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My mother Circe with the Sirens three
Amidſt the flowrie-kirtl'd Naiades
Culling their Potent hearbs, and balefull drugs
Who as they ſung, would take the priſon'd ſoule
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 madneſſe rob'd it of it ſelfe,
But ſuch a ſacred, and home-felt delight,
Such ſober certainty of waking bliſſe
I never heard till now. Ile ſpeake to her
And ſhe ſhall be my Queene. Haile forreine wonder
Whom certaine theſe rough ſhades did never breed
Vnleſſe the Goddeſſe that in rurall ſhrine
Dwell'ſt here with Pan, or Silvan, by bleſt Song
Forbidding every bleake 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 Eares,
Not any boaſt of skill, but extreame ſhift
How to regaine my ſever'd companie
Compell'd me to awake the courteous Echo
To give me anſwer from her moſſie Couch.
Co. What chance good Ladie hath bereft you thus?
La. Dim darkneſſe, and this leavie Labyrinth.
Co. Could that divide you from neere-uſhering guides?
La. They left me weary on a graſſie terfe.
Co. By falſhood, or diſcourteſie, or why?
La. To ſeeke i'th vally ſome cool friendly Spring.
Co. And left your faire ſide all unguarded Ladie?
La. They were but twain, & purpos'd quick return.
