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Sabrina defcends, and the Lady rifes out of her feat.
Spir. Virgin, daughter of Locrine
Sprung of old Anchises liné
May thy brimmed waves for this
Their full tribute never miss
From a thousand petty rills,
That tumbled down the fnowy hills:
Summer drouth, or finged air
Never fcorch thy treffes fair,
Nor wet Octobers torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mudd,
May thy billows rowl afhoar
The beryl, and the golden ore,
May thy lofty head be crown'd
With many a tower and terras 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 curfed place,
Left the Sorcerer us entice
With fom other new device.
Not a waste, or needlefs found
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 refidence,
Where this night are met in ftate
Many a friend to gratulate
His wish't presence, and befide
All the Swains that there abide,
With Jiggs, and rural dance refort,
We shall catch them at their sport,
And our fudden coming there
Will double all their mirth and chere;
Com let us hafte, the Stars grow high,
But night fits monarch yet in the mid sky.
The Scene changes, prefenting Ludlow Town and the Prefidents Caftle, then com in Country-Dancers, after them the attendant Spirit, with the two Brothers and the Lady.
Spir. Back Shepherds, back, anough your play,
Till next Sun-fhine holiday,
Here be without duck or nod
Other trippings to be trod
Of lighter toes, and fuch Court guise
As Mercury did firft devife
With the mincing Dryades
On the Lawns, and on the Leas.
Noble Lord, and Lady bright,
I have brought ye new delight,
Here behold fo goodly grown
Three fair branches of your own,
Heav'n hath timely tri'd their youth,
Their faith, their patience, and their truth,
And fent them here through hard affays
With a crown of deathless Praife,
This second Song presents them to their Father and Mother.
To triumph in victorious dance O're fenfual 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 fky: There I fuck the liquid air
All amidst the Gardens fair
Of Hefperus, and his daughters three
That fing about the golden tree :
Along the crifped fhades and bowres
Revels the spruce and jocond Spring,
The Graces, and the rofie-boofom'd Howres,
Thither all their bounties bring.
There eternal Summer dwels,
And Weft winds, with mufky wing
About the cedar'n alleys fling
Nard, and Caffia'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 fhew,
And drenches with Elyfian dew
(Lift mortals if your ears be true)
Beds of Hyacinth, and Rofes
Where young Adonis oft repofes,
Waxing well of his deep wound
In flumber foft; and on the ground
Sadly fits th' Affyrian Queen;
But far above in fpangled fheen
Celestial Cupid her fam'd Son advanc't,
Holds his dear Pfyche fweet intranc't
After her wandring labours long,
Till free consent the gods among
Make her his eternal Bride,
And from her fair unspotted fide
Two blissful twins are to be born,
Youth and Joy; so Jove hath fworn.
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 flow doth bend,
And from thence can foar 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 felf would ftoop to her.
In this Monody the Author bewails a learned Friend, unfortunately drown'd in his passage from Chester on the Irish Seas, 1637. And by occafion foretells the ruine of our corrupted Clergie then in their height.
ET once more, O ye Laurels, and once
Ye Myrtles brown, with Ivy never sear, I com to pluck your Berries harsh and crude, And with forc'd fingers rude,
Shatter your leaves before the mellowing year.
Bitter constraint, and fad occafion dear,
Compells me to disturb your season due :
For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,
Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer :
Who would not fing for Lycidas? he knew
Himself to fing, and build the lofty rhyme.
He must not flote upon his watry bear
Unwept, and welter to the parching wind,
Without the meed of fom melodious tear.
Begin then, Sifters of the facred well, That from beneath the feat of Jove doth spring, Begin, and fomewhat loudly fweep the ftring.