Of Stygian darkness spets her thickest gloom, Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, Wherein thou rid'st with Hecate,1 and befriend Us thy avowed 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 cabined loop-hole peep, And to the tell-tale sun descry Our concealed solemnity.— Come, knit hands, and beat the ground The measure Break off, break off, I feel the diff'rent 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 stocked with as fair a herd as grazed About my mother Circè. 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 the damsel to suspicious flight, Which must not be, for that's against my course : I, under fair pretence of friendly ends, And well-placed words of glozing courtesy Baited with reasons not unplausible, Wind me into the easy-hearted man, A goddess of night, the under-world, and magic. When once her eye And hug him into snares. I shall appear some harmless villager, Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.1 And hearken, if I may, her business here. Enter the Lady Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be true, Such as the jocund flute or gamesome pipe Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain ; Why shouldst thou, but for some felonious end, To the misled and lonely traveller ? Of calling shapes, and beck'ning shadows dire, I see ye visibly, and now believe That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill SONG Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that liv'st unseen By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale, Where the love-lorn nightingale Nightly to thee her sad song mourneth well; Oh, if thou have Hid them in some flow'ry cave, Tell me but where, Sweet Queen of parley, Daughter of the Sphere! And give resounding grace to all Heav'n's harmonies! Comus enters Comus. Can any mortal mixture of Earth's mould And with these raptures moves the vocal air How sweetly did they float upon the wings Culling their potent herbs and baleful drugs; And chid her barking waves 1 into attention, 1 Virgil's "Multis circum latrantibus undis," "Æneid,” vii. 588. Yet they in pleasing slumber lulled the sense, I never heard till now. I'll speak to her, And she shall be my queen.-Hail, Foreign Wonder! Dwell'st here with Pan, or Sylvan, by blest song To touch the prosp'rous growth of this tall wood. That is addressed to unattending ears; Not any boast of skill but extreme shift, Comus. What chance, good Lady, hath bereft you thus ? Lady. Dim darkness, and this leafy labyrinth. Comus. Could that divide you from near-ush'ring guides ? Lady. They left me weary on a grassy turf. Comus. By falsehood, or discourtesy, or why? Lady. To seek i' the valley some cool, friendly spring. Comus. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady? Lady. They were but twain, and purposed quick return. Comus. Perhaps forestalling Night prevented them. Lady. How easy my misfortune is to hit ! Comus. Imports their loss, besides the present need? Lady. No less than if I should my brothers lose. |