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She that has that, is clad in compleat steel,
And like a quiver'd Nymph with Arrows keen
May trace huge Forefts, and unharbour'd Heaths,
Infamous Hills, and fandy perilous wilds;
Where, through the facred rays of Chastity,
No Savage fierce, Banditti, or Mountaneer
Will dare to foyl her Virgin purity:

Yea there, where very desolation dwells
By grots, and caverns shag'd with horrid shades,
She may pafs on with unblench'd majefty,
Be it not done in pride, or in presumption.
Some fay no evil thing that walks by night,
In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen,
Blue meager Hag, or ftubborn unlaid Ghost,
That breaks his magic chains at Curfeu time,
No Goblin, or fwart Fairy of the Mine,
Hath hurtful power o'er true Virginity.
Do ye believe me yet, or fhall I call
Antiquity from the old Schools of Greece,
To teftifie the arms of Chastity?

Hence had the huntress Diana her dread bow,
Fair filver-fhafted Queen, for ever chaste,
Wherewith the tam'd the brinded Lionefs,

And spotted mountain Pard, but set at nought
The frivolous bolt of Cupid; Gods and men [Woods.
Fear'd her ftern frown, and she was Queen o'th'
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon shield
That wife Minerva wore, unconquer'd Virgin,
Wherewith the freez'd her foes to congeal'd ftone,
But rigid looks of chaste austerity,

And noble grace, that dash'd brute violence

With

With fudden adoration, and blank awe?
So dear to Heav'n is Saintly Chastity,
That when a Soul is found fincerely fo,
A thousand livery'd Angels lacquey her,
Driving far off each thing of fin and guilt,
And in clear dream, and folemn vifion,
Tell her of things, that no grofs ear can hear;
Till oft converse with heav'nly habitants
Begin to caft a beam on th' outward shape,
The unpolluted Temple of the mind,
And turn it by degrees to the Soul's effence,
Till all be made immortal: but when Luft,
By unchafte looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
But moft by leud and lavish act of fin,
Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
The Soul grows clotted by contagion,
Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite lofe
The divine property of her first being.
Such are thofe thick and gloomy fhadows damp,
Oft feen in Charnel Vaults, and Sepulchres,
Lingring, and fitting by a new-made grave,
As loth to leave the Body, that it lov'd,
And linkt itself by carnal fenfuality
To a degenerate and degraded state.

Y. Bro. How charming is divine Philofophy!
Not harsh, and crabbed, as dull fools fuppofe,
But mufical as is Apollo's Lute,

And a perpetual feast of nectar'd sweets,

[hear

Where no crude furfeit reigns. Eld. Bro. Lift, lift; I

Some far-off hollow break the filent Air.

r. Bro. Methought fo too; what should it be? Eld. Bro. For certain

Either

Either fome one like us night-founder'd here,
Or elfe fome Neighbour Woodman, or, at worst,
Some roving Robber calling to his fellows.

Y. Bro. Heav'n keep my fifter. Again! again! Beft draw, and stand upon our guard. [and near! Eld. Bro. I'll hallow;

If he be friendly he comes well; if not,

Defence is a good caufe, and heav'n be for us...

The attendant Spirit, habited like a Shepherd. That hallow I should know; what are you? speak. Come not too near, you fall on Iron ftakes elfe. Spir. What voice is that? my young Lord? speak

agen.

[fure, Y. Bro. O brother, 'tis my Father's Shepherd Eld. Bro. Thyrfis? whofe artful ftrains have oft The huddling brook to hear his madrigal, [delay'd And sweeten'd ev'ry mufk-rose of the dale ?

How cam'ft thou here, good Swain? hath any ram
Slipt from the fold or young Kid loft his dam,
Or ftraggling Weather the pent flock forfook?
How could'st thou find this dark fequefter'd nook ?
Spir. O my lov'd Master's heir, and his next joy,
I came not here on fuch a trivial toy

As a ftray'd Ewe, or to purfue the ftealth
Of pilfering Wolf; not all the fleecy wealth
That doth inrich thefe downs, is worth a thought
To this my errand, and the care it brought.
But, O my Virgin Lady, where is the,
How chance she is not in your company?

Eld. Bro. To tell thee fadly, Shepherd, without

blame,

Or

Or our neglect, we lost her as we came.

Spir. Ah me unhappy! then my fears are true, Eld. Bro. What fears, good Thyrfis? Prithee briefly Spir. I'll tell ye, 'tis not vain or fabulous,[fhew. (Though so esteem'd by shallow ignorance)

What the fage Poets, taught by th' heav'nly Mufe, Story'd of old in high immortal verse,

Of dire Chimera's, and inchanted Ifles,

And rifted Rocks, whose entrance leads to Hell; For fuch their be, but unbelief is blind.

Within the navel of this hideous Wood,
Immur'd in Cyprefs fhades a Sorcerer dwells,
Of Bacchus and of Circe born, great Comus,
Deep fkill'd in all his Mother's Witcheries;
And here to every thirsty wanderer,

By fly enticement gives his baneful cup,
With many murmurs mixt, whofe pleafing poison
The vifage quite transforms of him that drinks,
And the inglorious likeness of a beaft
Fixes instead, unmoulding reafon's mintage
Character'd in the face; this have I learnt,
Tending my flocks hard by i'th' hilly crofts,
That brow this bottom glade, whence night by night
He and his monftrous rout are heard to howl
Like ftabled Wolves, or Tigers at their prey,
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate

In their obfcured haunts of in most bowers.
Yet have they many baits, and guileful spells
To inveigle and invite th' unwary fenfe
Of them, that pafs unweeting by the way.
This evening late, by then the chewing flocks

Had

Had ta'en their fupper on the favoury Herb
Of knot-grafs dew-befprent, and were in fold,
I fat me down to watch upon a bank
With Ivy canopied, and interwove
With flaunting Honey-fuckle, and began,
Wrapt in a pleafing fit of Melancholy,
To meditate my rural minstrelie,

Till fancy had her fill; but ere a clofe
The wonted roar was up amidft the Woods,
And fill'd the air with barbarous diffonance;
At which I ceas'd, and liften'd them a while,
Till an unufual ftop of fudden filence
Gave refpite to the drowfie frighted steeds
That draw the litter of clofe-curtain'd fleep.
At laft a foft and folemn breathing found
Rofe like a steam of rich diftill'd perfumes,
And stole upon the Air, that even Silence
Was took ere she was ware, and wisht she might
Deny her Nature, and be never more

Still to be fo difplac'd. I was all ear,

And took in ftrains, that might create a Soul
Under the ribs of Death; but O ere long
Too well I did perceive it was the voice
Of my moft honour'd Lady, your dear Sifter.
Amaz'd I ftood, harrow'd with grief and fear,
And, O poor hapless Nightingale, thought 1,
How fweet thou fing'ft, how near the deadly snare!
Then down the Lawns I ran with headlong hafte,
Through paths and turnings often trod by day,
Till guided by mine ear I found the place
Where that damn'd wisard, hid in fly disguise,

(For

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