68
COMUS
Spirit
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;
Nor wet Octobers torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mudd;
May thy billows rowl ashoar
The beryl, and the golden ore;
May thy lofty head be crown’d
With many a tower and terrass round,
And here and there thy banks upon
With Groves of myrrhe and cinnamon.
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;
Nor wet Octobers torrent flood
Thy molten crystal fill with mudd;
May thy billows rowl ashoar
The beryl, and the golden ore;
May thy lofty head be crown’d
With many a tower and terrass 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 cursed place,
Lest the Sorcerer us intice
With som other new device.
Not a waste or needless sound
Till we com to holier ground!
I shall be your faithfull guide
Let us fly this cursed place,
Lest the Sorcerer us intice
With som other new device.
Not a waste or needless sound
Till we com to holier ground!
I shall be your faithfull guide
