ELDER BROTHER. Thyrsis? whose artful strains 17 have oft delayed The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, And sweetened every musk-rose of the dale. How cam'st thou here, good swain? Hath any ram I came not here on such a trivial toy As a strayed ewe, or to pursue the stealth Of pilfering wolf; not all the fleecy wealth That doth enrich these downs, is worth a thought To this my errand, and the care it brought. But oh, my virgin lady! where is she? How chance she is not in your company? ELDER BROTHER. To tell thee sadly,18 shepherd, without blame, SPIRIT. Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true. ELDER BROTHER. What fears, good Thyrsis? Prythee briefly shew. SPIRIT. I'll tell ye; 'tis 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. Within the navel19 of this hideous wood, Immured in cypress shades, a sorcerer dwells, Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus, Deep skilled in all his mother's witcheries; And here to every thirsty wanderer, By sly enticement, gives his baneful cup, With many murmurs mixed, whose pleasing poison Tending my flocks hard by i' the hilly crofts |