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 jocond 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 rudenesse, 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 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 hovering 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 hallow to my Brothers, but
        Such noise as I can make to be heard farthest
        Ile venter, for my new enliv'nd spirits
        Prompt me; and they perhaps are not far off.

                                 SONG

             Sweet Echo, sweetest Nymph that livst 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 som 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 Heavns 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: have oft heard
        My mother Circe with the Sirens three,
        Amid'st 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: