Click to read “Introduction”.
A Mask Presented at Ludlow Castle was written on commission to celebrate the first visit of John Egerton, the first Earl of Bridgewater to his (relatively) new administrative seat, Ludlow Castle in Shropshire; it was performed for the first time on the night of Michaelmas (September 29) in 1634. Egerton had been appointed Lord President of Wales and Lord Lieutenant of Wales and the Marches of Herefordshire, Monmouthshire, Shropshire and Worcestershire in 1631, but he first visited Ludlow in 1634. A Mask is the only masque Milton wrote and it was the second of his poetic works to be published (anonymously in 1637). Had Milton never achieved fame as author of Paradise Lost, A Mask might have been forgotten in history as a minor performance in an age that saw much grander courtly spectacles of this now disused sort. Milton’s subversions of the genre’s conventions, however, as well as his puritan formulation of a classical ideal of self-governance, distinguish A Mask as a complex and fascinating piece of dramatic literature.
Masques were popular courtly entertainments in Caroline England. They consisted of elaborate performances in which a mixed cast of professional actors and royal individuals acted, sang, and danced in lavish stage settings, until the performance culminated in a revel or ball. Playwright and poet Ben Jonson and architect Inigo Jones enjoyed a fruitful partnership as the creators of masques for the courts of Queen Anne and Queen Henrietta Maria, and the pair was responsible for the consolidation of many of the genre’s conventions. The typical Jonsonian masque was divided in three parts: the anti-masque, the masque, and the revels. The anti-masque often consisted of the unleashing of a grotesque, burlesque crowd of demimonde characters that enacted plots of anarchy, mischief, and betrayal. Their threatening forces were dispelled by the refinement of the masque, which introduced the members of the court as restorers of order and royal authority. The revels marked the point in which the dramatic apparatus of the masque was dissolved, and presenters and spectators together celebrated the occasion or state affair. The overall structure of the masque served to neutralize potential threatening energies in the political unconscious of the court, and the authority of the king was reasserted through the imagery of absolutist patriarchy represented by the virtuous body of the Queen and her attendant ladies.
A Mask only partially subscribes to the Jonsonian format. Milton’s masque is also organized according to a tripartite structure, and there is a distinction between the grotesque anti-masque revelers, played by professional male actors, and the virtuous aristocratic protagonists, played by the Egerton children—Alice age 15, John age 11 and Thomas age 8. Henry Lawes, Gentleman of the Royal Chapel, was commissioned to compose the music for A Mask, and he played the role of the Attendant Spirit. A Mask deviates from the conventional Jonsonian mold in ways that ignore the absolutist authority of the king in favor of a puritan-leaning but classically-rooted sense of self-governance or temperance. In traditional masques, the Queen is able to neutralize the negative forces of the anti-masque revelers because her virtue emanates from the King; therefore, the woman is simply a vessel for the absolute power of the monarch. In his book, Lady in the Labyrinth: Milton’s Comus as Initiation (2008), William Shullenberger argues that in A Mask it is the Lady alone who acts as an “exemplary agent and embodiment of virtue,” without ever a mention of her father, the king’s proxy, or King Charles himself (Shullenberger 68). This choice may indicate Milton’s dissent from the conflation of spiritual education and politics in the structure of court masques, which leads Maryann Cale McGuire to classify A Mask as a “dissident masque,” or the “work of a Protestant radical who rejected absolutist institutional authority, emphasized the primacy of the individual pursuit of enlightenment, and posited that stasis is impossible in the fallen world” (McGuire 76). Moreover, A Mask seems to be critical of the very court culture that generated and patronized masques. Unlike the lavish settings of Inigo Jones, A Mask opens in a plain dark setting, and the masque only makes use of ornamental artifice during the bacchanal Comus throws for his half-bestial guests. Shullenberger writes, “Milton’s association of the Mask’s Lord of Misrule, Comus, with the extravagances and libertinism of traditional aristocracy … subtly relocates the social center of anxiety represented by the antimasque from outside the court culture to inside the court culture” (Shullenberger 69).
A Mask has a complicated publishing history. It was first printed in 1637—A Maske Presented at Ludlow Castle—without any authorial attribution. Milton included a somewhat different version in his first collection, Poems of Mr. John Milton in 1645; it appears there as the last of his English poems with its own title page—A Mask of the Same Author Presented at Ludlow-Castle, 1634. It appeared again in the last edition of Milton’s collected Poems in 1673. Besides the printed versions, two manuscripts also survive, one copy in the Trinity manuscript (1634) of early poems in Milton’s own hand, and another in the Bridgewater manuscript, made in 1634 by another hand and kept by the Bridgewater family. This edition follows the 1645 printed edition and notes some variations from the two manuscripts.
Since 1984, with the publication of John Creaser’s Notes and Queries article, “Milton’s A Mask: The Irrelevance of the Castlehaven Scandal” (republished in Milton Quarterly in 1987), Milton scholars have argued about whether or not Milton’s treatment of female chastity threatened by seduction and violent assault, was meant to respond in any way to the scandal of Mervin Touchet, second Earl of Castlehaven. Creaser argues that Milton scholars and readers had known about the scandal for centuries but never suggested its relevance to the composition, performance and publication of Milton’s masque until Bernard Falk speculated on it in 1942 and Barbara Breasted mounted a full-scale re-interpretation in light of the scandal in 1971. Though Creaser seems to argue that the scandal is utterly irrelevant to the masque’s composition and should be irrelevant to our reading of both the masque and its reception, he pretty much gives the store away when he concludes,
Milton has, it seems, dealt most adroitly with an invidious issue. While it would have been tactless of him to have incorporated the scandal unmistakeably into his text, it would have been imprudent of him not to have provided against any irresponsible cynics determined to recall it. His affirmation that virtue inheres in the will comes with the authority of tradition and deflects any criticism which such malicious observers might wish to extend to Bridgewater and his family. (Creaser 32)
That no one thought until 1942 of reading Milton’s masque in light of one of the most notorious sex scandals of the 17th century is testimony, according to Creaser, to Milton’s extraordinarily prudent adroitness in composing a piece that “tactfully short-circuit[ed]” any possibility of evoking the scandal and allowed the Bridgewater family to “adopt an unruffled air of being above suspicion” (31). In other words, the scandal could hardly be more relevant to how we read the piece today and how its aristocratic audience received it in 1634.
