For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Compels me to disturb your season due:
Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
And with forc'd fingers rude,
I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude,
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never-sear,
Yet once more, O ye Laurels, and once more.
Which makes sense, sounds properly wistful, and is about as good as the way the poem actually ends! (I cheated by starting where I did, of course; two lines further and you have "Who would not weep for Lycidas? He knew / Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer," which is intelligible but irrelevant.)
2. I was surprised to discover that "No ideas but in thongs" (cf.) hasn't yet been done according to google.
