COMUS, A MASK.

PRESENTED AT LUDLOW CASTLE.

THE PERSONS.

Attendant SPIRIT, afterwards in the habit of THYRSIS.

Comus was presented as a mask at Ludlow Castle, 1634, before the Earl of Bridgewater, Lord President of Wales, whose two sons and daughter took the parts of the Brothers and the Lady. Masks were elaborate entertainments, combining the beauties of music, poetry, dancing, and scenery. Their essence was pomp and splendour, and they were often 'composed by princes, and by princes performed.' Lacking many features of the mask, Comus retains in an exquisite degree its lyrical spirit, displayed alike in the musical eloquence of the speeches and the 'dorique delicacy' of the songs. Some of the incidents were borrowed from Peele's Old Wives' Tale (1595), Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess (1633), and a Latin poem, Comus (1608). The subject is 'simply the Eulogy of Virtue.'

The first scene discovers a wild wood. The attendant SPIRIT descends or enters.

BEFORE the starry threshold of Jove's court
My mansion is, where those immortal shapes
Of bright aërial spirits live insphered

In regions mild of calm and serene air,
Above the smoke and stir of this dim spot,

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ΙΟ

Which men call Earth, and, with low-thoughted care,
Confined and pester'd in this pinfold here,
Strive to keep up a frail and feverish being,
Unmindful of the crown that virtue gives,
After this mortal change, to her true servants,
Amongst the enthroned gods on sainted seats.
Yet some there be that by due steps aspire
To lay their just hands on that golden key,
That opes the palace of eternity;

To such my errand is; and, but for such,
I would not soil these pure ambrosial weeds
With the rank vapours of this sin-worn mould.
But to my task. Neptune, besides the sway
Of every salt flood, and each ebbing stream,
Took in by lot 'twixt high and nether Jove
Imperial rule of all the sea-girt isles,
That like to rich and various gems inlay
The unadorned bosom of the deep,
Which he, to grace his tributary gods,

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By course commits to several government,

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And gives them leave to wear their sapphire crowns,
And wield their little tridents: but this isle,
The greatest and the best of all the main,
He quarters to his blue-hair'd deities;
And all this tract that fronts the falling sun,
A noble peer, of mickle trust and power,
Has in his charge, with temper'd awe to guide
An old and haughty nation, proud in arms;
Where his fair offspring, nursed in princely lore,
Are coming to attend their father's state,
And new-intrusted sceptre; but their way

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Lies through the perplex'd paths of this drear wood,

The nodding horror of whose shady brows
Threats the forlorn and wandering passenger;
And here their tender age might suffer peril,
But that, by quick command from sovran Jove,
I was despatch'd for their defence and guard;
And listen why, for I will tell you now
What never yet was heard in tale or song,
From old or modern bard, in hall or bower.

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Bacchus, that first from out the purple grape

Crush'd the sweet poison of misused wine,
After the Tuscan mariners transform'd,

Coasting the Tyrrhene shore, as the winds listed,
On Circe's island fell: who knows not Circe,
The daughter of the Sun, whose charmed cup
Whoever tasted, lost his upright shape,

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And downward fell into a grovelling swine?

This nymph, that gazed upon his clustering locks,

With ivy berries wreathed, and his blithe youth,

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Had by him, ere he parted thence, a son

Much like his father, but his mother more,

Whom therefore she brought up, and Comus named: Who ripe, and frolic of his full-grown age,

COMUS, A MASK.

Roving the Celtic and Iberian fields,

At last betakes him to this ominous wood,

And, in thick shelter of black shades imbower'd,
Excels his mother at her mighty art,
Offering to every weary traveller

His orient liquor in a crystal glass,

Not once perceive their foul disfigurement,

To quench the drouth of Phoebus, which as they taste
(For most do taste, through fond intemperate thirst),
Soon as the potion works, their human countenance,
The express resemblance of the gods, is changed
Into some brutish form of wolf, or bear,
Or ounce, or tiger, hog, or bearded goat,
All other parts remaining as they were;
And they, so perfect is their misery,

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Therefore, when any, favour'd of high Jove,

But boast themselves more comely than before,
And all their friends and native home forget,
To roll with pleasure in a sensual sty.

