But that by quick command from sovran Jove Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son Much like his father, but his mother more, Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named ; Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age, Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,4 At last betakes him to this ominous wood; And, in thick shelter of black shades embowered, Excels his mother at her mighty art, Offering to every weary traveller (For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst), Soon as the potion works, their human countenance, The express resemblance of the gods, is changed Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear, And they, so perfect is their misery, But boast themselves more comely than before; Therefore when any, favoured of high Jove, I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy, These my sky robes spun out of Iris' woof,5 And in this office of his mountain watch, Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid Of this occasion. But I hear the tread Of hateful steps! I must be viewless now. [COMUS enters with a charming rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts, but other wise like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with their torches in their hands.] COMUS. The star that bids the shepherd fold, Now the top of heaven doth hold; And the gilded car of day His glowing axle doth allay In the steep Atlantic stream; And the slope sun his upward beam Shoots against the dusky pole, Pacing toward the other goal Of his chamber in the east. 6 Meanwhile welcome joy and feast, Tipsy dance and jollity. Braid your locks with rosy twine, Dropping odours, dropping wine. Rigour now is gone to bed, And advice with scrupulous head. Strict age, and sour severity, With their grave saws in slumber lie We, that are of purer fire, Imitate the starry quire; |