oft would challenge me to race; And when 't had left me far away, 'Twould stay, and run again, and stay; For it was nimbler much than hinds, And trod as if on the four winds. I have a garden of my own, But so with roses overgrown And lilies, that you would it guess To be a little wilderness; And all the spring-time of the year It only loved to be there. Among the lilies, I Have sought it oft, where it should lie Yet could not, till itself would rise, Find it, although before mine eyes; For in the flaxen lilies' shade, It like a bank of lilies laid. Upon the roses it would feed, Until its lips even seemed to bleed; And then to me 'twould boldly trip And plant those roses on my lip. . . . . . Now my sweet fawn in vanish'd to Whither the swans and turtles go; In fair Elysium to endure, With milk-white lambs and ermines pure, O do not run too fast: for I Will but bespeak thy grave, and die." After the Restoration Marvell wrote satires, a kind of poem of which you had an early and mild example in the fable of the two mice by Surrey, a kind of poem of which we will soon hear much more. In these satires Marvell poured out all the wrath of a Puritan upon the evils of his day. Marvell's satires were so witty and so outspoken that once or twice he was in danger of punishment because of them. But once at least the King himself saved a book of his from being destroyed, for by every one "from the King down to the tradesman his books were read with great pleasure."* Yet he had many enemies, and when he died suddenly in August, 1678, many people though that he had been poisoned. He was the last, we may say, of the seventeenth-century lyric poets. *Burnet.