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And makes one blot of all the aire,
Stay thy clowdie Ebon chaire,
Wherein thou rid'ſt with Hecat', and befriend
Vs thy vow'd Prieſts, till utmoſt end
Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,
Ere the blabbing Eaſterne ſcout
The nice Morne on th' Indian ſteepe
From her cabin'd loop hole peepe,
And to the tel-tale Sun diſcry
Our conceal'd Solemnity.
Come, knit hands, and beate the ground
In a light fantaſtick round.
The Meaſure.
Breake off, breake off, I feele the different pace
Of some chaſt footing neere about this ground,
Run to your ſhrouds, within theſe Brakes, and Trees
Our number may affright: Some Virgin ſure
(For ſo I can diſtinguiſh by mine Art)
Benighted in theſe woods. Now to my charmes
And to my wilie trains, I ſhall e're long
Be well ſtock't with as faire a Herd as graz'd
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurle
My dazling Spells into the ſpungie aire
Of power to cheate the eye with bleare illuſion,
And give it falſe preſentments, leſt the place
And my queint habits breed aſtoniſhment,
And put the Damſel to ſuſpicious flight,
Which muſt not be, for that's againſt my courſe;
I under faire prætents of friendly ends,
And wel plac't words of glozing courteſie
Baited with reaſons not unplauſible,
Wind
