SPIRIT. Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true. ELDER BROTHER. What fears, good Thyrsis? Prythee briefly shew. SPIRIT. I'll tell ye; 't is not vain or fabulous (Though so esteemed by shallow Ignorance) What the sage poets, taught by the heavenly muse, Storied of old in high immortal verse, Of dire chimeras, and enchanted isles, And rifted rocks whose entrance leads to Hell; For such there be; but Unbelief is blind. And here to every thirsty wanderer, By sly enticement, gives his baneful cup, With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl Like stabled wolves, or tigers at their prey, In their obscuréd haunts of inmost bowers. Till Fancy had her fill; but, ere a close, |