Mervin Touchet, second Earl of Castlehaven, was tried and executed in 1631 for sexual misconduct in his own private household. He was convicted of arranging the repeated rape of his wife and stepdaughter by his male servants, and of having homosexual relations with some of those servants. Given that Castlehaven’s abused wife, Lady Ann Stanley, was the older sister of Francis Egerton, the Countess of Bridgewater, the scandal may well have embarrassed the Egertons. When Sir John Egerton became Lord President of Wales and chose to celebrate his appointment with a masque about the virtues of chastity, it seemed as if he was intent on distinguishing his family from his wife’s “tainted relatives” (Barbara Breasted 203).
Of course Milton’s own personal interest in the topic of chastity was already quite keen in 1634; we needn’t assume that current events determined or even overtly shaped his theme, but this was a commissioned work, performed three years after Bridgewater’s appointment and also after the notorious Castlehaven trial. What’s more, Leah Marcus suggested in 1983 that yet another notorious instance of sexual assault in 1631 may have prompted Bridgewater to commission a masque precisely on the theme of chastity, not just to distinguish his reputation from the shadow of his wife’s brother-in-law, but as strong champion of precisely this virtue in his roles of Lord President and exemplary father of sons and a daughter. On this issue of political contexts, Shullenberger comes to a reasonable conclusion: “The Lady also takes up the cry for justice of the serving girl Margery Evans, whose rape in Ludlow forest and subsequent legal neglect and victimization might have rendered her just one more anonymous and forgotten female victim, had not her persistent claims for legal redress provided the Earl of Bridgewater an early opportunity to exercise his judicial concern for victims of injustice in his own administrative district” (Shullenberger 224).
In her 1989 book, The Politics of Mirth: Jonson, Herrick, Milton, Marvell, and the Defense of Old Holiday Pastimes, Marcus also makes a broader case for A Mask’s intervention into contemporary debates about state-approved and even state-sponsored revelry. And more recently, Shullenberger reminds us that “Michaelmas Eve, on which A Mask was performed, was a traditional occasion for lawless revelry in the area” surrounding Ludlow Castle and the Welsh marches in general (Shullenberger 112).
Guilherme Ferraz and Thomas H. Luxon
Click to read “Front Matter”.
This Poem, which receiv’d its first occasion of Birth from your Self, and others of your Noble Family, and much honour from your own Person in the performance, now returns again to make a finall Dedication of it self to you. Although not openly acknowledg’d by the Author, yet it is a legitimate off-spring, so lovely, and so much desired, that the often Copying of it hath tir’d my Pen to give my severall friends satisfaction, and brought me to a necessity of producing it to the publike view; and now to offer it up in all rightfull devotion to those fair Hopes, and rare Endowments of your much-promising Youth, which give a full assurance, to all that know you, of a future excellence. Live sweet Lord to be the honour of your Name, and receive this as your own, from the hands of him, who hath by many favours been long oblig’d to your most honour’d Parents, and as in this representation your attendant Thyrsis, so now in all reall expression
Your faithfull, and most
humble Servant H. LAWES
The Copy of a Letter Writt’n
By Sir Henry Wooton,
To the Author, upon the
From the Colledge, this 13. of April, 1638.
It was a special favour, when you lately bestowed upon me here, the first taste of your acquaintance, though no longer then to make me know that I wanted more time to value it, and to enjoy it rightly; and in truth, if I could then have imagined your farther stay in these parts, which I understood afterwards by Mr. H., I would have been bold in our vulgar phrase to mend my draught (for you left me with an extreme thirst) and to have begged your conversation again, joyntly with your said learned Friend, at a poor meal or two, that we might have banded together som good Authors of the antient time: Among which, I observed you to have been familiar.
Since your going, you have charg’d me with new Obligations, both for a very kinde Letter from you dated the sixth of this Month, and for a dainty peece of entertainment which came therwith. Wherin I should much commend the Tragical part, if the Lyrical did not ravish me with a certain Dorique delicacy in your Songs and Odes, wherunto I must plainly confess to have seen yet nothing parallel in our Language: Ipsa mollities. But I must not omit to tell you, that I now onely owe you thanks for intimating unto me (how modestly soever) the true Artificer. For the work it self, I had view’d som good while before, with singular delight, having receiv’d it from our common Friend Mr. R. in the very close of the late R’s Poems, Printed at Oxford, wherunto it was added (as I now suppose) that the Accessory might help out the Principal, according to the Art of Stationers, and to leave the Reader Con la bocca dolce.
Now Sir, concerning your travels, wherin I may chalenge a little more priviledge of Discours with you; I suppose you will not blanch Paris in your way; therfore I have been bold to trouble you with a few lines to Mr. M. B. whom you shall easily find attending the young Lord S. as his Governour, and you may surely receive from him good directions for the shaping of your farther journey into Italy, where he did reside by my choice som time for the King, after my own recess from Venice.
I should think that your best Line will be thorow the whole length of France to Marseilles, and thence by Sea to Genoa, whence the passage into Tuscany is as Diurnal as a Gravesend Barge: I hasten as you do to Florence, or Siena, the rather to tell you a short story from the interest you have given me in your safety.
At Siena I was tabled in the House of one Alberto Scipioni an old Roman Courtier in dangerous times, having bin Steward to the Duca di Pagliano, who with all his Family were strangled, save this onely man that escap’d by foresight of the Tempest: With him I had often much chat of those affairs; Into which he took pleasure to look back from his Native Harbour; and at my departure toward Rome (which had been the center of his experience) I had wonn confidence enough to beg his advice, how I might carry my self securely there, without offence of others, or of mine own conscience. Signor Arrigomio (sayes he) I pensieri stretti, & il viso sciolto will go safely over the whole World: Of which Delphian Oracle (for so I have found it) your judgement doth need no commentary; and therfore (Sir) I will commit you with it to the best of all securities, Gods dear love, remaining
Your Friend as much at command
as any of longer date
SIR, I have expressly sent this my Foot-boy to prevent your departure without som acknowledgement from me of the receipt of your obliging Letter, having my self through som busines, I know not how, neglected the ordinary conveyance. In any part where I shall understand you fixed, I shall be glad, and diligent to entertain you with Home-Novelties; even for som fomentation of our friendship, too soon interrupted in the Cradle.
The attendant Spirit afterwards in the habit of Thyrsis
Comus with his crew
Sabrina, the Nymph
The cheif persons which presented, were
The Lord Bracly,
Mr. Thomas Egerton, his Brother,
The Lady Alice Egerton.
The first Scene discovers a wilde Wood.
The attendant Spirit descends or enters.
Before the starry threshold of Joves Court
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes
Of bright aëreal Spirits live insphear’d
In Regions milde of calm and serene Ayr,
Above the smoak and stirr of this dim spot,
Which men call Earth, and with low-thoughted care
Confin’d, and pester’d in this pin-fold here,
Strive to keep up a frail, and Feaverish being
Unmindfull of the crown that Vertue gives
After this mortal change, to her true Servants
Amongst the enthron’d gods on Sainted seats.
