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Who, in their nightly watchful spheres, 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 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 sleep? Night hath better sweets to prove; Venus now wakes, and wakens Love. Come, let us our rights begin; 'Tis only day-light that makes sin, Which these dun shades will ne'er report.Hail, Goddess of noctural sport, Dark-veil'd Cotytto! to whom the secret flame Of midnight torches burns; mysterious dame, That ne'er art call’d, but when the dragon womb Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, And makes one blot of all the air; Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, Wherein thou rid'st 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 the Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep,
And to the tell-tale sun descry
Break off, break off, I feel the different pace
When once her eye
Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
The LADY enters. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, My best guide now : Methought it was the sound Of riot, and ill-manag'd merriment, Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe, Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds; When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan, And thank the Gods amiss. I should be loth To meet the rudeness, and swill'd insolence, Of such late wassailers ; yet O ! where else Shall I inform my unacquainted feet In the blind mazes of this tangled wood? My brothers, when they saw me wearied out With this long way, resolving here to lodge Under the spreading favour of these pines, Stept, as they said, to the next thicket side, To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hospitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded Eren, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmast wheels of Phæbus' wain. But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labour of my thoughts ; 'tis likeliest
They had engag'd their wandering steps too far;
To keep my life and honour unássail'd.
Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv'st unseen
Within thy aery shell,
By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroider'd vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair
That likest thy Narcissus are ?
O, if thou have
Tell me but where,
So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's har