The firft Scene discovers a wilde Wood.
The attendant Spirit defcends or enters.
EFORE the ftarry threshold of Joves
My manfion is, where those immortal
Of bright aereal Spirits live infphear'd
In Regions milde of calm and ferene Air,
Above the smoak and stirr of this dim spot,
Which men call Earth, and with low-thoughted care
Confin'd, and pester'd in this pin-fold here,
Strive to keep up a frail, and Feaverish being
Unmindfull of the crown that Vertue gives
After this mortal change, to her true Servants 10
Amongst the enthron'd gods on Sainted feats.
Yet fom there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that Golden Key
That ope's the Palace of Eternity:
To fuch my errand is, and but for fuch,
I would not foil these pure Ambrofial weeds,
With the rank vapours of this Sin-worn mould.
But to my task. Neptune befides the fway
Of every falt Flood, and each ebbing stream,
Took in by lot 'twixt high, and neather Jove,
Imperial rule of all the Sea-girt Iles
That like to rich, and various gemms inlay
The unadorned boofom of the Deep,
Which he to grace his tributary gods
By course commits to several government,
And gives them leave to wear their Saphire crowns,
And weild their little tridents, but this Ile
The greatest, and the best of all the main
He quarters to his blu-hair'd deities,
And all this tract that fronts the falling Sun
A noble Peer of mickle truft, and power
Has in his charge, with temper'd awe to guide
An old, and haughty Nation proud in Arms:
Where his fair off-spring nurs't in Princely lore,
Are coming to attend their Fathers ftate,
And new-entrusted Scepter, but their way
Lies through the perplex't paths of this drear Wood,
The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wandring Paffinger.
And here their tender age might fuffer peril,
But that by quick command from Soveran Jove
I was dispatcht for their defence, and guard;
And liften why, for I will tell you now
What never yet was heard in Tale or Song
From old, or modern Bard in Hall, or Bowr.
Bacchus that firft from out the purple Grape,
Crush't the sweet poyson of mif-used Wine
After the Tuscan Mariners transform'd
Coasting the Tyrrhene fhore, as the winds lifted,
On Circes Iland fell (who knows not Circe
The daughter of the Sun? Whose charmed Cup
Whoever tasted, loft his upright shape,
And downward fell into a groveling Swine)
This Nymph that gaz'd upon his cluftring locks,
With Ivy berries wreath'd, and his blithe youth,
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a Son
Much like his Father, but his Mother more,
Whom therefore she brought up and Comus nam'd,
Who ripe, and frolick of his full grown age,
Roaving the Celtick, and Iberian fields,
At laft betakes him to this ominous Wood,
And in thick fhelter of black fhades imbowr'd,
Excells his Mother at her mighty Art,
Offring to every weary Traveller,
His orient Liquor in a Crystal Glass,
To quench the drouth of Phabus, which as they taste
(For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst)
Soon as the Potion works, their human count'nance,
Th' express resemblance of the gods, is chang'd
Into fom brutish form of Woolf, or Bear,
Or Ounce, or Tiger, Hog, or bearded Goat,
All other parts remaining as they were,
And they, fo perfect is their misery,
Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,
But boast themselves more comely then before
And all their friends, and native home forget
To roule with pleasure in a sensual stie.
Therefore when any favour'd of high Jove,
Chances to pass through this adventrous glade,
Swift as the Sparkle of a glancing Star,
I shoot from Heav'n to give him fafe convoy,
As now I do: But first I must put off
These my skie robes spun out of Iris Wooff,
And take the Weeds and likenes of a Swain,
That to the service of this house belongs,
Who with his foft Pipe, and fmooth dittied Song.
Well knows to still the wilde winds when they roar,
And hush the waving Woods, nor of less faith,
And in this office of his Mountain watch,
Likelieft, and nearest to the present ayd
Of this occafion. But I hear the tread
Of hatefull steps, I must be viewles now.
Comus enters with a Charming Rod in one hand, his Glafs in the other, with him a rout of Monfters, headed like fundry forts of wilde Beasts, but otherwife like Men and Women, their Apparel gliftering, they come in making a riotous and unruly noife, with Torches in their hands.
Comus. The Star that bids the Shepherd fold, Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the flope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipfie dance, and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rofie Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gon to bed,
And Advice with fcrupulous head,
Strict Age, and fowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in flumber lie.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
Lead in swift round the Months and Years.
The Sounds, and Seas with all their finny drove
Now to the Moon in wavering Morrice move,
And on the Tawny Sands and Shelves,
Trip the pert Fairies and the dapper Elves;
By dimpled Brook, and Fountain brim,
The Wood-Nymphs deckt with Daifies trim, 120
Their merry wakes and paftimes keep :
What hath night to do with fleep?
Night hath better sweets to prove,
Venus now wakes, and wak'ns Love.
Com let us our rights begin,
'Tis onely day-light that makes Sin
Which these dun fhades will ne're report,
Hail Goddess of Nocturnal fport
Dark vail'd Cotytto, t' whom the secret flame 129
Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame
That ne're art call'd, but when the Dragon woom
Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the air,
Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
Wherin thou rid'ft with Hecat', and befriend
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 loop-hole peep,
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