When The Gray-hooded Even, Like A Sad Votarist In Palmer's Weed, Rose From The Hindmost Wheels Of Phoebus' Wain.

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When the gray-hooded Even,
Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,
Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain.
-- John Milton (1608-1674)
-- Comus, Line 188

And sweeten'd every musk-rose of the dale. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 496
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 727
It were a journey like the path to heaven, To help you find them.
-- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 303...
Budge doctors of the Stoic fur. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 707
Fill'd the air with barbarous dissonance. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 550
The star that bids the shepherd fold. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 93
The unsunn'd heaps Of miser's treasure. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 398
Such sober certainty of waking bliss. -- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 263
Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine.
-- John Milton (1608-1674) -- Comus, Line 46...

When The Gray-hooded Even, Like A Sad Votarist In Palmer's Weed, Rose From The Hindmost Wheels Of Phoebus' Wain.

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