Would send a glistering guardian, if need were, Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud I did not err; there does a sable cloud Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest I'll venture, for my new enlivened spirits Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off. Song. Sweet Echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair That likest thy Narcissus are? Oh! if thou have Hid them in some flowery cave, Tell me but where, Sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere, So mayst thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmonies. COMUS. Sure something holy lodges in that breast, How sweetly do they float upon the wings Of darkness till it smiled! I have oft heard My mother Circe with the Sirens three, Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs, Who, as they sung, would take the prisoned soul And chid her barking waves into attention, I never heard till now. I'll speak to her, Hail, foreign wonder! Whom certain these rough shades did never breed, Unless the goddess that in rural shrine Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan; by blest song Forbidding every bleak unkindly fog LADY. Nay, gentle shepherd, ill is lost that praise That is addressed to unattending ears; Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift How to regain my severed company, Compelled me to awake the courteous Echo To give me answer from her mossy couch. COMUS. What chance, good lady, hath bereft you thus? LADY. Dim darkness, and this leafy labyrinth. COMUS. Could that divide you from near-ushering guides? LADY. They left me weary on a grassy turf. |