Yet som there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that Golden Key
That ope’s the Palace of Eternity:
To such my errand is, and but for such,
I would not soil these pure Ambrosial weeds,
With the rank vapours of this Sin-worn mould.
But to my task. Neptune besides the sway
Of every salt Flood, and each ebbing Stream,
Took in by lot ‘twixt high, and neather Jove,
Imperial rule of all the Sea-girt Iles
That like to rich, and various gemms inlay
The unadorned bosom of the Deep,
Which he to grace his tributary gods
By course commits to severall goverment,
And gives them leave to wear their Saphire crowns,
And weild their little tridents, but this Ile
The greatest, and the best of all the main
He quarters to his blu-hair’d deities,
And all this tract that fronts the falling Sun
A noble Peer of mickle trust, and power
Has in his charge, with temper’d awe to guide
An old, and haughty Nation proud in Arms:
Where his fair off-spring nurs’t in Princely lore,
Are coming to attend their Fathers state,
And new-entrusted Scepter, but their way
Lies through the perplex’t paths of this drear Wood,
The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wand’ring Passinger.
And here their tender age might suffer perill,
But that by quick command from Soveran Jove
I was dispatcht for their defence, and guard;
And listen why, for I will tell ye now
What never yet was heard in Tale or Song
From old, or modern Bard in Hall, or Bowr.
Bacchus that first from out the purple Grape,
Crush’t the sweet poyson of mis-used Wine
After the Tuscan Mariners transform’d
Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed,
On Circes Iland 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 clustring 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 therfore she brought up and Comus nam’d,
Who ripe, and frolick of his full grown age,
Roaving the Celtick, and Iberian fields,
At last betakes him to this ominous Wood,
And in thick shelter of black shades imbowr’d,
Excells his Mother at her mighty Art,
Offring to every weary Travailer,
His orient liquor in a Crystal Glasse,
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,
Th’ express resemblance of the gods, is chang’d
Into some brutish form of Woolf, 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 then before
And all their friends, and native home forget
To roule with pleasure in a sensual sty.
Therfore when any favour’d of high Jove,
Chances to pass through this adventrous glade,
Swift as the Sparkle of a glancing Star,
I shoot from Heav’n to give him safe convoy,
As now I do: But first I must put off
These my skie robes spun out of Iris Wooff,
And take the Weeds and likenes 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 wilde winds when they roar,
And hush the waving Woods, nor of lesse faith,
And in this office of his Mountain watch,
Likeliest, and neerest to the present ayd
Of this occasion. But I hear the tread
Of hatefull 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 wilde Beasts, but otherwise like Men and Women, their Apparel glistering, they com in making a riotous and unruly noise, with Torches in their hands.
Comus. The Star that bids the Shepherd fold,
Now the top of Heav’n doth hold,
And the gilded Car of Day,
His glowing Axle doth allay
In the steep Atlantick stream,
And the slope Sun his upward beam
Shoots against the dusky Pole,
Pacing toward the other gole
Of his Chamber in the East.
Mean while welcom Joy, and Feast,
Midnight shout, and revelry,
Tipsie dance and Jollity.
Braid your Locks with rosie Twine
Dropping odours, dropping Wine.
Rigor now is gone to bed,
And Advice with scrupulous head,
Strict Age, and sowre Severity,
With their grave Saws in slumber ly.
We that are of purer fire
Imitate the Starry Quire,
Who in their nightly watchfull Sphears,
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 deckt 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 wak’ns Love.
Com let us our rights begin,
Tis onely day-light that makes Sin,
Which these dun shades will ne’re report.
Hail Goddesse of Nocturnal sport
Dark vaild Cotytto, t’ whom the secret flame
Of mid-night Torches burns; mysterious Dame
That ne’re art call’d, but when the Dragon woom
Of Stygian darknes spets her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the ayr,
Stay thy cloudy Ebon chair,
Wherin 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 th’ Indian steep
From her cabin’d loop hole peep,
And to the tel-tale Sun discry
Our conceal’d Solemnity.
Com, knit hands, and beat the ground,
In a light fantastick round.
Break off, break off, I feel the different pace,
Of som chast footing neer about this ground.
Run to your shrouds, within these Brakes and Trees,
Our number may affright: Som 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 e’re long
Be well stock’t with as fair a herd as graz’d
About my Mother Circe. Thus I hurl
My dazling Spells into the spungy ayr,
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-plac’t words of glozing courtesie,
Baited with reasons not unplausible
Wind me into the easie-hearted man,
And hugg him into snares. When once her eye
Hath met the vertue of this Magick dust,
I shall appear som harmles Villager
Whom thrift keeps up about his Country gear,
But here she comes, I fairly step aside
And hearken, if I may, her busines here.
The Lady enters
This way the noise was, if mine ear be true,
My best guide now, me thought it was the sound
Of Riot, and ill-manag’d Merriment,
Such as the jocund Flute, or gamesom Pipe
Stirs up among the loose unleter’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 loath
To meet the rudeness, and swill’d insolence
Of such late Wassailers; yet O where els
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet
In the blind mazes of this tangl’d Wood?
My Brothers when they saw me wearied out
With this long way, resolving here to lodge
Under the spreading favour of these Pines,
Stept as they se’d 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 Eev’n
Like a sad Votarist in Palmers 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 likeliest
They had ingag’d their wandring steps too far,
And envious darknes, e’re they could return,
Had stole them from me, els O theevish Night
Why shouldst thou, but for som fellonious end,
In thy dark lantern thus close up the Stars,
That nature hung in Heav’n, and fill’d their Lamps
With everlasting oil, to give due light
To the misled and lonely Travailer?
This is the place, as well as I may guess,
Whence eev’n now the tumult of loud Mirth
Was rife, and perfet in my list’ning ear,
Yet nought but single darknes do I find.
What might this be? A thousand fantasies
Begin to throng into my memory
Of calling shapes and beckning shadows dire,
And airy tongues, that syllable mens names
On Sands, and Shoars, and desert Wildernesses.
These thoughts may startle well, but not astound
The vertuous mind, that ever walks attended
By a strong siding champion Conscience.——
O welcom pure-ey’d Faith, white-handed Hope,
Thou hov’ring Angel girt with golden wings,
And thou unblemish’t form of Chastity,
I see ye visibly, and now beleeve
That he, the Supreme good, t’ whom all things ill
Are but as slavish officers of vengeance,
Would send a glistring Guardian if need were
To keep my life and honour unassail’d.
