صور الصفحة
النشر الإلكتروني

Comus enters with a charming rod in one hand, his glass in the other; ivith him a rout of Monsters, headed like sundry sorts of -wild beasts, but otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in making a riotous and unruly noise, 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 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.
Meanwhile welcome joy and feast,
Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity. •
Eraid 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,

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 morris 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, 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 rites begin,

'Tis only day-light that makes sin,

Which these dun shades will ne'er report.

Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport, '.

Dark-veil'd Cotytto! t'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 th' Indian steep . . .

From her cabin'd loop-hole peep, .. .

And to the tell-tale sun descry

Our conceal'd solemnity.

Come, knit hands, and. beat the ground

In a light fantastic round.


Break off, break off, I feel the different pace
Of some chaste footing near about this ground.
Run to your shrouds, within these brakes and trees;
Our number may affright: Some virgin sure
(For so I can distinguish by mine art)
Benighted in these woods. Now to my charms,
And to my wily trains; I shall ere long
Be well stock'd with as fair a herd as graz'd
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl
My dazzling spells into the spungy air,
Of pow'r to cheat the eye with blear illusion,
And give it false presentments, lest the place
And my quaint habits breed astonishment,
And put tke damsel to suspicious flight,
Which must not be, for that's against my course:
I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,

And well-plac'd words of glozing courtesy
Baited with reasons not implausible,
Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
And hug him into snares. When once her eye
Hath met the virtue of this magic dust,
I shall appear some harmless villager,
Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
But here she comes; I fairly step aside,
And hearken, if I may, her business here.

The Lady enters.

Lady. 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 loath 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,

Step'd, 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 grey-hooded Ev'n,

Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed,

Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' 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 wand'ring steps too far;

And envious Darkness, ere they could return,

Had stole them from me: else, O thievish Night,

Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end,

In thy dark lantern thus close up the stars

That Nature hung in heav'n, and fill'd their lamps

With everlasting oil, to give due light

To the misled and lonely traveller?

This is the place, as well as I may guess,

Whence even now the tumult of loud mirth

Was rife, and perfect in my list'ning ear,

Yet nought but single darkness do I find.

What might this be? A thousand fantasies

Begin to throng into my memory,

Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire,

And airy tongues, that syllable men's names

On sands, and.ihores, and desert wildernesses.

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