Their port was more than human, as they stood; I took it for a fairy vision

Of some gay creatures of the element,

That in the colours of the rainbow live,

And play i' the plighted clouds. I was awe-struck,
And, as I passed, I worshipped; if those you seck,
It were a journey like the path to Heaven,
To help you find them.

LADY.

Gentle villager,

What readiest way would bring me to that place?

COMUS.

Due west it rises from this shrubby point.

LADY.

To find out that, good shepherd, I suppose,

In such a scant allowance of star-light,

Would overtask the best land-pilot's art,

Without the sure guess of well-practised feet.

Dingle, or bushy dell of this wild wood,
And every bosky 11 bourn from side to side,
My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood;
And if your stray attendants be yet lodged,
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know
Ere morrow wake, or the low-roosted lark
From her thatched pallet rouse: if otherwise,
I can conduct you, lady, to a low

But loyal cottage, where you may be safe

Till further quest.

LADY.

Shepherd, I take thy word,

And trust thy honest-offered courtesy,

Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds

With smoky rafters, than in tap'stry halls

And courts of princes, where it first was named, And yet is most pretended: in a place

Less warranted than this, or less secure,

I cannot be, that I should fear to change it.

Eye me, blest Providence, and square my trial

To my proportioned strength! Shepherd, lead on.

Unmuffle, ye

ELDER BROTHER.

faint stars; and thou fair moon,

That wont'st 12 to love the traveller's benizon,

Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,

And disinherit Chaos, that reigns here

In double night of darkness and of shades ; your influence be quite dammed up

Or if

With black usurping mists, some gentle taper,

Though a rush-candle from the wicker hole

Of some clay habitation, visit us

With thy long levelled rule of streaming light,
And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,

Or Tyrian Cynosure.

SECOND BROTHER.

Or, if our eyes

Be barred that happiness, might we but hear
The folded flocks penned in their wattled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,

Or whistle from the lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery dames,
"T would be some solace yet, some little cheering,
In this close dungeon of innumerous boughs.

But oh, that hapless virgin, our lost sister!

Where may she wander now? whither betake her From the chill dew, amongst rude burs and thistles ? Perhaps some cold bank is her bolster now;