Was I deceiv’d, 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 hallo to my Brothers, but
Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest
Ile venter, for my new enliv’n’d spirits
Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off.
Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that liv’st unseen
Within thy airy shell
By slow Meander’s margent green,
And in the violet imbroider’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 flowry Cave,
Tell me but where
Sweet Queen of Parly, Daughter of the Sphear,
So maist thou be translated to the skies,
And give resounding grace to all Heav’ns Harmonies.
Com. Can any mortal mixture of Earths mould
Breath such Divine inchanting ravishment?
Sure somthing holy lodges in that brest,
And with these raptures moves the vocal air
To testifie his hidd’n residence;
How sweetly did they float upon the wings
Of silence, through the empty-vaulted night
At every fall smoothing the Raven doune
Of darknes till it smil’d: I have oft heard
My mother Circe with the Sirens three,
Amidst the flowry-kirtl’d Naiades
Culling their Potent hearbs, and balefull drugs,
Who as they sung, would take the prison’d soul,
And lap it in Elysium, Scylla wept,
And chid her barking waves into attention,
And fell Charybdis murmur’d soft applause:
Yet they in pleasing slumber lull’d the sense,
And in sweet madnes rob’d it of it self,
But such a sacred, and home-felt delight,
Such sober certainty of waking bliss
I never heard till now. Ile speak to her
And she shall be my Queen. Hail forren wonder
Whom certain these rough shades did never breed
Unlesse the Goddes that in rurall shrine
Dwell’st here with Pan, or Silvan, by blest Song
Forbidding every bleak unkindly Fog
To touch the prosperous growth of this tall Wood.
La. Nay gentle Shepherd ill is lost that praise
That is addrest to unattending Ears,
Not any boast of skill, but extreme shift
How to regain my sever’d company
Compell’d me to awake the courteous Echo
To give me answer from her mossie Couch.
Co. What chance good Lady hath bereft you thus?
La. Dim darknes, and this heavy Labyrinth.
Co. Could that divide you from neer-ushering guides?
La. They left me weary on a grassie terf.
Co. By falshood, or discourtesie, or why?
La. To seek i’th vally som cool friendly Spring.
Co. And left your fair side all unguarded, Lady?
La. They were but twain, and purpos’d quick return.
Co. Perhaps fore-stalling night prevented them.
La. How easie my misfortune is to hit!
Com. Imports their loss, beside the present need?
La. No less then if I should my brothers loose.
Co. Were they of manly prime, or youthful bloom?
La. As smooth as Hebe’s their unrazor’d lips.
Co. Two such I saw, what time the labour’d Oxe
In his loose traces from the furrow came,
And the swink’t hedger at his Supper sate;
I saw them under a green mantling vine
That crawls along the side of yon small hill,
Plucking ripe clusters from the tender shoots,
Their port was more then human, as they stood;
I took it for a faëry vision
Of som gay creatures of the element
That in the colours of the Rainbow live
And play i’th plighted clouds. I was aw-strook,
And as I past, I worshipt: if those you seek,
It were a journey like the path to Heav’n
To help you find them. La. Gentle villager
What readiest way would bring me to that place?
Co. Due west it rises from this shrubby point.
La. To find out that, good Shepherd, I suppose,
In such a scant allowance of Star-light,
Would overtask the best Land-Pilots art,
Without the sure guess of well-practiz’d feet.
Co. I know each lane, and every alley green
Dingle or bushy dell of this wilde Wood,
And every bosky bourn from side to side
My daily walks and ancient neighbourhood,
And if your stray attendance be yet lodg’d,
Or shroud within these limits, I shall know
Ere morrow wake, or the low roosted lark
From her thach’t pallat rowse, if otherwise
I can conduct you Lady to a low
But loyal cottage, where you may be safe
Till further quest’. La. Shepherd I take thy word,
And trust thy honest offer’d courtesie,
Which oft is sooner found in lowly sheds
With smoaky rafters, then in tapstry Halls
And Courts of Princes, where it first was nam’d,
And yet is most pretended: In a place
Less warranted then this, or less secure
I cannot be, that I should fear to change it,
Eie me blest Providence, and square my triall
To my proportion’d strength. Shepherd lead on.——
The two Brothers
Eld. Bro. Unmuffle ye faint stars, and thou fair Moon
That wontst to love the travailers benizon,
Stoop thy pale visage through an amber cloud,
And disinherit Chaos, that raigns here
In double night of darknes, and of shades;
Or if your influence be quite damm’d up
With black usurping mists, som gentle taper
Though a rush Candle from the wicker hole
Of som clay habitation visit us
With thy long levell’d rule of streaming light,
And thou shalt be our star of Arcady,
Or Tyrian Cynosure. 2 Bro. Or if our eyes
Be barr’d that happines, might we but hear
The folded flocks pen’d in their watled cotes,
Or sound of pastoral reed with oaten stops,
Or whistle from the Lodge, or village cock
Count the night watches to his feathery Dames,
T’ would be som solace yet, som little chearing
In this close dungeon of innumerous bowes.
But O that haples virgin our lost sister
Where may she wander now, whether betake her
From the chill dew, amongst rude burrs and thistles?
Perhaps som cold bank is her boulster now
Or ‘gainst the rugged bark of som broad Elm
Leans her unpillow’d head fraught with sad fears.
What if in wild amazement, and affright,
Or while we speak within the direful grasp
Of Savage hunger, or of Savage heat?
Eld. Bro. Peace brother, be not over-exquisite
To cast the fashion of uncertain evils;
For grant they be so, while they rest unknown,
What need a man forestall his date of grief,
And run to meet what he would most avoid?
Or if they be but false alarms of Fear,
How bitter is such self-delusion?
I do not think my sister so to seek,
Or so unprincipl’d in vertue’s book,
And the sweet peace that goodnes boosoms ever,
As that the single want of light and noise
(Not being in danger, as I trust she is not)
Could stir the constant mood of her calm thoughts,
And put them into mis-becoming plight.
Vertue could see to do what vertue would
By her own radiant light, though Sun and Moon
Were in the flat Sea sunk. And Wisdoms self
Oft seeks to sweet retired Solitude,
Where with her best nurse Contemplation
She plumes her feathers, and lets grow her wings
That in the various bussle of resort
Were all to ruffl’d, and somtimes impair’d.
He that has light within his own cleer brest
May sit i’th center, and enjoy bright day,
But he that hides a dark soul, and foul thoughts
Benighted walks under the mid-day Sun;
Himself is his own dungeon.
