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And downward fell into a groveling swine)
This Nymph that gaz'd upon his clustering locks,
With ivy berries wreath'd, and his blithe youth,

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Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son
Much like his father, but his mother more,
Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus nain'd,
Who, ripe, and frolic of his full grown age,
Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,
At last betakes him to this ominous wood,
And in thick shelter of black shades imbower'd
Excels his mother at her mighty art,
Offering to every weary traveller
His orient liquor in a crystal glass,
To quench the drouth of Phoebus, which as they taste,
(For moft 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 some brutish form of wolf, or bear,

70 Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat, All other parts remaining as they were; And they, so perfect is their misery, Not once perceive their foul disfigurement, But boast themselves more comely than before,

75 And all their friends and native home forget, To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty. Therefore when any favor’d of high Jove Chances to pass through this adventrous glade, Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star

80 I shoot from Heav'n, to give him safe convoy, As now I do: But first I must put off

Thefe

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These my sky robes fpun out of Iris' woof,
And take the weeds and likeness of a swain,
That to the service of this house belongs,
Who with his soft-pipe, and smooth dittied song,
Well knows to itill the wild winds when they roar,
And hush the waving woods, nor of less faith,
And in this office of his mountain watch,
Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid

90 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 otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands.

Com. The star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav'n doth hold,
And the gilded car of day

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His glowing axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantic stream,
And the slope fun his upward beam
Shoots against the dulky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.
Mean while welcome Joy, and Feast,
Midnight Shout, and Revelry,
Tipsy Dance, and Jollity.
Braid your locks with rosy twine,

105 Dropping odors, dropping wine.

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Rigor now is gone to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and four Severity,
With their grave faws 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, 115 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 rites begin,

125 'Tis only day-light that makes fin, 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, 130 That ne'er art call'd, but when the dragon womb Of Stygian darkness spits her thickest gloom And makes one blot of all the air, Stay thy cloudy ebon chair, Wherein thou rid'st with Hecat', and befriend

135 Us thy vow'd priests, till utmost end

Of

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 loophole peep,
And to the tell-tale sun descry
Our conceal’d solemnity.
Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.

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The MEASURE. Break off, break off, I feel the different pace 145 Of some chalte 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, 150 And to my wily trains; I fall ere long Be well-Itock'd with as fair a herd as graz’d About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl My dazling spells into the fpungy air, Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion And give it false presentments, lest the place And my quaint habits breed aitonihment, And put the damsel to fufpicious flight, Which must not be, for that's against my course; I under fair pretence of friendly ends,

160 And well-plac'd words of glozing courtesy Baited with reasons not unplausible, Wind me into the easy-hearted man, And hug him into fnares. When once her eye

Hath

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Hath met the virtue of this magic dust,
I fall 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.

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The LADY enters.
This
way

the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now; methought it was the found
Of riot and ill-manag'd merriment,
Such as the jocond flute, or gamesome pipe,
Stirs up among

the loose unletter'd hinds,
When for their teeming Aocks, and granges full, 175
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,
And thank the Gods amiss. I fhould be loath
To meet the rudeness and swill'd infolence
Of such late wassailers; yet O where else
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet

180 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 favor of these pines, Stept, as they faid, to the next thicket fide

185 To bring me berries, or such cooling fruit As the kind hofpitable woods provide. They left me then, when the gray-hooded Even, Like a sad votarist in palmer's weed, Rose from the hindmost wheels of Phoebus' wain, 190 But where they are, and why they came not back, Is now the labor of my thoughts ; 'tis likeliest

They

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