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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 bower.

SABRINA descends, and the LADY rises out of her


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,
No wet October's torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mud;
May thy billows roll ashore
The beryl and the golden ore;
May thy lofty head be crown'd
With many a tower and terrace round,
And here and there thy banks upon

With groves of myrrh and cinnamon!

Come, lady, while Heaven lends us grace,
Let us fly this cursed place,

Lest the sorcerer us entice
With some other new device.
Not a waste or needless sound,
Till we come to holier ground;
I shall be your faithful guide
Through this gloomy covert wide;

And not many furlongs thence
Is your father's residence,

Where this night are met in state
Many a friend to gratulate
His wish'd presence; and beside
All the swains, that there abide,
With jigs and rural dance resort:
We shall catch them at their sport;
And our sudden coming there

Will double all their mirth and cheer.
Come, let us haste; the stars grow high;
But night sits monarch yet in the mild sky.

The scene changes, presenting Ludlow town and the President's castle: then come in Country Dancers; after them the ATTENDANT SPIRIT, with the TWO BROTHERS. and the LADY.


Spir. Back shepherds, back; enough 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:

Heaven hath timely tried 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'er sensual folly and intemperance.

The Dances ended, the SPIRIT epiloguizes.

Spir. To the Ocean now I fly, And those happy climes that lie Where day never shuts his eye, Up in the broad fields of the sky: There I suck the liquid air

All amidst the gardens fair

Of Hesperus, and his daughters three
That sing about the golden tree:
Along the crisped shades and bowers
Revels the spruce and jocund Spring;
The Graces, and the rosy-bosom'd Hours,
Thither all their bounties bring;

There eternal Summer dwells,

And west winds with musky wing,

About the cedar'd alleys fling

Nard and cassia's balmy smells.
Iris there with humid bow

Waters the odorous banks, that blow

Flowers of more mingled hue
Than her purfled scarf can show;
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 the Assyrian queen: But far above in spangled sheen Celestial Cupid, her famed son, advanced, Holds this dear Psyche sweet entraced, After her wandering 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 done, I can fly, or I can run,

Quickly to the green earth's 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 virtue; she alone is free:
She can teach ye how to climb
Higher than the sphery clime;
Or, if Virtue feeble were.
Heaven itself would stoop to her.




Presented to the Countess-Dowager of Derby at Harefield, by some noble persons of her family; who appear on the scene in pastoral habit, moving toward the seat of state, with this song:


Look, nymphs and shepherds, look,
What sudden blaze of majesty

Is that which we from hence descry,
Too divine to be mistook:

This, this is she

To whom our vows and wishes bend;
Here our solemn search hath end.
Fame, that, her high worth to raise,
Seem'd erst so lavish and profuse,
We may justly now accuse
Of detraction from her praise:
Less than half we find express'd;
Envy bid conceal the rest.

Mark, what radiant state she spreads,
In circle round her shining throne,
Shooting her beams like silver threads;
This, this is she alone,

Sitting like a goddess bright,
In the centre of her light.

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