2 Bro. Tis most true
That musing meditation most affects
The Pensive secrecy of desert cell,
Far from the cheerfull haunt of men, and herds,
And sits as safe as in a Senat house,
For who would rob a Hermit of his Weeds,
His few Books, or his Beads, or Maple Dish,
Or do his gray hairs any violence?
But beauty like the fair Hesperian Tree
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard
Of dragon watch with uninchanted eye,
To save her blossoms, and defend her fruit
From the rash hand of bold Incontinence.
You may as well spred out the unsun’d heaps
Of Misers treasure by an out-laws den,
And tell me it is safe, as bid me hope
Danger will wink on Opportunity,
And let a single helpless maiden pass
Uninjur’d in this wilde surrounding wast.
Of night, or lonelines it recks me not,
I fear the dred events that dog them both,
Lest som ill greeting touch attempt the person
Of our unowned sister.
Eld. Bro. I do not brother,
Inferr as if I thought my sisters state
Secure without all doubt, or controversie:
Yet where an equall poise of hope and fear
Does arbitrate th’ event, my nature is
That I encline to hope, rather then fear,
And gladly banish squint suspicion.
My sister is not so defenceless left
As you imagine, she has a hidden strength
Which you remember not.
2 Bro. What hidden strength,
Unless the strength of Heav’n, if you mean that?
Eld. Bro. I mean that too, but yet a hidden strength
Which if Heav’n gave it, may be term’d her own:
‘Tis chastity, my brother, chastity:
She that has that, is clad in compleat steel,
And like a quiver’d Nymph with Arrows keen
May trace huge Forests, and unharbour’d Heaths,
Infamous Hills, and sandy perilous wildes,
Where through the sacred rayes of Chastity,
No savage fierce, Bandite, or mountaneer
Will dare to soyl her Virgin purity,
Yea there, where very desolation dwels
By grots, and caverns shag’d with horrid shades,
She may pass on with unblench’t majesty,
Be it not don in pride, or in presumption.
Som say no evil thing that walks by night
In fog, or fire, by lake, or moorish fen,
Blew meager Hag, or stubborn unlaid ghost,
That breaks his magick chains at curfeu time,
No goblin or swart Faëry of the mine,
Hath hurtfull power o’re true virginity.
Do ye beleeve me yet, or shall I call
Antiquity from the old Schools of Greece
To testifie the arms of Chastity?
Hence had the huntress Dian her dred bow,
Fair silver-shafted Queen for ever chaste,
Wherwith she tam’d the brinded lioness
And spotted mountain pard, but set at nought
The frivolous bolt of Cupid, gods and men
Fear’d her stern frown, and she was queen oth’ Woods.
What was that snaky-headed Gorgon sheild
That wise Minerva wore, unconquer’d Virgin,
Wherwith she freez’d her foes to congeal’d stone?
But rigid looks of Chaste austerity
And noble grace that dash’t brute violence
With sudden adoration, and blank aw.
So dear to Heav’n is Saintly chastity,
That when a soul is found sincerely so,
A thousand liveried Angels lacky her,
Driving far off each thing of sin and guilt,
And in cleer dream, and solemn vision
Tell her of things that no gross ear can hear,
Till oft convers with heav’nly habitants
Begin to cast a beam on th’ outward shape,
The unpolluted temple of the mind,
And turns it by degrees to the souls essence,
Till all be made immortal: but when lust
By unchaste looks, loose gestures, and foul talk,
But most by leud and lavish act of sin,
Lets in defilement to the inward parts,
The soul grows clotted by contagion,
Imbodies, and imbrutes, till she quite loose
The divine property of her first being.
Such are those thick and gloomy shadows damp
Oft seen in Charnell vaults, and Sepulchers
Lingering, and sitting by a new made grave,
As loath to leave the body that it lov’d,
And link’t it self by carnal sensualty
To a degenerate and degraded state.
2 Bro. How charming is divine Philosophy!
Not harsh, and crabbed as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo’s lute,
And a perpetual feast of nectar’d sweets,
Where no crude surfet raigns. Eld. Bro. List, list, I hear
Som far off hallow break the silent Air.
2 Bro. Methought so too; what should it be?
Eld. Bro. For certain
Either som one like us night-founder’d here,
Or els som neighbour Wood-man, or at worst,
Som roaving Robber calling to his fellows.
2 Bro. Heav’n keep my sister, agen agen and neer,
Best draw, and stand upon our guard.
Eld. Bro. Ile hallow,
If he be friendly he comes well, if not,
Defence is a good cause, and Heav’n be for us.
The attendant Spirit habited like a Shepherd.
That hallow I should know, what are you? speak;
Com not too neer, you fall on iron stakes else.
Spir. What voice is that, my young Lord? speak agen.
2 Bro. O brother, ’tis my fathers Shepherd sure.
Eld. Bro. Thyrsis? Whose artful strains have oft delaid
The huddling brook to hear his madrigal,
And sweeten’d every muskrose of the dale,
How cam’st thou here good Swain? hath any ram
Slip’t from the fold, or young Kid lost his dam,
Or straggling weather the pen’t flock forsook?
How couldst thou find this dark sequester’d nook?
Spir. O my lov’d masters heir, and his next joy,
I came not here on such a trivial toy
As a stray’d Ewe, or to pursue the stealth
Of pilfering Woolf, not all the fleecy wealth
That doth enrich these Downs, is worth a thought
To this my errand, and the care it brought.
But O my Virgin Lady, where is she?
How chance she is not in your company?
Eld. Bro. To tell thee sadly Shepherd, without blame,
Or our neglect, we lost her as we came.
Spirit. Ay me unhappy! then my fears are true.
Eld. Bro. What fears good Thyrsis? Prethee briefly shew.
Spir. Ile tell ye, ’tis not vain, or fabulous,
(Though so esteem’d by shallow ignorance)
What the sage Poëts taught by th’ heav’nly Muse,
Storied of old in high immortal vers
Of dire Chimera’s and inchanted Iles,
And rifted Rocks whose entrance leads to hell,
For such there be, but unbelief is blind.
Within the navil of this hideous Wood,
Immur’d in cypress shades a Sorcerer dwels
Of Bacchus, and of Circe born, great Comus,
Deep skill’d in all his mothers witcheries,
And here to every thirsty wanderer,
By sly enticement gives his banefull cup,
With many murmurs mixt, whose pleasing poison
The visage quite transforms of him that drinks,
And the inglorious likenes of a beast
Fixes instead, unmoulding reasons mintage
Character’d in the face; this have I learn’t
Tending my flocks hard by i’th hilly crofts,
That brow this bottom glade, whence night by night
He and his monstrous rout are heard to howl
Like stabl’d wolves, or tigers at their prey,
Doing abhorred rites to Hecate
In their obscured haunts of inmost bowres.
