An old and haughty nation, proud in arms:
Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore,
Are coming to attend their father's state, 35
And new-intrusted sceptre. But their way
Lies through the perplexed paths of this drear

The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger;
And here their tender age might suffer peril, 40
But that, by quick command from sovran Jove,
I was dispatched for their defence and guard:
And listen why; for I will tell you now
What never yet was heard in tale or song,
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.

Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape Crushed the sweet poison of misused wine, After the Tuscan mariners transformed, Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed, On Circe's island fell. (Who knows not Circe, 50 The daughter of the Sun, whose charmèd cup Whoever tasted lost his upright shape, And downward fell into a grovelling swine?) This Nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks, With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth, 55 Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son Much like his father, but his mother more, Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus

named: Who, ripe and frolic of his full-grown age,

60 Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,

At last betakes him to this ominous wood,
And, in thick shelter of black shades imbowered,
Excels his mother at her mighty art;

Offering to every weary traveller
65 His orient liquor in a crystal glass,
To quench the drouth of Phoebus; which as they

taste (For most do taste through fond intemperate

thirst), Soon as the potion works, their human count'nance,

The express resemblance of the gods, is changed 70 Into some brutish form of wolf or bear,

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,
75 But boast themselves more comely than before,

And all their friends and native home forget,
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Therefore, when any favoured of high Jove

Chances to pass through this adventurous glade, 80 Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star

I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy,
As now I do. But first I must put off
These my sky-robes, spun out of Iris' woof,

oot in shepherd And take the weeds and likeness of a swain Ada 85 That to the service of this house belongs,

Who, with his soft pipe and smooth-dittied song,

Well knows to still 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
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.

Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of heaven 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.
Braid your locks with rosy twine,

166 Dropping odours, dropping wine. Rigor now is gone to bed; And Advice with scrupulous head,

Strict Age, and sour Severity,
uo 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. 115 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 fairies and the dapper elves;

By dimpled brook and fountain-brim,
120 The wood-nymphs, decked 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. 125 Come, let us our rites begin;

'Tis only daylight that makes sin, Which these dun shades will ne'er report. (Hail, goddess of nocturnal sport,

Dark-veiled Cotytto, to whom the secret flame 180 Of midnight torches burns! mysterious dame,

That ne'er art called 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, 185 Wherein thou ridest with Hecat', and befriend

Us thy vowed 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
In a light fantastic round.)

The Measure
Break off, break off! I feel the different pace 145
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, 150 And to my wily trains: I shall ere long Be well stocked with as fair a herd as grazed About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl My dazzling spells into the spongy air, Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion, 165 And give it false presentments, lest the place And my quaint hábits 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,

160 And well-placed words of glozing courtesy, Baited with reasons not unplausible, Wind me into the easy-hearted man,

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