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John Fletcher

Hymn to Pan

SING his praises that doth keep
    Our flocks from harm.
Pan, the father of our sheep;
    And arm in arm
Tread we softly in a round,
Whilst the hollow neighbouring ground
Fills the music with her sound.

Pan, O great god Pan, to thee
    Thus do we sing!
Thou who keep'st us chaste and free
    As the young spring:
Ever be thy honour spoke
From that place the morn is broke
To that place day doth unyoke!

 
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About the poet
John Fletcher
 
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Related books
John Fletcher at amazon.com


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