Yet have they many baits, and guileful spells
To inveigle and invite th’ unwary sense
Of them that pass unweeting by the way.
This evening late by then the chewing flocks
Had ta’n their supper on the savoury Herb
Of Knot-grass dew-besprent, and were in fold,
I sate me down to watch upon a bank
With Ivy canopied, and interwove
With flaunting Hony-suckle, and began
Wrapt in a pleasing fit of melancholy
To meditate my rural minstrelsie,
Till fancy had her fill, but ere a close
The wonted roar was up amidst the Woods,
And fill’d the Air with barbarous dissonance,
At which I ceas’t, and listen’d them a while,
Till an unusual stop of sudden silence
Gave respite to the drowsie frighted steeds
That draw the litter of close-curtain’d sleep.
At last a soft and solemn breathing sound
Rose like a steam of rich distill’d Perfumes,
And stole upon the Air, that even Silence
Was took e’re she was ware, and wish’t she might
Deny her nature, and be never more
Still to be so displac’t. I was all eare,
And took in strains 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 most honour’d Lady, your dear sister.
Amaz’d I stood, harrow’d with grief and fear,
And O poor hapless Nightingale thought I,
How sweet thou sing’st, how neer the deadly snare!
Then down the Lawns I ran with headlong hast
Through paths, and turnings oft’n trod by day,
Till guided by mine ear I found the place
Where that damn’d wisard hid in sly disguise
(For so by certain signes I knew) had met
Already, ere my best speed could prævent,
The aidless innocent Lady his wish’t prey,
Who gently ask’t if he had seen such two,
Supposing him som neighbour villager;
Longer I durst not stay, but soon I guess’t
Ye were the two she mean’t, with that I sprung
Into swift flight, till I had found you here,
But furder know I not. 2 Bro. O night and shades,
How are ye joyn’d with hell in triple knot
Against th’ unarmed weakness of one Virgin
Alone, and helpless! Is this the confidence
You gave me Brother? Eld. Bro. Yes, and keep it still,
Lean on it safely, not a period
Shall be unsaid for me: against the threats
Of malice or of sorcery, or that power
Which erring men call Chance, this I hold firm;
Vertue may be assail’d, but never hurt,
Surpriz’d by unjust force, but not enthrall’d,
Yea even that which mischief meant most harm,
Shall in the happy trial prove most glory.
But evil on it self shall back recoyl,
And mix no more with goodness, when at last
Gather’d like scum, and setl’d to it self
It shall be in eternal restless change
Self-fed, and self-consum’d; if this fail,
The pillar’d firmament is rott’nness,
And earths base built on stubble. But com let’s on.
Against th’ opposing will and arm of Heav’n
May never this just sword be lifted up,
But for that damn’d magician, let him be girt
With all the greisly legions that troop
Under the sooty flag of Acheron,
Harpyies and Hydra’s, or all the monstrous forms
‘Twixt Africa, and Inde, Ile find him out,
And force him to restore his purchase back,
Or drag him by the curls, to a foul death,
Curs’d as his life.
Spir. Alas good ventrous youth,
I love thy courage yet and bold Emprise,
But here thy sword can do thee little stead;
Farr other arms, and other weapons must
Be those that quell the might of hellish charms,
He with his bare wand can unthred thy joynts,
And crumble all thy sinews.
Eld. Bro. Why, prethee Shepherd
How durst thou then thy self approach so neer
As to make this relation?
Spir. Care and utmost shifts
How to secure the Lady from surprisal,
Brought to my mind a certain Shepherd Lad
Of small regard to see to, yet well skill’d
In every vertuous plant and healing herb
That spreads her verdant leaf to th’ morning ray,
He lov’d me well, and oft would beg me sing,
Which when I did, he on the tender grass
Would sit, and hearken even to ecstasie,
And in requitall ope his leather’n scrip,
And shew me simples of a thousand names
Telling their strange and vigorous faculties;
Amongst the rest a small unsightly root,
But of divine effect, he cull’d me out;
The leaf was darkish, and had prickles on it,
But in another Countrey, as he said,
Bore a bright golden flowre, but not in this soyl:
Unknown, and like esteem’d, and the dull swayn
Treads on it daily with his clouted shoon,
And yet more med’cinal is it then that Moly
That Hermes once to wise Ulysses gave;
He call’d it Hæmony, and gave it me,
And bade me keep it as of sovran use
‘Gainst all inchantments, mildew blast, or damp
Or gastly furies apparition;
I purs’t it up, but little reck’ning made,
Till now that this extremity compell’d,
But now I find it true; for by this means
I knew the foul inchanter though disguis’d,
Enter’d the very lime-twigs of his spells,
And yet came off: if you have this about you
(As I will give you when we go) you may
Boldly assault the necromancers hall;
Where if he be, with dauntless hardihood,
And brandish’t blade rush on him, break his glass,
And shed the lushious liquor on the ground,
But sease his wand; though he and his curst crew
Feirce signe of battail make, and menace high,
Or like the sons of Vulcan vomit smoak,
Yet will they soon retire, if he but shrink.
Eld. Bro. Thyrsis lead on apace, Ile follow thee,
And som good angel bear a sheild before us.
The Scene changes to a stately Palace, set out with all manner of deliciousness; soft Musick, Tables spred with all dainties. Comus appears with his rabble, and the Lady set in an inchanted Chair, to whom he offers his Glass, which she puts by, and goes about to rise.
Comus. Nay Lady sit; if I but wave this wand,
Your nervs are all chain’d up in Alabaster,
And you a statue; or as Daphne was
Root-bound, that fled Apollo,
La. Fool do not boast,
Thou canst not touch the freedom of my minde
With all thy charms, although this corporal rinde
Thou haste immanacl’d, while Heav’n sees good.
Co. Why are you vext, Lady? why do you frown?
Here dwell no frowns, nor anger, from these gates
Sorrow flies farr: See here be all the pleasures
That fancy can beget on youthful thoughts,
When the fresh blood grows lively, and returns
Brisk as the April buds in Primrose-season.
And first behold this cordial Julep here
That flames, and dances in his crystal bounds
With spirits of balm, and fragrant Syrops mixt.
Not that Nepenthes which the wife of Thone,
In Egypt gave to Jove-born Helena
Is of such power to stir up joy as this,
To life so friendly, or so cool to thirst.
Why should you be so cruel to your self,
And to those dainty limms which nature lent
For gentle usage, and soft delicacy?