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I shoot from heaven, to give him safe convoy,
As now I do: but first I must put off
These my sky-robes, spun out of Iris' woof,
And take the weeds and likeness of a swain,
That to the service of this house belongs,

Chances to pass through this adventurous glade,
Swift as the sparkle of a glancing star

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Who, with his soft pipe, and smooth-dittied song,

Well knows to still the wild winds when they roar,
And hush the waving woods, nor of less faith,
And in this office of his mountain watch,
Likeliest, and nearest to the present aid
Of this occasion. But I hear the tread
Of hateful steps, I must be viewless now.

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COMUS enters with a charming-rod in one hand, his glass in the other; with him a rout of monsters, headed like sundry sorts of wild beasts, but otherwise like men and women, their apparel glistering; they come in making a riotous and unruly noise, with torches in their hands.

Comus. The star that bids the shepherd fold,
Now the top of heaven doth hold;

And the gilded car of day

His glowing axle doth allay

In the steep Atlantic stream,

And the slope sun his upward beam

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Shoots against the dusky pole,
Pacing toward the other goal
Of his chamber in the east.
Meanwhile, welcome joy, and feast,
Midnight shout and revelry,
Tipsy dance and jollity.

Braid your locks with rosy twine,
Dropping odours, dropping wine.
Rigour now is gone to bed,

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And advice with scrupulous head,
Strict age, and sour severity,

With their grave saws, in slumber lie.
We that are of purer fire

Imitate the starry choir,

Who, in their nightly watchful spheres,

Lead in swift round the months and years.

The sounds and seas, with all their finny drove, 115 Now to the moon in wavering morrice. move;

And, on the tawny sands and shelves,

Trip the pert fairies and the dapper elves.

By dimpled brook, and fountain-brim,

The wood-nymphs, deck'd with daisies trim,

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Dark-veil'd Cotytto! to whom the secret flame

Of midnight torches burns; mysterious dame,

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That ne'er art call'd, but when the dragon

womb

Of Stygian darkness spits her thickest gloom,
And makes one blot of all the air;

Stay thy cloudy ebon chair,

Wherein thou ridest with Hecate, and befriend

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Us, thy vow'd priests, till utmost end

Of all thy dues be done, and none left out,

Ere the babbling eastern scout,

The nice morn, on the Indian steep

From her cabin'd loophole peep,

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And to the tell-tale sun descry
Our conceal'd solemnity.

Come, knit hands, and beat the ground
In a light fantastic round.

The Measure.

Break off, break off, I feel the different pace

Of some chaste footing near about this ground.

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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 charms, 150
And to my wily trains; I shall ere long
Be well stock'd with as fair a herd as grazed
About my mother Circe. Thus I hurl
My dazzling spells into the spongy air,

Of power to cheat the eye with blear illusion,
And give it false presentments, lest the place
And my quaint habits breed astonishment,
And put the damsel to suspicious flight,

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Which must not be, for that's against my course;
I, under fair pretence of friendly ends,
And well-placed words of glozing courtesy
Baited with reasons not unplausible,
Wind me into the easy-hearted man,
And hug him into snares.

When once her eye

Hath met the virtue of this magic dust,

I shall appear some harmless villager,

Whom thrift keeps up about his country gear.
But here she comes, I fairly step aside,

And hearken, if I may, her business here.

The LADY enters.

Lady. This way the noise was, if mine ear be

true,

My best guide now; methought it was the sound
Of riot and ill-managed merriment,

Such as the jocund flute, or gamesome pipe,

Stirs up among the loose unletter'd hinds,

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When for their teeming flocks, and granges full, 175
In wanton dance they praise the bounteous Pan,
And thank the gods amiss. I should be loth
To meet the rudeness and swill'd insolence
Of such late wassailers; yet, oh! where else
Shall I inform my unacquainted feet
In the blind mazes of this tangled wood?
My brothers, when they saw me wearied out

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