Are coming to attend their father's state,
And new-entrusted sceptre: but their way
Lies through the perplex'd paths of this drear wood,
The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger;
And here their tender age might suffer peril,
But that by quick command from sovereign Jove,
I was despatch'd 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,
Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan mariners transform'd,
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed,
On Circe's island fell: who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun? whose charmed cup
Whoever tasted, lost his upright shape,
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,
Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son,
Much like his father, but his mother more,
Whom therefore she brought up, & Comus named :
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
For most do taste through fond intemperate thirst,
Soon as the potion works, their human countenance,
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed,
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,
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, favour'd of high Jove,
Chances to pass through this adventurous glade,
Swift, as the sparkle of a glancing star,
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, 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 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.
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
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 morrice 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 daylight that makes sin,
Which these dun shades will ne'er report.
Hail, Goddess of nocturnal sport,
Dark-veil'd Cotytto, to 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 the 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.
Break off, break off, I feel the different pace
Of some chaste footing, near about this ground.
Run to your shrouds, within these brakes & 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 grazed
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl
My dazzling spells into the spungy air,
Of power 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-1
y-hearted man,
And hug him into snares.
Hath met the virtue of this magic dust,
I shall appear some harmless village,
Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
But here she comes; I fairly step aside,
And hearken, if I may, her business here.
This way the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now. Methought it was the sound
Of riot, and ill-managed 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 loth
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,
Stepp'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 gray-hooded Even,
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 likelies
They had engaged their wandering 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 Heaven, & 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 listening 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 beckoning shadows dire,
And airy tongues, that syllable men's names
On sands, and shores, and desert wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound
The virtuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong-siding champion, conscience.
O welcome pure-ey'd Faith, white handed Hope,
Thou hovering angel, girt with golden wings,
And thou, unblemish'd form of Chastity!
I see ye visibly, and now believe
That He, the Supreme Good, to whom all things ill
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistering guardian, if need were,
To keep my life and honour unassail'd.
Was I deceived, or did a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night?
I did not err: there does a sable cloud
Turn forth her silver lining on the night,
And casts a gleam over this tufted grove.
I cannot halloo to my brothers, but
Such noise as I can make, to be heard farthest,
I'll venture; for my new-enliven'd spirits
Prompt me; and they, perhaps, are not far off.
Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph, that livest unseen Within thy airy shell,
By slow meander's margin green, And in the violet-embroider'd vale,
Where the love-lorn nightingale,
Nightly to thee, her sad song mourneth well;
Canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair,
That likest thy Narcissus are?
O, if thou have
Hid them in some flowery cave,
Tell me but where,
Sweet queen of parly, daughter of the sphere! So may'st thou be translated to the skies, And give resounding grace to all Heaven's harmo
Comus. Can any mortal mixture of earth's mould Breathe such divine enchanting ravishment? Sure something holy lodges in that breast, And with these raptures, moves the vocal air To testify his hidden residence :
How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted Night,
At every fall smoothing the raven-down
Of darkness, till it smil'd! I have oft heard
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