But you invert the cov’nants of her trust,
And harshly deal like an ill borrower
With that which you receiv’d on other terms,
Scorning the unexempt condition
By which all mortal frailty must subsist,
Refreshment after toil, ease after pain,
That have been tir’d all day without repast,
And timely rest have wanted, but fair Virgin
This will restore all soon.
La. ‘Twill not, false traitor,
‘Twill not restore the truth and honesty
That thou hast banish’t from thy tongue with lies,
Was this the cottage, and the safe abode
Thou told’st me of? What grim aspects are these,
These oughly-headed Monsters? Mercy guard me!
Hence with thy brew’d inchantments, foul deceiver,
Hast thou betrai’d my credulous innocence
With visor’d falshood and base forgery,
And wouldst thou seek again to trap me here
With lickerish baits fit to ensnare a brute?
Were it a draft for Juno when she banquets,
I would not taste thy treasonous offer; none
But such as are good men can give good things,
And that which is not good, is not delicious
To a wel-govern’d and wise appetite.
Co. O foolishness of men! that lend their ears
To those budge doctors of the Stoick Furr,
And fetch their precepts from the Cynick Tub,
Praising the lean and sallow Abstinence.
Wherefore did Nature powre her bounties forth,
With such a full and unwithdrawing hand,
Covering the earth with odours, fruits, and flocks,
Thronging the Seas with spawn innumerable,
But all to please, and sate the curious taste?
And set to work millions of spinning Worms,
That in their green shops weave the smooth-hair’d silk
To deck her Sons; and that no corner might
Be vacant of her plenty, in her own loyns
She hutch’t th’ all-worshipt ore and precious gems
To store her children with; if all the world
Should in a pet of temperance feed on Pulse,
Drink the clear stream, and nothing wear but Frieze,
Th’ all-giver would be unthank’t, would be unprais’d,
Not half his riches known, and yet despis’d,
And we should serve him as a grudging master,
As a penurious niggard of his wealth,
And live like Natures bastards, not her sons,
Who would be quite surcharg’d with her own weight,
And strangl’d with her waste fertility;
Th’ earth cumber’d, and the wing’d air dark’t with plumes,
The herds would over-multitude their Lords,
The Sea o’refraught would swell, & th’ unsought diamonds
Would so emblaze the forhead of the Deep,
And so bestudd with Stars, that they below
Would grow inur’d to light, and com at last
To gaze upon the Sun with shameless brows.
List Lady be not coy, and be not cosen’d
With that same vaunted name Virginity,
Beauty is nature’s coyn, must not be hoorded,
But must be currant, and the good thereof
Consists in mutual and partak’n bliss,
Unsavoury in th’ injoyment of it self.
If you let slip time, like a neglected rose
It withers on the stalk with languish’t head.
Beauty is natures brag, and must be shown
In courts, at feasts, and high solemnities
Where most may wonder at the workmanship;
It is for homely features to keep home,
They had their name thence; course complexions
And cheeks of sorry grain will serve to ply
The sampler, and to teize the huswifes wooll.
What need a vermeil-tinctur’d lip for that
Love-darting eyes, or tresses like the Morn?
There was another meaning in these gifts,
Think what, and be adviz’d, you are but young yet.
La. I had not thought to have unlockt my lips
In this unhallow’d air, but that this Jugler
Would think to charm my judgement, as mine eyes,
Obtruding false rules pranckt in reasons garb.
I hate when vice can bolt her arguments,
And vertue has no tongue to check her pride:
Impostor do not charge most innocent nature,
As if she would her children should be riotous
With her abundance, she good cateress
Means her provision onely to the good
That live according to her sober laws,
And holy dictate of spare Temperance:
If every just man that now pines with want
Had but a moderate and beseeming share
Of that which lewdly-pamper’d Luxury
Now heaps upon som few with vast excess,
Natures full blessings would be well dispenc’t
In unsuperfluous eeven proportion,
And she no whit encomber’d with her store,
And then the giver would be better thank’t,
His praise due paid, for swinish gluttony
Ne’re looks to Heav’n amidst his gorgeous feast,
But with besotted base ingratitude
Cramms, and blasphemes his feeder. Shall I go on?
Or have I said anough? To him that dares
Arm his profane tongue with contemptuous words
Against the Sun-clad power of Chastity,
Fain would I somthing say, yet to what end?
Thou hast nor Eare nor Soul to apprehend
The sublime notion, and high mystery
That must be utter’d to unfold the sage
And serious doctrine of Virginity,
And thou art worthy that thou shouldst not know
More happines then this thy present lot.
Enjoy your deer Wit, and gay Rhetorick
That hath so well been taught her dazling fence,
Thou art not fit to hear thy self convinc’t;
Yet should I try, the uncontrouled worth
Of this pure cause would kindle my rap’t spirits
To such a flame of sacred vehemence,
That dumb things would be mov’d to sympathize,
And the brute Earth would lend her nerves, and shake,
Till all thy magick structures rear’d so high,
Were shatter’d into heaps o’re thy false head.
Co. She fables not, I feel that I do fear
Her words set off by som superior power;
And though not mortal, yet a cold shuddring dew
Dips me all o’re, as when the wrath of Jove
Speaks thunder, and the chains of Erebus
To som of Saturn’s crew. I must dissemble,
And try her yet more strongly. Com, no more,
This is meer moral babble, and direct
Against the canon laws of our foundation;
I must not suffer this, yet ’tis but the lees
And setlings of a melancholy blood;
But this will cure all streight, one sip of this
Will bathe the drooping spirits in delight
Beyond the bliss of dreams. Be wise, and taste.
The Brothers rush in with Swords drawn, wrest his Glass out of his hand, and break it against the ground; his rout make signe of resistance, but are all driven in; The attendant Spirit comes in.
Spir. What, have you let the false enchanter scape?
O ye mistook, ye should have snatcht his wand
And bound him fast; without his rod revers’t,
And backward mutters of dissevering power,
We cannot free the Lady that sits here
In stony fetters fixt and motionless;
Yet stay, be not disturb’d, now I bethink me,
Som other means I have which may be us’d,
Which once of Melibœus old I learnt
The soothest Shepherd that ere pip’t on plains.
There is a gentle Nymph not farr from hence,
That with moist curb sways the smooth Severn stream,
Sabrina is her name, a Virgin pure,
Whilom she was the daughter of Locrine,
That had the Scepter from his father Brute.
The guiltless damsell flying the mad pursuit
Of her enraged stepdam Guendolen,
Commended her innocence to the flood
That stay’d her flight with his cross-flowing course,
The water Nymphs that in the bottom plaid,
Held up their pearled wrists and took her in,
Bearing her straight to aged Nereus Hall,
Who piteous of her woes, rear’d her lank head,
And gave her to his daughters to imbathe
In nectar’d lavers strew’d with Asphodil,
And through the porch and inlet of each sense
Dropt in Ambrosial Oils till she reviv’d,
And underwent a quick immortal change
Made Goddess of the River; still she retains
Her maid’n gentlenes, and oft at Eeve
Visits the herds along the twilight meadows,
Helping all urchin blasts, and ill luck signes
That the shrewd medling Elf delights to make,
Which she with pretious viold liquors heals.
For which the Shepherds at their festivals
Carrol her goodnes loud in rustick layes,
And throw sweet garland wreaths into her stream
Of pancies, pinks, and gaudy Daffadils.
And, as the old Swain said, she can unlock
The clasping charm, and thaw the numming spell,
If she be right invok’t in warbled Song,
For maid’nhood she loves, and will be swift
To aid a Virgin, such as was her self
In hard besetting need, this will I try
And adde the power of som adjuring verse.
Listen where thou art sitting
Under the glassie, cool, translucent wave,
In twisted braids of Lillies knitting
The loose train of thy amber-dropping hair,
Listen for dear honours sake,
Goddess of the silver lake,
Listen and save.
Listen and appear to us
In name of great Oceanus,
By the earth-shaking Neptune’s mace,
And Tethys grave majestick pace,
By hoary Nereus wrincled look,
And the Carpathian wisard’s hook,
By scaly Tritons winding shell,
And old sooth-saying Glaucus spell,
By Leucothea’s lovely hands,
And her son that rules the strands,
By Thetis tinsel-slipper’d feet,
And the Songs of Sirens sweet,
By dead Parthenope’s dear tomb,
And fair Ligea’s golden comb,
Wherwith she sits on diamond rocks
Sleeking her soft alluring locks,
By all the Nymphs that nightly dance
Upon thy streams with wily glance,
Rise, rise, and heave thy rosie head
From thy coral-pav’n bed,
And bridle in thy headlong wave,
Till thou our summons answer’d have.
Listen and save.
Sabrina rises, attended by water-Nymphes, and sings.
By the rushy-fringed bank,
Where grows the Willow and the Osier dank,
My sliding Chariot stayes,
Thick set with Agat and the azurn sheen
Of Turkis blew, and Emrauld green
That in the channell strayes,
Whilst from off the waters fleet
Thus I set my printless feet
O’re the Cowslips Velvet head,
That bends not as I tread,
Gentle swain at thy request
I am here.
Spir. Goddess dear
We implore thy powerful hand
To undoe the charmed band
Of true Virgin here distrest,
Through the force, and through the wile
Of unblest inchanter vile.
Sab. Shepherd ’tis my office best
To help insnared chastity;
Brightest Lady look on me,
Thus I sprinkle on thy brest
Drops that from my fountain pure,
I have kept of pretious cure,
Thrice upon thy fingers tip,
Thrice upon thy rubied lip,
Next this marble venom’d seat
Smear’d with gumms of glutenous heat
I touch with chaste palms moist and cold,
Now the spell hath lost his hold;
And I must haste ere morning hour
To wait in Amphitrite’s bow’r.
Sabrina descends, and the Lady rises out of her seat.
Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine
Sprung of old Anchises line,
May thy brimmed waves for this
Their full tribute never miss
From a thousand petty rills,
That tumble down the snowy hills:
Summer drouth, or singed air
Never scorch thy tresses fair,
Nor wet Octobers torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mudd;
May thy billows rowl ashoar
The beryl, and the golden ore,
May thy lofty head be crown’d
With many a tower and terrass round,
And here and there thy banks upon
With Groves of myrrhe, and cinnamon.
Com Lady while Heaven lends us grace,
Let us fly this cursed place,
Lest the Sorcerer us intice
With som other new device.
Not a waste, or needless sound
Till we com to holier ground,
I shall be your faithfull guide
Through this gloomy covert wide,
And not many furlongs thence
Is your Fathers residence,
Where this night are met in state
Many a friend to gratulate
His wish’t presence, and beside
All the Swains that there abide,
With Jiggs, and rural dance resort,
We shall catch them at their sport,
And our sudden coming there
Will double all their mirth and chere;
Com let us haste, the Stars grow high,
But night sits monarch yet in the mid sky.
The Scene changes presenting Ludlow Town and the Presidents Castle, then com in Countrey-Dancers, after them the attendant Spirit, with the two Brothers and the Lady.
Spir. Back Shepherds, back, anough your play,
Till next Sun-shine holiday,
Here be without duck or nod
Other trippings to be trod
Of lighter toes, and such Court guise
As Mercury did first devise
With the mincing Dryades
On the Lawns, and on the Leas.
This second Song presents them to their
father and mother.
Noble Lord, and Lady bright,
I have brought ye new delight,
Here behold so goodly grown
Three fair branches of your own,
Heav’n hath timely tri’d their youth,
Their faith, their patience, and their truth,
And sent them here through hard assays
With a crown of deathless Praise,
To triumph in victorious dance
O’re sensual Folly, and Intemperance.
The dances ended, the Spirit Epiloguizes.
Spir. To the Ocean now I fly,
And those happy climes that ly
Where day never shuts his eye,
Up in the broad fields of the sky:
There I suck the liquid ayr
All amidst the Gardens fair
Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowres
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,
The Graces, and the rosie-boosom’d Howres,
Thither all their bounties bring,
That there eternal Summer dwels,
And West winds with musky wing
About the cedar’n alleys fling
Nard, and Cassia’s balmy smels.
Iris there with humid bow,
Waters the odorous banks that blow
Flowers of more mingled hew
Then her purfl’d scarf can shew,
And drenches with Elysian dew
(List mortals, if your ears be true)
Beds of Hyacinth and roses
Where young Adonis oft reposes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In slumber soft, and on the ground
Sadly sits th’ Assyrian Queen;
But far above in spangled sheen
Celestial Cupid her fam’d son advanc’t,
Holds his dear Psyche sweet intranc’t
After her wandring labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal Bride,
And from her fair unspotted side
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath sworn.
But now my task is smoothly don,
I can fly, or I can run
Quickly to the green earths end,
Where the bow’d welkin slow doth bend,
And from thence can soar as soon
To the corners of the Moon.
Mortals that would follow me,
Love vertue, she alone is free,
She can teach ye how to clime
Higher then the Spheary chime;
Or if Vertue feeble were,
Heav’n it self would stoop to her.
© John Milton