To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Therefore when any favor'd of high Jove
Chances to pass through this adventrous glade,
Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star

I fhoot from Heav'n, to give him fafe convoy,
As now I do: But firft I must put off

These my sky robes fpun out of Iris woof,
And take the weeds and likeness of a fwain,
That to the service of this house belongs,

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Who with his foft pipe, and smooth-dittied song,
Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar,
And ufh the waving woods, nor of less faith,
And in this office of his mountain watch,
Likelieft, and nearest to the present aid
Of this occafion. But I hear the tread
Of hateful steps, I must be viewless now.

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Comus enters with a charming rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters, headed like fundry forts of wild beafts, but otherwife like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in making a riotous and unruly noife, with torches in their hands. Com.

The ftar that bids the fhepherd fold, Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,

Shoots against the dusky pole,

Pacing toward the other goal

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Of his chamber in the east.

Mean while welcome Joy, and Feast,
Midnight Shout, and Revelry,
Tipfy Dance, and Jollity.

Braid your locks with rofy twine,
Dropping odors, dropping wine.
Rigor now is gone to bed,

And Advice with fcrupulous head,
Strict Age, and four Severity
With their grave faws in flumber lie.
We that are of purer fire

Imitate the starry quire,

Who in their nightly watchful spheres,
Lead in swift round the months and
The founds and feas, with all their finny drovė, 115

years.

Now to the moon in wavering morrice move;

And on the tawny fands and shelves

Trip the pert faeries and the dapper elves.
By dimpled brook, and fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deck'd with daisies trim,
Their merry wakes and pastimes keep:
What hath night to do with fleep?

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Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wakens Love.

Come let us our rites begin,

'Tis only day-light that makes fin,

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Which these dun fhades will ne'er report.
Hail Goddess of nocturnal sport,

Dark-veil'd Cotytto, t'whom the secret flame

Of mid-night torches burns; myfterious dame, 130
That ne'er art call'd, but when the dragon womb
Of Stygian darkness spits her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the air,

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair,

Wherein thou rid'ft with Hecat', and befriend

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Us thy vow'd priests, till utmost end

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,
Ere the blabbing eastern scout,

The nice morn on th’Indian steep

From her cabin'd loophole peep,

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And to the tell-tale fun descry

Our conceal'd folemnity.

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground

In a light fantastic round.

The Measure.

Break off, break off, I feel the different pace

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Of some chafte footing near about this ground.
Run to your shrouds, within these brakes and trees;
Our number may affright: Some virgin sure

(For so I can distinguish by mine art)

Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms, 150
And to my wily trains; I shall ere long

Be well-flock'd with as fair a herd as graz'd
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl

My

My dazling spells into the spungy air,

Of pow'r to cheat the eye with blear illufion,
And give it false presentments, left the place
And my quaint habits breed astonishment,
And put the damsel to suspicious flight,
Which must not be, for that's against my course;
I under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well plac'd words of glozing courtesy
Baited with reasons not unplausible,

Wind me into the eafy-hearted man,

And hug him into fnares.

When once her eye

Hath met the virtue of this magic duft,

I fhall appear fome harmless villager,

Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
But here she comes, I fairly step afide,

And hearken, if I may, her business here.

The Lady enters.

This way the noife was, if mine ear be true,

My best guide now; methought it was the found

Of riot and ill manag'd merriment,

Such as the jocond flute, or gamesome pipe
Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds,

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170

When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, 175
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,
And thank the Gods amifs. I fhould be loath
To meet the rudeness, and fwill'd infolence
Of fuch late waffailers; yet O where else
Shall I inform any unacquainted feet

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In the blind mazes of this tangled wood?
My Brothers, when they faw me wearied out
With this long way, resolving here to lodge
Under the spreading favor of these pines,
Stept, as they said, to the next thicket fide
To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit
As the kind hospitable woods provide.

They left me then, when the gray-hooded Even,
Like a fad votarift in palmer's weed,

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Rofe from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain. 190
But where they are, and why they came not back,
Is now the labor of my thoughts; 'tis likeliest
They had engag'd their wand'ring fteps too far,
And envious darkness, ere they could return,
Had flole them from me; else O thievish Night 195
Why should'st thou, but for fome fellonious end,
In thy dark lantern thus close up the ftars,
That nature hung in Heav'n, and fill'd their lamps
With everlasting oil, to give due light

To the misled and lonely traveller?

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This is the place, as well as I may guess,

Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth

Was rife, and perfect in my lift'ning ear,

Yet nought but single darkness do I find.

What might this be? A thousand fantasies

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Begin to throng into my memory,

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning fhadows dire,
And aery tongues, that fyllable mens names

On